I, Adventurer Read online

  Reaching a major town, I explained what had gone on to the police, and later that day I found myself back in the guru's inner sanctum with Karen and several policemen. The guru was arrested, and as he was carted off he came out with several unoriginal western expletives. It seems he learnt these when he ran a corner shop in Tipton, UK.

  So what were my thoughts on India then? The country had proved itself in the end, and I could once more delight in the fruits of Indian culture. Although that night, Karen intermingled Indian culture with the best of the western.

  The next morning, as we made love again in the early dawn, I asked if she wanted to accompany me a while. She answered yes. Although I was slightly disconcerted when I asked where she wanted to go next After all, Bollywood was rather missing the point.

  THE LOST TRIBE

  They were one of the Lost Tribes of Africa, but they didn’t feel lost – at least, not now.

  Times had been hard of late. Bellies were empty. But they had had times like this before – it would pass. Yet the Witchdoctor knew morale had to be kept up. Hence, he sat down by the fire, called for their attention, and told the story once more:

  The great bird was seen in the sky, trailing fire, and as it landed there was a huge eruption. We ran to where the bird was and found him, lying beside it. He was alive and we nursed him back to health.

  He was white of colour and he said he came from a place called The West. His great bird was of metal and with it he could fly many miles. And we were in awe of him, come from the miraculous gods.

  For a while he dreamt of going back to his people, but it soon became clear that he could never walk that far, so he settled down to tribal life – at least, at first.

  It began when he realized that the mud we smeared on us for hygiene was inefficient, and he made us soap. This was a marvellous thing, and we looked so much better. But little did we realize that manufacture incurred cost – and by looking better we realized vanity.

  This was the beginning of the capitalism he brought to us. At first many complained, but he said we were being too narrow-minded, and he spoke of his system, of the wealth, the comfort that could come from it.

  And in so many ways we changed. He introduced plentiful stones of no value, but he placed value on them and called it money, and everything had a price, and we could have a thriving economy. And as time passed, and we found new places in society, we spent ourselves into fragmentation, with some becoming rich and most being even poorer than before.

  With new values, our customs began to wane, and soon men took wives who weren’t their own, and fights began amongst us. Until the day came that someone committed the murder. It was through jealousy, a thing we hadn’t understood until the white man came from The West.

  It was then that we realized that no one knew happiness any more, and we determined things must change.

  He was banished from our tribe. What happened to him, we don’t know, but a couple of days later, far away, we saw the vultures circling. And slowly, very slowly our history turned once more to how it should be …

  The witchdoctor had finished his story. They all knew it so well, but there had been a reason to hear it now. Finally, he concluded:

  So think of The West when you feel things are not going well, and remember, there are always people worse off than you.

  SPORT

  The sun blazed.

  Through the haze he saw the problem. The patrol had been split. Three of them had been pinned down. The constant zip of AK-47 fire seemed to puncture his eardrums, and as he looked once more over the rock, a fighter’s rounds hit home, an arm flying, disembodied …

  He knew it was up to him …

  Another time. Afterwards …

  He watched the game. The centre forward made his move, dribbling the ball around the opponent and finding a space. The soldier sensed the urgency of the move – saw the opposition try to fill the gap. Stop him.

  He knew it was open territory, but he saw the fighters make their flanking move. There were only seconds left before all three would be dead. He took a deep breath, thought of his mother – of the life he had yet to live. He raised himself, squeezed the trigger, let off a burst, and charged ….

  The centre forward had cleared the gap. The goal loomed ahead of him, and in a touch of absolute brilliance he pulled back his foot and kicked.

  The soldier remained seated as the stadium erupted in cheers – in adulation of their hero.

  HOW FAR THEY REACH

  To call it a wasteland was incorrect, he knew. Darren Tanner rubbed his bearded face, working hard to bring back heat as he looked out over the Antarctic vista. It looked so cold, so white, so featureless. But on this, his fourth expedition to the continent, he knew its hidden beauty, its surprising irregularity, its inviting charm.

  Beside him, Elkie Finch shivered. When she insisted on accompanying him on this unofficial, secretive trip, Tanner doubted she would have what it took. But suitably wrapped in suitable gear; suitably trained until her sweat poured; he had to admit his admiration for her.

  'How much further?' she asked, a secret wince to hide yet another annoying ache.

  Tanner consulted the map in his gloved hand – cross referenced it with his GPS. Smiling through his goggles, he said: 'About another half mile. We're nearly there Elkie. I've nearly reached my dream.’

  With sleds tethered behind them, they gave another groan and marched on.

  Some mile further back, the white-clad figure stood once more, aware that they wouldn't turn and see him, now they were treading the ice once more. Reassuringly, his hand went round his back, patted the stock of the sniper's rifle, and he, too, began to march, his eyes constantly on the two figures in the distance.

  Darren Tanner had known the trip was lunacy. He had been an Antarctic Survey scientist in his youth. He knew the dangers, the pitfalls - but also the buzz. Which of these elements it was that sent him over the edge, it was hard to say. Indeed, the nervous breakdown almost guaranteed he would never get to Antarctica again. Except for this new voice at the back of his head telling him he would go back.

  After losing his job, finance was, of course, an important issue. And an issue he decided to sort out by writing a book about the Antarctic and his time there. And it was whilst researching the book that the conspiracy first attracted him. Indeed, 'attract' is possibly the wrong word. It seemed to become part of his life to discover the truth.

  'What truth is that?' asked Elkie Finch, the first time Tanner saw her, sitting next to him in the library.

  What truth, indeed, he thought to himself. But the thought was soon displaced by a yearning for this beautiful brunette before him.

  It had been two hours since they arrived at the site, and Darren Tanner's unique knowledge of the Antarctic told him that something was amiss with this landscape.

  'What do you mean, amiss,' asked Elkie Finch, sitting on the sled, feeling exhausted.

  Tanner said: 'It's the ice. It's all wrong. There's definitely something metallic down there. And not too far from the surface.' And with pick in hand, Tanner forgot all about his companion, filled only with the feelings of destiny of finding it. And he dug.

  Elkie, on the other hand, was remembering the conversation that led her to this bitterly cold hell hole.

  'It goes back years,' said Darren Tanner, looking up excitedly from the book he was reading. 'I suppose the first time we heard of it over in America was in 1938, when we noticed a lot of U-boat activity going down the coast of South America and disappearing into the Antarctic. There were even rumours that the Nazis had built entire bases down there, to help them look for what they wanted.'

  'And what was that?' asked Elkie, 'gold - some other mineral.'

  'Oh no,' said Tanner. 'Far more important than that. They were looking for a lost city.'

  At first Elkie Finch appeared sceptical about it all. But whether right or wrong, she felt his excitement, and it seemed to propel her on to follow him through his adventure, co
me what may.

  'The US became interested after the war,' said Tanner during dinner. It was an expensive restaurant, and although the mood should have been romance, he had so much to tell her about his dream.

  'How do you know that?' she asked.

  'In 1947, US Admiral Byrd led a number of mass expeditions to the area, all highly secret, and nothing's ever been said about them.'

  'Which proves what?'

  'That they found something and were not going to tell.'

  'But isn't there a treaty banning exploitation of the area?'

  'Absolutely,' Tanner agreed. 'But don't you think it strange that the US government was happy to sign that one, but no other anywhere in the world? Wouldn't that keep everyone out whilst they continued their work by themselves?'

  Sex, when it came, was a welcome distraction for Elkie. Tanner, it seemed, could put as much enthusiasm into anything if he had a mind to.

  After, satiated, she looked around his room, aware of the locks on the door and windows; the gun under his pillow. 'Aren't we a little paranoid,' she said, looking at his naked form.

  'Can't take any chances,' he said. 'I always check for microchips in the books I find for my research. But I can never be sure.'

  Elkie asked: 'What microchips ?'

  'CIA - whoever - put them in library books that could lead to someone finding out too much. When someone takes them out, it lets them know and they track where its gone.'

  'But that's mad. You can't believe all these crazy conspiracy theories, surely?'

  'Not all of them, no. Some are clearly started by them.'

  'But why?'

  'It's disinformation. Keep the conspiracies going and no one is going to believe people like me who crack them.'

  Even the sweat was freezing on his body as he dug. But Darren Tanner knew he was close to the truth. And even though he had a sense of being watched, he knew nothing would stop him now. After all, he'd answered all the drawbacks, all the things that suggested it was not true. Indeed, the final proof had come only the previous night, as he and Elkie cuddled each other for warmth in their tent.

  'But if you're right, Darren,' Elkie had said, 'shouldn't we see evidence of American soldiers here now?'

  'Not anymore,' he said.

  'Why's that?'

  'Because it all ended in 1998. Maybe they'd found the power source of the lost city, tampered with it. But in 1998 there was a massive earthquake in the area. And there's been no sign of any US activity down here since that time.’

  The lone figure had come closer as the dig continued. He hated these jobs, if the truth be told. An expert marksman, he was ideal as a 'cleaner', wiping up all the dirty jobs that interfering fools left him with.

  'Why don't we just get rid of any books that leave a trail to follow?’ he had said. ‘Surely, that's the best way to preserve our secrets.'

  His bosses looked shocked at the suggestion. Almost in unison, they said: 'We can't do that. Not in a free country.'

  So the gunman was primed and ready, awaiting only the signal to go, his earpiece expectantly silent as his finger itched.

  To his front, Darren Tanner gave another mighty thrust with the pick. It was a metallic sound that echoed through the Antarctic air.

  Momentarily, he stood up, stretching himself erect, a look of delight upon his face. Half a mile away, a voice spoke into the gunman's ear, and a second after that, a single shot rang out.

  Darren Tanner seemed to be thrown momentarily back, before falling forward, dead before he reached the ground.

  Elkie Finch saw what happened and raced forward. Turning him over, she saw the wound in his chest, weeping blood. Taking the radio once more from her pocket, she said: 'He's dead.' Adding, as an essential afterthought: 'God Bless America.'

  MY OLDEST FRIEND

  They say never trust anyone, and its good advice in this game. But when your oldest friend lets you down …

  The cell was cold, dark, damp. How long I was in there before I escaped, I have no idea. There was no indication of night and day, and the only ‘routine’ was the occasional putrid meal and the ‘interrogations’. Ha! I’d get that sadist one day. Of that I swear.

  I blame my oldest friend for getting me in there. I knew the score. I sharpened my teeth back in the days of the Cold War, working out which intrigues were down to the Soviets, and which were down to the western Puppetmasters, always looking for an angle to increase their power.

  Now the enemy had changed. Al Qaeda was subtle, manipulative, but which plots were theirs and which …

  Well, the Puppetmasters never went away, forever conspiring to …

  Well, work it out for yourself!

  Suffice to say, I escaped. After all, I’m alive, aren’t I? And then I had a Mole to find. And I knew that, once I’d caught up with him, I’d also find my oldest friend once more.

  My investigations went on for a month. At first, the scars, the bruises and aching bones forced me on, a vendetta to fulfil, but even when the physical scars had healed, a powerhouse of anger worked on me from somewhere deep inside. And in the end it was down to two.

  I ‘arranged’ for them both to be in the same place at the same time – with me.

  It was obvious the game was up by my line of questioning, the sudden realization that must have appeared on my face when I worked it out. And that milli-second before he acted, I intuited intention in his eyes.

  He was dead before he could raise his gun, a single red hole on his forehead. And as I returned my gun to its holster and turned my back on the scene, I knew my oldest friend – my instinct – had returned.

  BRIDGING THE GAP

  I always knew he was mad, but maybe that’s how medals are won around here. And let’s face it, Sarge had won enough of them already – even though it had taken its toll.

  I was on forward observation as the enemy came over the rise. Mortars opened up on both sides, and plumes of death erupted all over the place, heralded by that menacing ‘plop’ as they were fired. And when one found its target, taking out the section that formed our left flank, we were left open to an enemy flanking movement.

  Sarge realized straight away that he had to bridge the gap – and I guess he knew he had to do it alone, ‘cos to reinforce would weaken the line in the centre.

  He’d been in this situation before and knew the score. It was nearly a year ago, and he’d led a section into the gap. But he knew the best form of defence was attack, and he’d taken that section right into the heart of the enemy.

  Of course, it had been mainly bluff – a dangerous pretence – an attempt to spook them into retreat.

  But they hadn’t retreated, and it had ended up more like butchery as bayonets were fixed.

  Sarge came out of that one alone, and as well as losing his men, he lost a large part of himself. Maybe it was guilt – I don’t know. But even though he was decorated, that spark of life disappeared from his eyes.

  And now there he was again. Him amid a large empty space, all alone as a dozen or more bore down on him. At first he kept his head down under cover, returning perfectly aimed fire. Bu then …?

  We like to think it was just old Sarge trying the bluff again – the old dangerous pretence game. But as he screamed that blood-curdling battle cry and charged into the midst of the enemy, I guess it was no pretence.

  He was buried with honour was old Sarge. And in a way we were happy for him. After all, he’d already been dead for nearly a year.

  THE RAPE OF AFRICA

  When Africa cried the jungle seemed to weep in sympathy. I could hear it now as I stood, ears pricked back to the noise. All about me untold sounds echoed – the birds, the insects, all joining in the omnipotent dirge.

  I wiped sweat from my brow, trying to figure out what strange sensitivity had made me divert this way. As an aid worker of many years in this pained continent, I had learnt to trust my instinct. It had got me out of trouble on more than one occasion. And as the black workers were stirred up to yet m
ore trouble by this barbarous government, I knew my instincts would be working overtime.

  It told me to look behind the tree. Slowly, cautiously, I approached, unsure of what I would find. But to find her like that brought me so much sorrow …

  ‘So what’s your name?’ I asked an hour later.

  In front of me she sat. She was maybe nineteen, blonde hair, pretty if not for the bruising; the ragged, ripped clothes. ‘Petra,’ she said with a typical Afrikaner accent. ‘And yours?’

  Even in her state that air of authority was with her. She was obviously of the whites who had ruled for so long, until black rule was forced on them. ‘Saul Jones,’ I said.

  ‘Well thank you, Saul Jones. I owe you my life.’

  Underneath, I could see she was a wreck. I asked: ‘What happened?’

  She sniffed back a tear; thought a moment, sadly. Then told of the attack on the farm, of the gang determined to clear them out, of her mother and father’s stand, of their …

  What can you call it? Were they simply murdered, or would butchery be a better term to use?

  When night comes to Africa it is impenetrable. And of that I was glad. It soon became clear that the gang was not content with simply her parent’s murder. Their blood was up; or maybe they just didn’t want any witnesses, regardless of how often the government turned a blind eye.

  ‘There must be twenty of them,’ Petra had told me, ‘armed to the teeth.’

  We hid for the third time since I found her. It wasn’t too difficult. I had much experience of Africa and she had been brought up in the area. She could crouch there, not moving, not breathing, even her smell seeming to change to smell like the terrain around her.

  When they had passed, we relaxed, sat back. I said: ‘You won’t be able to stay after this.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied, a sadness in her voice. ‘But I’ll miss it. I have family in England who’ll take me in. But it won’t be the same.’