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They were, all three of them, dressed in faded denims the uniform of the bush fighters and the weapons they carried with casual familiarity were the ubiquitous AK 47s with the distinctive curved black magazine and laminated woodwork.
Denim, AK 47s and Matabele there was no doubt in Craig's mind who these were. Regular Zimbabwean troops now w ore jungle fatigues or battle-smocks, most were armed with Nato weapons and spoke the Shana language.
These were former members of the disbanded Zimbabwe People's Revolutionary Army, now turned political rebels, ubject to no laws, nor higher authority, forged by a men s long murderous and bloody bush war into hard, ruthless men with death in their hands and death in their eyes.
Although Craig had been warned of the possibility, and had indeed been half-expecting this meeting, still the shock made him feel dry-mouthed and nauseated.
"We don't have to take him," said the youngest of the three guerrillas. "We can shoot him and bury him secretly that is good as a hostage." He was under twenty-five years of age, Craig guessed, and had probably killed a man for every year of his life.
"The six hostages we took on the Victoria Falls road gave us weeks of trouble, and in the end we had to shoot them anyway," agreed the second guerrilla, and they both looked to the third man. He was only a few years older than they were, but there was no doubt that he was the leader. A thin scar ran from the corner of his mouth up his cheek into the hairline at the temple. It puckered his mouth into a lopsided, sardonic grin.
Craig remembered the incident that they were discussing. Guerrillas had stopped a tourist bus on the main Victoria Falls road and abducted six men, Canadian, Americans and a Brilbn, and taken them into the bush as hostages for the release of political detainees. Despite an intensive search by police and regular army units, none of the hostages had been recovered.
The scarred leader stared at Craig with smoky dark eyes for long seconds, and then, with his thumb, slid the rate of-fire selector on his rifle to automatic.
"A true Matabele does not kill a blood brother of the tribe." It took Craig an enormous effort to keep his voice steady, devoid of any trace of his terror. His Sindebele was so flawless and easy that it was the leader of the guerrillas who blinked.
"Haul" he said, which is an expression of amazement.
"You speak likea man but who is this blood brother you boast of?"
"Comrade Minister Tungata Zebiwe," Craig answered, an saw the instant shift in the man's gaze, and the sudden discomfiture of his two companions. He had hit a chord that had unbalanced them, and had delayed his own execution for the moment, but the leader's rifle was still cocked and on fully automatic, still pointed at his belly.
It was the youngster who broke the silence, speaking too loudly, to cover his own uncertainty. "It is easy for a baboon to shout the name of the black-maned lion from the hilltop, and claim his protection, but does the lion recognize the baboon? Kill him, I say, and have done with it."
"Yet he speaks likea brother," murmured the leader, "and Comrade Tungata is a hard man-" Craig realized that his life was still at desperate risk, a little push either way was all that was needed.
"will show you, , he said, still without the slightest quaver in his voice. "Let me go to my pack." The leader hesitated.
"I am naked," Craig told him. "No weapons not even a knife and you are three, with guns."
"Go! the Matabele agreed. "But go with care. I have not killed a man for many moons and I feel the lack." Craig stood up carefully from the water and saw the interest in their eyes as they studied his leg foreshortened halfway between knee and ankle, and the compensating muscular development of the other leg and the rest of his body. The interest changed to wary respect as they saw how quickly and easily Craig moved on one leg. He reached his pack with water ru
In the photograph two men sat on the bo
The scarred guerrilla studied it for a long time and then slipped the selector on his rifle to lock. "It is Comrade Tungata," he said, and handed the photograph to the others.
"Perhaps," conceded the youngster reluctantly, "but a long time ago. I still think we should shoot him." However, this opinion was now more wistful than determined.
"Comrade Tungata would swallow you without chewing," his companion told him flatly, and slung his rifle over his shoulder.
Craig picked up hi leg and in a moment had fitted it to the stump and instantly all three guerrillas were intrigued, their murderous intentions set aside as they crowded around Craig to examine this marvelous appendage.
Fully aware of the African love of a good joke, Craig clowned for them. Heldanced a jig, pirouetted on the leg, cracked himself across the shin without flinching, and finally took the hat of the youngest, most murderous guerrilla from his head, screwed it into a ball and with a cry of "Pele!" drop-kicked it into the lower branches of the wild fig with the artificial leg. The other two hooted with glee, and laughed until tears ran down their cheeks at the youngster's loss of dignity as he scrambled up into the wild fig to retrieve his hat.
judging the mood finely, Craig opened his pack and brought out mug and whisky bottle. He poured a generous dram and handed the mug to the scar-faced leader.
"Between brothers," he said.
The guerrilla leaned his rifle against the trunk of the tree and accepted the mug. He drained it at one swallow, and blew the fumes ecstatically out of his nose and mouth. The other two took their turn at the mug with as much gusto.