Barring
rhythmic chirping by birds in surrounding bushes and mild north-easterly winds
sweeping across Ecuador and her environs, all was funereally silent on that
starless night. A stranger walking or driving about on that night would come
away with the impression that the coastal town had been recently evacuated of
its residents following one of the many natural disasters that often troubled
those parts. But to a resident, it was a typical night in Machala. At exactly
11:17pm two familiar glistening cars eased into an undulated driveway and
proceeded at a pace dictated by topography. Lithe security operatives behind
huge steel gates at the end of the driveway were already making to release the
safety catch on their AK-47 riffles when coded signals came from the front car.
‘‘Shit!’’ one of them cussed. ‘‘What the hell are they coming back for?’’
another asked in anger.
Their ever-grinning commander and
his cohorts had taken leave of the premises about three hours earlier; and in
the days since the African VIPs took up residency there Controller and his associates had not called at the isolated
guesthouse more than once a day. No, this was not in keeping with the
established routine here, thought one of the senior security operatives,
hesitating; his index finger yet on the safety catch. His heart missed a beat
and accelerated when a young operative started to unlock the gates and had
actually been at the verge of issuing a counter-order when he recalled how fast
established routines had been changing around them in the past few days. Their
commander and his associates now made daily calls at the main house and stayed
for uncharacteristically long periods at a time; significant changes that lent
some credence to current rumour by domestic workers in the central house that
the present siege was about to end.
The middle-aged operative was
thus rationalizing when the first car past the gates and headed towards the
central house. On passing the gates the second car moved a notch slower than
the first, as though dithering, but the security operatives were no longer
paying serious attention to the all-too-familiar sleek cars. Within a twinkle
of an eye the snail-paced motion turned into lightning speed as the boot of the
second car flew open at the same time as a hail of bullets rocketed out of
silenced sub-machine guns. Two men in bullet-proof vest adroitly hopped out of
the luggage compartment, their index fingers did not relent even as they did
so. By the time the first rugged Toyota Land Cruiser reached the steel gates
twelve-odd men were sprawling on the ground either dead as a herring or dying;
it swiftly drove past and headed towards the rear of the central house, its
equally ruggedly clad passengers hopping out from all directions and smartly
taking positions. The second Land Cruiser did not venture past the steel gates.
Meanwhile David, leader of the
rescue operation, closely followed by Jacob, Dayan, Isaac, and Ben, had smashed
their way into the central house through large windows, promptly dispatching
three security personnel to permanent slumber even before the trio were fully
awakened from the transient variety, although one of these had been able to
dislodge a handful of bullets from his pistol before. One of the bullets grazed
the audacious leader’s temple. Less than one minute after entering the house
David, Jacob, and Dayan were already on the upper level calling out ‘‘Mister
President! Mister Foreign Secretary! Identify yourselves! We have come to take
you home! Mister President…!’’
Ben and Isaac, as eagle-eyed as
they were keen-eared, and holding the ground floor by the staircase thought
they heard amidst noisy opening and closing doors overhead distinct report of
riffles coming from behind the house.
‘‘Come on now Mister President!
All’s safe now; we are your friends…’’ Dayan’s husky voice was calling out
above Jacob’s when a seemingly suppressed response came forth from one of the
locked doors along the narrow passage. The three dark figures dashed, like an
arrow in flight, towards the direction whence the response had come. As they
did so, another, if more confident response came from the opposite direction of
the first.
Firmly seated behind a steering
wheel and calling out precise instructions to a manager in Miami was the
Colombian operation coordinator; seamless weaving of multiple activities was
the sole key to success in the operation at hand, Marcos kept reminding
himself. Soon after, both captive VIPs, donning purpose-designed bullet-proof
vest over outsized pyjamas and barefoot, were being part-carried and part-led
down the exquisite wooden staircase. In another moment both glossy cars were
speeding past the steel gates much like racing cars, completely unmindful of
the undulated tracks. The two Land Cruisers brought up the rear. The entire
operation had taken less than the maximum time allotted to it by the
mission-managers. From when the first hail of bullets was fired to when the
convoy of four sped past the steel gates was recorded as 4.52 minutes on
Marcos’ wristwatch.
Not sparing a thought for his
wound and taking the same attitude that one took to common people to the VIPs
seating next to him, David roughly snatched the satellite telephone from
Marcos, who was having some difficulties keeping pace with the leading car
while following a conversation in far away Florida. As the leader snatched the
handset Jacob impulsively turned and per chance caught a glimpse of David’s
wound and thought it was nothing to make a song and dance about at that point.
He then took a good look at the objects of their mission as though making
assurance doubly sure that the two completely dumbfounded men sitting next to
his leader were the actual people the team had come half way round the world to
rescue, and not some impostors. Not that he had any foolproof way of
differentiating the chaff from the wheat, but the exuberant ex-commando was
depending solely on his animal instincts to alarm him if something was amiss.
Speechlessness was as often as
not caused by shock than addled state of mind; neither Vice President Alhaji
Sai’du nor Honourable Nwankwo could tell with any accuracy whether or not the
group of men into whose hands they presently found themselves were indeed
friends or modern day Jacobs in the skin of Esau of old. The foreign minister
had seen reels of movies where hostages moved from one set of kidnappers to
another in very precarious circumstances. And on a sub-continent where
abductions hardly made news such dramatized fiction as soon translated into
living reality. Since taking French leave of their respective bedrooms nothing
in the purported rescuers’ demeanour suggested to the dignitaries that they
were once again liberated men, what with the unsettling discourteousness in
which they were presently enveloped and the belligerent countenance of the
purported rescuers. Even with that heavy air of uncertainty still shrouding
their fate the two Nigerians seemed marginally pleased with the present
situation; one of them had actually quietly exclaimed ‘‘What a great relief it
is to be let out of that prison after four consecutive weeks!’’ the moment they
sped past the steel gates. A nineteenth century sage had remarked that none
could appreciate freedom more than a people who had been completely denied it
for long.
A goodly while after the convoy
of four had left Machala the elderly VIP suddenly remembered the existence of
the Most-Beneficent-and-Most- Merciful,
and spontaneously commenced telling his beads even though he had understandably
left those precious-looking stones back whence they came. David involuntarily
turned towards the familiar soliloquy and just as involuntarily uttered
‘‘Shalom!’’
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