The Fish's Belly

  Donald had been an eight-year-old child-soldier when a botched bomb incident had knocked him unconscious. He had been left for dead before Harry, serving as a travelling missionary doctor at the time, found him. He had nursed him to health and adopted him as his own. Harry had never married, and had no children of his own.

  Through tear-filled eyes, Dembe praised God. “Thank You Father for bringing this man into my life. We are here to do Your will. What do You want us to do?”

  ***

  Their plane arrived on schedule and without incident.

  The McArthur family actually had the dubious honour of having survived a plane crash before. They were pleased that this landing was both boring and uneventful.

  The first thing they noticed was the warmer weather.

  The conditions they worked under in Japan had been freezing cold. As they stepped off the plane, the warm African air greeted them. Even though it was the start of autumn, it was twenty-seven degrees Celsius and climbing. The sky was blue, crisp and clear.

  Entebbe International airport is situated on the shores of Lake Victoria, one of Africa’s greatest lakes—shared by three countries Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda. The lake, named after Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom, supports Africa’s largest inland fishery.

  “Home,” said Donald as he inhaled deeply. He had not been back to Uganda for some time.

  Mac had purchased inconspicuous brown caps from Heathrow airport in London in an attempt to conceal his and his children’s striking blond hair. While Donald did not have blond hair to hide, of course, his cap helped to alter his appearance ever so slightly.

  Mac and Rachel kept together, while Donald and Daniel formed a second group maintaining a fair distance from father and daughter. If the General’s men were looking for a party of four, divided into two groups as they were, they might just slip through unnoticed.

  Knowing they could be under surveillance, they collected their bags with a sense of urgency. Keeping their heads low, they spoke very little. They all knew the plan: collect the hired car and travel the forty kilometres from Entebbe airport to Kampala as quickly as possible.

  Collecting the rental car went without a hitch. With their bags loaded in the trunk, they were just about to head out the airport and Mac was reasonably content. Either they weren’t spotted by the General’s henchmen, or they were expecting them to arrive only later. Perhaps his misleading email had thrown them off. And hopefully, the General and his men had taken his bait … and would face them in Kampala.

  His attention was suddenly broken by a low-flying aircraft with two distinct insignia on the tail of the plane. The first was generic and he paid no attention to it, the second—though the smaller of the two—was odd … and familiar.

  A sword crossed with what looked like a spear, forming a red X.

  He only had a moment as the aircraft whizzed overhead, departing from the airport, but he knew he had seen it somewhere.

  Where had he seen it?

  “What Dad?” asked Daniel realising his father had noticed something.

  “Yes!” gasped Mac, the penny suddenly dropping.

  10

  “Dad, what?” asked Rachel.

  “That plane … the one that just flew overhead…”

  “What plane?” Rachel had missed it.

  “Yes, I saw it…” added Donald.

  “It had an insignia on it, a sword and a spear, a red X…”

  “Yes?” asked Daniel.

  “I know that insignia…”

  “From where?” Daniel was gripped with anticipation.

  “It was the military insignia the General’s soldiers wore.”

  “What?” gasped Donald.

  “Yes, I had never seen it before, but having been held prisoner for forty odd hours by them; I'm surprised I didn’t recognise it immediately. I just couldn’t place it at first.”

  “Are you saying that the General is in the plane?”

  “No, I don’t think so. It looks like a cargo plane … and it has now departed from the airport … looks like it’s leaving Uganda...”

  “So, what are you thinking?” asked Donald.

  “The General either owns the plane or uses the plane to do … well, what he does. It means we’re in his territory … we’re close. Keep your eyes open.”

  ***

  After a scrumptious breakfast enhanced by the amazing connection these two strangers felt with each other, Dembe and Harry had agreed to get into Kampala as fast as possible.

  Harry wanted to try to find an internet café and contact Mac, letting him know that he had escaped. Perhaps he could stop the McArthurs and Donald from even arriving in Uganda. Hopefully, Mac would get it in time. Then they could avoid the General’s snare.

  “What happened to my other shoe?” asked Harry, remembering he had lost one of them in his race for survival. “I lost the one in the run, but I’m interested as to where the other went,” he explained.

  “I threw it to the crocodiles,” stated Dembe with no hint of exaggeration.

  “What? Crocodiles!”

  “Yes, upriver … we swam past three or four crocodiles.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, they looked interested in us at first, but then fortunately, your pursuers … following the river, unsettled them with their noisy dogs and itchy trigger fingers.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Harry trembled at the thought of what happened. “I’m so glad I passed out!”

  “Yes, I agree,” Dembe smiled broadly, “I think it helped. It was a little nerve-wrecking to be honest.”

  Harry gasped. “A little nerve-wrecking?”

  “I took off your remaining shoe and threw it on the bank near the crocodiles. I thought that perhaps your hunters would think the crocs ate you.”

  Harry breathed out a deep sigh of relief. “I guess I didn’t need it,” he managed to joke.

  Wearing Dembe’s only pair of sandals, Dembe going barefoot—he would have it no other way—Harry and his new friend began the journey to Kampala.

  It would involve a lot of walking; they could only hitch a ride from about halfway.

  ***

  The main road to Kampala from the airport was busy and the drive was tense and slow going. Once into Kampala proper, Mac drove even more carefully. The amount of pedestrians on the road was typical for a big African city. He was also taking in his surroundings, trying his best to get an understanding of a city he had never visited before. He stopped every now and again to take notice of a particular landmark, and take a good look at the GPS on his mobile phone. And of course, he regularly checked for any trace of a car following them. None!

  “Thank You Father,” he whispered.

  Stopping for the umpteenth time, Mac swivelled in his seat and looked back across the seats out of the rear window.

  “All okay?” asked a groggy Daniel, who sat at the back with Rachel and was fighting to keep his eyes open. The jetlag had kicked in, and the rising temperatures were lulling all the passengers to sleep.

  “Yes, all good.”

  “Are we there … Are we anywhere?” asked an exhausted Rachel, not exactly sure what her father was thinking.

  “If I have my bearings correct, the police station is about two kilometres down this road…”

  “Police station?” asked Rachel.

  “I’ll explain soon … I just caught sight of a place we can stay, or at least use as a rendezvous if required.”

  “Where, Mac?” asked a weary Donald.

  As a bead of perspiration ran down his left temple, Mac pointed at a rundown-looking inn: “There!”

  “The Fish’s Belly?” Rachel read the signboard above the hotel’s entrance. “There?” she asked surprised.

  “Yes, as inconspicuous as possible to others, yet distinctly memorable to us. What comes to mind when you think of the fish’s belly?”

  “Jonah,” said Daniel, Donald and Rachel at the same time.

  “Exactly,” said Mac. ??
?Let me see where I can park … umm … okay.”

  Mac drove the car another thirty metres down the road and pulled into a parking area. Following the signs, painted in freehand, he drove to the underground parking, and after a few times around the lot, he found a bay to park in.

  Mac switched off the ignition and said, “Don’t get out just yet; we need to talk.” The dark, cool underground parking gave them a private, comfortable place to speak.

  ***

  Harry did exceptionally well for the first two kilometres walking through the rough bush, and keeping up with Dembe’s quick pace.

  Dembe wanted to avoid the main road to Kampala that Harry’s enemies would be sure to patrol. Plus, through the bush, they would shave off several kilometres.

  By the third kilometre, however, Harry started to struggle. His swollen right knee was throbbing, and his bruised body ached.

  Dembe stopped, realising the old man was labouring.

  “Mzee,” his voice was soft and reassuring. “You’ve done so well.”

  “I’m trying, my dear friend…”

  “The sandals. Give them to me.”

  “Okay,” replied Harry happy to do so, but not sure what Dembe was thinking.

  Dembe put the sandals on and then smiled again at Harry.

  “There’s still a long way to go,” he explained. “Climb on my back.”

  “What? No!”

  “Yes, Harry.” Dembe nodded warmly. “I will carry you.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll manage. We’ll rest when I need a break.”

  “But—”

  Dembe’s smile broadened, “Dear friend. Trust me.” Then he turned around to offer Harry his back. Harry gratefully got on.

  Dembe looked a lot older than his forty-seven years of age, the hardships of life having taken its toll on him. However, he was as strong as a thirty-year-old. And he had the courage of a hippopotamus—which, as every African knows, is even braver than a lion.

  11

  In the cool privacy of the underground parking lot, Mac outlined his plan for the first time.

  The phony email.

  The fake meeting in three hours time at the police station.

  Agent Smith arriving on Monday.

  “Wow, Dad! When did you do all this?” asked Rachel.

  “I’m most relieved,” said Donald. “I wasn’t sure what we were going to do.”

  Mac continued, “We’ll check in and rest at the inn—”

  “The Fish’s Belly,” interjected Daniel with a chuckle.

  “Yes, we’ve got a few hours to catch our breath and get something to eat and drink … and then the action starts.”

  Rachel pursed her lips. “What happens then, Dad?”

  “We’ll walk to the police station. Rachel you with me, and you two together…”

  “Team!” Daniel raised his hands, and Donald slapped a high-five.

  “Team!” agreed Donald.

  “I don’t know how things will go down; maybe the General hasn’t even read my email. But he may show himself outside the police station, or we might catch a glimpse of some of his men. Maybe that red insignia they wear will give them away…”

  “We might even see Harry,” added Rachel.

  “Yes, let’s hope,” agreed Donald.

  “That will be first prize,” continued Mac, “but all we’re trying to do is draw the General out … into the open … after that, well…”

  “God will lead us,” gushed Rachel. “He always does.”

  “Amen!” said Donald.

  “Only believe,” added Daniel*, quoting the words of Jesus that had become so meaningful to them all through the challenges of the last nine weeks.

  * Mark 5:36

  After checking into the rundown ‘no-star’ inn, they put their bags in their room and returned to the inn’s restaurant. They seemed to be the only patrons, which suited them fine.

  The restaurant was dingy, and badly lit—but amazingly adequate for their purposes. They wanted to remain ‘hidden,’ keeping their whereabouts unknown for as long as possible. Mac selected a cubicle at the far end of the restaurant completely out of sight from the small street-facing windows.

  The manager of The Fish’s Belly was an older Ugandan woman named Suzie. She was big-boned, had a stroppy attitude about her, and a horrifying eight centimetre scar down her left cheek made her appear terrifying.

  With a series of grunts and groans she took their order for some cold drinks and sandwiches, the only thing the ‘restaurant’ made available on their lunch menu.

  After picking at their food—partly because it was unappetising and partly because of their collective stress—Mac cleared the table.

  “Okay,” Mac begun, with a rough sketch of the main road and police station he had drawn from the GPS information he had. “We’re going to walk to the police station in two groups on either side of the road. Keep your hats on and your heads down, but stay alert.”

  The tension was tangible. Mac spoke in whispers, but his voice seemed to echo off every point of the large room.

  “Danny, Don … if you can present yourselves directly outside the front entrance of the police station … take your hats off at that point … Rachel and I will be watching from across the road.”

  Donald and Daniel nodded and slapped another high-five, this time simply to relieve a little anxiety.

  “As I said, I cannot see them flashing guns in front of the police station, but it goes without saying, be on your guard.”

  “Will do,” replied Daniel.

  “If we need to split up,” continued Mac, “I’m going to yell … uh … Zachnoid Tumbleweed”—surprising even himself with a name and memory from his younger days.

  “What?” gasped Rachel. She would have burst into a fit of giggles except for how edgy she felt.

  “Who is Zachnoid … what?” added Daniel managing a full-faced grin.

  “You haven’t heard of Zachnoid Tumbleweed from the lost island of Lagoogoo?” Mac did everything he could to keep a straight face. Why he had stumbled on this memory, he couldn’t tell. He was grateful that it thawed their icy tension just a fraction.

  “Who?!” Daniel and Rachel said in unison. Donald simply looked at Mac speechless; the deep furrow on his brow added to the dancing curiosity in his eyes was almost comical. He had the best facial expressions … ever.

  “Long story,” said Mac playfully. “Remind me to tell you sometime … for now, Zachnoid Tumbleweed is our code name … If I say that name it means we split and rendezvous back here at The Fish’s Belly.”

  “But Dad, we stay together, right?” said Rachel.

  “Yes, sweetie; you’ll be with me,” Mac reassured her.

  “Danny? Don?”

  Daniel looked at Donald. Donald nodded looking disappointed that there was no time for Mac to unravel the mystery of Zachnoid Tumbleweed.

  “We’re good to go, Dad.” Daniel breathed out slowly.

  “Don’t come straight back to the inn,” explained Mac. “The police station is on this main road,” he indicated the road that ran past the inn, “and it runs directly north. If it comes to it, Rachel and I will run up the road, north, and then turn west before returning here. Danny, you and Don run south and turn east before weaving your way back … just in case you’re followed.”

  “Dad, I’m scared,” admitted Rachel. The fear was spreading across her face, and she began to tremble. Mac’s heart just about broke.

  Was he making a massive mistake?

  Should he have sent the children to Tanzania?

  “So am I, Rache … so am I.” He put a warm hand on hers, and her trembling began to abate. “Do you want to stay here at the inn?”

  “No way,” she replied instinctively. “What if something happened to you?”

  “Dad, we must stay together,” said Daniel.

  “Okay … let’s pray,” suggested Mac.

  ***

  Dembe carried Harry piggy-back for around t
wenty minutes at a time, resting for no more than two minutes before starting on the journey again.

  He was relentless and didn’t slacken his pace. At the same time, he was gentle with Harry—being carried on someone’s back isn’t easy on a sore body.

  Finally, they reached a secondary road having covered nearly twelve kilometres through the bush. The traffic on this road was not at all heavy, but it wouldn’t be too long before they could catch a ride with some kind driver heading to Kampala. And by driver, we’re not talking about a car. The traffic on these roads was of the donkey-cart variety.

  12

  The police station was exactly one-thousand, seven-hundred and twenty-one metres from The Fish’s Belly … and every metre they walked was pregnant with apprehension.

  Were they being watched?

  Did the General even read Mac’s bogus email?

  If so, what fate awaited them?

  If not, what then? How were they going to find Harry?

  Donald and Daniel walked up on one side of the road, and keeping behind them by a distance of about thirty metres; Mac and Rachel came up the other side.

  The streets were alive with activity, and with their eyes scanning the buildings and street for any hint of a threat, the four of them frequently bumped into pedestrians walking south.

  At one point, Daniel went sprawling as a man ran into him at speed, both he and the running man not concentrating on the steps right in front of them. The man had been yelling, “Move!” and “Out-the way!” but Daniel didn’t understand Swahili.

  Rachel, watching from behind and across the street, gasped.

  “What’s it, sweetie?” asked Mac, having not seen the incident.

  “Danny…”

  Mac went cold, his eyes quickly darting to the other side of the street. When he couldn’t see Daniel and could only partially see Donald bent over and tending to a twist of bodies on the ground, panic descended on him like an avalanche.

  Aware that his father and sister may be concerned, Daniel leapt to his feet, held up his hand to indicate that he was okay. He had lost his breath, and had banged his head on the cement walkway hard. He could feel the bump immediately, but was already searching for his cap that had gone missing in the fall.

  “He’s okay, Dad. Are you?” asked Rachel.

  “Yes thanks, sweetie,” Mac replied. “If anything happens to you or Danny, I … I …” He didn’t allow himself to finish the sentence. He let out a deep breath and at that moment, Rachel realised just how burdened her father was.