Red Tide, стр. 33
After clearing the security check the visitors were invited to board a nine-seat van which, judging from the mesh covered windows and the U-bolts attached to the floor, was used to transport prisoners. Greer felt his stomach muscles tighten as the vehicle passed between neatly mowed swaths of grass, past a statue honoring a guy on a horse, and up to the prison.
Once they were closer, the building no longer resembled a hotel. Hotels don’t have sharpshooters positioned on their roofs, windows protected by bars, and surveillance cameras.
A man in a business suit was waiting to greet them. “Hello!” he said brightly. “My name is Carlos Ruiz. I’m an attaché with the Department of Foreign Affairs. It will be my pleasure to facilitate your visit with the American criminals.”
The remarks were directed to Greer as if Mary didn’t exist. “You are Mr. Noel Zondi. I read the opinion piece you wrote about the war, China’s philanthropy on the African continent, and the need for your country to align itself with the Axis. We couldn’t agree more.”
That was the first Greer had heard of the opinion piece that someone else had written. He smiled as they shook hands. “Thank you. May I call you Carlos?”
“Yes, of course,” Ruiz replied. “And I shall call you Noel. Come … Please don’t be disturbed by the conditions inside. I assure you that the crowding is only temporary, and will be resolved the moment new beds become available.”
Greer had to give Ruiz credit. The bastard was an accomplished liar. They followed their guide through a door into a lobby. Two heavily armed guards were waiting for them. After showing their IDs the visitors were led through the reception area to a steel door. Metal rattled as the barrier slid from left to right.
The first thing Greer noticed was the overwhelming miasma that filled the air. And no wonder, hundreds of prisoners were packed into cells intended for fifty.
Some stood. But many lay like corpses on the filthy floor too tired, too sick, or too dispirited to rise. The combined stench of their unwashed bodies and the overflowing toilets made Greer gag. He took pictures anyway, hoping that they would help convince the chain of command to stage a rescue operation.
Then the yelling started. It was directed at Mary in English, Tagalog, and other languages that Greer didn’t recognize. All the shouted commentary had to do with Mary’s appearance and the things the men wanted to do to her. To her credit Mary remained expressionless, her head up, and her eyes forward.
That was when Ruiz yelled something to a guard. The man stopped, drew his pistol, and shot a prisoner in the face. Blood and gore splattered those around the dead man. The press of bodies held him vertical for a moment. Then, as the living hurried to distance themselves from the dead, the body slumped to the floor. The shouting stopped.
Total silence reigned, and hundreds of eyes stared at the visitors, as they followed the passageway to the far end of the cavernous room. “Sorry about that,” Ruiz said breezily. “The boys get a little out of hand sometimes. The American war criminals are in the last cell.”
Greer snapped a series of photos as they arrived in front of a large cell with only three men in it. Greer recognized the emaciated faces right away. Ames was the tallest, Symons was the thinnest, and Wix had a look of astonishment on his face. “Holy shit, guys … That’s …”
Wix wasn’t able to get the rest of the words out because Ames put a size 12 on the smaller pilot’s foot and interrupted him. “Who the fuck are you people?”
“My name is Carlos Ruiz,” the diplomat said, “and this is Noel Zondi. He writes for the South African Express newspaper.”
“The Chinese province of South Africa, huh?” Symons replied. “Remember this Mr. Zondi. “What goes around comes around. That’s all I have to say.”
Greer held the phone out to record the conversation. “Do you have a message for the families of the people you killed? An apology perhaps?”
“Yeah,” Ames said. “I have a message for China … Fuck you.”
Greer was busy snapping photos. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say for yourselves?”
“Eat shit and die,” Wix said. “How’s that?”
Greer turned to Ruiz. “I’ve got enough. Once I file my story the people of South Africa will get a firsthand look at the baby killers.”
Symons rattled the bars. “Step in here asshole! So I can kick your lying ass!”
Ames pulled Symons back, and Ruiz turned to Greer. “Please send me a copy of your story.”
“I will,” Greer lied. “And the people of South Africa thank you.” Was he laying it on too thick?
Apparently not. Ruiz smiled blandly and turned to the guards. “We’re ready to leave.”
None of the prisoners made a sound as the visitors left. Greer noticed that the dead body was still sprawled on the floor. The van was idling outside. Greer wanted to relax but couldn’t. Not until he was safe in Indonesia.
It took what seemed like an hour, but was only a matter of minutes, to reach the main gate. A car was waiting for them. Not a taxi, but a black Mercedes. Dalisay was inside. And when Greer began to describe the visit, the underground leader shook his head. “You’re here,” Dalisay said. “That’s all I need to know.”
It seemed that Dalisay didn’t want Greer to talk in front of the driver and that made sense. What the man didn’t know he couldn’t reveal. And he knew enough already.
Cars passed. Lights could be seen. The Mercedes passed through a small town, slowed, and took a righthand turn. Greer felt a rising sense of excitement as the limo approached a small airport. The dimly lit terminal was the size of a two car garage and, except for a two-engine passenger plane, the rest