Free On the riverside of promise by Vasileios Kalampakas Page B

make
his move. He shouted, “Look, Press!” and pointing at his Leica he
reached with the other hand at his vest’s chest pocket, fumbling
for the press pass.
     
    The guard instantly drew back the AKs loading
arm carefully, waiting for Ethan to make the mistake of flinching.
For a bunch of ragtag bandits, they exhibited quite the streak of a
rather unexpected professionalism; stupid nervous people with guns
would’ve shot him dead. Ethan glanced at the leader who was quietly
coming his way, while the rest of his men loitered near the sisters
pointing guns and casting leery glances. That man, Ethan thought,
was probably the sole reason why these wretches behaved themselves
almost like soldiers.
     
    The leader approached Ethan gracefully,
making sure his insignia was prominently visible. He silently
reached at Ethan’s vest pocket and pulled out his press pass,
signed and stamped by the IPA and the UN in one of the British
embassy’s cultural attache’s offices. The leader took a look at it
and read aloud with a thick, grossly cacophonous accent:
     
    “Richard Owls. London Times. Lost?” he asked
with a grin that showed perfect white teeth and more than a couple
of gold casings.
     
    “Just doing a story,” replied Ethan and added
“Major, sir,” with an afterthought, hoping to feed the man’s ego.
Indeed he smiled when he heard the rank and offered Ethan his press
pass back. He took a quick look around him, the sun glinting off
his black Ray Bans. Whoever the man was, he was turning in a
profit, Ethan thought. When he spoke again, he wasn’t smiling
anymore:
     
    “I’m a moody person. Lost two men on the way.
Why are you here? What’s so important about nuns?”
     
    Ethan didn’t have a very hard time faking
intimidation. The man was imposing enough. Reminded him a bit of
his friend James, only without the redeeming qualities. He replied
with some difficulty, trying to find the words:
     
    “The missionary work… Taking care of people
in the middle of a war. Their stoic manner; really good press back
home. Good press anywhere, really. Takes the focus away from the
British involvement, too. Wins points with my editor.”
     
    The brute looked at him as if examining a
weird kind of exotic fly; it was a distant, focused stare.
“Politics, journalists. Same shit, eh?” he said suddenly and
laughed out loud all alone, his laughter echoing faintly in the
relative silence of the monastery courtyard.
     
    “Just doing my job, Major, sir,” replied
Ethan with a faint smile, his eyes still trying to steal a glimpse
of Nicole; she must be really gone, he thought.
     
    The sisters were huddled close together, as
if waiting for a verdict on them. The mother superior was eying him
and the leader of the bandits intensely. Maybe she was thinking of
doing something stupid herself. That would complicate things right
when he was trying to achieve a sense of rapprochement, if anything
like that could be achieved with the likes of these people.
     
    “I’m no major, Dick. I’ll call you Dick. No
Major Yuembe anymore. I’m King, King Yuembe!” shouted the so-called
Major, triumphantly raising both arms in the air. He fired off a
couple of shots, eliciting a response of wild gunfire in the air
from his men who cheered and eyed the sisters with venomous stares.
They looked barely able to hold themselves; another example in
forced discipline. He laughed heartily once more, before settling
down his gaze towards Ethan again. Ethan pitched the idea of the
story he had been working on in his mind:
     
    “I think you’d make the perfect story,
really. I could show the world your living conditions, the way
you’re defending your freedom. Add a bit about your back-story,
where you came from, what made you quit the army. It’d be a
fantastic piece, a world first,” Ethan said and aimed the camera at
Yuembe. He took on a haughty pose like a model, indeed the kind of
self-gratifying stance photographers tend to think is