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The Seventh Scroll | A World Best Seller By Wilbur Smith || Egyptian Series 2



New Member
Sep 15, 2013
সেভেন্থ স্ক্রলটাও আপলোড করে রেখেছেন!!(ধন্যবাদের বন্যার ইমো হবে।)


New Member
Jan 31, 2014
দুর্দান্ত সব বই! ডাউনলোড করছি আর পড়ছি গোগ্রাসে! ধন্যবাদ এডমিন!! :Bp Fast 23:

kazal shafi

New Member
Mar 16, 2014
ধন্যবাদ এত সুন্দর বই দেওয়ার জন্য।


New Member
Mar 29, 2014
aohor vai ke abar o many many thanks continuously darun sob boi upohar debar jonno


Mar 24, 2013
Many thanks for such a wonderful book in bengali. Ekta kotha sudhu bolte chai je ei onubad-e ekta important portion missing mone hochhe (jeta English boi-te ache); seta holo: Treassy jokhon Mek-er sathe chole gelo tarpot Boris oder pichu ney. How Boris finds the trail and subsequently falls into the ambush set by Mek - that is a fantastic portion, tarpor Mek & Boris-er un-armed combat (fight), ar oboseshe Mek-er hate Boris finish. Tar body-ta Mek-er Sufta-ra AK47 diye jhajra kore jole fele dey.

Thank you again.


New Member
Aug 23, 2014
অনেক ধন্যবাদ

ধন্যবাদ ভাই...
আপনারা কেমনে এত্ত কষ্ট করেন?প্রতিটি পেজ স্ক্যান করে এডিট করা সত্যই আসাধ্য সাধন করার মতো... :Bp Fast 25:


Well-Known Member
Mar 18, 2013
অন্য একটি থ্রেডে মন্তব্য করতে গিয়ে বইটির কথা মনে পড়লো। মন থেকে ধন্যবাদ জানাই অহর ভাইকে।


Mar 24, 2013
Many thanks for such a wonderful book in bengali. Ekta kotha sudhu bolte chai je ei onubad-e ekta important portion missing mone hochhe (jeta English boi-te ache); seta holo: Treassy jokhon Mek-er sathe chole gelo tarpot Boris oder pichu ney. How Boris finds the trail and subsequently falls into the ambush set by Mek - that is a fantastic portion, tarpor Mek & Boris-er un-armed combat (fight), ar oboseshe Mek-er hate Boris finish. Tar body-ta Mek-er Sufta-ra AK47 diye jhajra kore jole fele dey.

Thank you again.
Ei portion-ta english boi theke tule dilam, sobar sathe share korar jonne:

Mek Nimmur was on his way back to his own stronghold.

Boris estimated that he had between fifteen and twenty men with him. It was difficult to be certain, for the tracks on the pathway overlapped each other, and of course he would have scouts on the'point ahead of him and sweeping his flanks. There would also be a rear guard dragging the trail behind him.
They were making good time, but such a large party would not be able to outpace a single pursuer. He was sure he was gaining on them. He reckoned that he had started four hours behind them, but judging by
recent signs he was now less than two hours adrift.

Without breaking his trot, he stooped to pick thing up from the path. As he ran on he examined it. It was a twig, the soft tip shoot of a kusagga-sagga plant that grew beside the track. One of the men ahead of him had brushed against it as he passed, and snapped it off the main branch. It gave Boris a fairly accurate gauge of how far he was behind. Even in the heat of the gorge, the tender shoot had barely begun to wilt. He was even closer than he had estimated.
He slowed down., a little as he considered his next move. He knew this part of the valley fairly well. The previous year he had hunted over much of this terrain with an American client, who had been looking for a trophy Walia ibex. They had spent almost a month combing these same gullies and wooded ravines before they had brought down a huge old ram, black with age and carrying a pair of curled, back-sweeping horns that ranked as the tenth largest ever in the Rowland Ward record book.
He knew that two or three miles ahead the Nile began another oxbow loop out to the south, and that it then doubled back upon itself. The main trail followed the river, because a series of sheer and formidable cliffs guarded the high groupd in the centre of the loop of the river. It was, however, possible to cut the corner. Boris had'done it before, while following the wounded ibex.
The American hunter had not killed cleanly his bullet had struck the ram too far back, missing the heartlung cavity and piercing the gut. The stricken wild goat had taken to the high ground, following one of its secret paths up amongst the crags. Boris and the American had followed it up and over the mountain. Boris remembered how dangerous and treacherous the path had been, but when it descended the far side of the mountain it had cut off nearly ten miles.
If he could find the beginning of the goat path again, there was every chance that he would be able to get ahead of Mek Nimmur and be lying in wait for him on the far side. That would give him an enormous advantage. The guerrilla leader would be expecting pursuit, not ambush.
He would be covering his back trail, and it was highly unlikely that Boris would be able to slip past the rear guard without alerting his

intended victims. On the other hand, once he was ahead of them he would be in control. Then he could choose his own killing ground.

As the trail and the main flow of the Nile started to turn away towards the south, he kept watching the high ground above it, seeking a familiar landmark. He had not gone another half-mile before he found it. Here there was a break in the line of dark cliffs, a heavily forested
reentrant, that cut into the wall of basalt.

He stopped and mopped the sweat from his face and neck. "Too much vodka," he grunted, "you are getting soft." His shirt was as sodden as though he had plunged in the river.

He changed the slin of the rifle to his other shoulder, lifted his

binoculars and swept the sides of the wooded gully. They appeared sheer and unscalable, but then he picked out the stunted shape of a small tree that grew out of a narrow crack in the face. It looked like a Japanese bonsai, with a twisted, malformed trunk and tortured branches.

The Walia ibex had been standing on the ledge just above that tree when the American had fired. In his mind's eye Boris could still see the way
in which the wild goat had hunched its back as the bullet struck, and then spun around and raced away up the cliff. He panned the glasses upwards gently, and could just make out the inclination of the narrow ledge as it angled up the face.

"Da, da. This is the spot." He was thinking in his mother tongue again.

It was a relief after these last days of having to struggle in French and English.

Before he began the climb, he left the trail and scrambled down the boulder-strewn slope to the river. He knelt at the edge of the Nile and splashed double handfuls over himself, soaking his cropped head and sluicing the sweat from his face and neck. He drained and refilled his water bottle, then drank until his belly was painfully full.

Then he rinsed out the bottle and refilled it. There was no water on the mountain. Finally he dipped his bush hat in the river and placed it back on his head, sodden and streaming water down his neck and face.

He climbed back to the main trail and followed it for another hundred paces, moving slowly and studying the "ground. At one place there was a rock boulder almost blocking the path. The men ahead of him had been forced to step over this obstruction, on to a patch of talcum-fine dust beyond it. They had left perfect impressions of their footprints for him
to read.

Most of the men were wearing Israeli-style para boots with a

zigzag-patterned sole, and those coming up from behind had overtrodden the spoor of the leaders. He had to go down on one knee to examine the signs minutely before he could pick out the imprint of a much smaller
and more delicately formed foot, a lighter, unmistakably feminine tread.

It was partially obliterated by other larger masculine footprints, but

the outline of the toe was clear, and the pattern was that of a smooth rubber-soled Bata tennis shoe. He would have recognized it from ten thousand others.

He was relieved to find that Tessay was still with the group, and that

she and her lover had not left and taken another path. Mek Nimmur was a sly one, and cunning.

He had escaped from Boris's clutches once before. But not this time! The

Russian shook his head vehemently: not this time.

He gave his full attention to the female footprint once again. It gave him a pang to look at it. His anger returned in full force. He did not consider his feelings for the woman. Love and desire did not enter into the equation.

She was his chattel, and she had been stolen from him. It was only the insult that had significance for him. She had rejected and humiliated him, and for that she was going to die.
He felt the old thrill run through his blood at the thought of the kill. Killing had always been his trade and his vocation, but no matter how often he exercised his craft the thrill was never blunted, the pleasure never satiated. Perhaps it was the only true pleasure left to him, pure and unjaded - not even the vodka could weaken and dilute it as it had the physical act of copulation. He would enjoy killing her even more than he had once enjoyed coupling with her.

These past few years he had hunted only the lower animals, but he had never forgotten what it was like to hunt down and to kill a human being,
more especially a woman. He wanted Mek Nimmur, but he wanted the woman more.

In the days of President Mengistu, when he had been the head of counter-intelligence, -his men had known his tastes and had picked the pretty ones for him. He had only one regret now, and that was that this time he would have to do it swiftly. There could be no question of drawing it i out and savouring the pleasure. Not like some of the other experiences, which had lasted for hours, sometimes for days.

"Bitch," he mouthed, and kicked at the dust, stamping on the faint outline of her footprint, obliterating it just as he would do to her. "Black fomicating bitch."

He ran now with fresh strength and determination as he left the trail

and climbed up towards the deformed tree and the beginning of the goat track up, the cliff.

Exactly where he expected it, he found the start of the track and

followed it upwards. The higher he climbed, the steeper it became. Often he had to use both hands to haul himself up a gradient, or to work his
way along a narrow traverse.

The first time he had climbed this mountain he had been following the

blood spoor of the wounded ibex, but now he did not have those splattered droplets to guide him, and twice he missed the path and found himself in a dead end on the cliff face. He was forced to edge back from the drop and retrace his footsteps until he found the correct urning.
Each time he did so he was aware that he was losing time, and that Mek

Nimmur might pass before he was able to intercept him.

Once he startled a small troop of wild goats which were lying on a ledge halfway up the cliff. They went bounding away up the rock face, more like birds than animals bound by the laws of gravity. They were led by a huge male with a streaming beard and long spiral horns, which in its flight showed Boris a direct route to the top of the cliff.

He tore the skin off his fingertips dragging himself up the last steep pitch, but finally he reached the top and wormed his way over the skyline, never lifting his head. A i human form silhouetted against the clear, eggshell-blue sky would be visible from miles around. He moved along behind the crest until he found a small clump of sanseveria to
give him cover, and used the erect, spiny leaves to break up the outline of his head as he surveyed the valley a thousand feet below through the binoculars.

From this height the Nile was a broad, glittering serpent uncoiling into the first bend of the oxbow, its surface ruffled by rapids and rocky
reefs. The high ground on either bank formed standing waves of up-thrust

basalt, turbulent and chopped into confusion like a storm sea in a

tropical typhoon. The whole danced and shimmered in the heat and the sun beat down with the blows of an executioner's axe, pounding this universe of red rock into heat exhausted submission.

Though the air danced and trembled with the mirage in the tenses of his binoculars, Boris traced out the rough trail beside the rier, and followed it down the valley to the point where it was hidden by the
bend. It was deserted, with no sign of human presence, and he knew that his quarry had moved on out of sight. He had no way of telling how far down the trail they had travelled - he knew only that he must hurry on
if he were to cut them off on the far side of the mountain.

For the first time since he had left the'river, he drank sparingly from

the water bottle. He realized how the heat and the exertion of the climb had dehydrated him. In these conditions a man without water might be dead in hours. It was not in the least surprising that there was so
little permanent human habitation down here in the gorge.

When he backed off the skyline he felt rejuvenated, and set out to cross the saddle of the mountain. It was less than a mile across, and without warning he came out on the top of the cliffs on the far side. One more unwary pace and he would have stepped off into space and plunged down a thousand feet. Once again he moved along the crest until he found a concealed vantage point from which to spy the terrain below.

The river was the same - a wide and confused expanse of white-ruffled

rapids, running back towards him as it turned through the leg of the oxbow. The trail followed the near bank, except where it was forced to detour inland by the rugged bluffs and stone needles which rose out of the Nile waters.

In the great desolation of the gorge he could pick out no movement other than the run of wild waters and the ceaseless dance of the heat mirage. He knew it was not possible that Mek Nimmur had moved fast enough to have passed completely ahead of him; therefore he must still be coming around the bend of the oxbow.

He drank again, and rested for almost half an hour.

At the end of that time he felt strong and fully recovered.

He debated with himself whether to descend immediately and stake out an ambush on the' trail, but in the end decided to keep to the high ground
until he had his quarry in sight.

He checked his rifle carefully, making sure that the telescopic sight

had not been bumped out of alignment during the climb, and then emptied the magazine and examined the five cartridges. The brass case of one of them was dented and discoloured, so he discarded it and reloaded with another from his belt. He chambered a round and setthe safety-catch.
He set the weapon aside while he changed his sweat, dampened socks with a fresh dry pair from his pack and retied his bootlaces with care. Only

a novice would risk blistered feet in these conditions, for within hours they would be infected and festering.

He drank once more, and then stood up and stung the 30/06 on his shoulder. Ready now for anything that the goddess of the chase could send his way, he moved off along the crest to intercept the war party.

From every vantage point along the rim he glassed the valley below, each time without spying his quarry, and the afternoon passed "swiftly. He
was just beginning to worry that Mek Nimmur had somehow managed to slip past him unseen, that he had crossed the river at some secret ford or
taken another path through a hidden valley, when there came a plaintive and querulous cry on the heat-hushed air.

He looked up. A pair of kites were circling over one particular clump of

Thorn scrub on the river bank.

The yellow'billed kite is one of the most ubiquitous scavengers in Africa. It exists in close symbiotic association with man, feeding off his rubbish, picking up his leavings, soaring and circling over his
villages or his temporary campsites, watching for his scraps or waiting patiently for him to squat in the bushes and then dropping down immediately he has finished his private business, acting as a universal sewage disposal agent.
Boris studied this pair of birds through his binoculars as they sailed idly in the heated air, always circling directly over that same patch of

river in bush. They had a distinctive manner of steering with their long bifurcated tails, twisting them from side to side as they flirted with
the breeze. Their bright yellow beaks showed clearly as they turned their heads to look down at something in the scrub.

He smiled coldly to himself. "Da! Nimmur has gone into camp early. Perhaps the heat and the pace are too fierce for his new woman, or perhaps he has stopped to play with her a little."

He moved on along the rim until he could look down directly into the patch of bush. He studied it through the binoculars, but without picking
out any signs of human presence. After almost two hours he was becoming uncertain of his original assumption. The only thing that retained his attention was the pair of kites, which had settled in a treetop
overlooking the patch of scrub. He had to trust that they were watching the men hidden in the scrub.

He glanced at the sun anxiously. It was sliding down towards the horizon at last and losing its furious heat. Then he looked down into the valley again.
Directly below the patch of bush was an indentation in the river bank that formed a backwater, almost a small lagoon, When the river was in flood it would be inundated, but now there was a small strip of gravel bank exposed. On this bank stood a number of boulders that had tumbled down from the cliff above. Some of them were lying on the beach, while

others had rolled into the river and were half, submerged. The largest was the size of a cottage, a great round mass of dark rock.

As he watched, a man emerged unexpectedly from the scrub. Boris's pulse quickened as he watched him scramble down on to one of the smaller boulders and jump from there on to the gravel bank. He knelt at the
water's edge and filled a canvas bucket -with water, then climbed back and disappeared into the bush again.

"Ah! The heat is too much even for them. They must drink, and that gives them away. If it had not been for the birds I would never have known
that they were there." He clucked softly with reluctant admiration. "Nimmur is a careful man. No wonder he has survived so long. He keeps tight control. But even he must have water."

Boris kept watching through the glasses as he tried to guess what Mek Nimmur would do next. "He has lost much time here by sheltering from the heat. He will march again as soon as it is cooler. He will make a night march," he decided, as he looked at the sun again. "Three hours until
dark. I must make my move before then. Once it is dark it will be difficult to pick my targets."

Before he stood up he wriggled back from the skyline.

He retraced his steps back along the Mountainside until a bluff shielded him from the eyes of Mek Nimmur's sentries.

Then he started down. There was no goat track here and he had to make his own going, but after a few false starts he discovered an inclined rock shelf that afforded him a fairly easy path down the face. When he reached the bottom of the gorge, he took careful stock of the lie and
run of the . stratum so as to be able to find it again in an emergency. It was a good escape route, and he knew that he might soon be under pursuit and duress.

It had taken him over an hour to negotiate the descent, and he knew that he was running out of time. He reached the trail at the water's edge,
and started back along it towards Mek Nimmur's camp. He was in a hurry now, but even then he was careful to take anti-tracking precautions. He walked on the edge of the trail, stepping only on the stony ground,
careful to leave no sign of his passing.

But despite his caution, he nearly walked right into them.

He had not covered the first two hundred metres when in the back of his mind he registered the low, mournful whistle of a pale-winged starting, and almost ignored it until alarm bells sounded in his mind. The timing was all wrong. The starling only gave that particular call at dawn when it left its nesting site high up in the cliffs. This was late afternoon
down in the heated depths of the gorge. He guessed that it was a signal from one of the scouts coming up the trail towards him. Mek Nimmur's party was on the move.

Boris reacted instantly. He slipped off the trail, and ran back the way

he had come until he reathed the beginning of the pathway along which he had descended the cliff. He climbed just high enough to be able to overlook the trail. However, he realized that he had lost Much of the advantage that he had built up by cutting across the mountain. This was
not the ideal ambush position, and his escape route was exposed to enemy fire from below - he would be lucky to make it to the top. But the .
idea of abandoning his vengeance never occurred to him. As soon as his targets were in'his sights, he would shoot from this stance.

However, he acknowledged to himself that Mek Nimmur had taken him by surprise. Boris had not anticipated that he would move before the sun
had set. He had expected to be able to take up a position above the camp in the thorn patch and to be able to get off two careful, well-aimed
shots before he was forced to run.

It was also part of his calculations that, once he had dropped Mek

Nimmur, his men would not be eager to follow up with too much despatch. Boris planned to make a running retreat, stopping at every defensible strong point to fire a few shots, knock down one or two of them, and
keep the pursuit circumspect and cautious until they eventually lost their taste for the game and let him go.

However, all that had now changed. He would have to take the first opportunity that presented itself - almost certainly a moving target -
and as soon as he had fired he would be exposed on the path up the cliff

face. His one advantage here was that his hunting rifle was a superbly accurate piece, whereas Mek Nimmur's men were all armed with AK-47 assault rifles, rapid-firing but notoriously wild at longer range, and
more especially in the hands of these shufta. With proper training, the fighting tribesmen of Africa made some of the finest troops in the world. They possessed all the necessary skills, with one exception - they were notoriously poor marksmen.

He lay flat on the ledge, and the rock under him was so hot from the direct sunlight that it burned painfully even through his clothin - He pulled the pack from his 9 back and set it up in front of him, settling the forestock of the, rifle over it to give himself a dead rest. He peered through the telescope, wriggling into a comfortable position, sighting on a small rock beside the main trail and then swinging the barrel from side to side to make certain that he had a clear arc of fire.

Satisfied that this was the best stance he could find in the short time left to him, -he set the rifle aside and picked up a handful of dirt. He rubbed this gently into his face, and the sweat turned it to mud that coated his pate skin and dulled the shine that an alert scout might pick out at long range. His last concern was to check the angle of the sun, and to satisfy himself that it was not reflecting off the lens of his
scope or off any of the metal parts of the rifle.

He reached over and pulled at the branch of the shrub beside him so that

it cast its shadow over the weapon.

At last he settled down behind the rifle and cuddled the butt into his shoulder, regulating his breathing to a deep slow rhythm, dropping his pulse rate and steadying his hands. He did not have long to wait. He heard the bird-call again, but this time much nearer at hand. It was answered immediately from the far side of the trail, down closer to the river bank.

"The flankers will be having difficulty maintaining station over this terrain." He grinned without hurriour, a death's-head grimace. They will be bunching and straggling." As he thought it, a man came into view around the bend of the trail, about five hundred metres, dead ahead.

Boris picked him up in the magni of ens.

He was a typical African guerrilla, a shufta dressed in a tattered and faded motley of camouflage and civilian clothing, festooned with pack and water bottle, ammunition and grenades, carrying his AK at high port. He hatted the moment he came through the turn, and crouched into cover behind a boulder at the side of the trail.

For a long minute he surveyed the lie of the land ahead of him, his head turning slowly from side to side. At one point he seemed to be staring directly at Boris, who held his breath and lay as still as the rock
beside him. But finally the shufta straightened up and gave a hand

signal to those out of sight behind him. Then he came on down the trail

at a trot. When he had covered fifty metres the rest of the party began to appear, keeping their intervals as precisely as beads on a string. It would not be possible to enfilade this line even with an RPD from a prepared position.

"Good!" Boris approved. "These are crack troops. Mek must have hand-picked them." He watched them through the lens, examining the features of each man as he came into view, searching for Mek Nimmur. There were seven of them spread out down the trail now, but still no sign of their leader. The man on the point drew level with Boris's position and then went on past him. A pair of flankers passed directly beneath where he lay, rustling softly by in the scrub not more than a dozen paces from him. He lay like a stone and let them go. The rest of them passed his position, well spaced and moving swiftly. For some minutes after the last of them had gone, the gorge seemed deserted and
devoid of all human presence. Then there was another stealthy movement out there.

"The rear guard," Boris grunted softly. "Mek is keeping the woman at the rear. His new plaything."He is taking great care of her."

He slipped the safety-catch on the rifle gently, making certain that no alien metallic sound fell on the heated and hushed air.
"Now let them come," he breathed. "I will take Mek first. Nothing fancy, no head shots. Squarely in the centre of the chest. The woman will

freeze when he goes down.

She does not have the reflexes of a warrior. She will give me a second unhurried shot. At this range there will be no question of a miss. Right between those pretty little black tits of hers." He became sexually charged by the image of blood and violent death set opposite Tessay's loveliness and grace. "I might even have a chance to get one of the others. But I can't bank on that. These men are good.

More likely that they will dive into cover before I have even had time to kill the woman."

He watched the faces of the rear guard as, one at a time, carefully spaced, they came into view. Each time he felt his heart trip with disappointment. In the end there were three of them on the path, moving past him at a steady, businesslike jog-trot. But no sign of Mek and the
woman. The rear guard disappeared down the path, and the small sounds of their progress dwindled into silence. Boris lay alone on the ledge, his
heart thumping and the sour taste of disappointment in the back of his throat.

"Where are they?" he thought bitterly. "Where the hell is MeV And the obvious answer to his own question occurred to him immediately. They had taken a different trail. Mek had used this patrol as a decoy to lure him

He lay quietly for a measured five minutes by his wristwatch, just in

case there might be more men coming up the trail. His mind was racing. His last definite placin of 9 Tessay had been the glimpse of her
footprint on the trail at the far bend of the oxbow.

That was several hours ago, and if she and Mek had given him the slip they could be anywhere by now. Mek might have won himself a start of a full day or more - it might take Boris that long to work the spoor

Feeling waves of anger overwhelm him, he had to close his eyes and fight it off in order to keep his sense of reason from being swamped. He had
to think clearly now, not go rushing at the problem like a wounded buffalo. He knew that this was one of his weaknesses: he had to keep tight control of himself.

When he opened his eyes again, his anger had become cold and functional. He knew precisely what he had to do and the order in which he must do
it. The very first task was t& sweep and check the back trail. He had to establish the point at which Mek had left the main detachment of shufta.

He slipped down off the ledge and through the scrub to the open trail. Still anti-tracking, but moving swiftly, he made his way upstream, back towards the patch of Thorn scrub where the party of shufta had lain up in the heat of the day. The first thing he noticed was that the pair of
kites had gone. But he did not take this as proof that the bush was

deserted! and began to circle it carefully. First he worked the incoming

trail on the far side of the patch of bush. Although several hours old now, it was still clear enough to read.

Suddenly he stopped in the centre of the trail and felt the hair rise on his forearms and down the back of his neck as he stared at the sign in the dust of the path. He realized that he had walked into Mek's trap. There lay the distinctive imprint of a Bata tennis shoe.

Mek and the woman had gone into the patch of scrub and had not come out again. They were still in there, and Boris was seized by the strong premonition that Mek was watching him even at that moment, over the open sights of his AK. While he was out in the open like this, stooped over
the spoor, Boris was completely vulnerable.

Hurling himself sideways off the path, he landed like a cat in the wire grass beside it, with the rifle at the ready. It took many minutes for
his heartbeats to return to normal, and then he rose again into a stealthy crouch and began circling the patch of scrub very cautiously. His nerves were as taut as guitar strings, and his pale eyes darted from side to side. His finger lay upon the trigger of the 30/06 and he kept
the muzzle weaving slowly, like the head of a cobra ready to strike in any direction.
He moved down towards the bank of the river, where A the noise of the rapids would mask any sound he might make. But when he had almost reached the shelter of the house -sized boulder that he had noticed from

the mountain crest he froze again. He had heard a sound that carried

over the sound of Nile waters - a sound so incongnious in this place and at this time that for a moment he doubted his own hearing. It was the sound of a woman's laughter, sweet and clear as the tinkle of a crystal chandelier swinging in the breeze.

The sound came from below him, from the river bank beyond the tumbled boulder. He crept towards the boulder, determined to use it for cover
and as a vantage point from which he could cover the bank beyond it. But before he reached it he heard the splash of some heavy object striking
the surfac& of the river, and an excited female squeal, both playful and provocative.

Reaching the side of the boulder, and keeping close in under its protective bulk, he stole towards the corner, from which he could overlook the gravel bank beyond. Then, peeping cautiously around the angle of the boulder, he stared in amazement. He could barely believe what he was seeing. He could not credit this kind of stupidity from a
man like Mek Nimmur. This was the hard man, the seasoned warrior and survivor of twenty years of bloody bush war acting like a love-sick teenage booby.
Mek Nimmur had sent his men away so that he could be alone to frolic with his new paramour. Boris took time to make absolutely certain that this was not some elaborate trap that had been set for him. It seemed too fortuitous, too heaven-sent to be really true. He searched every

inch of the bank in both directions for hidden gunmen before he smiled his cold little smile.

"Of course they are alone. Mek would never let one of his men see Tessay naked like this." His smile grew broader as he recognized the full
extent of his luck. "He must have gone crazy. Did he not realize that I would follow him? Did he think he was far enough ahead to be able to indulge tu himself like this? Is there anything in this world as pid and as shortsighted as a standing prick?" Boris was gloating delightedly now.

uple had stripped off their clothes and left them The coin a pile on the beach of grey basalt gravel in the shade of AL

the tall boulder. They were splashing together in the slack water of the river at the edge of the main current. Both Of them were stark
mother-naked. Mek Nimmur was broadshouldered, with a heavily muscled back and hard, tight buttocks. Beside him Tessay was slim as a river
reed, her waist tiny and her hips narrow. Her skin was the colour of

wild honey. They were completely absorbed in each other, without eyes or ears for anything else in this world.

"He must have left men guarding his back trail." Boris gave Mek the benefit of some sense. "He never expected me to be ahead of him on the trail. He thinks they are completely secure. Look at the fool," he
gloated, as Mek chased the girl and she let herself be caught. They fell

into the shallow water locked in each other's embrace, mouths seeking each other as they surfaced again, laughing as the water streamed down their darkly beautiful faces, the epitome of handsome masculinity and lovely womanhood, the image of an African Adam and Eve captured for a moment in their own little carefree paradise.

Boris tore his eyes from them, and looked to where their clothing had been abandoned on the gravel bar.

Mek's AK rifle lay carelessly on top of his camouflage jacket, within a few paces of where Boris stood. He crossed the open gravel bar with a few quick strides, picked up the AK, unclipped the curved magazine and dropped it into his pocket, ejected the round from the chamber and let
it fly away into the gravel, replaced the unloaded rifle on the jacket, and rapidly returned to the tee of the boulder. Both Mek and Tessay remained utterly oblivious to what had happened.

Boris stood there quietly in the shadow of the rock, watching them at play in the river. They were almost childlike in their love and their complete preoccupation with each other.

Tessay at last broke from Mek's embrace and left the water. She came up the gravel bar, running long-legged and coltish, her wet silken breasts swinging and jostling each other at each stride as she looked back at
him over her shoulder in open invitation. Mek followed her out, the

water glistening in the dense curls of his barrel chest, his genitals

weighty and puissant.

He caught her before she could reach her clothing and she struggled playfully for a while in his arms, until his mouth clamped down over hers. Then she gave herself up to him completely. While he kissed her his hands ran down her back and over her wet glistening buttocks. Pressing herself against him she moved her feet apart and spread her thighs, inviting him to explore the secrets of her body. She groaned with desire as his hand cupped her sex gently.

Boris felt his anger mingle with the perverse voyeuristic thrill of watching his own wife being taken by another man. A devil's brew of emotions bubbled up inside him.

He felt his loins engorging and stiffening almost painfully with excitement, but at the same time his rage shook him like the branch of a tree in a gale of wind.

The lovers sank down on to their knees. Still locked together, Tessay fell backwards and pulled him over on top of herself.

Boris called out loudly, "By God, Mek Nimmur, you will never know how ridiculous you look with your bare backside in the air like that."

Mek reacted as swiftly as a leopard surprised on his kill. With a blur
of movement he flipped over and reached for the AK-47. Although Boris was ready for him, covering him with the 30/06, aiming at the back of

his neck when he shouted to him, Mek was so quick that he had swept up the AK from where it lay and had it pointed at Boris's belly before he could move. Mek pressed the trigger in the same instant as the muzzle came to bear.

The firing-pin fell on the empty chamber with a futile click, and the two men stared at each other across the gravel beach, both with their weapons levelled. Tessay was curled naked where Mek had left her, her dark eyes liquid with pain and horror as she watched her husband and realized that Mek was about to die.

Boris chuckled softly, throatily. "Where do you want it, Mek? How about

I shoot the head off that filthy black tool of yours, while it is still standing up in the air like that?"

Mek Nimmur's eyes darted away from his adversary's face, back towards the mountain, and Boris realized that his guess had been correct. Mek
had some of his men up there, but they were keeping out of view of the beach while their commander indulged himself.

"Don't worry about them. You will both be dead long before your chimps can get down here to save you." Boris chuckled again. "I am enjoying
this. You and I had an appointment once before, but you broke it. Never mind this is going to be even more fun." He knew that it was not wise to delay with a man like this. Mek had made one mistake, and it was highly
unlikely that he would make another. He should blow his head off now,

and that would give him a few minutes more to deal with Tessay. But the temptation to gloat over him was too strong.

"I have good news for you, Mek. You will live a few seconds longer. I am going to kill the whore first, and I am going to let you watch. I hope
you enjoy it as much as I am going to." He sidled away from the shelter of the boulder, edging towards where Tessay lay curled on the gravel beach. She was turned half away from him, trying to cover her breasts and her pubic area with hands too small and delicate for the job. Even as he approached the woman, Boris was watching Mek with his full attention. Mek was the danger, and he never took his eyes off him. It was a mistake. He had underestimated the woman.

While pretending to turn away from him modestly, Tessay had reached down between her thighs and found a round, water-worn stone that fitted
neatly into her small fist. Suddenly she uncoiled her lithe body and used all the strength of it to hurl the stone at his head. Boris caught
the movement from the corner of his eye and flung up his arm to shield his head.

The stone, flying with surprising force at close range, never struck its target. Instead it caught the point of Boris's upraised elbow. His
sleeves were rolled up high around his biceps, and there was no padding to cushion the impact of the stone; his arm was bent and flexed, the
thin covering of skin drawn tightly over the bone of the joint. The head

of the ulna cracked like glass, and Boris howled at the excruciating

agony. His hand opened involuntarily, and his forefinger jerked away from the trigger without the strength to fire the shot he was aiming at Mek's belly.

Mek rolled to his feet, and before Boris could change the rifle to his other hand he disappeared behind the angle of the giant boulder.

With his left hand Boris swung the butt of the rifle at Tessay's head, knocking her backwards into the sand. Then he thrust the muzzle into her throat, pinning her there while he shouted angrily. "I am going to kill
her, you black bastard! If you want your whore, you' better come fetch her!" The pain of the shattered elbow rendered his voice hoarse and brutish.

From somewhere behind the boulder Mek Nimmur's voice fang out strongly and clearly, calling a single word in Amharic that echoed along the
cliffs. Then he spoke in English, "My men will be here in a moment.

Leave the woman and I will spare you. Harm her and I will make you plead for death."

Boris stooped over Tessay and dragged her to her feet with his good arm locked around her throat. He held the rifle in the same hand, pointing
it over her shoulder. The hand of his injured arm had recovered sufficiently from the first shock to be able to hold the pistol grip and to manipulate the trigger.

"She will be dead long before your men get here," he shouted back as he

started to drag her away from the boulder. "Come and get her yourself, Mek. She is here if you want her."

He tightened his lock around her throat, choking her until she struggled and gasped, tearing at his arm with her nails and leaving long red welts across the tanned skin.

"Listen to her! I am crushing this pretty neck. Listen to her choking." He tightened his grip, forcing the sounds of distress out of her.

Boris was watching the corner of the boulder where Mek had disappeared. At the same time he was backing away from it, giving himself space in which to work. His mind was racing, for he knew that he could not
escape. His right arm was barely usable, and there were too many of Mek's shufta companions. He had the woman, but he wanted the man as well. That was the best trade that he could hope for - both of them, he had to have both of them.

He heard a shout, a strange voice from higher up the slope. Mek's men

were on their way. He was desperate now. Mek was not going to be drawn;

he had not heard him speak or move for almost two minutes. He had lost him - by this time he could be anywhere.

"Too late," Boris realized. "I am not going to get him.

Only the woman. But I must do it now." He forced her to her knees and stooped over her, shifting the lock of his arm around her throat.

"Goodbye, Tessay," he grated in her ear. He tightened his arm muscles and felt the vertebrae in her neck arched to breaking point. It needed only an ounce more pressure.

"It's all over for you," he whispered, and began the final pressure. He knew from long experience the sound, that the vertebrae would make as they gave, and he tensed himself for it, poised for that crackle like
the breaking of a green branch, and the stack weight of her corpse in his grip.

Then something crashed into his back with a force that seemed to drive in his backbone and crush his ribs.

Both the strength and the direction were entirely unexpected. It did not

seem possible that Mek Nimmur could have moved so far and so swiftly. He must have left the shelter of the boulder and circled out through the

Now he had come at Boris from behind.

His attack was so savage that the arm that Boris had wound around Tessay's neck opened.- She drew in a wheezing, strangled breath and twisted out of his grip. Boris tried to turn and swing the rifle around, but Mek was on him again, seizing the rifle and trying to wrest it from Boris's hands.

The Russian's finger was still on the trigger, and a shot went off white

the muzzle was level with Mek's face. The detonation stunned him for an instant, and he released the rifle and staggered backwards with his ears ringing.

Boris backed away from him, struggling with the weapon, trying to open the bolt and crank another cartridge into the chamber, but his crippled
right arm'made his movements clumsy and awkward. Mek gathered himself and charged head down across the gravel beach. He drove into Boris with all his weight, and the rifle flew out of the Russian's hands. Locked
chest to chest the two of them spun around in a macabre waltz, trying to throw each other, wrestling for the advantage, until they tripped and went over backwards into the river.

They came to the surface still grappling and rolling over each other, first one on top and then the other, a fearful parody of the lovemaking which Boris had watched a few minutes earlier. Punching and straining and tripping each other, they struggled in the shallows. But every time they fell back into the water the slope of the bank beneath their feet forced them further out, until, when they were waist-deep, the main current of the Nile suddenly picked them up and swept them away downstream. They were still locked together, their heads bobbing in the tumble of waters, their arms thrashing the water white around them, bellowing at each other in primeval rage.
Tessay heard the men that Mek had called coming down through the scrub at the run. She snatched up her shamnw and pulled it over her head as

she ran to meet them. As the first of them burst on to the gravel bar with his AK cocked, she shouted to him in Amharic.

"There! Mek is in the water. He is fighting the Russian.

Help him!" She ran with them along the bank. As they drew level with the two men in midstream one of the men stopped and levelled his AK, but Tessay rushed at him and struck up the barrel.

"You fool!" she shouted angrily. "You will hit Mek." Jumping to the top of one of the riverside boulders, she shaded her eyes against the dazzling reflection of the low sun off the water. With a sick feeling in
the pit of her stomach she saw that Boris had managed to get behind Mek and had a half nelson hold around his throat. He was forcing Mek's head under the surface. Mek was struggling like a hooked salmon in his grip
as they were swept into a long chute of white water.

Tessay jumped down from the rock and ran on down the bank to the next point, from which she could only watch helplessly.

Boris was still holding Mek's head under water as they were home together into the head of the chute. Fangs of black rock flashed by them on each side as they gathered speed. Mek was a powerful man and Boris had to exert every last ounce of his own strength to hold him, and he
knew he could not do so much longer. Suddenly Mek reared back, and for a moment his head came out. He sucked a quick breath of air before Boris
could force him under again, but that breath seemed to have renewed his


Desperately Boris looked ahead to the tail of the chute as they sped towards it. There were more rocks there. Boris picked out one great black slab over which the waters poured in a standing wave three feet high. He steered for it, kicking and hauling Mek's body around with the last of his strength.

They flew down the slope of racing water with the rock slab waiting for them at the end like a lurking seamonster. Boris continued to wrestle with Mek, until he had turned him into a position ahead of him. He planned to steer him into a head-on collision with the rock and use
Mek's body to cushion his own impact.

At the very last moment before they struck Mek dragged his head out from the surface, and as he grabbed a precious lungful of air he saw the rock and realized the danger. With a single violent effort he ducked forward below the surface again and rolle over head-first. It was so powerful
and unexpected that Boris was unable to resist.

Instinctively he maintained his lock around Mek's neck and was carried forward over his back until their positions were reversed. Now Mek had managed to interpose Boris between himself and the rock, so that when they slammed into it it was the Russian who bore the full brunt of the impact.

Boris's right shoulder crunched like a walnut in the jaws of a steel

cracker. Although his head was still under water he screamed at the brutal agony of it, and his lungs filled with water. He relinquished his grip and was flung clear of Mek. When he came to the surface he was floundering like a drowned insect, his tight arm shattered in two
places, his good arm flailing weakly, and his sodden lungs wheezing and pumping.

Mek exploded through the surface only a few yards behind him. Looking around quickly as he strained for air, he spotted Boris's bobbing head almost immediately and with a few powerful overarm strokes came up behind him.

Boris was so far gone that he was not aware of Mek's intentions until he seized his shirt collar from behind and twisted it like a strangler's garotte. With his other hand, below the surface, Mek secured a grip on the back of Boris's wide leather belt and used it like the helm of a
rudder to steer him towards the next reef of rocks that was boiling the water ahead of them.

Through his waterlogged lungs Boris was trying to shout invective at him. "Bastard! Black swine! Filthy-' But his voice was barely audible above the rush of the waters and the growl of the rocky spur that lay across their path. Mek rode him head-first into the rock and he felt the impact transferred through Boris's skull to jolt the straining muscles
of his forearms. Instantly Boris went slack in his grip, his head lolled

and his limbs became as limp and soft as strands of kelp washing in the


As they tumbled into the next run of open water, Mek used his grip on the back of Boris's collar to lift the Russian's face above the surface. For a moment even he was struck with horror at the injury that he had inflicted.

Boris's forehead was staved in. The skin was unbroken, but there was a deep indentation in his skull into which Mek could have thrust his thumb. And Boris's eyes bulged, pushed out of their sockets like those
of a battered doll.

Mek swung the inert carcass around in the water, and stared at the broken head from a distance of only a few inches. He reached up and touched the depressed area of the skull with his fingertips, and felt
the shards of splintered , bone grate and give beneath the skin.

Once again he thrust the shattered head below the surface and held it there, while he crabbed sideways across the current towards the bank. There was no resistance from Boris, but Mek kept his head submerged for the rest of that long tortuous swim across the Nile.

"How do you kill a monster?" he thought grimly. "I should bury him at a crossroads with a stake through his heart." But instead he drowned him fifty times over, and at the next bend of the river they were washed
into the bank.

Mek's men were waiting for him there. They supported him when his legs sagged under him, and they helped him up the bank. When they started to drag Boris's corpse out of the river, Mek stopped them abruptly.

him for the crocodiles. After what he has done

"Leave to our country and our people, he deserves nothing better." But even in his anger and his hatred he did not want Tessay to have to look at that mutilated head. She had been unable to keep pace with the men, but she was coming along the bank towards him now.

One of his men pushed Boris's corpse back into the current, and as it floated away he unstung his AK rifle from his shoulder and let off a burst of automatic fire. The bullets chopped up the surface around Boris's head, and socked heavily into his back. They tore holes in his wet shirt and kicked out lumps of raw flesh. The other men on the bank shouted with laughter and joined in the fusillade, emptying their magazines into the lifeless body. Mek did them. Some of their close relatives not attempt to prevent had died most horribly under the
Russian's care. The corpse rolled over in a pink cloud of its own blood, and for a moment Boris's pate bulging eyes stared at the sky. Then he sank away beneath the surface.

Mek stood up slowly and went to meet Tessay. He took her in his arms, and as he held her to his chest he whispered to her softly.

"It's all right. He won't ever hurt you again. It's all over. You are my

woman now - for ever!'
Shouherdya Ahmed

Shouherdya Ahmed

New Member
Jul 4, 2015
thank you so much. বইতা নামাচ্ছি ... অনেক নাম শুনেছি