THE CONGO - SEPTEMBER 1965Marquez staggered out of the bar, worse for the amount of drink he"d taken that night. Cognac; a cheap brand that rotted the guts. It was awful, but better than nothing in this godforsaken steaming hell pit. He checked his watch; almost midnight.
His bleary eyes searched around the deserted roadside for where he had left the jeep. He staggered one way and then the next, before his memory kicked in and he saw it across the pathway. He sucked in a lungful of air, in the hope that it might sober him up. Doubtful, he thought, as he lumbered towards his ride home.
Doubtful,He fell into his vehicle, rummaged around for the keys. He started the engine of the two-seater jeep, heard it cough and rumble, and then he pulled away from the ramshackle provincial bar. Really,
