The Secret Chamber

by Patrick Woodhead

  ‘It’s time for you to stop punishing yourself,’ he whispered. ‘You can’t keep blaming yourself for Bill’s death.’

  Luca froze.

  ‘Bill wouldn’t want you to …’ René began, but fell silent as Luca’s expression was wiped clear of any uncertainty or doubt. His eyes seemed to harden. Anger clouded his vision, making his whole body suddenly tense. René could see the vein on his neck pulse as a terrible rage built within him.

  Gradually releasing his grip, René edged back a pace until his shoulders pressed against the wooden uprights of the doorframe. In that instant, he realised he had suddenly become an absolute stranger to Luca. He no longer had any idea what his old friend was capable of.

  ‘Luca,’ he whispered, trying to keep his voice level. ‘You’ve got to let Bill go …’

  ‘Stop saying his name!’ Luca thundered, shunting René backward with his outstretched hands. Every fibre in his body seemed to combine with tremendous force, sending René crashing through the rickety wooden door and out into the rain outside. He staggered back on the wet porch, winded by the blow, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His right foot slipped off the step, sinking down into the mud and sending him spinning round on to his hands and knees.

  At first, René stayed stock still, letting the rain run off the crown of his head and down his cheeks. Then, slowly, he tilted his head to one side, eyes widening as he stared back towards the hut. Luca was there, silhouetted in the doorway by the dull light of the fire. Violence simmered in his gaze, then with a jolt he seemed to regain his senses. Stumbling out of the hut, he grabbed René under the arms, forcing him up on to his feet once again.

  ‘I’m so … sorry,’ Luca stammered. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I just reacted.’

  René held on to him, trying to pull himself up to his full height. A stabbing pain shot through this chest and he breathed out a long, winded gasp.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Luca repeated. ‘Forgive me, I just …’

  René nodded, slowly regaining his breath. They looked at each for a moment before a pained smile passed across René’s lips.

  ‘Guess you’re not as skinny as you look,’ he said. Then he put his hand over Luca’s shoulder and together they hobbled back to the shelter of the porch. With mud splattered over the palms of his hands, René signalled to Luca to pull out his cigarettes from the top pocket of his jacket and he quickly took one out, sliding it between René’s lips as he patted his pockets for a lighter. They both stood hunched over, with their forearms resting against the porch rail and their heads just beyond reach of the rain. As René finally sparked the lighter, he looked down at the cigarette. It was already sodden, drooping in a crooked arc.

  ‘About time I quit anyhow,’ he said, spitting it out into the mud. ‘One thing’s for sure. The old lady isn’t going to be too pleased about her door.’

  Luca’s eyes switched back to where the door swung loose on its hinges. Smoke from the fire curled out through the gap.

  ‘She’ll be OK. I know her from before and we can sort it in the morning. Listen, I am sorry about what happened. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  René nodded again, remaining silent for a moment before turning fully towards him.

  ‘You do know that going to the Congo isn’t just about saving Joshua, don’t you?’

  Luca stared, trying to guess his meaning, but René looked back towards the rain and avoided his gaze.

  ‘This is about finding yourself again, Luca. And you know something? Sometimes life has a habit of finding you, no matter how hard you try and hide from it.’

  Luca sighed heavily, his eyes fixed on the sodden cigarette resting on the mud.

  ‘The truth is that I’m scared to go back. Out here, I never need to explain myself to anyone or justify what happened with Bill. Every day, I get up and I carry the loads. That’s all anyone expects of me. Here, I just am.’ Luca paused, letting his shoulders sag as the energy drained out of him. ‘Now, suddenly, you’re asking me to go back to it all. Go back to normality.’

  René shook his head, a wolfish grin forming on his lips.

  ‘You really are an idiot, aren’t you? I’m asking you to go into one of the most war- torn, shit holes on earth … and you’re talking about going back to “normality”!’

  He clasped his hand over Luca’s shoulder, drawing him back into the hut.

  ‘Normality!’ he repeated, shaking his head again. ‘I’ll never understand what goes on in that thick head head of yours. Now come on, let’s get out of this weather and talk more inside. There’s still half a bottle of brandy left and we should drink it before the old lady serves any more of that filthy tea.’

  Chapter 5

  THE STRETCHED OUTLINE of the Mercedes Maybach passed like a shadow beneath the raised security shutters and nudged its way into Beijing’s traffic. As the 6-litre V12 engine powered forward, the car crossed Beihai Bridge, passing the tourists in their yellow paddleboats on the lake, and sped out towards the north-western suburb of Haidian.

  General Jian sat in the white leather interior staring out through a rear window. His eyes held an identical sheen to the car’s blackened glass, polished and opaque, concealing everything from the outside world. They lazily took in the chaos of China’s greatest city while his mind reviewed each detail of the meeting he had just had. He could picture every movement, every feature of the three committee members from the People’s Liberation Army, as he’d submitted his latest report on the progress of the satellite launches. For the last two years, his division of the PLA had been responsible for the implementation of the Beidou Navigation System – the Chinese military’s new version of the American Global Positioning System, or GPS as it was more commonly called – and, as ever, the committee wanted him to account for every last yuan spent.

  But it wasn’t the results of the meeting that stayed in his memory, more the minutiae of it. It had always been like that for him, every situation recalled in infinitesimal detail; the two scuff marks on the Vice-President’s right shoe, the pale tan line on the Under-Secretary’s third finger where he had recently removed his wedding ring, and the soft intake of breath from the President as he had scanned the accounts. The General could picture it all as if replaying it in slow motion, and he’d been correct in assuming that none of the committee suspected anything about his plans for the twentieth satellite launch. There had been not the slightest trace of suspicion.

  Bringing his right hand up to his neck, Jian absentmindedly scratched a patch of dry skin poking out above the starched white of his collar. He couldn’t remember when the itching had started, but felt sure that it must be connected with the resurgence of his headaches. They seemed to be an almost daily occurrence now; a low-level throbbing at his temples which never quite seemed to dissipate entirely before the next one set in.

  Taking four paracetamol from the packet on the seat beside him, he washed the pills down with a sip of bottled water, before switching his gaze to the dark blue evening suit hanging over the opposite door. He could smell the subtle aroma of dry cleaning still pressed into its sleeves and, leaning forward in his seat, he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped off his trousers. He was about to pull a clean shirt over his shoulders when he caught sight of his own reflection in the darkened partition glass between the rear seats and the driver. For a moment he just stared at his large, ungainly body, studying it as if he were a surgeon about to make the first incision.

  Despite their size, his arms lacked any definition, protruding from his shoulders in straight vertical lines like piping, while his stomach sagged slightly over the sides of his hips. Leaning forward so that his face was only a couple of inches from the mirrored partition, he ran his tongue against the sharp edges of his teeth, making a mental note to get them whitened again. He then surveyed his high cheekbones and wide-set jaw. There was only a smattering of Mongolian blood in his veins, but those bastards at the Guild never let him forget that he was not one of them, no matter
how high in the ranks he climbed. But all that would soon be an irrelevance. Only a few weeks from now he would be rid of them once and for all.

  Jian reached up and gently scratched the discoloration across the upper part of his neck. The skin was flaking off, revealing a darker patch just beneath the surface. For a moment he prodded at it, wondering what on earth could have caused it. He should have someone take a look at it, but right now there wasn’t the time. Once the twentieth launch was complete and the money secured, he’d get it seen to.

  A loud ringing echoed through the car and Jian pulled back from the glass, pressing the speaker button on the central seat bar.

  ‘General, I have a message from Secretariat President Kai Long Pi.’

  Jian inhaled deeply, always amazed by the speed with which his movements seemed to be known to the Guild. He had only just left the building.

  ‘The President has instructed me to inform you that Mr Xie will be visiting you today.’

  ‘Mr Xie?’

  ‘That is correct, sir. You will be updating Mr Xie on the Goma Project. He will be at your private residence in one hour’s time.’

  Jian’s lips curled in disdain. He always despised the presumption in Kai’s secretary’s voice.

  ‘I have an extremely important matter to attend to. I shall be there at 1400 hours.’

  ‘But, General, Mr Xie …’

  ‘Mr Xie can wait a couple of hours. I am quite certain such a busy man will have plenty of ways in which to occupy himself.’

  There was a pause before the voice replied.

  ‘Very well, General. I shall let him know of your delay.’ The secretary signed off, putting extra emphasis on the word ‘your’.

  Jian slammed his finger down on the button, cutting the line. Every new contact with the Guild only seemed to enrage him further. It was the impotence of his own position that was so infuriating. They were financing the entire Goma Project, and rarely a day went by without his being reminded of that fact.

  Nearly three hundred of China’s most influential families were either directly or indirectly involved with the Guild, an organisation which tapped into every vein and artery of life in mainland China. They ranged from high-ranking PLA officers such as himself to Party members operating at Politburo level. Whatever it was, the Guild was there, its hand at work in every major undertaking since the overthrow of Mao in the 1970s.

  But the Guild was a mercurial entity, multi-layered and complex. Families would align for a common purpose, only to find themselves competing against each another on a different matter. Alliances were tenuous and short-lived, the power struggles all part of a seemingly endless cycle. But there were times when the in-fighting had to stop. The scale of a project would reach such critical mass that it pulled the families together again to serve a single cause, one in which success would benefit all while failure would only destroy them.

  The Goma Project was of such a size. They all knew it. The stakes were too high for any single family to opt out, and now each of them wanted to be sure of a return on their investment. The pressure was suffocating, the expectations unrelenting. For the last year and a half, Jian had been made to feel it every hour and minute of his life.

  Turning away from the window, he curled his fingers into the leather necklace. His thumb rubbed over the blood-red stone hanging from it, finding the natural warmth of it strangely pleasing. The jewel was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Presented in a beautifully crafted, hardwood setting, it wasn’t a diamond or gemstone but in fact a piece of the mineral they were buying in its purest form. His contact had called it the ‘Heart of Fire’, and it had been sent to him only one week ago. Since that time he had worn it every day, fascinated by the warm, mesmeric red of the substance so few people even knew existed.

  The ‘Heart of Fire’ was a token of all that was to come. The fortunes of the Guild hinged around this one mineral, and the gift to Jian had served as a perfect reminder to the others that he was the one who had brokered the deal. He had been given this gift. No one else.

  The car eased to a standstill and Jian heard the driver move around to the back. A second later, there was a gentle tap on the window and the door opened. As daylight flooded into the muted interior, a woman appeared, her long blonde hair flowing down past her shoulders. She paused, looking at Jian for approval before delicately easing herself into the seat next to him. He let his eyes run slowly over the elegant pointed lines of her shoes, up the length of her legs and over her close-fitting grey skirt. She carefully smoothed the fabric across her narrow hips before finally looking up at him.

  She was younger than her clothes suggested, the skin perfectly smooth under her eyes and her lips still naturally full. The lipstick was a tone too garish for his tastes, but otherwise she had obviously paid heed to the instructions she had been given. She gave a well-practised smile that, despite her professionalism, succeeded in being charming, and twirled a finger through her white-blonde hair.

  ‘My name’s Imogene.’

  Jian squinted at her, taking in every detail. Even the perfume she wore was the one he had asked for and his nostrils flared as he drank it in, marvelling at the way his preferred scent seemed to change against each new girl’s skin.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Jian whispered, his voice deepening with anticipation. ‘Just beautiful.’

  Chapter 6

  LOUIS BWALANDE STOOD on the runway smoking a cigarette.

  Despite the sun’s having set over an hour ago, he could still feel heat rising up from the tarmac and drew one arm across his forehead, wiping off the sweat on to the sleeve of his dirty uniform. He had been the airport manager at Goma for the last seven years, and was well accustomed to smuggling all types of contraband. But tonight was different. Every few seconds, he found himself glancing up towards the long row of white UN planes parked alongside the runway, and out towards the towering silhouette of the volcano.

  The Frenchman should be here by now.

  Louis inhaled deeply on his cigarette, trying to calm his nerves. The Frenchman should have been here twenty minutes ago. As he blew the smoke out, a bout of coughing shook through him, making him retch. He shook his head and stared down in disgust at the glowing red ember of his cigarette. He hated smoking and was terrible at it, but tonight he felt a compulsive need to do something. Waiting was always the hardest part.

  Glancing down at his watch, Louis ran through a mental checklist. He had already chosen the hangar farthest away from the MONUC military base. It was the perfect place in which to avoid attention, partially hidden behind two moss-covered Boeing 727s that had been bulldozed off the runway a few years back and left to rot. There was nothing suspicious about that; scrap Boeings and Antonovs were as much a part of any Congolese runway as the tarmac itself. They lined every landing strip from Goma to Kinshasha, a legacy of five years’ civil war. Like everything else that had once functioned in this country, they had been left to blur slowly into the landscape, like litter on the side of a road.

  Louis turned as the lights from a convoy of 4 × 4s swung in a semi-circle around the airport terminal, before pulling to a halt by the runway’s decrepit fenceline. He could see figures climbing out, waiting in the shadows. The client didn’t trust the usual handlers and employed a Chinese crew from one of the nearby tin mines. Everything was arranged by the Chinese themselves and Louis was never given the slightest hint as to who the client actually was. The only thing he had deduced from all the military hardware involved was that the client must be part of the Chinese Army or, at the very least, well connected to it.

  But, despite all their precautions, Louis had managed to get to one of the Chinese handlers. It had taken weeks, but finally money had won him round. Tonight was the first time they would actually go through with their plan, and as the moment drew closer Louis suddenly regretted the whole terrible idea. The muzungos watched everything like hawks and were as vindictive as they were greedy. They would kill him without a second thought if they suspec
ted he was skimming the deal.

  For several minutes everybody waited in silence, with just the sound of the cicadas chirping in the background and the occasional beep of a car horn from somewhere deep within the city. Pacing along the side of the runway, Louis felt sweat beading under his shirt and pooling in the small of his back. What the hell had he been thinking, trying to double-cross the Frenchman in the first place? This was madness.

  There was a roar of engines as a Russian Iluyshin 76 plane passed overhead. It switched on its landing lights, washing the dead space between the terminal and the beginning of the runway with a searing white light. Long black shadows sprang up across the dried grass, turning slowly with the trajectory of the plane, before the undercarriage touched down and the reverse thrusters thundered.

  Gratefully screwing the cigarette into the ground with the toe of his boot, Louis waved towards the silent line of Chinese handlers, signalling for them to follow him. With a hiss of hydraulics, the ramp under the plane’s enormous tailfin lowered, revealing eight Chinese Special Forces soldiers crouching within, rifles tight against their shoulders, eyes scanning the group of assembled men. Each was dressed in black fatigues with front webbing pouches stacked full of ammunition. Night-vision goggles were tilted up from their faces and only their eyes were visible through the balaclavas pulled tight over their heads. They eyed the handlers warily, making minute adjustments of the QBZ-95G assault rifles in their grip. It was obvious neither side was taking anything for granted.

  In the dull red light of the plane’s interior, Louis could see pallets stacked in neat rows throughout the entire length of the hold. It was the same every week. Each box had its identification marks scratched off, but despite the secrecy he already knew what they contained – standard issue AK-47 rifles. It was the most prolific weapon in Africa, and each week hundreds more were arriving at his airport. But guns had never interested him. It was the cargo they were being traded for that Louis was after.