As the plane’s engines powered down, a new sound rose up from the north. Helicopters were flying towards them, snaking low over the lip of the volcano and hugging each contour of the vertiginous ground. The low thud of their rotors grew louder as they approached, before they began banking round in tight formation towards the edge of the runway. Everyone shielded their eyes from the downdraft as the bulbous frame of three Oryx Mk2 helicopters came into the light.
Each helicopter slowly turned on its axis, giving their door-mounted 7.62mm GMPG machine guns a perfect line of fire before finally touching down. Soldiers jumped out while a fourth helicopter continued circling, covering them from the air. As it passed a second time, the main body came into view, revealing the unmistakable stepped configuration of an AH2 Rooivalk attack helicopter. From the back of the plane, the Chinese soldiers cast glances at each other. They had never expected to see such firepower in a backwater like Goma. Aside from the missiles, the Rooivalk had a 20mm cannon under its chin that could cut an entire plane in two.
A man slowly clambered out of the leading Oryx and moved with no particular hurry towards the rear of the plane. As the crowd parted and he stepped into the red glow of the cargo bay’s interior, they saw he was stocky, with a chest that stretched the fabric of his black T-shirt. A white kerchief was tied around his neck and his hair was longer than the usual military crop. He stood with one foot on the metal ramp, and then turned back towards his helicopters, signalling for them to begin unloading. As hardened plastic sacks were piled out on the ground to be swapped for the crates of AK-47s, the man kept his back turned towards the Chinese soldiers, seemingly oblivious to their presence.
Louis had recognised Jean-Luc as soon as he had stepped off the helicopter. There was just something about the way he moved. He exuded a cat-like confidence which succeeded in being both languid and unpredictable within the same pace. With his wide shoulders and thick-set forearms, he could easily have been mistaken for a bare-knuckle brawler if it weren’t for the rugged squared-off jaw and intelligent, deep-set eyes.
Louis always dreaded Jean-Luc’s arrival. Even when sober, there was a volatility to him which meant he could just as easily attack or hug you within the same breath. He would ignore direct questions, then moments later find something totally inconsequential hilarious. And trying to second-guess his moods was exhausting.
Looking out over the crowd of Chinese faces, Louis tried to spot his handler before the Frenchman suddenly swivelled round towards him.
‘Louis,’ Jean-Luc called, his gravelly voice cutting through the crowd. ‘Comment vas- tu, mon ami?’
The manager’s cheeks immediately tightened in a smile.
‘I am very well, Monsieur Étienne. Thank you so much for asking.’
Jean-Luc stepped off the ramp and placed one of his huge hands on Louis’s shoulder, pressing down on it while slowly nodding to himself. It looked as if he had done something extremely agreeable but had now forgotten exactly what.
Louis’s smile ratcheted a little tighter. He could smell the faint trace of aniseed on Jean-Luc’s breath from the pastis and wondered if he might be resting against him for support, rather than out of any sense of goodwill.
‘And how are you, sir?’ Louis asked.
Jean-Luc’s expression didn’t alter, his smile set but vacuous. He swung his left arm up clumsily, waving for his men to bring over the cargo.
‘Now, mon ami,’ he said, whispering the words conspiratorially. ‘Why don’t we have a little chat about the rates you charge on my fuel? Surely we deserve a little discount?’
‘But, Monsieur, it is not a question of deserving.’
Jean-Luc squeezed his shoulder playfully. ‘But all the business I bring you. For an old friend, that’s got to be worth something?’
Louis gently shook his head, turning his gaze towards the ground.
‘Monsieur, it is the same for every person landing here. Even MONUC pay the same contract rates.’
Jean-Luc jerked his chin closer.
‘Do I look like fucking MONUC?’ he spat, sending tiny flecks of saliva into Louis’s face. His eyes were glazed, the right one moving slightly out of sync with the left.
‘Well, do I?’
Louis stayed motionless, surprised even now by the hostility in Jean-Luc’s voice. In everything he said, there was a seething undercurrent that could boil over at any moment.
‘I will see what I can do, sir.’
Jean-Luc patted his shoulder as if the deal had already been done. Then, without another word, he swung his arm around Louis until they were standing side by side like old comrades-in-arms. They watched while the Chinese soldiers fanned out from the back of the plane and on to the tarmac, taking up position silently with their rifles held at the ready. Then the handlers came into the cargo hold in single file, working quickly to unpack the wooden crates and run them over to the helicopters.
The whole process was completed in silence. Men passed crates to each other, keeping their eyes lowered and avoiding eye contact with the soldiers. Every few minutes the downdraft of the circling Rooivalk washed over them, its rotors deafeningly loud at such close range.
Once the crates of AK-47s had been packed on to the helicopters, the handlers carefully took the toughened plastic sacks and piled them in the centre of the cargo hold. Louis stared at each of the team as they passed him, desperately searching for his man, but the dull red lighting made their faces a blur. Then he suddenly saw him, almost directly in front of where they were standing. He was helping to straighten the crooked stack of cargo. Their eyes met, but there was not a flicker of recognition from the man. He simply stared ahead, while his hand surreptitiously dug into one of the plastic sacks and filled his right pocket with its contents.
Louis continued staring, mesmerised by how casually the man had done it, when suddenly he felt Jean-Luc turn towards him.
‘Trust,’ he said, breathing the words directly into his ear. ‘That’s what they say is the most important thing in life.’
Jean-Luc paused, letting the words hang between them, while Louis stayed absolutely rigid, his smile fading imperceptibly.
Swallowing several times, Louis tried to force some moisture back into his mouth, but he could feel the panic rising up inside him. It made him feel physically sick and he had to stop himself from reaching down to clutch his stomach. He could feel Jean-Luc’s muscular arm resting across his shoulder and suddenly had a premonition that the Frenchman was simply going to curl it around his neck like some kind of snake and throttle him there and then.
‘But these slitty-eyed bastards,’ Jean-Luc continued, jerking his head towards the Chinese soldiers. ‘They don’t give a shit about loyalty or trust. They take as much as they can get from anyone who is selling. No questions asked.
‘You know,’ he continued, ‘after all these years, it’s not the guns, the dead civilians or even the pointlessness that gets to me. It’s the hypocrisy. The West offers aid with one hand, then rapes the shit out of the country with the other. At least with the Chinese there is no pretence. They want minerals and will buy them from anyone who’s selling. There’s a beauty in that – a simplicity.’
Louis gave an enthusiastic nod.
‘Yes, Monsieur Étienne. A simplicity.’
Louis felt his mind struggling to keep up. Was this another of the Frenchman’s games or a genuine moment of reflection? He nodded again for good measure, wondering whether he was expected to add anything to the conversation, but his mind kept circling back to a single word Jean-Luc had said – ‘minerals’.
In all the time that he had been managing these shipments, he had never discovered what it was exactly they were trading. There was too much for it to be diamonds and too little for gold. He had agreed to buy it blind from the handler, guessing from the high levels of security that the substance must be phenomenally precious. But now Jean-Luc had confirmed that it was a mineral. Which mineral was so valuable? Uranium ore?
When the la
st handlers clambered off the plane, the soldiers took their place, not lowering their rifles until the ramp was fully raised and the IL-76 engines had fired up once again.
‘Until next week,’ Jean-Luc shouted above the din. Leaving Louis standing mutely in the centre of the runway, he ran over to the nearest Oryx helicopter. As soon as he had perched on the edge of the cabin, the helicopter powered up, hovering a few feet above the ground. The others rose up one by one, forming an echelon port configuration, with the Rooivalk gunship continuing higher, until it was 1,500 feet above them and providing cover. They then dropped their noses and sped forward, banking round in a wide turn towards the pale orange glow of the volcano.
Louis stood still, just listening to the softening beat of the rotors. The nausea had quickly turned to exhaustion and he let his shoulders sag in relief now that the Frenchman was gone. Just as he was exhaling a long, deep breath, an arm suddenly grabbed him from behind. He was about to shout in protest, when he realised that one of the Chinese handlers was pulling him clear of the Iluyshin’s engines. Side by side they scurried to the far side of the tarmac.
‘Take attention, Mr Louis,’ the handler shouted in broken English, gesticulating towards the plane. He then pointed again for extra emphasis. Louis could feel the weight of something being pressed into his open pocket, but resisted the temptation to look down.
‘The money’s under the rear seat of the first car,’ he responded, through gritted teeth. The handler paused for a second as he tried to understand the meaning, then prodded into the air once again.
‘Engine dangerous!’ he said, and turned to rejoin his group.
Louis curled his fingers tight around his pocket, already trying to judge the weight of the substance. Whatever it was, he had the best middleman in town already lined up in Goma. All he had to do now was get to the Soleil Palace nightclub.
With a low-pitched roar of its engines, the plane departed, followed shortly by the 4x4s. Louis was suddenly alone once again. He looked over his shoulder, double-checking that no one was watching, then carefully pulled the packet from his coat. Rolling the substance through his fingers, the shards of rock felt brittle and flaky, but with a warmth to them that was somehow comforting.
He smiled. Strolling back to the terminal, he lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply on the rough tobacco. Whatever he had in his pocket, they had got away with it. And right under that bastard Frenchman’s nose!
His smile broadened just as another bout of coughing shook him. Spitting the cigarette on to the ground in disgust, he wiped a trail of saliva from his chin with the back of his sleeve. Screw the muzongos and their damn’ cigarettes. He needed a drink.
Chapter 7
THE SOLEIL PALACE lay down one of the labyrinth of backstreets in downtown Goma. There was no sign to mark its existence, only two huge piles of black volcanic rock stacked outside the entrance, as if the nightclub had been carved out of the ground instead of being built on top of it. Inside, the lighting was equally subterranean with stubby candles on each table and a faintly neon-lit bar. At the end of an array of optics was an open stretch of concrete used as a dance floor, with towering speakers arranged around it in a semicircle. The music was already pumping. Friday night was always a big night in Goma.
Louis clasped the bouncer’s hand, ignoring the rowdy queue outside, before swaggering through the entrance tunnel and past the pool tables to his right. Some local hookers were idly leaning against the cues, using each shot as a chance to hoist their skirts a little higher and tease the men at the bar. A couple of them glanced up as he passed, smiling suggestively but only half-heartedly.
Once through the heaving crowd, Louis approached one of the low tables on the edge of the dance floor. Fabrice was already there, wearing his trademark white suit and Gucci sunglasses. Seated to one side of him was his girlfriend, Marie, her long hair spilling halfway down her low-backed dress. She sipped her cocktail, shoulders twisted away from him and lips slanted in surly frustration. He was doing his best to ignore her and they sat there in silence, the aftermath of yet another argument. As Louis arrived, Fabrice leaped up from the table, overjoyed at the excuse to break the deadlock. He shook Louis’s hand, twisting his palm round in the African style, then poured him a massive shot of vodka from the bottle chilling on the table in front of him.
‘Hey, Marie, you remember my friend Louis,’ he shouted, nodding towards their guest. The burn marks on the left side of Fabrice’s face caught the light. They ran across the top part of his cheek and all the way back into his hairline.
Marie pulled a Swarovski-encrusted mobile from her handbag and pointed it at the centre of Fabrice’s chest as though taking aim.
‘You promised,’ she said. ‘No work tonight.’
‘But, baby, you know how it is in the club. This is my office.’
Fabrice raised his palms imploringly, then winced as he caught Marie’s smouldering glare.
‘I’ll see you later, dear,’ she purred with mock affection. ‘I’ll be at the bar.’
‘Baby, wait a second …’ Fabrice called, reaching out his hand, but she tossed her hair over her shoulders and stalked off.
Both men watched in silence as she moved through the throng of people, before Fabrice finally took a huge gulp of his drink, the ice clanking against his white teeth.
‘She’s too much,’ he said, exhaling heavily. ‘Every day she busts my balls about something else. I tell you, Louis, she talks more than your mama.’
Louis raised an eyebrow. ‘If you’re done with Marie, get yourself one of those big mamas down by the lake. You know, all booty and big love. Give them a bag of corn and they’re nothing but grateful.’
Fabrice smacked his lips.
‘Oh, yeah, got to love that big booty,’ he said, thrusting his hips forward in time with one of the girls on the dance floor. ‘None of this skinny-assed “Why you working so much?” bullshit.’ He pointed towards the bar, knowing full well Marie wasn’t watching. ‘’Cos with me you get paid, girl. That’s why!’
Thumping his chest a couple of times, he stared at the back of Marie’s head defiantly, before adding ‘Yeah’ to no one in particular.
While Fabrice settled back in his seat and minutely adjusted his sunglasses, a couple of white men walked in at the far end of the nightclub. With their thick-set frames and cropped haircuts, they looked like off-duty MONUC forces. Fabrice caught the attention of one of the girls playing pool and, with a flick of his wrist, motioned towards the new arrivals. The girls immediately downed their cues and began scything through the crowd.
‘Goddamn’ UN,’ Louis muttered. ‘That’s about the only thing they leave their compounds for. Screwing our women.’
‘Should keep them busy, though,’ Fabrice answered. Wiping the table with a few paper napkins, he motioned that they should get down to work. Louis dutifully placed the package on the table, carefully peeling back the edges.
‘So they’ve been running this every week?’ Fabrice said, taking a shard of the rock between his fingers and turning it under the candlelight.
‘Every week. AKs come in. This goes out.’
Fabrice peered closer, lifting his sunglasses. He wrinkled his nose in concentration.
‘And a helicopter?’ he asked, over his shoulder.
‘Not just a helicopter. They come in with four of them. Machine guns … Mercs. I told you, this is some big shit, Fabrice. There was a whole Chinese unit there and it wasn’t easy to get that stuff out. I mean, I am taking a lot of risk here. We should talk about that.’
He looked across, keen to impress upon the middleman the difficulty he had had procuring the cargo, but as ever Fabrice was only half listening. He was turning the shard over and over in his hands, his expression darkening with each revolution.
‘So where do they get it from?’
‘North,’ Louis answered, leaning back in his seat distractedly and catching the eye of one of the girls on the next table. He smiled at her, his eyes mo
ving down from her face to her cleavage.
‘North? What do you mean, north? Across the border?’
Louis shook his head. ‘No. Not Sudan. I heard it’s from somewhere inside the Ituri Forest. A place called Epulu.’
Fabrice’s expression twisted in disbelief.
‘The Ituri? Nothing comes out of the Ituri. No one ever goes past the river.’ He paused for a moment, his mind racing while he wondered what could be so valuable that someone would risk going north. It was nothing short of suicide. Turning back to the shard, he shook his head once again. ‘Jesus, it must be worth a fortune.’
Louis leaned forward eagerly.
‘So come on, Fabrice. How much is it worth? I weighed it already. We got over a kilo here.’
‘None of this makes any sense,’ Fabrice answered, dropping the shard back on to the table so that it nearly rolled off the lip. Louis made a grab at it, catching it just in time. ‘This isn’t worth shit, Louis. It’s plain old coltan.’
‘Coltan?’ Louis asked, his voice rising in shock.
‘Yeah. You know, tantalite. The stuff they use in cell phones.’ Fabrice waved his hand in disgust at the small pile of rocks. ‘It’s mined all over the place. What you got there is worth about fifteen dollars. Real “big shit”, Louis.’
‘No, no,’ he stuttered, shaking his head at the injustice. He grabbed the shard in his own hands and stared at it, holding the flame of the candle directly behind the rock, almost singeing it. ‘I’ve seen the security they use. There’s got to be something more.’
As Louis brought it closer to the light, Fabrice suddenly noticed a flash of red. Steadying Louis’s wrist, he leaned forward. There was a thin vein of colour running the length of the shard. It was a smouldering, blood red colour, welling through the blackness of the rock.
‘What the hell …’ he muttered, the words trailing off. He took the shard between his own fingers again and studied it more closely. The glow was soft and mesmeric, like lava cooling long after an eruption.
The Secret Chamber Page 5