Chapter 26
FABRICE LET HIMSELF into the back office of the Soleil Club and bolted the door behind him. It was 6.30 in the morning. He sniffed. The air was heavy with the familiar stench of spilled liquor and overflowing ashtrays.
Tables stood in a semicircle around the bar with half-filled glasses stacked on top. A strip light had shattered over one of the pool tables in the far corner, showering the red felt with splinters of glass and a thin coating of neon powder. Lying just next to the table was one of the pool cues. It had been snapped in half during a brawl, broken into a jagged spike.
Fabrice stared at the carnage, whistling softly to himself. He felt the soles of his tan loafers stick slightly to the concrete floor as he walked over to the bar. He had just showered and was looking fresh in a pair of pressed white slacks and a laundered cream shirt. Picking his way round a fallen bar stool, he found the youngest of his barmen fast asleep, with the side of his head slumped against the counter. Fabrice pulled him up by the neck of his T-shirt.
‘What’s their tab so far?’ he asked without preamble. He glanced across at the group of people sitting in the far corner near the dance floor. They had been drinking hard since early the previous night.
The young barman blinked several times, trying to galvanise his brain into action. He searched for his notepad, eventually finding it half-soaked in alcohol and lying on the floor next to his feet. His eyes scanned across the smudged pencil scrawls, trying to decipher what he had written.
‘I’m not exactly sure, sir,’ he stammered, ‘but Monsieur Étienne, he gave me this to cover the charges.’
He pulled a sweaty wad of US dollars out of his pocket.
‘There’s five hundred, sir.’
Fabrice nodded slowly.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Now get your ass out of here.’
As he made for the exit, Fabrice called after him: ‘And tell everyone I want this shit cleaned up by two this afternoon. No later.’
Leaving the notes where they lay, he reached down to a low drawer and pulled out a ten-year-old single malt whisky. Tucking his fingers into four glass tumblers, he slowly approached the group in the far corner.
Eleven men lay slumped in the low chairs together with a few of the club’s girls. Of the eleven, only three were still awake. They sat hunched over the low table with cigarette smoke curling up from an overflowing ashtray in the centre. The last of their drinks stood bunched up next to a near-empty bottle of cheap brandy, while on the far side of the table lay a rolled up fifty-franc Congolese note and a discarded credit card. Pressed into the plastic surface of the table were faint smudges of white powder.
As Fabrice approached, the men looked up with bloodshot eyes.
‘One on the house?’ he asked, raising the bottle. All of them were mercenaries with faces hardened from years of fighting. Despite their casual clothes and long hair, there was still something military about the way they sat and moved. They had spent the better part of their lives in the cruellest, most war-torn shitholes on the planet. And it showed in everything they did.
Jean-Luc Étienne was one of the three men still awake. He glanced up at Fabrice.
‘You’re a good man,’ he breathed, his voice rough from cigarettes. ‘It’s another beautiful day in Africa and we thought we’d spend it getting as drunk as shit.’
‘Wise man,’ Fabrice answered, pouring out a couple of drinks and handing one across. ‘This stuff should see you on your way. A little boom-boom never hurt anyone.’
He watched as Jean-Luc collected himself, then sniffed loudly. He grimaced as the remnants of cocaine burned his nostrils, making his nose run again. Wiping it with the back of his hand, he smiled at Fabrice.
‘You must be spoiling us,’ he said. ‘This is the good stuff. I thought you only brought it out for the diplomats.’ There was humour in his eyes, but Fabrice didn’t relax for a second. He knew that smile all too well and knew how capricious it could be. The drunken merc before him had a quick temper, and even quicker reflexes.
Fabrice raised his glass in a toast before slugging back the whisky. He didn’t usually drink this early in the morning, but this time it was worth making an exception.
‘Only the good stuff for my man. You been flying recently or those MONUC pricks got you grounded again?’
‘You know, Fabrice, you’re a fucking class act,’ Jean-Luc said, swaying slightly. He raised his glass and Fabrice dutifully refilled it, struggling to stop the whisky from washing over the rim as Jean-Luc’s hand shook. ‘Anyone gives you any shit, you come speak to me. You hear me, Fabrice? And by the way, I owe you one for letting us stay on in the bar last night.’
‘Any time.’
‘No, I’m serious. Some of my boys really needed a drink. I owe you one.’ Jean-Luc paused, his face draining of any trace of bonhomie. ‘And I always pay my debts. You got that?’ His cheeks reddened suddenly with anger. ‘You hear what I am saying? I pay my fucking debts.’
‘Oui, je vous entends très bien,’ Yes, I hear you very well, Fabrice replied calmly. ‘Why don’t you guys all have another shot? Get the good stuff while you can.’
He turned to the other two left conscious and sitting at the table, finding them deep in conversation. They were the pilots for the Rooivalk helicopter and since they had returned from their last sortie, the younger of the two, Anton, had done little else but chain smoke cigarettes and down shots. He had come in as the new rear-gunner pilot only five months ago, and at twenty-six years old was still new to the game. With short dark hair and a thin, wiry build, he looked younger than his age, with narrow brown eyes that darted continually from one thing to the next. Despite his tough Israeli heritage, he was always teased for being the sensitive one of the group, usually preferring to sit quietly and watch events unfold. But something had happened to change all that.
On the other side of the table, Fabrice recognised Jean-Luc’s right hand man, Laurent. He talking in a low voice like a protective father, occasionally resting one of his huge arms on Anton’s shoulder. At six foot four and over one hundred and twenty kilos, he was a monster of a man with thick, curly black hair, greying at the temples, and pale blue eyes which shone with withering intensity.
Fabrice had got chatting to him once before and soon realised that Laurent was the kind of man who’d tell you his whole life story on a first meeting. He had been raised in the Karoo desert on his family’s farm, before being conscripted by the South African military to fight the SWAPO guerrillas on the Angolan border. It was a dirty little war, filled with bloody injustices and complicated politics, yet Laurent talked about it in absolutes; everything to him was black or white. Fabrice had quickly understood that this was the way he approached his whole life. Everything was rigid, mechanised. You got orders. You followed them.
As Fabrice patiently waited for either of the pilots to respond to his offer of a drink, Anton suddenly shouted a string of expletives. Laurent didn’t react, but instead stared up towards the ceiling and exhaled heavily, expelling a great cloud of cigarette smoke. He had been dealing with Anton’s explosive outbursts all night and was tiring of the bewildering range of emotions the boy seemed to be going through. It had been like that ever since the last sortie.
They had been ordered to peel off in a search and destroy, but as they closed in, had realised that the target was nothing more than a couple of pygmy boys, firing at them with bows and arrows. Anton had radioed in for clarification, but orders were orders. Seconds later, he had opened up with the 20mm cannon.
On the return flight, Laurent had noticed the smell of vomit even before they had touched down in Goma. During the post-flight checks, he had seen it on the side of Anton’s overalls and realised just how much of a mess the kid was in. Ten hours of drinking later and Anton was still as worked up as he had been the moment they arrived in the club.
‘Hey!’ Jean-Luc shouted, clicking his fingers to get their attention. Anton and Laurent fell silent, turning to him in surprise.
They both took the whisky, thanking Fabrice as Jean-Luc settled back into his seat.
‘Been meaning to speak to you,’ Fabrice said now. ‘My man down at the airport was telling me there’s some movement going on.’
Jean-Luc’s expression didn’t change.
‘Yeah,’ Fabrice continued. ‘He said that there’s some cargo coming in and out, but it seems that this time no one wants to cut me into the deal.’
Jean-Luc inhaled slowly. ‘You should tell your man at the airport it can be dangerous, talking out of turn around here.’
Fabrice gave him a glowing smile. “‘You know what it’s like. Everyone knows everyone’s business. Talking all the time.’
‘Such busy little bees,’ Jean-Luc whispered.
‘Well, since I sorted out those import licences for you, thought you might want to return the favour? I’m not asking much, but you know how it is round here, Jean-Luc. Everything comes through me.’
Jean-Luc’s eyes widened as he inhaled deeply through his nose, flaring the nostrils. The drugs had dilated his pupils so much that his eyes looked entirely black.
‘Get me decent fuel rates from “your man” at the airport and I’ll cut you in. Ten per cent of my take.’
Fabrice raised his glass. It had been easier than he had expected. Jean-Luc was obviously in an amenable mood.
‘Consider it done.’
‘Now leave me the fuck alone,’ Jean-Luc slurred, the naked aggression deepening his voice.
Fabrice’s smile stayed locked in place as he leaned forward and gently placed the rest of the bottle of malt on the table.
‘All yours,’ he said. Then, when he was halfway out of his seat, he paused. ‘By the way, word is someone’s looking for you. Seems like some Americans want to meet you in person. My boys on the border said they came across last night, asking questions. You need a place to hide out?’
Jean-Luc’s jaw clenched as he processed the information.
‘Tell them I’m here. I’ll be waiting.’
Chapter 27
TWO MEN CAME in through the main entrance to the Soleil Club and stopped near the pool table. They waited, letting their eyes grow accustomed to the dark, before the one closest to the door quietly spoke into the radio mic attached to his lapel. A moment later, four more men strode into the bar with Devlin the last in line.
Laurent was the first to see them. With the toe of his boot, he kicked two of the other sleeping mercs awake as Jean-Luc slowly raised his head. The Americans fanned out into the room, taking up covering positions as Devlin drew nearer their table. They all had muscular necks and forearms, and haircuts that looked too short to be anything else but military. They were dressed in lightweight trousers, browns and tans, with an assortment of safari jackets bulging slightly under the left arm. To a man, they were staring at Jean-Luc.
As Devlin stepped further into the light, his lips parted a little, revealing clean white teeth.
‘I see you got your mouth fixed up,’ Jean-Luc remarked, his voice slow and gravelly. ‘But then again, you Yanks always did like big teeth, didn’t you? Heard you have to file them down into these little points just to get those glossy caps on. Mon Dieu, c’est dégueulasse! How much did those nice, big white teeth cost you, Devlin? Or did the CIA pay for them?’
Devlin didn’t react, standing stiffly in the centre of the room.
‘We’re here for the co-ordinates of the mine,’ he said, his Southern accent making the words come out in a low drawl. ‘You got your price for the sample of fire coltan. Now I want to know exactly where it’s coming from.’
Jean-Luc leaned forward. ‘Have we been flying a little too low for your radar to track us? Pity, that.’
‘This ain’t the time for games, you French son-of-a-bitch. Tell me what I want to know.’
Jean-Luc yawned, stretching his arms up and flexing out his back. In the silence, Devlin shifted his weight in anticipation.
‘No,’ Jean-Luc said with an air of finality.
‘Don’t fuck with us, Étienne, or we will make your life a living hell. You know who I work for.’
Jean-Luc stared at him for a moment longer. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? You’re in the Congo now, and there’s nothing you can do about anything that goes on here. So, little man, why don’t you stop trying to prove you’ve got balls and get back on your plane?’
‘Screw this,’ Devlin seethed. ‘I warned you. Now, give me those co-ordinates!’
Devlin reached out his hand as if he could snatch the information out of Jean-Luc’s grasp. As he moved his men reacted, hands reaching for their guns. Laurent and the rest of Jean-Luc’s men were rigid with anticipation. Some already had their hands on their own pistols.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Jean-Luc tutted. ‘Got everyone worked up, and all I wanted to do was get drunk for a couple of days. You know something, Devlin? You’re really messing with my chi.’
Devlin glowered, trying to contain his rage but mindful of exactly how carefully he had to play this. There was just too much at stake to let things get out of control. A couple of seconds passed, with the room absolutely silent, before Devlin slowly lowered his hands.
‘OK, Étienne. If this is how you want to play it. How much do y’all want to drink yourself into the next year?’
Jean-Luc inhaled deeply. ‘I’m not selling. Come back tomorrow.’
Devlin shook his head in disbelief, his cheeks flushing red with anger. But he couldn’t lose his temper. He had to hold back and not rise to this son-of-a-bitch’s petty games. Ever since Langley had identified the fire coltan as the substance used in the new generation of Chinese satellite phones, the situation had escalated beyond anything he could have imagined. Right now, he needed to keep his head.
Only two days ago, ChinaCell had made their launch public, and since that time US scientists had been working around the clock trying to understand how they could produce a regular handset small enough to communicate with low-orbit satellites. These things were flooding into every high-street store, crippling the West’s telecom brands as customers queued around the block for the handsets to come on sale.
It was only when they had discovered that fire coltan was crucial to the capacitors and antennae, enabling the high-frequency bursts to the satellites, that they started to piece it all together. Fire coltan made the circuitry run hotter than normal, but aside from that, the technology was flawless.
Suddenly, Devlin’s investigation had escalated from being a minor provincial affair into a matter of national security. The entire Western communications platform was being overrun, and fire coltan was the mineral at the centre of it all. The directive was simple – they had to get their own supply and take control of that mine.
But it was a balancing act. Everyone knew that they could never openly challenge another veto member of the UN Security Council. They couldn’t be seen to be interfering with Chinese interests in Africa, and so from the outset this was a war that was going to be fought by proxies.
A task force had already been sent to negotiate with the Mai-Mai south of Bukavu. The rebels there were renowned for their brutality, contravening almost every single rule of engagement during the bloody years of the Congolese civil war, but despite their pariah status, they were the only rebel force left in the Congo who might have a chance of defeating the LRA. Despite the fact that the UN had spent almost a decade trying to disarm them, now all that was going to change.
An American C-130 Hercules had dropped a huge shipment of weaponry at a Mai-Mai outpost near the Rwandese border and by now the rebels were already on the move, heading north towards the Ituri. They knew the mine was somewhere in the forest, but had still to get the exact co-ordinates.
And here Devlin was, right at the centre of it all. Until the main ta
sk force arrived from Langley, he was the man on the ground in a situation fast climbing the ranks of importance in US foreign policy. All eyes were turning to the Congo. And for the next eight hours, he was the man in charge.
Devlin stared at Jean-Luc, watching the way his head swayed from the booze. The Frenchman was a belligerent animal with no understanding of the value of the information he possessed. Trying to beat it out of him would take too much time. But there was another way.
‘You know, since you boys have been buzzing the skies around here, we’ve been picking up a bit of chatter. Usual stuff, nothing fancy, then we heard a mayday call from a Cessna 206. Call sign Golf Hotel Juliet. Mean anything to you?’
Jean-Luc stared at Devlin blankly. Casually reaching inside the pocket of his safari jacket, Devlin took out an iPod and a small black speaker. As he set them down on the table, he stared at Jean-Luc.
‘Still doesn’t ring any bells?’
They all listened as a woman’s voice played out softly across the room. She was obviously in distress, running through the protocols of a mayday call, but as she reached the co-ordinates of her crash location, the recording had been deliberately wiped clean. The room was silent for several seconds before Devlin spoke again. This time, he was smiling.
‘We did some checking and the plane’s registered to one Beatrice Makuru. Damn’ shame, but it looks like she was shot down over the Ituri.’
‘What the hell was Bear doing up here?’ Laurent in terupted, his voice barely more than a whisper.
‘She and two white men busted her plane out of MONUC quarantine three days ago.’
‘Who were they?’
Devlin shrugged. ‘Like I give a shit. Now, you listen good Étienne because you’re gonna get his deal only once. You give me the co-ordinates of Mordecai’s mine and I’ll tell you exactly where her plane went down.’
Jean-Luc’s eyes glassed over as he felt a flood of emotion hit him. He couldn’t quite believe it. Bear had crashed her plane. The news that she might be in pain or hurt filled him with a sense of paternal outrage; something he hadn’t even thought existed in him any more. But it was there, visceral and uncontrollable, suddenly making him boil with anger.
The Secret Chamber Page 23