The Devil's Kingdom

by Scott Mariani

  Xulu tossed the smoking revolver back to Umutese. ‘You see?’ he said with a laugh to the children, spreading his arms wide like a prophet. ‘The bullets cannot harm you! You are invincible! Your Lord Khosa has protected you!’

  Ben looked at the spent shells of the harmless blank cartridges rolling on the ground. Then stared at the crumpled body of the girl, her blood leaking in a trail over the uneven concrete. Was it possible to reach a point where you were completely unmoved by the sight of an innocent’s death? He knew with a certainty beyond anything that if he stayed in this place much longer, he would either go mad or die.

  At that moment, none other than Lord Khosa himself made his sweeping entrance. The soldiers near the doorway stepped back in deference as he strode into the courtyard. A cry went up, as though the miracle the troops had just witnessed – evidently not in on the scam, Ben thought – had reinforced their belief in their commander’s divine powers. ‘KHOSA! KHOSA! KHOSA!’

  The General was puffing on a fresh cigar and looked very pleased with himself. He didn’t so much as glance at the girl’s corpse as he walked past. Scanning the battered faces and torn, bloodied clothing of the fifty drugged children, he seemed delighted by what he saw. With a gracious wave of his hand he silenced the chants of the soldiers.

  ‘Captain Xulu,’ he boomed. ‘May I congratulate you on an outstanding mission. You are now promoted to major, and Lieutenant Umutese will fill the rank of captain in your place. I trust that everything is going well with the training?’

  ‘Very well, Excellency,’ Xulu replied, actually squirming with smugness for a moment before his expression darkened. ‘But there is something—’

  Not to be outdone by a subordinate, not even a freshly promoted major, Colonel Dizolele stepped up to his leader and interrupted, pointing at Ben. ‘General, there has been another problem with this man.’

  The beaming smile left Khosa’s face. ‘What is it this time?’

  Dizolele said, ‘Major Xulu reports that he attempted to prevent the recruitment mission.’

  Khosa turned slowly to set his implacable gaze on the offender. Xulu and Dizolele followed his eye to scowl in unison at Ben as they stood shoulder to shoulder with their general.

  All close together. All lined up in a row.

  Perfect positioning.

  But what happened next took Ben as much by surprise as anyone.

  Nobody had been paying much attention to Lou Gerber. He seemed to have shrunk into the background and was staring into space with the empty eyes of a zombie, as though the scenes they’d all just witnessed had tipped him quietly back into the semi-catatonic state that he’d only just recovered from.

  But now Gerber exploded with the unbearable weight of pressure that had been building inside him all this time. His body went taut. A strange light filled his eyes and he bared his teeth. Then, with a roar of uncontained fury, all of his decades-old Marine Corps training flooding back in a single rushing crazy impulse, he drove an elbow backwards into the stomach of the soldier standing next to him, then smashed a chopping downward blow into the nape of the man’s neck as he doubled up.

  Not even Ben could have moved fast enough to stop him. Gerber ripped the QBZ assault weapon from the soldier’s grasp. He raised the rifle and pointed it straight at Khosa and squeezed the trigger.

  But not before multiple bullet strikes caught him from several angles at once. Ben saw Gerber’s jacket flutter as the soldiers’ gunfire punched into his chest and ribs. At the same instant as Gerber let off a burst of rounds from the QBZ, his weapon jerked with the impact, skewing his aim. Then the old Marine was tumbling backwards with his face contorted in pain. The soldiers went on pumping rounds into him as he hit the concrete.

  Gerber’s aim had been skewed, but only by a matter of inches. To Khosa’s right, Xulu collapsed to the ground with a strangled shriek that came out as a gurgle as blood sprayed from his ripped throat. To Khosa’s left, Dizolele tottered and fell, clutching his shattered thigh. Khosa stood perfectly still, apparently quite calm and still puffing on his cigar. If he’d been so much as grazed by a single bullet, the General didn’t appear to have noticed.

  Amid the chaos, the panic-stricken soldiers rushed towards Gerber, emptying their magazines and hammering dozens of rounds into his fallen body. Gerber was already dead, but he hadn’t gone down alone. Xulu thrashed on the ground for a second or two, clawing at his throat, then went limp. Dizolele was screaming in agony as he tried to stem the bleeding from his leg. A piece of red meat the size of a steak was hanging out of his torn trousers.

  Khosa’s unruffled gaze swivelled back towards Ben. His wide-set eyes seemed to bore deep inside Ben’s mind, as if to say, This is your doing, soldier.

  There was blood everywhere. The crowd of children had scattered all over the courtyard. The boy called Mani was standing very still, his face a blank of total sensory overload. Soldiers rushed back and forth. Umutese ran to Khosa, daring to check him all over for bullet wounds, then issuing orders to the men to hurry their leader away to safety. A team of four gathered up the writhing, agonised Colonel Dizolele and carried him away, leaving a blood trail over the concrete. Ben, Jeff, and Tuesday were encircled by two dozen rifles.

  With Dizolele gone, a hushed silence fell over the courtyard. Ben and the others were too stunned to speak. Unsure what to do with them, the soldiers jabbed and prodded them inside the building to a kitchen, and shut them inside an empty steel walk-in meat locker that, thankfully, was not switched on.

  Nothing more would happen for several hours.

  Not until after nightfall, when the retribution began.

  Chapter 23

  The previous day

  When Victor Bronski had assured his boss that he was on it, he’d meant what he said. For an investigator of his experience, his wily ways, his extensive contacts and the kind of resources that Eugene Svalgaard’s limitless millions made available, it hadn’t been too hard for Bronski to find the right contact. It was simply what Bronski did. No big deal. You want the best, you pays your money and you give the Lee Penders of this world a wide berth. That stupid greedy shitbird Svalgaard had learned his lesson. As for Bronski, he just wanted to get the job done and jump on the first flight out of this dead rat’s ass of a place.

  As it turned out, none of the underworld sleazebags in Kinshasa could say – or were too afraid to disclose – where the feared warlord Jean-Pierre Khosa might be located in person. But for a few thousand dollars a cellphone number for his ‘political attaché’ (whatever the fuck that means, Bronski thought) was coughed up shortly before midnight, just a matter of hours since the team had touched down on Congolese soil. The word on the street was that nobody was in deeper with Khosa than César Masango. Which sounded to Bronski like a good place to start, assuming that Khosa still had the diamond. Svalgaard was making that assumption. Victor Bronski never assumed anything – except that nothing was safe and nobody in the world could be trusted.

  Sipping on a minibar whisky at 12.30 a.m. in his hotel room, he dialled the number. There was no answer, but then Bronski expected such a man to be every bit as cautious as himself.

  ‘Mr Masango, my name is Walter Reynolds. I represent a client who is in the market to acquire a certain item, one we have good reason to believe is in the possession of a business associate of yours. My client is willing to make a discreet and speedy cash purchase at a price far above the current market value that the said item, due to present circumstances, can be expected to fetch. We are confident that this is the best offer you will receive. If you would like to meet to find out the specifics, call this number. Please be aware that our offer is good for twelve hours only and is dependent on our satisfactory inspection of the goods prior to payment by wire transfer. At precisely noon-thirty tomorrow, the deal comes off the table and you will not hear from us again. I’ll be expecting your call.’

  Bronski sat by the phone for much of the night and slept little, but he never needed more than four ho
urs’ sleep as a rule. Masango didn’t call. Bronski waited calmly. Masango didn’t call. Bronski used his second phone to check on the team and make sure they were ready to roll at a moment’s notice.

  Masango didn’t call. After five in the morning, Bronski gave up waiting and napped for a while. He was up two hours later, dressed and back to waiting. Then, at 9.03 a.m., his phone finally buzzed. By that time, he was downstairs in the hotel bar drinking coffee with Aaron Hockridge, the ex-SEAL.

  ‘Mr Reynolds?’ said a clipped, educated-sounding African voice.

  Bronski signalled Hockridge, who put down his coffee and looked instantly ready for battle. Ex-SEALs were like that.

  ‘This is Reynolds,’ Bronski said.

  ‘We would like to discuss the details of your offer. Please be in the lobby of the Kempinski Hotel Fleuve Congo at precisely ten a.m. for further instructions.’ Then the voice hung up.

  ‘You’re on,’ Bronski said to Hockridge. Hockridge called the others.

  If Bronski had said ‘You’re on’ and not ‘We’re on’, it was for a reason. He didn’t intend to be present at the meeting in person, but would instead do the face-to-face via mobile Skype while Hockridge and two members of the team, Doug Weller and Carl Addington, met Masango in the flesh. Weller was a former Delta Force operative, there mainly to back up Hockridge if things got hairy. Addington was a diamond expert, with an employment history that included leading wholesale houses in London, Paris and Durban. Bronski would cut the deal to Masango via a laptop screen; then if all was agreeable he was authorised to set up an immediate wire transfer of the funds into the account of Masango’s choice.

  Needless to say, not a cent would change hands until the goods had been thoroughly examined and given the nod by Addington. Hockridge would then take charge of the diamond, keeping it securely on his person until he passed it to Bronski.

  Unknown to Hockridge, Bronski had taken the extra precaution of having two more guys posted to the ex-SEAL’s home town of Tucson to keep tabs on his wife Pam and their teenage kids Johnny and Mary-Kate. In the event that Hockridge, once in possession of the rock, should happen to fall victim to the same kinds of temptations to which the hapless Pender had succumbed, Bronski’s guys had orders to move in and take the entire Hockridge family hostage. Similar arrangements were in place with regard to Weller and Addington. You never knew. And if all went according to plan, neither would they.

  At exactly 9.45 a.m. Hockridge, Addington, and Weller exited their hire car – the paperwork filled out in a false name – and walked into the lobby of the Kempinski Hotel Fleuve Congo. Hockridge was carrying a metal case that was empty except for a compact laptop equipped with Skype mobile. Addington was carrying a similar case containing the tools of his trade, the most important of which were a three-lens jeweller’s magnifying loupe and a portable diamond scope used to examine a stone’s complex anatomy and ascertain its carat value. Weller was empty-handed, but packing a forty-calibre Glock pistol in a concealed waist holster plus a diminutive .380 Beretta backup piece strapped to his right ankle.

  Victor Bronski was sitting behind the wheel of a plain panel van a block away, eating a pot of yogurt while watching and listening on a laptop remotely hooked up to the powerful transmitting microphone and miniature camera that Hockridge had been fitted with.

  Precisely fourteen minutes after the three entered the five-star hotel lobby, they were met by a tall and expensively tailored African with an attaché case cuffed to his left wrist and two large wary-looking men in dark suits hovering in the background, who introduced himself as César Masango. He was eloquent and polite, affable and open, but insistent on the terms of the meeting – which his client stipulated must take place at a secret and secure location well away from prying eyes.

  Masango and his bodyguards escorted Hockridge, Addington, and Weller outside to where a black seven-seater Mercedes Viano MPV was parked at the kerbside. The bodyguards got into the front. Inside the vehicle, Masango graciously insisted on relieving the three men of any firearms they might be carrying, and Weller made a show of grudgingly giving up his Glock. Hockridge was all smiles and understanding. Business was business, no hard feelings, and all that.

  A block away, Victor Bronski started the van and switched to GPS tracking. The device hidden in Hockridge’s case emitted a signal that appeared as a pulsing red dot on his screen. As his guys began to move, Bronski followed, hanging far enough back to be invisible but close enough to stay in mike and camera range.

  Bronski wasn’t too surprised when the Mercedes’s destination turned out to be a less-than-palatial residence on an unpaved street in one of the poorest areas of the city. Khosa and Masango might be scummy criminal lowlifes about to become outrageously rich, but they were still scummy criminal lowlifes. Bronski wondered with a dark smile what the diamond guy, Addington, must be making of all this. It wasn’t Tiffany’s, and that was for sure.

  The meeting took place in a room with draped windows, a bare table, and four chairs. Masango’s men stood by while he took a seat at one side of the table facing Hockridge, Addington, and Weller, with the attaché case neatly perched on his lap. Hockridge took the computer from his own case and set it up on the table with the screen angled towards Masango. He explained that his business associate, Mr Reynolds, was sorry he couldn’t be there to make the offer in person but had been called away on other business, hence the need for the technology.

  ‘What a wonderful modern world we live in,’ Masango said with a smile.

  Parked a few streets away, Bronski had a black drape hung behind him so that Masango couldn’t tell he was conducting the meeting from the back of a panel van. When the Skype connection was made, Masango’s face appeared on his screen in a larger and clearer image than the one that was being simultaneously transmitted by Hockridge’s hidden camera.

  With a stone face Bronski briefly introduced himself and then cut to the chase. ‘My client is a very rich man, Mr Masango. He wants to settle this deal as quickly as possible. Accordingly, he has authorised me to offer you a generous price for the item. It is non-negotiable. If you accept, subject to verification of the item by Mr Addington here, the funds can be wired within the hour to the account or accounts of your choosing. Are these terms acceptable to you, in principle?’

  ‘I have not yet heard what is being offered,’ Masango said pleasantly.

  ‘My client will pay fifty million dollars,’ Bronski said, in a tone completely devoid of emotion. He watched Masango’s reaction carefully. If Masango was blown away by such a gigantic sum, he was extremely good at not showing it. He pursed his lips and touched his fingertips together, appearing to be deep in thought. ‘This is much less than it is worth,’ he said after consideration. ‘We estimate its market value to be in nine figures.’

  You greedy sonofabitch, Bronski thought. ‘Under the circumstances, my client could have offered far less. As I say, that figure is not open to negotiation. Do we have a deal, yes or no?’

  Masango frowned, considered for a few moments more, then slowly nodded and his expression softened. ‘Very well. My associate will accept the deal.’

  No shit he’ll accept, Bronski thought. ‘Okay. Now please show us the goods.’

  Masango placed the attaché case on the table, opened it, and now it was Bronski’s turn to have to hide his reaction. It was hard to believe that the diaphanous, fist-sized monster lighting up the room from within the case’s velvet lining was real. He tried not to blink or swallow. ‘Mr Addington would now like to examine the item,’ he said.

  ‘Certainly.’

  Bronski asked Hockridge to turn the laptop so he could watch the evaluation. Addington was sweating and there was a slight tremor in his fingers as he carried out his inspection. With $50 million riding on his decision, the biggest bloody diamond he’d ever seen or even heard of in his hands and Bronski’s slate-hard narrowed eyes watching his every move, he had every right to be a little flustered.

  ‘Well?’ Hockrid
ge asked impatiently.

  ‘Don’t rush me,’ Addington snapped. ‘Unless you want to shell out fifty million for a worthless chunk of zircon?’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Hockridge relented.

  ‘I can assure you, gentlemen, the diamond is real,’ Masango said smoothly.

  ‘Nonetheless, you won’t mind if we take just a little longer to check,’ Bronski said.

  Addington irritably resumed his examination, sweating even more profusely. Finally, he carefully returned the diamond to its case, puffed his cheeks, wiped beads of perspiration from his brow, turned to the screen and pronounced, ‘It’s genuine, all right. It’s—’ He seemed to want to say more, but the look in Bronski’s eyes checked him.

  ‘Then everything seems to be in order,’ Bronski said. ‘You have yourself a deal, Mr Masango.’

  ‘My client would like the funds wired to this account,’ Masango said, taking a slip of paper from his breast pocket and sliding it across the table to Hockridge. ‘There is also an email address to which we would like the transaction confirmation to be copied.’

  Hockridge angled the laptop towards himself and read the figures out to Bronski, while at his end Bronski dialled up the secure website and entered the passcodes Svalgaard had entrusted him with. It took a few moments to penetrate the heavy security system, after which Bronski entered the recipient account details and keyed in the transfer amount of a five and seven zeroes. A window flashed up onscreen instructing him to verify the transaction.

  For just the smallest moment, Bronski baulked. What the hell. It wasn’t his money. He clicked the button and watched as fifty million bucks started winging its irretrievable way through cyberspace towards the offshore coffers of General Jean-Pierre Khosa, about to become one of the richest warlords in Africa. All the more reason for getting the hell out of this country ASAP, Bronski thought.