by James Morcan
46
After Nine and his fellow backpackers crossed into the Democratic Republic of the Congo, they were faced with a full day’s drive east to their first stop, Kananga. That’s where Nine planned to part company with his newfound friends. While they went bungy-jumping at a new adventure tourism venture run by local tourist operators on the nearby Lulua River, he’d fly north in a chartered private helicopter.
Traveling in heat of Africa and in the confines of a mini-bus whose air-conditioning system had malfunctioned, every hour spent on the bumpy road was torturous for the tourists. For Nine, it was especially torturous as he knew every hour that passed was time he, or Francis, could ill afford.
Despite the need to find his son quickly, he’d opted to cross the border on land as he thought it a no-brainer Omega would be scrutinizing the passengers of all commercial flights arriving in the DRC. While he had supreme confidence in his shapeshifting abilities, he didn’t want to push his luck any more than he had to. After all, he’d used just about every disguise in his repertoire.
The mini-bus arrived in Kananga just on dusk and therefore too late to connect with the private helicopter Nine had chartered earlier. He contacted the chopper pilot and organized an early morning departure then joined his young friends for dinner in a cheap restaurant on the ground floor of the backpackers’ hostel they were overnighting at.
Nine only wished the circumstances had been different. He found his traveling companions stimulating company and enjoyed their sparkling conversation, but his family was never far from his mind. It was with regret that he made his apologies and retired upstairs for an early night.
In the privacy of the single room he’d been lucky enough to secure, Nine began studying the confidential file he’d printed out relating to Omega’s secret medical lab in the DRC. He quickly established that the lab had been modelled on the agency’s lab in Thule and its layout was almost identical.
According to the file, the number of patients – or subjects as they were called – fluctuated between one hundred and ten and one hundred and thirty. Alarmingly, this fluctuation was attributed to an unacceptably high death rate. The file went on to say: Doctor Andrews is introducing measures to reduce the death rate to an acceptable level.
Even though he’d read the file many times, its wording never failed to anger Nine. At the same time it frightened him, knowing that Francis was in all probability one of the subjects referred to.
Unlike the Thule lab, the location of this orphanage was clearly marked: it was situated on the grounds of an American Fortune 500 company’s refinery on the Congo River, in the troublesome eastern province of Maniema. The company, Carmel Corporation, originally made its fortune processing raw diamonds sourced from throughout Africa, Canada and elsewhere. Since setting up in the DRC, the company was rumored to have more than quadrupled its huge profits. The reason for this could be summed up in one word: coltan.
Nine drew on his memory to recall what he knew about the precious metal. He recalled coltanwas used for the production of tantalum capacitors, which were included in the manufacture of cell phones and other electronic devices as well as in high temperature alloys for air and land-based turbines.
While the file glossed over the many specialized uses of the metal, it did highlight some of the conflicts it and other precious metals had caused in the DRC. Ongoing conflicts had made exploitation of coltan ore problematic, and much of it was mined illegally and smuggled out of the country by militias from Rwanda and other neighboring countries. As a result, Congolese coltan represented only about a tenth of the world’s total production even though the DRC was believed to have seventy percent of known coltan reserves.
Nine was aware the continued siphoning of coltan, as well as cobalt and diamonds, from the eastern Congo was part of a wider conspiracy to destabilize the country.
Why Carmel Corporation had opted to establish a refinery in such a politically unstable and dangerous part of the world, he couldn’t begin to fathom. He guessed the company must have reached some agreement with the Congolese Government that protected its interests and guaranteed the future of the refinery and the safety of its personnel. An unusual concession considering the company had been widely accused abroad of neglecting its corporate responsibilities by underpaying and abusing its Congolese labor force and polluting the Congo River.
To Nine’s way of thinking, the problems surrounding the exploitation of coltan in the DRC epitomized the problems the entire African continent faced in capitalizing on the huge untapped wealth that lay beneath its surface. Corruption, political unrest and outside interference from non-African countries ensured the continent that should be the world’s wealthiest remained the poorest.
Reading between the lines as he sifted through the file, it was obvious Carmel Corporation was yet another of Omega’s many business interests. Although the agency’s name never appeared in any company documentation, it would be pulling the company’s strings and siphoning off the profits, of that he was sure.
Of special interest to him was the location of the refinery. It was on the Congo River and sited downstream from Kindu, a city of some two hundred thousand people. Nine planned to base himself in Kindu and travel from there to the refinery.
According to the file, the medical lab was a three-storeyed structure that adjoined Carmel Corporation’s administration building next to the refinery. Photos showed that only one of those storeys was above ground, which meant the other two were below ground. Nine could imagine what went on there.
The fact that any part of the lab building was visible at all signalled to him that Omega considered it far removed from prying eyes and unlikely ever to receive the scrutiny of the West. That could all change very soon. As tiredness set in, he closed the file, swallowed another heart pill, then turned off the bedside lamp and prepared for sleep. Tomorrow, he planned to find his son.
47
Nine was in the air shortly after dawn. The chartered helicopter whisked him north from Kananga to Maniema Province. Its pilot, former South African Air Force flier Heinrich Schubert, followed the Congo River for the latter part of the flight, giving Nine his first glimpse of the mighty Congolese jungle.
The world’s second largest rainforest after the Amazon was a sight to behold from the air. It seemed to stretch forever. And the river reminded Nine of the Amazon, too, as it wound its way like a never-ending python through the jungle.
Entering the skies above the city of Kindu, Nine ordered Heinrich to follow the Congo downstream and overfly Carmel Corporation’s coltan refinery.
Some twenty miles downstream – or eleven miles as the crow flies – the refinery came into view. And there, adjoining its administration building, was the smaller building that supposedly accommodated Omega’s secret medical lab. Nine’s pulse quickened as he viewed the orphanage he believed Francis was imprisoned in. Even from the air it looked forbidding.
White-coated personnel could be seen walking between the smaller building and a nearby block of apartments. Nine assumed they were scientists and medical staff. The whole setup looked very similar to the lab at Thule.
Nine was concerned to see armed guards patrolling the grounds around the buildings and the refinery. There had been no mention of them in the file. He told himself he shouldn’t be surprised. Omega had a major investment to protect in what was a very unstable region even by African standards.
The former operative retrieved a digital camera from an airline travel bag he’d acquired. Using its zoom lens, he snapped a dozen photos of the refinery and its surrounds.
“Want me to go lower?” Heinrich asked.
“No.” Nine didn’t want to attract the attention of people on the ground. “I’ve seen enough.”
Heinrich turned the craft around and flew back over Kindu to a railway station five miles south of the city’s outskirts. Seemingly in the middle of nowhere, it was surrounded by jungle. There wasn’t another building in sight. Twenty or so Congolese commuters c
ould be seen mingling with railways staff on the station platform. Nine wondered where they’d come from. He hoped the train they were waiting for would be arriving soon as he planned to be on it.
A minute later, the chopper landed on a bare patch of land behind the station. Nine disembarked, travel bags in hand, and thanked Heinrich. “Wait for my call. And don’t be late.”
“Ya.” Heinrich knew what was expected of him as he’d been fully briefed by Nine. He’d also been well paid for his services to date and he expected to collect a healthy bonus before their arrangement was at an end. Heinrich threw a casual salute at his generous client and flew off.
Nine watched the chopper until it was just a dot in the sky. He had a feeling it would come in handy in the next day or two – as would Heinrich’s military background.
The former operative had chosen this remote place to be dropped off because he didn’t wish to draw attention to himself by arriving in Kindu by air. Nine was aware Europeans automatically attracted attention in this part of the world, but he hoped arriving by train would enable him to remain under the radar. He was in no doubt there would be people looking out for him in Kindu as well as at the orphanage downriver.
As he hurried over to the railway station to escape the heat of the sun, the Congolese looked strangely at the European who had appeared mysteriously amongst them. They couldn’t understand why anyone would arrive at this isolated station by chopper to catch a train.
“Only white people do things like that,” one middle-aged female commuter said to another. Like most Congolese, the woman spoke French. She happened to be within earshot of Nine.
Speaking French, Nine asked, “Excuse me Madam. Do you know when the next train to Kindu is due?”
“Very soon,” the woman answered shyly.
“Thank you.” Nine smiled and walked to a nearby ticket counter to buy his ticket.
Standing in line with other commuters, his mind was miles away. He was already planning his assault on the medical lab. Nine was glad he’d viewed it from the air. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision to order Heinrich to overfly the refinery. The aerial reconnaissance had given him a good overview of the facility and would prove invaluable, of that he was certain.
#
The exclusive Papenoo River Valley Lodge in Tahiti’s interior was a Godsend as far as Seventeen was concerned. Off the beaten track and away from prying eyes, it was in her opinion a far safer alternative to staying on the populated coast. The only drawback she could identify was it was toward the end of a no-exit road, so there was only one way out should she and Isabelle need to leave in a hurry.
The women were among a mere dozen guests staying at the lodge. It only catered for sixteen guests at any one time, so was near full capacity. The guests, who came from all over the world, were all moneyed people. They had to be: the tariff was well beyond the average tourist.
Each unit was self-contained and private, which suited Isabelle and Seventeen admirably for they could venture outside and have the run of a screened-off courtyard without fear of being seen by other guests or visitors. A well-stocked store on site meant that guests could purchase any foodstuffs and other essentials they may require without having to drive back to the coast on shopping expeditions.
For the first time since arriving in Tahiti, Seventeen was starting to believe she’d found the perfect hiding place for Isabelle and herself.
#
Having spent the day fruitlessly searching for some sign of the two fugitives, Twenty Three and Fifteen were spending the evening working the phones in their hotel room back in Papeete. They were phoning hotels, motels and guesthouses throughout Tahiti, asking if a pregnant woman had recently checked in with her male companion.
In every case, they left their cell phone number and asked to be called back if the couple showed up. A sizeable cash inducement was offered for any tip-off that proved accurate.
The two operatives were feeling confident. Recent events had confirmed that Isabelle was still on the island. The pair couldn’t guess who the man was that she’d been seen with, but he didn’t concern them.
Twenty Three and Fifteen had established a wide network of informants throughout Tahiti, and tomorrow they’d be joined by another elite orphan-operative. They were convinced Isabelle was fast running out of hiding places.
The Frenchwoman’s capture couldn’t come fast enough for the operatives – their Omega masters were becoming tetchy.
48
Nine was experiencing sensory overload as he was driven through the crowded, grubby back streets of Kindu. He was traveling in an old, battered Holden that belched smoke and barely passed for a cab even by Congolese standards.
Sitting in the back seat with the window wound down, Nine was assailed by the sights, sounds and smells of Africa. Colorful Congolese rubbed shoulders with other Africans on the congested streets as they peddled their wares or shopped in the numerous markets and roadside stalls. There wasn’t a white face among them.
Old men and women sat gossiping in the shade of the frangipani trees that abounded in this quarter of the city while youths congregated in small groups in the middle of the road, forcing traffic to drive around them. The honking of irate motorists’ horns competed with music blaring from car speakers and roadside stalls, creating a cacophony of sound.
Nine’s cabbie, a middle-aged Congolese whose name tag read Elvis Ndobo, took the mayhem in his stride as he negotiated the busy streets. A photo of a homely, smiling African woman glued to the cab’s dashboard signalled that Elvis was a married man.
The photo reminded Nine of his own wife. He quickly put Isabelle to the back of his mind: he had to remain focused for what was ahead.
Nine was heading for a bar that had a reputation for being the seediest drinking establishment in the city. He had it on good advice it was frequented by the kind of people he was hoping to meet.
The former operative had checked in to a hotel earlier that day. He’d opted to stay at a third rate hotel in a rundown quarter of Kindu because he was aware the people watching out for him would expect him to stay in plush premises in an upmarket part of town.
Nine had a plan he wanted to put into motion, but for it to work he had to have outside help. Unfortunately for him, the kind of people who could help him weren’t listed in the telephone directory.
As he had no contacts or informants in the DRC, he’d gone out of his way to befriend an old Congolese janitor at the hotel who looked like he knew a thing or two about a thing or two. It turned out he’d chosen well: the old man had his finger on the pulse of life in Kindu and knew, or knew of, just about everybody who lived and worked in that quarter of the city.
When Nine asked the janitor where he could meet people who would be least likely to receive Christmas cards from the Congolese Army or Police Force, the old man knew exactly what kind of people the white guest was referring to and where he could find them. He had directed him to the bar Nine was now heading for. He’d also warned him to watch his back.
As the bar came into view, Elvis pointed it out to Nine. “There it is, boss. The Taj Mahal.” He spoke French, the predominant language of the DRC.
Nine noted there wasn’t a trace of irony in the cabbie’s voice. Studying the drinking establishment, he quickly established there wouldn’t be a building in all of Africa less like the real Taj Mahal. It was basically a lean-to shack built in to the side of an abandoned warehouse. A weathered sign above the doorway read: Sale price liquor all day every day. In the doorway, a net curtain substituted for the door.
Congolese youths sat drinking bottles of beer in the gutter outside while other patrons came and went from the premises. The youths directed wolf whistles at two promiscuous and scantily clad teenage girls who emerged from the bar. Clearly intoxicated, the girls held onto each other for support as they staggered along the pavement in their high-heel shoes.
Elvis studied his fare in the rear vision mirror as he parked the car near the youths. “Y
ou sure you want to stop here, boss?”
“I’m sure,” Nine grinned as he paid the cabbie and tipped him generously for good measure. “Buy your beautiful wife some nice perfume.”
Elvis beamed at Nine and pocketed the cash. “You want me to wait, boss?”
“No need, thanks.” Nine disembarked from the cab and watched as the cab drove off. Conscious the youths were observing him, he entered the bar. It took a minute or two for his eyes to adjust to its gloomy interior. The only illumination was from natural light that came from small windows along the far wall.
As his eyes adjusted, he could see the bar was half full. The patrons were all black males who appeared to have been drinking for some time. Prostitutes circulated among them, touting for business. A rowdy card game was in progress at one table. The hum of conversation could just be heard above the African harmonies that played over a radio. Conversation ceased as the patrons became aware of the new arrival.
Nine approached the bar. A surly barman looked him up and down and reluctantly acknowledged him. As the barman moved closer, Nine could see he had a wicked scar that ran from his forehead to his jaw – a legacy of a knife fight no doubt.
“What you want, man?” the barman asked.
“Give me a beer,” Nine said.
The barman poured a tall glass of beer and placed it on the counter in front of the first white customer the bar had seen in more than a year.
Nine paid him then indicated he wanted a word. “I want to speak to someone connected with Lusambo’s Mai Mai Militia,” he said quietly. “Can you help me?”
The barman blinked once then stared hard at Nine. After what seemed an age he asked, “Who wants to know?”
“Someone who is prepared to pay a lot of money.”
The barman looked thoughtfully at Nine then motioned to him to sit down at the nearest unoccupied table. Nine did as he was asked. The barman served another patron then disappeared into a room at the rear of the premises. He returned a minute later and advised Nine that he had sent for someone who may be able to help him. The barman warned him he may have a wait.