by James Morcan
Nine was resigned to waiting. This was Africa after all. He proceeded to drink his beer, all the while aware the surly barman was observing him even as he served other patrons.
The barman’s interest in him was understandable. After all, Nine had enquired after one of the most feared of the Congolese rebel groups operating in the eastern Congo.
Lusambo’s Mai Mai Militia was named after its infamous leader, Captain Undu Lusambo, a former decorated officer in the Congolese Army. Nine had learned that much from the old janitor who had advised him that the militia’s rebels may be the kind of people he was looking for.
Like the six other Mai Mai militias operating in the region, Lusambo’s group was largely comprised of disenchanted combatants of the country’s armed forces. Unlike the other militias and independent armed groups, Lusambo’s rebels didn’t attack villages or kill, rape and plunder innocent citizens. Their target was the Congolese Army whose soldiers had a deserved reputation for terrorizing the very people they were supposed to protect.
Nine’s research had revealed that conflict minerals – gold, tin, cobalt and coltan included – were behind much of the violence that gripped the region. So it had come as no surprise to him that Carmel Corporation’s coltan refinery was located in the middle of the area controlled by Lusambo’s militia. That would explain the heavy presence of armed personnel at the refinery. Nine downed his beer and ordered lemonade on ice. He wanted to keep a clear head.
49
Forty-five minutes and two iced lemonades later, a one-armed Rwandan entered the Taj Mahal via the back door. He looked at the barman who nodded in Nine’s direction.
The Rwandan approached Nine. “My name is Christian,” he said in halting English. “Come with me.”
Nine drained the remains of his glass and followed Christian outside into the bright sunlight. An old van was waiting for them, its engine throbbing. Two of its side windows were cracked and small, round holes in the glass and in one of the door panels looked suspiciously like bullet holes.
Two big Congolese men sitting in the van’s back seat jumped out as soon as they saw they had company. They marched up to Nine and, without introduction, began frisking him. As they did, he observed they were armed with dated, military-issue revolvers. He guessed the men were former soldiers.
In anticipation of being frisked, Nine had left his own weapon – a Luger pistol he’d purchased soon after arriving in the DRC – back in his hotel room. He had also left behind the black makeup kit he usually wore strapped to his chest.
Jules, the taller of the two men, removed Nine’s wallet and the bulging money belt he wore around his waist. Opening the belt’s zip, Jules found wads of US dollars inside. “What’s this?” he asked.
“That’s ten thousand American dollars,” Nine said. “It’s for Captain Lusambo. Call it a token.”
“A token?” Oudry, the shorter of the two men, asked.
“A down-payment.”
Jules threw the money belt and wallet onto the van’s front seat then he and Oudry bundled their guest into the rear of the van. Nine ended up wedged between them on the back seat. Oudry produced a scarf and began to blind-fold him. Before the blindfold was securely in place, Nine saw Christian was behind the wheel. He hoped the one-armed Rwandan had his driver’s license.
The van took off and backfired as it accelerated jerkily along the street.
Twenty minutes later, the vehicle stopped in a screech of brakes somewhere in a relatively quiet part of the city. Two pairs of strong hands hauled Nine from the van and frog-marched him into a building.
When his blindfold was finally removed, he found he was sitting in a small, windowless room. Furnishings were sparse and there was no clue as to whether the room was inside a house or in commercial premises.
Facing him were the two Congolese men who had frisked him and a third man whom they addressed as Prince and who was obviously their leader. Shorter than the others, but built like a tank, Prince had a cruel face and a menacing presence.
The three men spoke Swahili amongst themselves. While Nine couldn’t speak Swahili, he did speak the closely related Bantu language of Duruma – a result of time spent in Kenya on a mission – so he got the gist of what was being said. The men were speculating on who he was and were obviously afraid he could be working for the Government’s security forces or the Police.
Nine wondered if Prince was in fact Captain Lusambo. That question was answered when the man addressed him.
“What business do you have with Captain Lusambo?” Prince asked in French.
“That is for his ears only,” Nine responded.
Without warning, Prince slapped Nine’s face hard with his open hand. The force of the blow drew blood and nearly felled the former operative.
“I asked what business you have with the captain!” Prince shouted.
“You already have my answer.” Nine stood his ground and braced himself for the next onslaught.
Prince looked like he was about to explode. His right hand twitched above the handle of the large hunting knife he carried in a sheath on his hip.
“There’s a lot more of that where it came from,” Nine said hurriedly, looking at the money belt one of his escorts was holding. “And I’m sure the captain wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t get to hear what I have to offer.”
Nine’s words had the desired effect. Prince conferred with his companions in Swahili. Opening Nine’s wallet, he pulled out a business card and looked at the visitor. “Ted Williamson,” he said reading the name on the card aloud. He looked at Nine. “Is that your real name?”
“It will do for now.”
“And what do you do for a living, Mister Williamson?”
“I make people rich.”
Again, this gave Prince something to think about. He reached a decision. “It will take a little time to reach Captain Lusambo.”
“My offer has a twenty four-hour time limit.”
Prince stared hard at Nine. “Where are you staying?”
“The Masonic Hotel.”
Prince fired orders in Swahili to the others then turned back to Nine. “My men will take you back to the Masonic. You should wait there until someone comes to you with the captain’s answer.”
“Twenty-four hours, remember,” Nine said.
Prince glared at him then nodded to his men who immediately blind-folded their visitor and marched him back outside to the waiting van.
Nine tried not to show his relief as he was bundled into the van. He’d taken a huge risk and he knew it. But it had been necessary. Now he could look forward to finding and rescuing Francis – he hoped.
50
While Nine was being chauffeured back to his hotel, one of his best friends going right back to his orphanage days was checking on security at Omega’s medical lab at the coltan refinery downriver. Number Thirteen, a muscular Polynesian, had been the first of the orphan-operatives to arrive at the lab in anticipation of Nine showing up.
Naylor had chosen Thirteen to oversee the mission in the DRC. He’d also assigned four of his best male operatives to assist him, and Marcia Wilson had pulled in half a dozen of her CIA agents from Nairobi and Cape Town to provide backup. The firm’s agents had been assigned to watch out for Nine in nearby Kindu while Thirteen and his fellow orphan-operatives remained at the lab as that was where the expected fireworks would happen.
Having just finished a briefing, Thirteen was starting his daily inspection of the grounds around the lab and the nearby refinery. He was accompanied by Twenty Two, one of the Pedemont graduates Naylor had sent to help him.
Both men were sweating profusely. A storm was brewing and the humidity levels rising. The pair were discussing Nine and the havoc he’d caused at Thule Air Base.
“He was the best of the best,” Thirteen said, “and judging by recent events, he hasn’t lost his touch.”
“That’s for sure,” Twenty Two said. “I still can’t believe it has come to this, can you?”
<
br /> “No, but ours is not to reason why.”
“I know. It’s to do or die.”
The operatives continued their rounds in silence.
It was a typically hot day and the sun beat down on them mercilessly. Behind them, white-coated scientists and medical personnel walked between the lab building and an apartment complex behind it, while ahead of them, executive types came and went from Carmel Corporation’s administration building.
Beyond the admin building, the coltan refinery was its usual industrious self. Congolese workers scurried to and fro under the watchful eye of armed guards. Trucks laden with ore arrived at the refinery every few minutes to empty their loads. Above them, the refinery’s twin chimney stacks discharged smoke into an otherwise blue sky.
As the operatives continued their rounds, Thirteen felt confident he had the necessary manpower and resources to prevent any repetition of the events at Thule. Naylor had sent some of Omega’s best male operatives to assist him. Each of them had unique skills and collectively they represented quite a force.
Twenty Two was an excellent example of the caliber of operatives Naylor had chosen. He was probably the toughest and most aggressive of the operatives, and arguably the most accomplished martial arts exponent now that Three was dead.
The others were no slouches either. Four, a chess grandmaster who played in major tournaments when time permitted, applied his chess strategies to everyday life. He was a formidable operative who had never known failure in all his years with Omega. Eighteen, an operative of Asian heritage, was an explosives expert who had lost count of the number of people he’d terminated using explosive devices. And Twelve was a crack marksman who knew everything there was to know about weapons and armaments, and who, officially at least, had more kills to his name than any of Omega’s operatives.
As for Thirteen, he was an all-rounder in every sense of the word, which was why Naylor had put him in charge of the DRC mission. While all the orphan-operatives were true polymaths, Thirteen was an expert in so many different fields even he had lost count. His golden-brown skin and easygoing Polynesian manner meant he was often underestimated, and that was something he didn’t hesitate to use to his advantage when necessary.
Thirteen and Twenty Two completed their rounds. Everything seemed in order. Before retreating indoors, Thirteen asked, “Have we overlooked anything?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“I can’t think of anything either, so let’s get out of this heat.”
The pair re-entered the lab building where they caught up with the other operatives. They all adjourned to a private meeting room to compare notes and discuss their security arrangements.
Compared to meetings involving executive types in the corporate sector, any meetings between Omega’s orphan-operatives were decidedly casual affairs. There was never a shortage of humor, everyone had a say and no-one actually chaired the meetings. Despite this, the operatives were professional and on the rare occasions they did meet, the business at hand was covered in double-quick time.
Today’s spur-of-the-moment meeting was no different except the operatives were more subdued than usual. They couldn’t help but wonder what had brought their lives to the point where they were planning to kill one of their own. Even though Nine had turned his back on them and the agency, he was still one of them – an Omegan, a Pedemont orphan, a brother.
They also wondered, when the time came, if they could kill one of their own.
What they didn’t know was they were all under the influence of the insidious MK-Ultra mind-control program – just as their deceased colleagues at Thule had been – and when it came time to kill Nine, they wouldn’t hesitate.
#
As the orphan-operatives waited for Nine to show up at the refinery, their six CIA colleagues were wearing down their shoe leather trudging the streets of Kindu looking for him. Knowing their target was a man of means who could afford to frequent the best hotels, the agents concentrated their search on the city’s upmarket areas. That suited them just fine as the back streets and poorer quarters of Kindu were best avoided.
The storm that had threatened earlier arrived with a vengeance. It rained as it can only rain in the tropics, drenching the agents and making their job all the more tiresome.
51
Dusk had fallen and Nine had just about given up on hearing back from Lusambo’s people. Since being returned to his hotel that afternoon, he’d waited on tenterhooks for news. Not a word. He was preparing to dine in the hotel restaurant downstairs when there was a knock on his door.
Nine answered the door cautiously and was pleased to see Christian standing there, dripping wet. The one-armed Rwandan was holding the wallet and money belt his companions had taken from Nine earlier.
Christian handed the items over. “You come now.” He walked off toward the nearest stairwell.
Nine quickly checked the contents of the returned items. Predictably, the ten grand had been taken from the money belt, but the contents of his wallet were intact. He picked up a pre-packed airline travel bag and followed the Rwandan downstairs. Among other things, the bag contained the confidential file on the secret orphanage and prints of the aerial photos he’d taken earlier. He’d had them downloaded and printed off soon after arriving in Kindu.
Stepping outside, Nine was immediately drenched in the torrential rain. Through it, he could just make out Christian waiting for him on the other side of the street. He was in the same old van and was impatiently revving the engine. There was no sign of the Rwandan’s two Congolese companions.
Nine ran across the road, dodging puddles, and climbed in beside Christian. He held on for dear life as his one-armed chauffeur gunned the accelerator and took off. The former operative could hardly see anything as rain lashed the van’s windscreen.
Ten hair-raising minutes later, they arrived at a jetty on the river where a boat awaited them. Beyond it, the Congo disappeared into the darkness like some evil entity.
At first glance, the boat appeared to be typical of many of the craft that plied the river, transporting food and produce to the settlements that lined its banks. A converted passenger ferry, she appeared to be well past her used-by date and in a state of disrepair.
Closer inspection reminded Nine appearances could be deceiving. While the boat’s exterior paintwork left a lot to be desired, her reinforced hull was strong – and presumably bulletproof – and judging by the sweet throbbing sounds coming from below deck, her engine was powerful. The vessel’s crew were not typical of other Congo River boat crews either. Nine counted at least a dozen others already on board. In the darkness they were just shadowy figures. However, the way they conducted themselves and the automatic weapons they carried told Nine they weren’t fishermen or traders. He assumed they were members of Lusambo’s Mai Mai militia. At least he hoped they were.
Nine thought he recognized the two Congolese he’d met earlier, but couldn’t be sure. None of the men seemed to notice the rain, which now fell heavier than ever. They were obviously used to it.
Christian escorted Nine aboard the boat. They were met by the skipper, a gangly Ugandan appropriately called Skipper. He exchanged brief words in an unidentifiable African dialect with Nine’s escort before dismissing him.
As Christian departed, Skipper quickly frisked Nine and inspected the contents of the travel bag he carried. Then he motioned to one of his crew members, a young Zambian, to escort the white man below deck.
The Zambian led Nine toward the stern. As Nine followed, he looked over the near rail as one of the rebels shone a torch down onto the surface of the water. The torchlight picked up two pairs of luminescent eyes. Crocodiles! Nine reminded himself not to fall in.
Descending a ladder, he found himself in a large cabin adjoining the galley. There, he was met by two unsmiling Congolese who had evidently been assigned to guard him. They motioned to him to sit down. Despite the fact that it was dark outside and the cabin’s windows had been blacked ou
t with paint, one of the guards blindfolded their passenger.
Nine heard Skipper give the order to cast off. Moments later, he could feel the power of the current as the boat and everyone aboard her were carried downstream. Skipper, or someone, gunned the engine and the boat responded, showing an impressive turn of speed.
Just over an hour later, Nine heard the order given to douse all lights on board and to maintain silence. Then the motor shut down and the boat just drifted along in the current. The only sound was the relentless rain which hammered the boat’s hull and deck.
Nine guessed they were passing the coltan refinery. That was confirmed when he heard the sound of machinery and other industrial noises coming from the far bank. Putting two and two together, he guessed his traveling companions didn’t want to advertise their presence to the armed personnel stationed at the refinery. Those people would be allied to the DRC Armed Forces, or to the Government at least, and therefore no friends of the Mai Mai militias operating in the eastern regions of the country.
Five minutes later, the engine revved back to life and the boat resumed its journey downriver at full speed.
#
Just under two hours later, the boat pulled in to a jetty on the near bank. Several pairs of rough hands manhandled Nine up the ladder and onto the deck where he discovered the rain continued unabated. From there he was escorted off the boat and hoisted up into the back of an open-deck vehicle, which took off at speed along a muddy track that cut through the jungle.
Still blindfolded, Nine lost all track of time as the vehicle slid and bounced its way along the track. Every now and then he was struck by an overhanging branch or vine. Curses from others sitting nearby told him he had company. To Nine, the only redeeming feature of this part of the trip was the vegetation overhead formed a natural umbrella, keeping most of the rain at bay.