Lords of Corruption

by Kyle Mills

  Flannary was concentrating more on his driving than usual, obviously not anxious to let the sun set on them so deep into the refugee camp. When they turned onto what passed for a main road, he seemed to relax a bit.

  "Think, Josh. Why is it that your dinky little charity can accomplish more at the snap of a finger than huge organizations like CARE and UNICEF can in a month of red tape?"

  "How the hell should I know?" Josh said, still fuming about Gideon's store. If he had the tractor parts, what else did he have? How many of those mysterious payments in their books had gone straight into his pocket while the people on the project dug in the dirt with sticks?

  "Have you ever seen any of NewAfrica's other projects?"

  "No."

  "Do you know anything about them?"

  "Why ask me? It's a matter of public record, right? The U. S. government puts money into them, so they must have to file some kind of report."

  "Charities have two sets of documents: the ones they send home and the ones that never leave Africa. Care to guess which ones actually reflect reality?"

  Josh watched a young boy with a missing leg lurching out of their way. He wondered if he'd lost the limb throwing hairspray into fires.

  "Why doesn't NewAfrica operate in any other countries, Josh?"

  "What are --"

  Machine-gun fire sounded, and they both ducked involuntarily. Flannary's foot went a little deeper into the accelerator as he peered through the steering wheel at the darkening street. "Rebels," he said. "They're coming farther north every day. I've seen it before in other countries. The government's losing control."

  Chapter 17.

  The cornfield was still smoldering, making it impossible for Josh to enter. Not that there was any reason to. Nothing had changed. And nothing would.

  "It's all gone," Josh said into the satellite phone. "Everything."

  "I don't understand what you're telling me," Stephen Trent responded. He didn't seem as controlled as usual, and the fact that his buttery-smooth exterior had cracked so easily made Josh wonder if it was fake.

  "Then you're not listening. The corn's all burned. The shed and the tools, too. And the irrigation system is a twisted pile of junk. Oh, and the tractor with all the missing parts? No need to worry about that anymore."

  "Jesus Christ, Josh. We're flying in photographers from the States right now. And do you have any idea how hard it was to convince President Mtiti to come there?"

  "I can't say that I do, Stephen."

  "Does Gideon know about this?"

  Gideon. That was a whole subject in and of itself. He considered telling Trent about Gideon's store but decided against it. After his conversation with an unusually circumspect JB Flannary the night before, he was even less comfortable with who everybody was and where they stood.

  "He said it was an accident, Stephen. But I wouldn't trust that guy as far as I could throw him."

  "You wouldn't trust him? You've barely been in Africa long enough to unpack, and you're already making pronouncements about the trustworthiness of people we've worked with for years? I don't seem to remember anything like this happening before you got there. When Gideon was running things."

  "Then maybe you should put him in charge."

  "Fuck!" Trent shouted into the phone and then fell silent.

  Josh had no idea what to say that wouldn't just be throwing gas on the fire, so he turned and took in the scene behind him. Many of the workers had shown up that morning, but with no tools there was nothing to do. They had formed small groups, and most seemed to be arguing, occasionally pausing to glare at another group but maintaining their distance. It seemed so obvious now. The pure, harmonious tribal ideal he'd seen when he'd gotten there had been a fantasy. He'd seen exactly what he wanted to. Or maybe what he was supposed to.

  Josh walked toward a group of nine men squeezed into the shade of a small tree, talking heatedly. They watched him as he approached but clearly saw him as completely irrelevant now. If anything, their conversation grew in intensity, as did the urgency with which they passed around a jug of homemade liquor.

  "When you say it's all gone," Trent said finally, "are you certain all of it's gone? There isn't an angle we could shoot from that would disguise the damage?"

  Josh wasn't really paying attention, instead concentrating on the unintelligible words of the men in front of him. What he wouldn't give to know what they were saying:

  He dug out his MP3 player and flipped on the record function.

  "Josh?"

  "I already told you," Josh said, putting the player in his back pocket and turning away from the group of men. "It's all gone. If you want a good angle, you might want to think about flying Mtiti to Florida."

  "You're making jokes now?" Trent said, the volume of his voice rising. "I'm glad you're so damn broken up about this."

  "Jesus Christ, Stephen. Do I want to help these people? Hell, yes. But I have no idea what I'm doing. And what's worse is that I have no idea what other people are doing. I mean, I expected to have to deal with some corruption and inefficiency, but . . ." He let his voice trail off for a moment. "The bottom line is that you hired the wrong guy."

  When Trent spoke again, he had managed to reconstruct some of the calm that Josh was so familiar with. "Look, I'm not going to lie to you, Josh. This is a disaster. But I'm not trying to dump a bunch of blame on you. You're right. This is an incredibly hard job, and sometimes things happen that are beyond anyone's control."

  "I appreciate the vote of confidence, Stephen, but it's misplaced. As much as I wanted it to, this isn't going to work out."

  "I don't understand. You're quitting?"

  "The truth is, I've got some family problems that can't be dealt with from here."

  There was a long pause.

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Is it anything we can help you with?"

  "No."

  "We need to talk face to face, Josh. We put a lot of effort into finding you, and I'm still convinced we made the right choice."

  "I'm not sure what you base that on, Stephen."

  "Look, there aren't many planes going in and out of the country anymore. I'm going to reserve the soonest available seat for you. But I won't put the money down until we get together and talk. Fair?"

  Josh had no interest in meeting or talking with anyone. He just wanted to go home, rescue his sister, and get on with his life. Whatever that life might be.

  Tfmena Llengambi had taken a position at the base of the hill, and he motioned to the groups milling around to come to him. Some did, but the men behind Josh just talked louder, their speech slurred from the liquor and their laughter turning malevolent.

  "I don't want to waste your time, Stephen. I need to --"

  A hand suddenly gripped his shoulder and spun him around. Out of reflex, he dropped the phone and threw a hand out, landing a fist firmly in Gideon's chest. The African staggered backward a step, though it was more from surprise than the force of the blow. A moment later, Josh found himself pinned to a tree with Gideon's thick forearm jammed against his throat.

  Everyone had gone silent, but no one seemed inclined to interfere. The men he had been recording gathered around expectantly, and in the distance, Tfmena just watched.

  "I hear you've been traveling to places you shouldn't," Gideon said, bringing his face close enough that Josh could smell the stolen food on his breath. Of course he'd expected Gideon's wife to mention the two white men poking around her merchandise, but he hadn't been prepared for a reaction this violent.

  The pressure on his neck increased to the point that it was hard to breathe, but if Gideon was trying to scare him, his actions were having the opposite effect. Just who the fuck did this guy think he was?

  He rammed his palms into Gideon's chest and shoved as hard as he could. The tree provided enough leverage that, despite his superior size, Gideon was driven backward hard enough to almost land him on his ass. A muffled gasp went up from the ever-expanding peanut gallery.

 
; "Yeah, why didn't you tell me you were in the tractor-parts business? I was in the market, you know?"

  Gideon took a menacing step forward but recognized his delicate position when Josh balled his fists. While Gideon would almost certainly win a fight between them, it might not be easy. There was a lot of face to be lost in a narrow victory over a pampered white boy from America.

  "This is not your country," Gideon said, holding his ground. "You come here and you judge us and you tell us how we should live. But my people have been here for thousands of years. We don't need you. And if you stay too long, things can happen. Like they did to your friend Dan."

  Chapter 18.

  When Josh got out of the Land Cruiser, the women Annika Gritdal was talking to began to giggle and whisper to each other. One gave Annika a nudge in his direction.

  "It's still working," she said as she approached.

  He'd spent the long drive preparing himself to see her again. This time, instead of acting like a smitten fifteen-year-old, he was going to be a suave, James Bond--like figure.

  "What?" he said.

  Not bad. He'd managed to maintain just the right amount of disinterest despite the subtle flow of her T-shirt and the tan legs extending from grimy work shorts.

  "The pump you fixed! It's working great."

  "I guess you're going to have to take back all the horrible things you've said about me."

  "We'll see."

  She squinted through the windshield of his vehicle, probably looking for Flannary. "So why do I have the pleasure of your visit, Josh?"

  It was a good question. He should have been hiding out in the compound's pool, drinking heavily and figuring out what he was going to do with his life.

  "I needed to talk to you. And to ask a little favor."

  "It seems that I owe you. What do you want to talk about?"

  "Is it true that the ownership of the land my project is on is disputed by the people working there?"

  "Did JB tell you that?"

  "Does it matter?"

  She thought for a moment before speaking. "It's true."

  "So the project was never going to work?" She started toward the church, waving for him to follow. "Let's go sit down."

  They didn't actually enter the building but instead went around back, passing through a rickety gate into an oasis carved from trees hung with fruit he couldn't identify. Large, carefully placed rocks gave it a Japanese feel, though the metal table in the middle was more Italian. She gestured for him to wait and disappeared through the back door of the church. He sat gingerly in one of the chairs, noticing that, despite the meticulous paint job, it was about . Ready to collapse.

  "It doesn't make it easier, though," Annika said when she reemerged.

  "Doesn't make what easier?"

  "Watching something that was so hard to build, so important, be destroyed. It's always in the back of your mind here -- that something it took hundreds of people years to build can be destroyed by a few people in minutes. And often for no reason at all."

  "Do you think that's going to happen to you?" he said.

  She didn't answer, instead ceremoniously unwrapping a small piece of chocolate, breaking it in half, and holding one of the pieces out to him. "Here. This will make you feel better."

  The way she was handling it made it obvious how rare and precious it was to her. "No, I can't accept that."

  "Of course you can. It's just a little piece. I'm afraid that's all you get for your project burning."

  He accepted the candy reluctantly, popping it into his mouth and licking the residue off his sweating palm. "What would have to happen for me to get a big piece?"

  "Oh, you should hope you never deserve a big piece. Sometimes you don't survive big-piece days."

  She chewed slowly, savoring the chocolate for the treasure it was.

  "So you never answered my question," Josh said.

  "Do I think the same thing could happen to me?" She frowned subtly. "It's becoming more dangerous for us. Our crops have done well, and we've been able to sell some on the open market. That's drawing the attention of the government."

  "Why would the government have a problem with you selling your crops? Isn't that what you're supposed to do with them?"

  She swallowed and ran a tongue across her teeth, making sure she didn't miss anything. "In one way or another, the government -- and by that I mean Mtiti --controls all the food the aid agencies bring into the country. In fact, the main job of his agriculture minister is to get his hands on it and sell it or give it to Mtiti's supporters. Successful local agriculture throws a, uh, hammer into their machine."

  "Wrench."

  She screwed up her face in an expression that was impossibly endearing. "Yes, of course. A wrench. You can imagine how this could lower the prices they can get from their stolen food and how it could feed people they want to stay hungry."

  He shook his head miserably.

  "What?"

  "Why do you do it, Annika? How do you keep going?"

  "I believe that things can be better. I believe that God wants us to help people who haven't been as lucky."

  "I guess. But it seems like Jesus had the good sense to split two thousand years ago."

  "You sound just like .113. Africa is a very hard place. Everything can disappear in a moment. Violence is always just under the surface. And no matter how long you're here, you'll always be an outsider. But still you came. You're trying to help. So you must understand."

  "Not for much longer."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I quit yesterday. I'm just waiting for a flight out."

  There was a flash of something in her expression that looked like sadness, but he decided that he was just projecting.

  "I'm sorry about that, Josh. I think you could have helped a lot of people here."

  "That's what I thought, too. But now I know I was just fooling myself."

  She nodded sympathetically. "You mentioned a favor before. What is it?"

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his MP3 player. "I recorded some people talking yesterday. I was wondering if you could tell me what they're saying."

  She accepted the player and turned it over in her hands, staring down at it. "If you're leaving, why all the questions? Why this?"

  "I have some problems with my family at home," he said. "It's not something I can deal with from here. But before I leave, maybe there are some things I can set straight. I'd like to leave something more positive than a bunch of burned corn and melted irrigation equipment."

  Chapter 19.

  Josh glanced over his shoulder as the sun made its way to the horizon. The confused faces staring at him from the edges of the dirt track were receding more and more into shadow, giving his surroundings an increasingly menacing feel. Ahead, the refugee camp's roads narrowed further, forcing him to stop.

  A boy of about twelve watched fascinated from the doorway of a house constructed primarily of mud, and Josh motioned him over. "Tfmena? Do you know him? I'm looking for Tfmena Llengambi."

  The boy just shook his head, so Josh pointed to his Land Cruiser and pressed a five-dollar bill into the kid's hand. "Can you watch that for me?"

  The boy nodded excitedly and climbed up onto the hood, making a show of scanning for ne'er-do-wells. Josh started up the road on foot, certain he'd never see the vehicle again.

  The narrow street turned to a path, and now the ramshackle houses and tiny stores all selling the same things were only a few feet to either side of him. People and cows pushed past, always staring but not otherwise acknowledging his presence. When a plump older woman in traditional dress smiled at him, he seized the opportunity.

  "Tfmena?"

  She stopped and tilted her head slightly. "Tfmena Llengambi?"

  "Yes! That's right. Tfmena Llengambi."

  At best he had hoped that she would point him in the right direction, but instead she motioned for him to follow and led him deeper into the chaotic maze of the refugee camp. After f
ive minutes of walking silently behind her, the initial relief he'd felt started to wane. His sense of direction had completely abandoned him, and it was now fully night. This woman could have been taking him anywhere.

  He was about to turn around and take his chances finding his way out when she suddenly stopped and pointed to a small dwelling with a door fashioned from a faded Pepsi sign. She gave a short bow before waddling back the way they had come.

  "Thank you!" Josh called after her, but she didn't acknowledge it. He knocked hesitantly on the door and waited. An eye appeared in a crack about waist high, and Josh crouched. "Hey, there. Is Tfmena here?"

  The eye widened in fear and disappeared. He heard the panicked shouts of a young girl followed by the soft padding of feet on dirt.

  The woman who answered had a similar style of dress as the one who had led him there, but she was quite a bit younger and rail thin.

  "Tfmena Llengambi?"

  She leaned through the door to see who was watching and then pulled him inside.

  The interior was probably ten degrees hotter than it was outside, lit by a single kerosene lamp and smelling of damp earth. He was starting to wonder where the hell he was when Tfmena entered through a door at the back.

  "Why are you here?"

  His expression conveyed the same calm dignity it always did but couldn't hide his surprise at finding Josh on his doorstep.

  "You and your family have to get out of here. Right now."

  "What? I don't understand what you're saying to me."

  "I want you to listen to this," Josh said, handing his MP3 player to Tfmena and helping him with the earphones.

  Annika had struggled to translate the voices on the poor recording, but after four listenings she'd gotten the general gist: Now that the project was destroyed, there was no reason Tfmena and his family couldn't be murdered and the payment for performing that assassination couldn't be collected.

  Judging by Tfmena's expression, her translation was dead-on. The African finally pushed the stop button and handed the recorder back to Josh before taking a seat on a low bench that was the only furniture in the room.