As the man closed the passenger-side rear door for the woman, he looked up and down the street and up at the sky, his face clearly visible in the surveillance tape.
“Zoom that. Freeze it for a print. Match it on the watch list.”
“They’re back on the road,” snapped Dale Harper. “You’re certain it’s them?” Labrecque demanded. They were on the Kikwit road to Mbuji-Mayi.
“It’s them. Up-armored Humvee, camo, with a three-barreled Gatling gun on the roof turret,” Harper answered.
“Hell. That could be any one of dozens of Humvees the oil companies’ mercenaries are using to patrol Cabinda. Zoom in.”
The picture grew in size.
“That’s our boy. His license plate.”
“Roll it back. Replay.”
“Want to see them getting into the vehicle?”
“You got it. Rewind.”
Several minutes later, after Harper adjusted the focus, the two operators focused in.
“Stay right on top of them,” Labrecque commanded.
They hit two matches from the CIA terrorist watch list: Grigol Rakhmonov Boyko, wanted by the International Criminal Court for murder and human rights atrocities. He was accompanied by Erik Vangaler.
Within the next two minutes, Harper and Labrecque had forwarded the print to Cole Martin. The Intel was on Maran’s laptop minutes later. He opened the site as soon as the beeping signal went off, backed by the repeatedly blinking red dots on the screen. The camera had focused on the woman. He was thrilled by what he saw.
Amber! She’s alive.
FIFTY-THREE
Kinshasa
Maran was in a hurry. He joined Tracha at the wheel in a rented Land Cruiser. They headed through the city to the muddy pocked road through Province du Bas Congo and Madimba, Tracha at the wheel. As they zoomed down the street through La Cite,” they passed decrepit, limping trucks, jitneys that rattled through broken traffic lights, crowds of emaciated hawkers selling cigarettes and shikwanga, manioc roots wrapped in fresh gum and tamarind leaves. They sped up Boulevard du 30 Juin.
As they continued out of the city they curved around trucks broken down in the middle of the road. Bonfires alongside of the road burned six to ten feet high.
A tall man in silver aviator sunglasses, dressed in a shiny, bright green blazer, a starched white shirt and knife-creased tan trousers, waved at them to pull over. He looked like he was on his way to a country club lunch, but he held out a laminated security service I.D. card as if it were a barricade. Behind him, a group of unsteady, red-bereted soldiers glared at Maran. They raised their Belgian FAL Automatic rifles high in the air. Tracha gunned the motor, they crashed through the makeshift checkpoint and, at eighty-odd miles an hour, blew past the decrepit schoolhouse that served as a barracks for the small contingent from the mission-shackled UN defense force. The impotent gunfire reverberated down the road behind them; the soldiers were too drunk to hit a barn with a shotgun.
As they neared the next checkpoint, Tracha stomped down on the gas pedal again. The Land Cruiser lurched forward like a giant lumbering goose spooked by a ball on a golf course. The two men bounced like rubber balls as the four-wheeler picked up speed.
Tracha gave the two sleepy sentries the bird as the Land Cruiser slammed through the flimsy wooden gate. Before the sentries fired their first shots, the two former U.S. Army special ops troopers were out of effective range. The shots kicked up dust in the ruts and embankment. Puffs of smoky yellow blended with the billows left behind the fleeing truck. Maran and Tracha looked at one another, laughing louder than they had in a long time.
THEY WENT THROUGH TWO more checkpoints the same way before they reached Tshikapa, two hundred and fifty miles from Mbuji-Mayi, their final destination. They stopped and got out of the vehicle in front of a gate that held a sign that ordered visitors to check in. Another sign said this was territory owned by the Societe’ Miniere de Bakwanga, MIBA, the DRC’s state-controlled diamond mining company. The mines themselves were another fifty miles north of the headquarter offices.
The building was low, squat, painted beige, matching the dry, sandy earth, the stucco walls and clay roofs were splashed with jerry-built camo stripes.
“We parked in your front driveway, if that’s OK. Deborrah Anderssen from the U.S. Embassy said to expect her to be here for a meeting with her and your Director,” Maran told the security manager in his finest Boston accent.
Maran flashed the official I.D. and passport Anderssen had given him:
Walter Q.R. Jackson
Chief Investigator: competitive business intelligence
“This is Kurt Tracha, research director. He’s also a cameraman with me to illustrate key elements of our investigation.”
He and Tracha followed the manager across a dusty courtyard into the four-story mining office structure. They took an elevator to the top floor.
The MIBA Director was short and compact. Maran was surprised at the cleanliness and modernity of his office. Windows looked out on the mining complex. A tower that marked the mining shaft elevator to the original underground mine, now defunct, could be seen across a paved dusty lot. An IBM computer sat at a terminal hooked to an Internet cable. A Blackberry sat on the light mahogany desk.
Deborrah Anderssen sat in one of three small upholstered chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of the director’s glass desk. She rose as Maran stepped into the office with Tracha. She made the introductions. Maran assured the MIBA Director he would not be quoted. The squat man got right to business. He explained that though the take for MIBA’S Kasai fields was sixty million dollars, U.S., the official revenue for the country’s diamond fields the previous years was three hundred fifty million dollars. He also told Maran that the true revenues were double that because of smuggled diamonds.
“Something else is happening that’s abnormal,” Deborrah jumped in.
Maran surmised her response
“Big stones?”
“Trade in stones greater than two carats is flying. No one wants to pay the price for a smaller stone, not when they can get a chunk on their finger for a fraction of what they used to pay for a little starter. These are incredible discounts.”
“What’s happening?” Maran asked.
“Vangaler. His Ninjas came in about a year ago with no resistance. Terrified everyone. Runs the region now. He has to be smuggling out these huge stones for Boyko. It’s anyone’s guess where they come from. Boyko’s MecaMines only produce smaller stones. We can’t figure out where he gets these blockbusters.”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Maran said. Tracha shifted the camera case strap on his shoulder.
“I trust you will be more true to your word than the U.N.”
An ache began just above Maran’s neck, slowly cranked up until it enveloped his entire head in a merciless throb. By now, he had learned that he had to take action immediately. He reached in his pocket. His fingers found his medicine vial. He rose to stretch his legs, palmed one of the pills prescribed by his doctor at Boston’s Massachusetts General Hospital for his panic disorder. It wasn’t easy for someone used to drinking two quarts of coffee each day, but expediency had taught him. He had learned to quaff the pills down dry.
“What do you know about Boyko’s diamonds?” he asked.
“We know they go to Antwerp to be cut, a place where diamonds flow like water over Victoria Falls, where no one will ask a question,” she answered.
“Boyko keeps a low profile. He has offices in Cabinda and Kin. He’s seldom to be found at either place. Joseph Dos Sampas will know how to find him,” the Director promised.
“Where do I find dos Sampas?”
FIFTY-FOUR
Mbuji-Mayi
Bena-Bendi, an isolated outpost on the Sankuru River, was 200 hundred miles northwest of Mbuji-Mayi. It sat in the wilderness just on the eastern edge of Parc National de la Salonga Sud in the Province of Bandundu.
They had driven for long exhaustive hour
s through dense jungle from Tshikapi over a rough, rocky road to Joseph dos Sampas’ outpost there. It was a former pension he used as his field headquarters. While the flora had no rival, the rest of the ambiance was the polar opposite from the Presqu’ile de Banana villa in which Amber Chu had paid him a visit. The fragrance of frangipani, an attempt at lending a peaceful atmosphere to the landscape, filled the air with a sweetness that reminded Maran of San Diego—and Dennis. In testimony to the nature of the building now, it was ringed by a fortified bunker manned with machine gunners.
Tracha sat outside In the reception room of the elaborate estate that was dos Sampas’ retreat.
In the rebel leader’s office, Maran and dos Sampas sat alone on upholstered leather chairs at a long coffee table. They picked at a tray of sugary banana crumb cake and drank from steamy mugs of English tea.
They got right into it.
“Mr. Davis,” dos Sampas began, using Maran’s journalist alias.
“I understand you and your friend claim to be from a national magazine in the U.S.”
“Are from a national magazine. I have the assignment contract from the editor to prove it.”
“Mr. Davis, I’m not even going to ask you the nature of your ‘diamond story.’ We’ve all seen the Hollywood versions. We are both serious men. So you will forgive the fact that we have done background checks on Mr. Rodney Davis or, should we say, Mack Maran.”
“No doubt. What about it?” he noted, but he was not shocked at the fact that the rebel leader had been able to penetrate his cover. Nothing in the clandestine world shocked him.
“You are obviously a man of equally impressive repute.”
He’s done his homework, Maran thought.
“What do you know?”
“We know that you are an ally against Grigol Boyko.”
Maran waited to see where this was going.
“He is a very powerful man. One of West Africa’s more notable mining and airline magnates. Unfortunately, a man of even more impressive repute in the security field, or, more accurately, illegal arms and global terror.”
“You say,” Maran wisecracked.
“Mr. Boyko may be about to meet his match in you. You have more on your mind than a magazine interview with Mr. Boyko. We know about your SAWC mission in Cabinda, the ambush, the massacre. Is there more?”
“He had a woman with him, a close friend of mine. He has her son.”
“And you want to get him.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Boyko’s our enemy,” Maran said.
“As is Vangaler,” dos Sampas disclosed.
“Are you sure of that?”
“The e-mails he sent to me?”
“Go on.”
“I’m impressed with your hacking skills. Yes, he has been in touch. We decided to lead him on to see if we could use him.”
“And?”
“He can’t be trusted,” dos Sampas understated.
“Good decision. One more thing.”
He stood, towering over dos Sampas who still sat at the table.
“Go on.”
“I noticed your security people are armed with U.S. M16s. Where do you get them?”
“Ah, correction. That’s ‘have gotten.’ Past tense. Defunct relationship.”
“Who?” Maran demanded. “CIA?”
Dos Sampas stood, faced Maran nose to nose.
“I can’t tell you that.”
Maran’s entire body stiffened. Past experience leaped to the fore. It told him that this was no time to confer, banter, negotiate. If he were to gain respect and convince this man of his seriousness, it was right now. He leaped on dos Sampas and grabbed him around the neck with his left hand and backhanded him across the face.
“Let’s not play games,” Maran said and hit dos Sampas in the chest, knocking him back into his chair. Then he reached out and helped him to his feet.
“Do you always introduce yourself that way?” dos Sampas asked as he rose, brushing himself off. A bright red flush glowed under the brown skin of his right cheek.
“Why don’t we start over?” Maran said. “Tell me what I need to know and this will work out for both of us. And don’t jerk my chain.”
“OK. Why not? CIA? Not this time. Gentleman by the name of Pajak. Alex Pajak, most cooperative. Indiscriminate. We happen to know Boyko is also one of his clients,” dos Sampas revealed.
Pajak! The ghost in the Pentagon.
“Do you know where Boyko is?” Maran asked.
“As I say. Mr. Pajak is most cooperative. Men like him know nothing about allegiance. For that reason, we are very circumspect about dealing with him. He’s never been here, for instance. Has no idea where we can be found.”
“Where is Boyko?” Maran insisted.
“A few hundred miles down the Sankuru; it’s his mining center.”
“MecaMines.”
“We not only know where he is, we know he has your woman, Amber Chu,” dos Sampas added.
FIFTY-FIVE
Sankuru River, a tributary of the Congo River
Dos Sampas, Maran, Tracha, and the crew prepared the gear they purchased for their trip up the Sankuru River, a tributary of the Congo River, to Mbuji-Mayi and Boyko’s MecaMines. They stocked up on manioc, maize, groundnuts, and cured wild animal meat. By this time, they didn’t even bother to inquire what kind of meat it was. It all had the same taste: salt. In addition to all the kitchen, first aid equipment, and other supplies they could find, they brought a series of Congo River navigation charts from the U.S. Army, updated by GPS and sent by Sergei from BANG!’s Boston Command Post.
They packed several crates of weapons supplied by dos Sampas, including a number of copies of the 7.62mm MK-17 assault rifle and a 40mm GMG grenade machine gun. Flabbergasted again by how these guys could have gotten hold of such up-to-date toys-for-boys designed specifically for the U.S. Army Special Operations Command, Maran decided to keep his mouth shut about it. He still had his H&K. Tracha brought aboard a duffel bag with what he told Maran was a “surprise.”
As Maran boarded, he took note of the boat, another significant curiosity. The vessel, though painted a bright orange, reminded him of one of the U.S. Navy’s PBRs, a Vietnam-era Patrol Boat, Riverine, last used in his mission off the coast of Panama. It drew only two feet of water fully loaded. The drives could be pivoted to reverse direction, turn the boat in its own length, or come to a stop from full speed in a few boat lengths.
“We stole it from Vangaler,” dos Sampas told Maran with a huge grin.
How did Vangaler get it?
As they pulled out into the river, they passed a dozen pirogues. In the dugout canoes, fishermen hurled nets, rowed against the swift current. The water looked like a listless platform of undulating gelatin. It threatened, with a sinister whine, to spirit away all who challenged it along with the floating water hyacinths, papyrus, and other jungle detritus off to the unknown.
“How long will it take us to get to Mbuji-Mayi?” Maran asked dos Sampas. They sat on a rolled up Zodiak inflatable boat strapped to the starboard side of the deck.
“There’s no telling. The river is unpredictable. We’ll stop over for a night outside Ranbundu, a small village, a kitente, royal compound for the Aballopwe clan of the Lubas. You’ll find it a little different. One of the remnants of African animism, demonic ritual.”
“Sounds good to me,” Maran replied. He slapped at several persistent mosquitoes that apparently lapped up the insect repellent he had poured over his exposed skin. The air swarmed with them. “Thought we were going to Kisangani.”
“That’s only Boyko’s cover operation: wholesale trade to legitimize the massive revenues from his real business. Big mining center. Looks legit, but he’s never there,” dos Sampas said. “The tribal chief in the kitente, Moise Ngoye, is a friend. Knows who you should see to get to Boyko. It won’t be easy, but a lot of his tribesmen, the Luba, belong to a secret society, the Bambudye. Work for him. They hate him more than
you do. If they’re afraid to help, they’ll know someone who will. There’s enough hatred going around to give the Devil a hard-on.”
“I always thought that was a permanent fixture,” Maran wisecracked.
LATER, RAIN DRIZZLED DOWN like beads. Maran stood with dos Sampas at the helm. He turned to look behind them at the fans blowing bellows of vapor as the boat propelled over the river. His throat tightened. He felt like he would choke if he tried to speak. His mind drifted off to thoughts of Amber.
She’s alive!
Bone tired, Maran fell asleep on his feet with dos Sampas standing next to him at the wheel in the control cockpit, oblivious to the rain, when a jolt threw them both to the deck. The current nearly tossed the Vietnam-era craft into a boulder that jutted out of the river like a giant hippo and swept them out into the far side. The bank, which rippled with sharp log and rock snags, was riddled with holes, pockets, and river debris. The current wasn’t through battering them and flung them downstream into the outer circle of a whirlpool twenty yards wide. On one side, a stout palm tree trunk jutted out from the bank and divided the water. The current swung them toward it, assuring a collision. White water flew over the gunwales as the bow banged into the trunk, spun and flew up as if it were a surfboard on a turbulent, crosscurrent-thrashed wave. The men on the bow flew backward, landed in heaps on top of one another. The river churned, viscous and amber as honeyed milk; it rose in streamlined spirals. Dos Sampas screamed, “Hold on! Don’t give up!”
“Aiyee. Jesus save us.” A Portuguese Catholic soldier prayed with an ear-splitting screech.
Another powerful blow tipped the craft nearly straight in the air. Maran clung to the ropes that secured the equipment to the deck.
“Vortex! Whirlpool! Tie in, tie up to the craft,” dos Sampas ordered.
Dos Sampas’ hands gripped the wheel so tightly, the knuckles protruded like whitened hex bolts over the skin of his fists. The craft spun, rising in the air. With the brief new vantage, Maran saw ahead the inverse water tornado that sucked them forward, a giant black hole at the center of the deep, swirling murk. Whitecaps crested on the surface and poured over the deck all around them.
'A' for Argonaut Page 29