What he really wanted to do was settle into a port bar and drink slowly and methodically until he lost consciousness and forgot all about his damn mission and the face of the woman who’d decided to end things with him without any explanation.
He thought of a thousand responses to Jack’s words, but they were all the result of the growing frustration that had nothing to do with him.
Riley breathed in deeply and, leaning his head back, exhaled slowly. Then he looked at Jack, nodded smoothly, and put a hand on his shoulder.
He didn’t say a word. And he didn’t need to, because Jack knew him well enough to understand the silent gesture.
Then Riley turned halfway toward the river and its port. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”
34
The brief stretch between the hotel and the river took only a few minutes to cover on foot. They reached the entrance to the port facilities and entered calmly, garnering nothing more than a brief look from the sleepy guard. Once inside they realized the half-mile-long Port of Léopoldville was bustling with activity. Unlike seaports, this river port was a strip of beach with concrete piers. Hundreds of black men walked precariously over gangplanks to load and unload timber, boxes, and sacks of minerals from the flat-bottomed wooden steamer ships tied to the pier.
“Shit,” Jack swore, amazed. “I really wasn’t expecting this. I imagined a crummy dock like in Matadi, not”—he waved his hand over the port—“this.”
“It seems bigger than the Port of New Orleans,” Riley pointed out. He was also surprised by the number of structures and transport and cargo boats tied to them. “It won’t be easy.”
“What?”
“Well, we thought this was a small port and that someone must remember that Mustermann, if that’s his real name, assuming he went through here in 1940.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “With all these people it would be hard to remember someone from two years ago.”
“Exactly.”
“So we have no choice but to ask in the port office. They should have a record.”
Riley grimaced, thinking of all the questions he’d have to answer for the port official. “Maybe,” he replied. “But we’re already here. We could look around and ask a little. For example . . .” He pointed forward.
There, a man stood in the shade of a palm while managing a dozen black dockworkers who unloaded hundreds of elephant tusks from a barge and piled them onshore, forming a small mountain of white ivory on the dusty ground.
They went up to him casually and said hello.
“Bonjour,” he answered, slightly surprised.
“Pretty hot, huh?” Riley said, wiping his forehead.
The boss openly looked them up and down. “Oui, very hot,” he repeated. Then he touched his salacot and added, “You need one of these.”
“You’re right,” Riley said, taking a pack of Camels from his pocket and offering him one. “We just came in from Matadi and haven’t had time to go shopping.”
Riley had stopped smoking years ago. He’d picked up the habit in the Spanish trenches and with some effort (and at Carmen’s insistence) he’d rid himself of the vice that had him coughing up muck in his mouth every morning. But he still kept a carton of cigarettes with him because it was an infallible social lubricant and a good way of breaking the ice.
The boss accepted the exceptional American cigarette with a grateful smile before looking back at the suffering dockworkers.
“Indo! Támbola!” he shouted furiously as he gestured for them to hurry up.
“Is that French?” Jack asked.
“God, no. It’s Lingala.” He lit the cigarette. “It means ‘Nigger, go.’ You’ve got to talk to the savages in their own language.”
Riley stared at the man. He was short with straw-colored hair and rodentlike features. In his native Europe he probably would have been dying of hunger, but in Africa the simple fact that he was white—and had a club hanging from his belt—gave him dominion over these men.
“Are they slaves?”
The boss narrowed his eyes warily. “Slavery’s illegal,” he said automatically. “These niggers are convicts, serving their time.”
“All of them?” he asked, glancing at the several hundred swarming the port, carrying bundles up and down.
“Quite the cargo you’ve got here!” Jack jumped in with exaggerated admiration, sensing his captain was about to get into trouble. “Seeing them like this, it’s hard to imagine the price those horns’ll fetch.”
The boss looked inquisitively at Riley for a few more seconds before he clarified. “They’re actually teeth.” Then he looked at them both and added, “What brings you to Leo? Are you tradesmen?”
“Something like that.”
“Something like that? What’s that mean?”
“We’re looking for opportunities,” Riley said quietly, getting closer. “By the way, there’s a man we want to contact, a guy by the name of Mustermann. You know him?”
“Mustermann?”
“Max Mustermann,” he added. “A tall, odd guy, Austrian or German. Quiet.”
The boss frowned as he tried to remember. “No, doesn’t ring a bell. There were some Germans here, but as soon as the war started they disappeared or went back to their country. I don’t think there’s a single one in Leo now.”
“Of course,” Jack said, disappointed. “The war.”
“And before the war?” Riley asked.
“No idea.” The captain shrugged. “I wasn’t in the Congo then.”
“And by the way,” Riley added, “have you heard of a German expedition that got lost in the jungle in 1935?”
“Who hasn’t?” the man asked impatiently, as if they’d commented on the heat. “They tell it to scare old people and children. If you want my opinion, they got eaten by their cousins.” He pointed jokingly at the line of dockworkers. “Or maybe one of the savages you see so submissive right now did it. They had those Nazis as an afternoon snack with a side of potatoes and mussels.”
Riley forced a complicit smile, falser than the passport in his bag. “And you don’t know if anyone ever found the remnants of the expedition and brought them back?”
“What do you mean? The bodies?”
“More like the equipment,” Riley explained. “Materials, samples . . . a couple tons in almost a hundred boxes. We think our old contact, Mustermann, found what was left of the expedition in 1940, brought it to Léopoldville, then took it by train to Matadi. Were you here then?”
“Oui,” the man confirmed. “I’d just arrived. But none of that sounds familiar, really. News like that would have spread like wildfire, and if he’d left from here I would have noticed.”
“I see.” Riley turned to Jack with a face that said, I knew we’d end up here. “Thanks for the information, and sorry—”
“Unless,” the boss interrupted, growing thoughtful. “Yes, of course, it’s possible,” he added quietly as if to himself.
“What’s possible?” Jack asked.
It took the man a moment to answer, since he was lost in thought. “Well,” he said finally. “OTRACO, the state company that owns the port and all the ships you see here, is the company that has exclusive navigation rights over the Congo River and its tributaries. So, officially, whatever merchant or passenger comes or goes through Léopoldville has to go through them to pay the proper taxes and fees.”
Jack immediately knew what he was getting at. “And if unofficially?”
Instead of answering, the boss took a long drag of the cigarette. “Very good tobacco,” he said casually. “Do you have any more there? All we get here is from South Africa, and it’s terrible.”
“Of course,” Riley said quickly as he took the pack and the rest of the carton from his bag and gave it to the man. “Keep the whole thing. I’m trying to quit.”
“Thanks a lot,” he said, tucking the packs away faster than a magician. “Well, as I was saying,” he went on, “if your friend wanted t
o be discreet he may have docked at the indigenous port at the mouth of the Funa.”
“Indigenous port?”
“Oui. It’s little more than a poorly connected mess, no cranes or warehouses. But if you’re sure Mustermann came to Leo by river on those dates and he didn’t go through here, he might have unloaded the boxes on the Funa.”
“That would also explain why no one noticed they’d found the remains of that expedition,” Jack said.
“Exactement.”
“And how can we get to that indigenous port?” Riley asked. “Is it far?”
“Not very.” The boss pointed east. “Six miles upriver. Take a taxi and tell ’em to take you to Port Indigene. Are you armed?”
They were surprised by the unexpected question. “No . . . well, yes,” Riley wavered. “Why do you ask?”
The boss grimaced. “Like I told you, that’s where people who don’t want to go through customs stop. Vous comprenez? It’s a dangerous place, a hive of thieves and smugglers. Bad people. Know what I mean?”
Riley and Jack exchanged a brief look. “I have some idea,” the captain murmured.
“Bon, bon . . .” the man said with a nod. Then he turned to shout at the sweaty dockworkers. “Indo! Támbola! I’m gonna beat your ass!” he threatened, waving his club. “Damn shit niggers.” He nodded and turned with a smile, looking for agreement from the sailors.
“We’d better go,” Jack said abruptly, seeing Riley’s jaw tense again. “Thanks for the information.”
“Thanks for the tobacco,” he answered, somewhat confused. “I wish you luck finding that guy, and don’t forget to tell me if you solve the mystery. I’ll drink free for a month with such a tale.”
“Don’t worry,” Jack lied, pushing Riley away from the boss. “We’ll let you know what we find out.”
“Son of a bitch,” Riley muttered through clenched teeth, turning his back to the foreman. “I’ll put that club up his—”
“Relax, damn it,” Jack said, continuing to walk. “That’s the way things are here. We can’t change Africa, Alex.”
“I know, I know,” he admitted grudgingly. “It’s just sometimes I have trouble telling the difference between the Nazis and our supposed allies.”
“Easy. The Allies are the ones who are paying us. The Nazis put our photo on a kill list in the Gestapo HQ.”
Riley sighed grumpily. “I hope that’s not the only difference.”
35
Though all the cab drivers seemed to know perfectly well where Port Indigene was, it wasn’t easy to find one who was willing to take them there, much less wait there for them to go back to the city. After agreeing to pay three times the normal price, they finally secured the honor of sitting in the back of a beat-up black Ford Model 48 with the word Taxi painted by hand on its windshield.
They followed a wide dirt road along the riverbank, leaving behind Léopoldville proper and entering what the taxi driver called the indigenous city, wrinkling his nose with irritation as he did so. An expanse of wobbly shacks built of wooden planks, mud, reeds, and palm leaves seemed to go on forever. Black men walked the long streets aimlessly, squeezing under the meager shadows or chatting with each other in small groups. Women carried bundles of clothes or basins of water on their heads with unbelievable balance, while the children played in the open black sewage water or ran alongside an old tire, keeping it rolling with the help of a stick.
Riley took in the world on the other side of his window with a feeling of sadness he’d rarely experienced before. Thousands of people evicted from their own land, turned into third-class citizens, and sent to live like beggars while a handful of white men got rich at their expense.
The taxi bumped along fifteen minutes’ worth of potholes as it traversed the squalid shantytown. A half mile later they reached a strip of beach surrounded by mangroves, where the driver slowed to a stop.
“Voilà,” he said, turning around in his seat. “C’est ici.”
“This is the indigenous port?” Jack asked, unable to hide his surprise.
“Oui, Monsieur,” he confirmed. “Le port indigène.”
It looked more like a dumpy fishing village featuring a handful of zinc-roof cabanas and some canoes stranded ashore. No docks, no cranes, no stores, and of course, no ships in sight. Just a crude footbridge that stretched a few yards into the riverbed. It was hard to believe anything bigger than a canoe could have docked there.
“Let’s go,” Riley said, putting some bills in the driver’s hands and opening the door.
As soon as they got out of the car, the relentless midday sun struck their skin like they’d just opened an oven. There was no sign of life on the beach other than a few nets and a half-hollowed-out tree trunk.
Jack tapped Riley on the arm and pointed to a big mango tree on the other end of the beach.
Riley had to squint to make out, under the thick shadow of the tree, a dozen seminude, black silhouettes squatting on the ground, with their arms resting on their knees. He started toward them, followed by his second, who looked around, still doubting they were in the right place. “Good morning,” Riley said when he got close. “Bonjour.”
The group of men stared at them silently without the slightest gesture of greeting or recognition. A flock of gray parrots flew quickly over their heads, breaking the dense silence with their sharp squawks, but the men stayed still and mute.
Riley and Jack exchanged a brief look filled with doubt.
“Doesn’t seem like we’ll get much out of these people,” Jack said.
“Yeah.” Riley nodded, and after glancing around added, “but I don’t see anyone else to ask.”
“So what do we do?”
Riley shrugged. “We’re already here . . .” He turned to the men, who were still watching them with blank eyes.
“My name is Alex Riley,” he said, touching his chest. Then he explained why they were there. He spoke slowly, using gestures to mime what he was trying to say. His French was very bad, but to those men squatting he might as well have been speaking Cantonese, because they didn’t seem to understand a word. “So I’ll generously compensate any one of you,” he said in conclusion, “who can give me information about Mustermann or the cargo.”
Then he took out his wallet and pulled out a handful of bills that he shook ostentatiously to bolster his offer.
The group remained silent.
“No one knows anything?” Jack asked. “We’ll pay well.”
While he spoke, Riley had been focused on one of the men squatting in the shadow. He had jet-black skin, a broad jaw, fat nose, and strong build. The man had been watching him with strange intensity, as if trying to send him his thoughts. Riley figured he was about his age, but saw a very different history in his eyes. There was a feeling in those eyes he’d only seen years ago when he fought against the fascists. It was the same look prisoners of war had, knowing they were going to be executed in the morning—the rage, the desperation, the dark resignation of knowing your turn at life is about to end.
“They look at us like we’re demons,” Jack muttered, seeing the same thing.
Riley squatted in the shade of the mango tree too and got a little closer to the man.
Only then did he realize the man was missing his left hand.
“Maybe we are,” he answered quietly.
He looked around, trying to withstand the gaze of those impassive faces.
“Look at their hands and feet,” Jack whispered after squatting next to him. “They’re all missing one . . . or two.”
The revelation hit Riley like a hammer. Not one of them had all four of their extremities. “Good God,” he mused, knowing the parallel mutilation wasn’t a coincidence. Someone had cut off their feet and hands in exactly the same place.
Suddenly, he felt out of place. Going to those men with his stupid questions and ridiculous wad of bills—which they may have no use for and, even if they did, would probably be accused of stealing them from a white man.
He opened his mouth, trying to ask who and why, but he couldn’t get a sound out. He understood that deep down those questions were unimportant—just a morbid desire to satisfy his curiosity. Nothing he found out would change the fact that their lives passed under the yoke of white men who’d destroyed them. Maybe the only thing that made sense for them was to sit in the shadow of a tree and watch the river pass before them, silently.
“Let’s go,” Jack said as if he’d read his mind. “No reason to be here.”
Riley nodded and stood up. “You’re right.” He gave the man in front of him a farewell nod and turned around.
Behind him a grave, heavy voice said, “Mondele.”
Riley turned back, finding the man with the intense look reaching the stump of his right hand toward one of the cabanas by the beach.
“Mondele,” he repeated.
Riley nodded again and murmured an inaudible “thanks.” There was no point in asking more. They’d already told him all they wanted to say. So he left the comforting shade of the tree and, with Jack behind him, headed for the hut in question.
36
The door was made of rough, shoddily nailed-together wood. Jack knocked three times but got no response.
There wasn’t a keyhole or lock in sight, just a hole with the end of a rope in it that served as a latch.
“Looks like no one’s home.”
“Let’s go in,” Riley said, pushing the door along the compact dirt floor, scraping the line of a semicircle.
The inside of the cabana was completely dark. The only light came in through the open door behind them and the palm-leaf roof.
The sailors looked around without seeing anything, frightened by the contrast with outside. A strong odor of sweat, moisture, and fermentation choked the air, while the furious buzzing of flies sounded like the static of a ship radio.
“Mondele,” Riley called, realizing he’d unconsciously used a quiet voice, nearly a whisper. “Mondele,” he repeated, a little louder.
Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2) Page 23