Death in the Congo: Book 5 in the Dan Stone series

by David Nees

  They drove on. The ground gently rose and fell, and the road wound gracefully through the countryside. The day grew hotter; the Toyota’s air conditioning was working hard to keep the cabin cool with the four bodies inside. They slowed occasionally for a goat that scampered across the road.

  Every so often they went past a small roadside collection of houses lining the road. They were more like huts, made of weathered logs nailed to posts with gaps between. Some had mud plastered in between the logs to create a more weather tight wall. All of them had thatched roofs. Dan slowed down to avoid hitting any of the people or vehicles that crowded the edge of the roadway. In front of some huts were tall bundles of sticks wrapped in white plastic and tied with string.

  “What’s that?” Marcus asked from the front seat.

  “Firewood. The villagers take it to town and sell them. People in town have little electricity or gas for cooking, so they have to use wood or charcoal.”

  “I smelled a lot of smoke in Kinshasa,” Dan said.

  “Yes. The street vendors and the poor cook with wood fires. It’s much harder in a large city like Kinshasa to find the fuel.”

  Kenge had a few side streets, all dirt, branching off the main road. They found a local hotel fronting the N1 and stopped. It was a larger, one-story building with concrete walls and a metal roof. There was a small courtyard where they could park the Toyota. Dan rented two rooms, each with two beds.

  “Don’t put your bags in the rooms yet. We have dinner first. You don’t want to leave valuables in the rooms,” Santu said.

  “We don’t have valuables,” Roland said.

  “Everything you have is valuable,” Santu replied.

  They found a small restaurant as the sun dropped in the western sky. It was basically a three-walled shack with the front open. There were tables inside and out. The kitchen was set up at the back wall. A laminated sheet of paper with frayed edges was on the table listing the dishes. It was in French.

  “There’s that Moambé again. I’ll have that,” Marcus said.

  “Excellent choice. It’s our national dish,” Santu said.

  The beer was Primus, the staple beer in the DRC, a pale lager. They ordered two rounds to start. Everyone was hot, thirsty, and sweaty.

  After dinner and a third beer, the men walked out into the dark. Being close to the equator, the sun went down without any twilight. It just dropped, and it was nighttime. They walked back to the hotel watching the people pass by, hurrying to their homes or to a restaurant or beer stall.

  “I didn’t see any shower in the rooms,” Roland said. “Is there a communal shower?”

  Santu shook his head. “No running water. If we come to a stream tomorrow, we can stop and rinse off.”

  “Maybe better luck in Kikwit,” Dan said.

  “Yes,” said Santu. “Kikwit is a sizeable town.”

  When they got back to the hotel room, Santu took off the sheet and laid his ground cloth on the mattress.

  “Why are you doing that?” Roland asked. He was paired with Santu for the night.

  Santu pointed under the mattress. Roland lifted the corner of his and a mass of bedbugs and chiggers scrambled for cover.

  “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, putting the corner back down. “I’m sleeping in the tent.”

  He stomped outside to retrieve his tent and pitch it in the center of the room after pushing his bed to the wall. Santu watched with an amused smile on his face before lying down to sleep.

  Chapter 6

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  T he next morning before departing, Dan and Marcus took the wooden crate out of the Toyota. It was securely hinged and padlocked with two locks. Inside was a supply of drugs for malaria, diarrhea, intestinal parasites, along with antibiotics, and antiseptics. The supplies also included bandages and dressings.

  The crate was made with a false bottom. Under the false floor, there were three Kalashnikovs—Sam-7 versions made in Bulgaria—with AAC suppressors, along with a thousand rounds of ammunition. In addition, there was a Finnish Sako TRG 42 chambered in .338 Lapua Magnum. Dan had spec’d the rifle with a Schmidt and Bender 3-27 x 56 scope. He also had fitted it with a Surefire SOCOM Muzzle Brake and suppressor. This was a new rifle for Dan, but he had run a thousand rounds through it to prepare for this mission. It was one of the highest rated long-range weapons from Europe; expensive but extremely well made and accurate. There was also a lone Walther P22 with a suppressor. The pistols the three men carried were 9mm CZ’s. None of the weapons could be traced back to a US origin or connected to any US agency.

  “We should take the ammunition out and store it somewhere else. The crate’s gonna feel too heavy for what you can see inside of it. It’ll be suspicious,” Dan said.

  “Spare tire well,” Marcus said. “I’ll get on it.”

  Dan took out dozens of packs of cigarettes and plastic lighters that he had purchased in Kinshasa and stuffed them into the visible part of the crate after Marcus unloaded the ammunition.

  While they were doing this, Santu came out of the hotel. Before he could get over to the Land Cruiser, Roland caught up with him and diverted him away from the truck.

  “Let’s go for a walk, Little Buddy. What can we find for breakfast?”

  They walked over to the restaurant where Santu and Roland ordered a dish of rice and cornmeal fried up with plantains.

  “Not bad,” Roland remarked after taking a bite. I’d like some fried eggs to go with it, but this will do.”

  “Eggs are mostly used with other ingredients.”

  When they finished, Santu ordered two more meals to be wrapped in banana leaves. They took those back to Dan and Marcus, who were just finishing up their packing. The two men wolfed down the morning meal with some water, and then the four headed out on the road.

  They drove in silence throughout the day. The road remained paved and in surprisingly good condition. They rolled along comfortably at eighty to 100 kilometers per hour, slowing for roadside huts, or groups of people walking alongside the road. They were in open country—farmland. Some crops the men could recognize, peanuts, sugar cane, and even corn.

  “Look at that,” Marcus said, “they’re growing corn. Just like in the Midwest.”

  “Except for the palm trees,” Dan said.

  Some crops they couldn’t identify. Santu was only partly helpful, having lived much of his life in the city. He was able to point out the peanut and casava fields. Where the ground dipped down to a river, the men could see rice fields terraced near the water.

  Soon the road deteriorated, and they slowed to dodge large potholes in the pavement. Large trucks rumbling along, heading for Kikwit and points east, or returning to Kinshasa were also a hazard to avoid. They were piled high with loads tied in precarious fashion, heaped above the sides of the vehicles. Some of them listed to one side, giving them a precarious look.

  “It’s a wonder they don’t tip over,” Dan said.

  “And you will wonder more when you see what they have to drive through. The road gets worse farther on,” Santu replied.

  There were small pickups, also piled high with loads of goods. Their owners rode atop the piles, holding on tightly to not fall off.

  “Not much in the way of safety or weight enforcement,” Marcus said.

  “They have to pack as much as they can for each trip. That is the only way the drivers can make money.”

  “Tough on the pickups,” Dan said.

  When traffic cleared, and the road presented smooth stretches of pavement, Dan was able to get back up to speed.

  “We could be in Goma day after tomorrow,” Roland said

  “Not possible,” Santu replied. Roland turned to look at him. “After Kikwit the road gets worse. Later it gets much worse.”

  “But this is the main overland route from Kinshasa to Goma? They haven’t paved it all the way?”

  Santu shook his head. “There is no money. And the terrain makes it hard to maintain a road. I’
m not sure the paving would last, even if they could put it down.”

  They were now traveling through a palm forest, now looking more tropical than Midwestern. The road wound up, down, and around gentle hills. Soon they entered Kikwit.

  Dan told Santu to lead them to a restaurant.

  “They are all local and not fancy. Tourists never visit.”

  “But you can find us one? Dan asked.

  “I can ask a local,” Santu replied.

  Just then a police officer, identified by his helmet, blue shirt, and yellow safety vest, flagged them down. Dan pulled over to the side of the road. Two other men, dressed similarly, approached. The man who stopped them gave him a salute, as did the others when they approached.

  “Where are you going?” The man asked in French.

  “Goma,” Dan replied.

  “You have your papers? Your visa?”

  Dan reached into his pocket and handed the man his travel papers. They consisted of his passport, properly stamped, and a letter from his company directing him to travel to Goma to secure mining contracts. The others reached out with their documents and handed them to the man, who gave them a look with a grave, officious expression on his face.

  “Probably doesn’t know what he’s looking at,” Marcus said quietly in English.

  “But we have to satisfy him,” Dan replied.

  The man looked into the vehicle at Santu.

  “Et vous?” The man asked Santu.

  “I am a citizen of this great country. I speak four languages and have been hired by this man’s company.” Santu pointed to Dan and gave the officer a proud smile while he handed over his identity card.

  “What do you do for these men?” The officer now switched to Lingala, which neither Dan nor the others could understand.

  “They need someone who knows our country and understands its greatness to show them how to act and how to get along. They are going to Goma to do big business, important business. I am vital to their success. I speak not only French, Lingala, but English and Swahili.”

  Dan and the others could hear the rapid-fire dialogue even though they understood none of it.

  The officer smiled and handed the papers back.

  “They will need to pay the travel fee to go through our city. It is 10,000 CDF.”

  Santu turned to Dan and said in English. “He is asking for 10,000 CDF, Congolese Francs. Do you have any on you?”

  Dan shook his head.

  “Give me a five-dollar bill, it is about the same. It’s called a fee, but really it’s a bribe.”

  Dan handed Santu the bill. Santu examined it and pretended to do some mental calculations. Then he handed it to the officer.

  “This is an American bill. It is worth over 10,000 CDF. I told him to get local money, but he didn’t listen. Sometimes these Americans are hard-headed…but I try.” All this was said in Lingala.

  The officer smiled back at Santu. “You have much work to do, I think.” He stepped back and gave Santu a quick salute.

  “You can go now,” Santu said to Dan.

  As they drove off, Roland asked, “What did you two talk about in your other language?”

  “It was Lingala. We talked about how tender you Americans were and how I had to look out for you.”

  Santu smiled at Roland. Dan guessed he was enjoying his first test of how necessary he was.

  “You are the fixer,” Dan said. “Say whatever is necessary to smooth the way.”

  “Exactly!” Santu exclaimed. “I am Congolese. I can speak to my fellow citizen’s sensitivities. You see, that man has a certain amount of power. One must not ignore or disdain it. One has to acknowledge it but at the same time let the man know that you also have power, you also are important. Then one can have respect go both ways. Of course, paying him the bribe also helps.

  “We could stop for something to eat, but since the day is not old, we must push on,” Santu said.

  “There aren’t any good hotels here?” Marcus asked.

  “No. If we can get to Tshikapa, we can do better. It is a larger city.”

  “How far is it?”

  Santu thought for a moment. “Maybe 300 kilometers, maybe a bit more. Not less for sure.”

  “Four hours? Five at most?” Marcus said.

  “No, no. The road becomes dirt after Kikwit. We’ll have to go slow. Six or seven hours. If we hurry our meal, we can make it before dark.”

  “Why rush?” Roland asked.

  “The going doesn’t get easier. It is best to cover the distance now while we can,” Santu said.

  “Have you ever driven this road before?” Dan asked.

  Santu paused. “Not beyond Kikwit.” Then he hurriedly added, “But I know about the rest of it. I have talked with many who’ve driven the route.”

  “Oh, great. Our guide is working off second-hand information,” Roland said.

  Santu drew himself up in his seat and turned to Roland. “You are better at this? You know more? How long have you been in the Congo? How well did you talk with the police back there?”

  Roland looked at Santu and slowly broke into a smile.

  “Lay off him,” Dan said. “He’s helping. He knows way more than we do. Stop giving him a hard time.”

  “I like Santu. That’s why I give him a hard time. He’s got to learn to take it if he wants to be part of the gang.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be part of your gang,” Santu said.

  “Didn’t sound like that in Kinshasa. And, believe me, you will.”

  After a quick lunch of Moambé, staying with the familiar, the four got back on the road.

  Chapter 7

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  G eneral Jian Zhang didn’t enjoy being in Eastern Congo. He missed his structured cultural life back in China. He didn’t enjoy masquerading as a mining executive, although he did it well. The company was called Beautiful Earth Resources. There was an office in Goma where he went three days a week to oversee business. It was where the staff worked full time. Zhang had other work to do behind the scenes.

  He had to admit the countryside was beautiful with the dense upland jungles covering the hills, interspersed with cleared farmland, and the mountains to the east rising up. The fourth highest peak in Africa was in that mountain range, Mount Stanley at 16,760 feet. It had glaciers and snow on its upper slopes even located so near the equator and its lower slopes were covered in thick rain forest.

  Still, the dirt, disease, and poverty bothered him. The people seemed uncultured and primitive. Worthy of exploiting, even in this post-colonial era. Only now the tactics had to be more sophisticated. Cornering the supply of coltan would be a great step forward in China’s hegemony over the west. This area was also rich in gold deposits which would make his work even more fruitful.

  The primitive nature of the coltan and gold mining amazed Zhang. Extensive areas were cleared of vegetation and miners just staked out plots and started digging holes in the ground. Soon the area looked like it had been ravaged by giant ground hogs or gophers. The ore was washed to separate the coltan from the dirt, just like panning for gold. The runoff from these efforts clouded the streams and fouled the water supply.

  The DRC government was fighting an uphill battle to get the operations under control, especially with the warlords exerting control over the miners. They provided “protection” in exchange for a share of the ore dug up. This share grew over time with threats of violence or death for anyone who tried to oppose them. The government effort was not helped by the corrupt officials that operated here in the east, far from Kinshasa. A grim smile played about Zhang’s face. Manipulating the warlords who exercised much control over the artisanal mining operations was part of his many challenges.

  Zhang’s approach to his mission was multi-pronged. He worked directly to buy mining rights from the miners, cash them out, and slowly replace the local workers with Chinese laborers. These laborers were obedient, docile, and hardworking. They were drawn from
the lowest ranks of society back in China. Here, in the Eastern Congo, they had a chance to accumulate some resources, although Zhang was not very generous with how much he paid them. They didn’t complain. Malcontents were dealt with harshly by Zhang’s men. He had army soldiers and officers, some disguised as security forces, some as corporate officials, along with experienced mining operators on his team. The goal was to control the mining rights, improve the artisanal operations, and transition to a modern, large-scale effort as Zhang secured China’s long-term control.

  He was also working on the Assistant Deputy Minister of the Interior, Dieu Merci Bakasa, who oversaw mining operations in the area. He managed the claims of the local miners to enforce standards and procedures. But there was little of that going on from what Zhang had observed. The man also oversaw a government mining operation that was little more than a public relations effort. And not a very good one at that. It was still primitive with only the barest standards of safety and environmental mitigation applied even though being run to provide positive publicity to the world.

  Zhang was maneuvering to get approval to take over this operation and help the DRC show the world how modern and progressive they had become. He was working to convince the local official he could make his star shine brightly in Kinshasa while lining his pockets. All the man had to do was to facilitate Zhang’s accumulation of claims.

  One of Zhang’s problems was the minister worried that if he became too successful, others in Kinshasa would notice and become envious. They might move to oust him so he couldn’t become a threat to them. Corruption and back-stabbing were found throughout the government ranks, with everyone staking out their territory in the bureaucracy and then zealously defending it, whether or not that worked to the benefit of the county.