Vicious Circle

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘I was born in East Africa. I am a member of the Inhutu tribe.’

  ‘Ah, I see! That explains a great deal. Welcome back to your homeland, Mr Kikuu Tembo.’

  ‘Thank you, General Mukambera.’ Johnny reverted to English. ‘I understand you have been informed that we also need air transport.’

  ‘I am able to put at your disposal a Douglas Dakota C-47 Skytrain.’

  ‘That type is a veteran of World War II,’ Johnny protested.

  ‘I assure you that it has been meticulously maintained, Mr Kikuu Tembo.’ Johnny glanced at Carl for guidance.

  ‘What is its range, General?’ Carl asked.

  ‘Its range is fifteen hundred nautical miles, fully loaded, but this machine has long-range fuel tanks that give it an additional five-hundred miles. I personally have flown from Harare to Nairobi in this same plane on a number of occasions.’

  ‘What is the load capacity?’

  ‘The Skytrain will carry seventy fully battle-equipped men.’

  ‘So we will need to make four flights,’ Johnny mused. ‘What do you estimate the turnaround time, General?’

  ‘We can operate from Kariba on our northern border. Turnaround Kariba to Kazundu will be under seven hours.’

  ‘The transport doesn’t have to land at Kazundu. The men will jump. This means that on Day One we will be able to put a hundred and forty men on the ground. The second wave can come in early on Day Two.’

  ‘I have had a report on the present strength of Kazundian forces. They will not be able to put up much of a fight against those numbers. I think that after your first strike the survivors will almost certainly be very happy to change sides.’

  *

  Four days later Carl and Johnny parted company at Harare airport. Johnny was picked up by a Zimbabwean army transport truck and driven two hundred miles down into the Zambezi valley to a military training camp in the remote bush.

  Lieutenant Samuel Ngewenyama was waiting there to greet him and escort him to his quarters in one of the camp’s prefabricated huts. There Johnny changed into the camouflage fatigues and paratrooper boots that had been laid out on his bunk. Then Sam Ngewenyama paraded the men for his inspection.

  Johnny Congo was satisfied with the turn-out. He had expected something much worse. These were certainly not US Marines, but he judged they were spirited fighting men. With a little brushing up they would be good enough for the job ahead.

  He was especially pleased with Sam Ngewenyama. He was a veteran of the dirty little bush war against the Rhodesian forces of Ian Smith. He was a hard man with the cold eyes of a man-eater. Sam soon recognized the same qualities in Johnny Congo.

  Over the following days Sam and his men struggled to keep pace with Johnny’s powers of endurance. They were unable to match his skill with knife, pistol and rifle, nor his expertise in unarmed combat and bush-craft. It did not take long for Sam Ngewenyama to give Johnny his unconditional respect and loyalty.

  Johnny drove the men hard and at the end of three weeks he had transformed them, almost but not entirely, into marines.

  *

  In the meantime Carl flew north to Kinshasa, the capital of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness was one of the largest countries in Africa, ravaged by decades of internecine warfare in which an estimated 5.4 million people perished. It also had the world’s highest incidence of HIV.

  Congolese governments rose and fell. Corruption was routine. Warfare, mass rape and pillage were the way of life. Marauding gangs of thugs without affiliations to any recognized authority roamed the back-country.

  Back in the mists of time when the Great Rift Valley split the crust of the earth it exposed a vast treasury of natural resources. These included columbite-tantalite, locally known as coltan. This mineral is the ore of tantalum, a metal essential to the manufacture of capacitors, cellular phones, pacemakers, GPS, laptop computers, ignition systems, anti-lock braking systems, video and digital cameras and the whole array of modern super-gadgetry. Pound for pound, tantalum is worth half as much again as pure gold.

  Eighty per cent of the world’s known reserves of coltan are found in the eastern regions of the Congo, abutting Kazundu.

  The other minerals mined in the eastern Congo were diamonds of industrial and gem quality, gold, cassiterite and wolframite. These were the notorious conflict minerals and blood diamonds, the production of which Europe and the West sought to suppress and control. Paradoxically the industrial nations themselves had developed an insatiable hunger for them. In the process of attempting to embargo them the altruists had driven their market value up to astronomical heights.

  The tiny kingdom of Kazundu was situated on the border of the remote and dangerous eastern areas where the local population, including women and small children, was coerced by armed soldiers of rogue factions into labouring forty-eight-hour shifts in the mud-slides and collapsing tunnels of the primitive mines.

  For a man like Carl Peter Bannock this situation could be summed up with one sweet and melodious word … Profit.

  In Kinshasa Carl met clandestinely with three men who were blood-related to the newly declared state president. French is the official language of the Congo, a language in which Carl Bannock was fluent, so there was no impediment to their negotiations. At first the Congolese gentlemen were cautious and guarded, even though Carl had come highly recommended by senior members of the Zimbabwean government. However, they slowly warmed to Carl as he laid out for them a detailed and convincing plan in which the neighbouring state of Kazundu could be transformed from a forgotten appendage without utility or real value into a vital export channel through which the conflict mineral could be safely and lucratively exported.

  Carl emphasized the fact that it would not cost them anything in hard cash. All that was required was for the government of the Democratic Republic of Congo to look the other way while King Justin, that brutal and hated tyrant, was deposed in favour of his benevolent and enlightened nephew King John Kikuu Tembo, who was the legitimate heir to the throne. Naturally, once the change of monarchs had been effected, the Congo would place its tiny neighbour under its protection, coming to its defence in the conclaves of the United Nations and the African Union if the change in the monarchy were ever placed under scrutiny.

  In this manner it could be ensured that the supply of blood minerals across the borders would not be hampered by the prudish sensibilities of the American and Western European governments.

  Finally, it was agreed that the Congo government would pass a diplomatic message to King Justin to inform him that Carl Bannock and his associates wished to meet with him to discuss a scheme to build a luxury holiday resort and spa on the Kazundu lake shore. They would inform him these visitors had tens of millions of dollars to invest in the project.

  The meetings ended with smiles, handshakes and the utmost bonhomie.

  *

  Carl and Johnny were reunited in the imperial suite of Meikles Hotel in Harare. They reviewed and discussed their progress, and put the final touches on the master plan.

  The following day Johnny introduced Carl to Lieutenant Sam Ngewenyama. Carl was delighted with him. Carl was not much given to acts of derring-do, but he recognized and valued the killer instinct in others. He did not need Johnny’s endorsement to see that Sam was a hard man. He gave Johnny a nod of approval and listened as Johnny gave Sam his orders. He was to go into Kazundu in the guise of an itinerant work seeker, and carry out a preliminary reconnaissance.

  The only feasible way into Kazundu was by lake steamer. Sam flew on Air Zambia from Harare into the port of Kigoma on the eastern shore of Lake Tanganyika. In the airport toilet he changed into distressed and tattered clothing and assumed his role of work seeker. From there he boarded the MV Liemba, which had originally been commissioned as a German gunboat in World War I.

  There were two hundred other passengers on board. All of them camped on the open deck. There were no toilets. This in no way discommoded any
of them; both sexes merely backed up to the ships rail when necessity called.

  It took four days and eight ports of call before the MV Liemba sailed into the beautiful little port of Kazundu. Sam was one of only six passengers to disembark. They were met on the dockside by two armed militiamen who ordered the new arrivals to open their luggage. Then they picked over the contents of the various bundles and cardboard cartons to select anything that took their fancy. One of the passengers was a teenage mother with an infant slung on her back. Laughing and joking, one of the militiamen handed his rifle to Sam to hold for him and took the girl into the public toilet at the end of the wharf. As short while later she returned giggling, with her infant still on her back, seemingly more cheerful and sanguine for the brief interlude.

  Sam handed back the rifle to the militiaman. However, he had taken the opportunity to check the weapon in his absence. It was a VZ-58 copy of the Russian AK-47 of 1950s vintage. There was no blueing remaining on the metal of the barrel and no ammunition in the magazine. Sam grinned as he considered the kind of resistance they might expect when they returned to Kazundu with more serious intentions.

  Sam left the harbour and walked into the town, stopping to talk to every person he met about the chances of finding a job. All of them were dressed in rags. They had gaunt faces and either fearful or apathetic expressions. Many of them seemed to be in the advanced stages of starvation. Most of them hurried away without replying to his questions.

  Sam walked across Kazundu’s deserted landing strip on his way to King Justin’s castle. He judged that the Dakota Skytrain would have no difficulty landing once some of the more bulky rubbish, which had rendered the strip unserviceable, was dragged off the runway. There were a handful of militiamen and their women camped in the ruins of the terminal building. In contrast to the other Kazundians he had met they were well nourished.

  He climbed the pathway to the castle on the summit and squatted with the other work seekers and beggars in the courtyard while he studied the layout of the building. There was only one entrance, facing towards the lake. The gate sagged on its hinges. It was clear that it had not been closed for many years.

  Despite the magnificent vistas of the lake and the forested hills of the interior there was an air of despondency hanging over it all like a poisonous miasma.

  Finally, one of the inner doors of the castle was flung open and four armed men emerged and ordered them to disperse. They reinforced the order with the butts of their rifles. One of them struck Sam in the face. When Sam made an instinctive move to retaliate he stepped back and pointed the barrel at Sam’s face, at the same time pumping a round into the breech of the weapon.

  ‘Yes!’ he encouraged Sam, grinning. ‘Come!’

  Sam checked his anger and returned the man’s gaze for a few seconds, and then he touched his bleeding lip and said softly, ‘I will come back, and I will remember your face.’ He turned away and the guard jeered at him as he went out through the open gate.

  Three days later Sam reboarded the MV Liemba and returned to Kigoma on the eastern shore of the lake. As the Liemba made fast to the passenger pier, Sam noticed there was a large motor launch lying at moorings in the bay. One of the assignments that Johnny Congo had given him was to look out for this vessel and to gather as much information about it as he could. It had not been in the bay when he passed through on his way to Kazundu, but now it had returned.

  Dressed once more in his new and stylish clothing, Sam went down to the harbour master’s office at the head of the pier and spoke to the clerk he found sitting on the veranda. The clerk told him that the launch belonged to the government administration of the district of Kigoma. It was used mainly by the provincial governor on his official business, however on occasion it was chartered out to other parties. The clerk assured Sam that it was a very seaworthy vessel and capable of crossing to the far shore of the lake in even the heaviest kinds of wind and water conditions.

  Johnny Congo had given him one other task to perform. Kigoma was an important centre of food distribution for the entire western side of the lake. Sam caught the full attention of the local area manager by giving him a fifty-dollar bill to cover his ‘personal expenses’, then they discussed the supply of large quantities of maize meal, the staple diet of Africa. The manager assured him that any amounts of this foodstuff could be placed at his disposal at short notice.

  Sam caught the late-afternoon flight back to Harare and reported to Johnny Congo and Carl. The conversation was in Swahili, which Carl was unable to follow. Johnny listened intently and asked a few questions, and then he leaned back in his armchair and crossed his arms.

  ‘Well, Carl baby,’ he said. ‘Everything is arranged. We have received a cordial invitation from my Uncle Justin to visit him and bring our ten million dollars with us and we have chartered the governor’s launch to get us there. So we are off to our new home.’ Carl stroked his chin and looked thoughtful.

  ‘I think I’ll let you go on ahead,’ he said tentatively. ‘I’ll follow you as soon as you call for me.’ Knowing Johnny as he did, Carl had no doubt at all that the air would be blue with flying bullets when Johnny Congo arrived in Kazundu.

  ‘I’m calling for you now, baby. I don’t want you to miss any of the fun,’ said Johnny expansively and Carl’s shoulders slumped with resignation.

  *

  On the passenger jetty of Kigoma port Carl made his last attempt to sidle out of the path of looming danger. He shaded his eyes and gazed out across the lake. The banks of early morning mist had not yet been dispersed by the rising sun.

  ‘It looks very rough out there,’ he said. ‘I think there is a storm brewing. I’m not a good sailor. I think it would be best if—’

  ‘Yeah, man. I agree with you,’ Johnny said. ‘It is fifty clicks to the far side. It would be best if we move our hairy asses and get cracking right now.’ He picked up Carl’s kit bag and hurled it over the rail of the motor launch onto the open deck. Then he grabbed Carl’s arm and marched him across the gangplank.

  When they had the castle and the port of Kazundu in sight, Johnny made a call on his satellite phone. While he waited for the pilot of the incoming Dakota Skytrain to respond he searched the southern sky, although he knew it was still too soon for him to pick out the aircraft amongst the towering cumulus nimbus clouds.

  ‘This is crunch time, white boy,’ he warned Carl. ‘If there has been a fuck-up, if somebody has blown the whistle on us, those bastards there…’ he pointed with his chin at the small reception committee on the wharf of Kazundu harbour ‘… are going to shoot the shit out of us before we can get one foot on the dock.’

  Carl said nothing but his handsome face turned a pale shade of green.

  At that moment the pilot of the incoming Zimbabwean Dakota answered Johnny’s satellite call.

  ‘This is Chicken Soup,’ he said.

  ‘This is Mother Hen. What is your status?’ Johnny asked him.

  ‘Forty-two minutes to drop.’

  ‘Roger that. Keep coming,’ Johnny told him. ‘Over and out.’

  Suddenly the men waiting on the Kazundu wharf began to wave and their shouted greetings reached them across the closing gap of lake water. Carl leaned over the rail and in relief threw up into the lake, copiously and noisily.

  His Majesty had sent his ancient Land Rover down from the castle to fetch them. It was the only functioning motor vehicle in the kingdom. When Johnny, Sam and Carl were on board, four of the militiamen push-started the Landy and as soon as the engine fired they clung onto the sides.

  Nearing the top of the hill the Landy began to falter. Clouds of blue smoke blew out of her exhaust. The militiamen jumped off and shoved her the last fifty yards through the gates of the castle and into the courtyard.

  The riff-raff had been cleared out, and the courtyard was deserted. However, as soon as the engine of the vehicle, with a final backfire, subsided into silence the court chamberlain emerged from the main gates with a small retinue to welcom
e them. He was a plump personage with a pair of pendulous dugs dressed in only a kilt of white colobus monkey tails.

  He beckoned them from the gateway. The three of them dismounted from the Land Rover and climbed the stairs. Johnny and Sam were carrying their leather briefcases. Carl hung back behind them. They went in through the gate with the chamberlain dancing ahead of them, leading them through a series of state rooms that were devoid of any furnishing or decorations. They had to pick their way around groups of women squatting at the cooking fires which had been laid on the beautifully patterned ceramic floor tiles. The walls and high ceilings were blackened by soot from the wood fires. Rubbish and animal droppings littered the floor. Naked black toddlers with dried mucus encrusting their noses squalled and wailed, tumbling over each other like puppies on the filthy tiles. They fell silent and with enormous dark eyes watched the three strangers pass. The sleeping dogs woke and rushed forward barking furiously, until Johnny Congo kicked the leader of the pack in the guts with such force that it skidded on its back across the tiles, howling in shock and agony. The rest of them scattered in panic.

  The air reeked of unwashed humanity, wood smoke and raw sewage.

  As they approached the doorway at the end of the hall the chamberlain began to chant in a high falsetto and cavort in a grotesque rheumatic dance.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Carl demanded anxiously.

  ‘He is the praise singer to the king,’ Johnny translated. ‘He is telling us how King Justin, the mighty elephant, devours the trees of the forest and shits them on the heads of his enemies.’

  They entered the throne room. On a raised dais against the far wall King Justin sat on his throne of elephant tusks. As his official portrait had depicted him, he was a large man clad in leopard-skin kilt and turban. His beard was thick, grey and curling. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled richly of millet beer. He held a large clay pot of this home brew balanced on his lap.

  At the king’s feet sat two young girls, bare-breasted and nubile. On each side of the throne were arrayed his bodyguards. There were six of them. Their uniforms ranged from faded denim jeans to goatskin kilts. They were all barefooted. One of them was a boy no older than thirteen years of age. The Russian automatic rifle that he was leaning on reached as high as his shoulder.