Congo Dawn Page 12

  The other Vietnam vet strode over as Robin climbed stiffly from the helicopter. The Mi-17 had settled to the ground at the edge of a clearing much larger than the molybdenite mine. But in antithesis to that hideous eyesore, here the predominant color palette was green. Behind the helicopter, massive hardwoods rose to the height of twenty-story buildings. Straight ahead, a wide, straight ribbon of packed earth and stubble split the clearing like an arrow to disappear at the far end into a fresh tangle of brush and trees.

  The airstrip.

  On either side of the airstrip had clearly once existed cultivated fields and fruit orchards along with a neat grid of cinder-block and brick buildings. But all was now swallowed up by the tangle of nettles,­ vines, ferns, and palms that overtook any break in the rainforest cano­py left unattended to a tropical sun. Broken-down walls and collapsed roofs showed black streaks of fire damage.

  What exactly had Robin overheard Michael Stewart telling Pieter Krueger? Something about Taraja being razed to the ground a decade back. The mission school and clinic being closed. Its inhabitants killed or scattered.

  But Michael had also mentioned a recent reopening of the Taraja clinic. Walking forward onto the airstrip, Robin spotted what she’d known had to be here. A path leading through undergrowth from the airstrip toward a collection of burned-out buildings off to her right. The glint of late-afternoon sun on unrusted metal roofing indicated at least some structural repairs. A scattering of thatched roofs was also visible above the tangle of foliage.

  The airstrip itself showed no sign of the red-and-white Cessna, so either it had not yet arrived or had come and gone. Most probably the latter, considering the time lapse. Appearing at Robin’s side, Frank Kowalski indicated the new roofing.

  “I’m guessing you’ll find your doctor pal up there. And from those shacks, there’s got to be villagers around. They couldn’t have missed our arrival. But I haven’t spotted a living soul.”

  One could hardly blame any locals who’d heard the assault helicopter’s approach for preferring to remain hidden from view. But time was running out for their injured passengers. “I’ll go look for Dr. Stewart. If the other choppers get here before I’m back, please let Trevor Mulroney know where I’ve gone.”

  “Are you kidding?” The Vietnam vet had already started across the airstrip. “Ernie would have my head, and rightly so, if I let you go alone. First rule of hostile territory. Always travel with backup.”

  Robin didn’t waste time arguing, breaking into a trot up the path with Frank close on her heels. They hadn’t gone far when the underbrush opened into a cleared area. Mud-and-wattle huts dotted similar cultivations to those swallowed up by vegetation along the airstrip. Banana plants. Peanut beds. Vegetable gardens. Even a few surviving citrus, mango, and other fruit trees. Through the branches of the orchard, Robin caught a glimpse of brown water, signaling the lazy flow of a river, first prerequisite for any rainforest community.

  Also scattered here and there were abandoned hoes. A basket of picked fruit spilled out onto a path. Pots bubbled unattended on outdoor cook fires. Several times Robin caught movement inside dark doorways. A glint of watching eyes. Still not a living soul ventured into the open.

  The path threaded between several crumbled and blackened brick buildings. Then suddenly a sweep of trimmed lawn opened up in front of Robin. Beyond was the restored metal roofing she’d spotted from the runway.

  Two buildings had been so repaired. The larger was a one-story brick building with a veranda running along the front. Here was the first human life Robin had spied, the veranda a mass of dark bodies, mostly children and women in bright pagnes. A young Congolese woman with a white lab coat and a clipboard was policing traffic through a screen door.

  The reestablished clinic, she’d be willing to bet.

  A side path off to Robin’s left led to the second restored roof. It covered a square cinder-block structure, wide screen windows and unpainted metal door opening directly onto the lawn instead of a veranda. Unbelievably for this remote location, Robin could see the white parabolic disc of a satellite dish thrusting up its tall spike of an antenna at the high point of the roof. And were those tilted crystalline frames covering much of both roofs solar panels? Maybe this place wasn’t quite as isolated as it appeared.

  In the open area between cinder-block house and clinic, log pillars elevated a sizable thatched roof. Though empty at the moment, rough wooden benches indicated its use as community center, church, or both. Robin paused uncertainly under the camouflage of a patch of guava trees. The clinic was the most likely place to find Michael Stewart. But the sudden appearance there of two foreigners, one heavily armed, would inevitably provoke panic, especially considering Taraja’s recent history.

  But now another white lab coat was hurrying down the path in their direction. This one an African male perhaps a few years older than Robin’s own twenty-seven. He was tall, above six feet, slimly muscled, with elongated, coffee-dark features and high-bridged nose. He stopped with a wary frown but no sign of fear when he spotted the newcomers ahead of him on the path.

  “May I help you?” he demanded in sharp French. “We do not permit weapons here.”

  Robin tugged her cap from her head, letting her red-gold mane spill down. Here was one time when making her gender clear was to their advantage. “Bonjour. We’re with the helicopter that just landed. I’m looking for Dr. Michael Stewart. I need to find him urgently.”

  The man shook his head. “He is in surgery. He cannot be interrupted.”

  “Then is there someone else in authority here I can speak to? Another doctor?” Robin suddenly remembered the elderly mine paramedic’s mention of Michael’s father. “Another family member perhaps? It’s very urgent.”

  The man’s gaze flickered from Robin to the large mercenary behind her, then indicated the smaller cinder-block building. “You will please accompany me.”

  Leading the way to the metal door, their guide did not bother with a knock before pushing it open. From inside, Robin heard a female voice call out in French, “Ephraim, there you are. Did you hear—?”

  Their guide said something in Swahili too low and quick for Robin to follow but that had the immediate effect of cutting off the woman’s speech. Then the door opened farther. The woman who stepped into view wore a typical Congolese pagne and turban, the material wrapping her from shoulder to ankle in a profusion of pink, orange, and yellow flowers. The toddler in her arms and an older child peering out from behind her skirts were both unmistakably African.

  But the woman herself was Caucasian, about Robin’s age. Brunette curls escaped the turban. Delicate features would have been strikingly beautiful but for a jagged, poorly healed slash above the right eyebrow that pulled that eye to a permanently distorted upward slant. Though any impression of disfigurement was banished by the warmth of the woman’s smile, the amber friendliness of her gaze.

  “So you are from the aircraft I heard landing.” Her French held the same Congolese lilt as their white-coated guide’s. “I am sorry there was no welcome. We weren’t expecting another flight today. If we received radio notice and overlooked it, I apologize.”

  Robin shook her head. “No notice was sent. And I’m sorry to intrude. I was hoping to find Dr. Michael Stewart. Maybe you could help me instead.”

  But the woman’s friendly gaze had now swept over Robin’s own tousled red-gold mane and bedraggled safari clothing and widened apprehensively as it flickered toward the large, armed mercenary at her back before returning to rest on Robin’s hot, perspiring features. She let out a sharp exclamation, her full mouth losing its generous curve, friendliness draining from her expression. And now the tall African man in the lab coat had stepped up close behind the woman, his body posture at once protective and menacing.

  Robin hurried into a pacific explanation. “Look, I’m really sorry for the intrusion. My name is Robin Duncan. We just flew in from that new mine not far from here, and I’ll be glad to explain more in d
epth just why we’re here. But at the moment we’ve got a bit of an urgent situation.”

  And this is why I didn’t want an armed escort. It’s hard to get local cooperation when you start out by scaring them to death!

  Or so Robin assumed was the reason for the sudden hostility facing her. Until the woman interrupted, this time flatly, coldly, and in English.

  American English.

  “I know who you are! You look just like your pictures. And Michael mentioned you’d arrived in the Congo. But if you’ve come here to offer some sort of apology, don’t bother. You’re five years too late!”

  Now stripped of its cargo, the second Mi-17 lumbered skyward with the remaining Ares Solutions operatives and those Wamba militia not being retained for mine security. A snap of Makuga’s fingers sent two of his new reinforcements to a large carton marked with the scarlet cross indicating first aid supplies, which they ferried over to the brush corral. Fine print on the cardboard identified the box as donated goods for the United Nations peacekeeping operation. As the remaining new supplies were draped with tarps in lieu of the destroyed storage shed, Trevor Mulroney revolved slowly on a boot heel to make a 360-degree survey.

  “Now back to that attack. Clyde, Makuga, you both say it was this Jini, okay. But the man had to have inside help placing that bomb. Unless the guy really is a ghost. And I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “I don’t see how,” the mine administrator argued. “Even if this Jini has accomplices inside, he couldn’t get close enough to pass off the bomb. You see the perimeter. I can tell you not a crow gets near the fence. The place is lit with security lamps at night. Even Makuga’s men don’t ever leave the security enclosure for fear of the ‘ghost’ picking them off.”

  “Actually, that’s not true.” Trevor Mulroney’s Oakley sunglasses were now directed toward a dozen hardwood stumps at the far edge of the clearing beyond the perimeter fence. “You’re forgetting just what powered our blown-up equipment.”

  “Well, yes, the logging parties,” Rhodes conceded. “But they’re well guarded. And the guards keep an eye on each other as well as the workers. Unless you think they’re all in it, which is even less likely than ghosts. Makuga’s clansmen aren’t from this area and have nothing to gain by aiding a local insurgency.”

  “If you eliminate the impossible, the improbable is what remains.” Mulroney tilted sunglasses upward to study a tangle of boughs and leaves and vines high above the stumps that interwove the separate treetops into a single labyrinth of foliage. He’d fought before in this kind of terrain. And while that fight had taught him to hate every humid, muddy, twisted, secretive square inch that made up a rain­forest habitat, he’d learned how to survive it.

  And its natives.

  “I know exactly how they did it because I know how I would do it. You’ve got to learn to think like a bushman. To look up and not just around. I’ll bet our Jini was keeping watch somewhere up there while your logging party did its thing. Somehow he left a signal for his accomplice. And a package.”

  Mulroney raised a hand as a glowering Samuel Makuga spun around to shout orders. “No, there’s no point in mounting a pursuit now. He—they—will be long gone. But I want this facility buttoned down tight. No one in or out, security or workers, until our ghost has been captured. Which shouldn’t be an issue since further logging is now off the agenda. Meanwhile, maybe there was only one bomb, but let’s not assume it. I want this place searched top to bottom. And I want every person in that logging party interrogated, workers and security. Makuga, you’ve done this often enough before. Get on it.”

  As the Congolese field commander strode away with a surly scowl, Mulroney swiveled back to his remaining companion. “Now about getting the mining operation back on track. How much processed ore did you manage to sack before this happened?”

  “Maybe ten tons since we lost the convoy last week.” As a curse left Mulroney’s lips, Rhodes spread apologetic hands. “Sorry, boss, but it’s been slow as molasses doing all this without decent equipment. We’ve only managed this much by keeping that charcoal furnace running from sunup to sundown. And of course there’s no way to continue now. Even if we airlift in a small generator, we’ll be lucky to power the comm equipment and security lighting, not the kind of energy output needed to run the pumps and ore grinder. Not to mention, the cost of flying in fuel would be more than the profit margin on the molybdenum.”

  Even a small generator necessitated a regular flow of fuel. The incoming C-130 carried its own limited supply for the base camp setup. But splitting it two ways would run both dry quickly. Another major expenditure Mulroney didn’t need right now.

  “The truth is, boss, those hills aren’t going anywhere. Certainly this Jini isn’t going to cart them off. Wouldn’t it be easier—and cheaper—to just pull out for now and come back once Wamba, Kinshasa, whoever, has restored order and reopened the roads?”

  Clyde Rhodes kicked at the mangled, fire-scorched lump of metal that had been a steam engine as though a hard enough blow might somehow restore it to functionality. The geologist had worked for Mulroney since the early days of Earth Resources. He was the one who’d unearthed the obsolete equipment at a state copper mine his family had administrated in South Africa for three generations before Nelson Mandela’s rise to power resulted in a reshuffle in profitable government appointments. Even with Africa’s minimal environmental regulations, the pollution of its charcoal-burning furnace was such that steam engines had long since been replaced by more efficient and cleaner electric- and petroleum-powered machinery. But it had served as backup on several Earth Resources concessions.

  How much would he be removing from this place by now if he’d only been granted peace and stability enough to build up a modern infrastructure? One hundred tons a day? Two hundred tons?

  Even the two hundred tons lost through the barge and convoy attacks would go far in solving Mulroney’s immediate problems. The contents of that incoming C-130 had been available only because Mulroney had in essence hijacked an Ares Solutions contract ferrying supplies, weapons, and contract personnel to an American counter­terrorism training operation in Yemen. Already both Yemeni and American authorities were screaming over the delay. If there were privileges to being the boss, even Trevor Mulroney could not put off for long the replacement of diverted resources.

  The worst was that he was being squeezed by his local ally as much as by this Jini. Based on Mulroney’s dealings to date with the warlord-­turned-politician, today’s shenanigans would not be Wamba’s last attempt at a shakedown. In fact, if he had both his adversaries alone and at hand, he wasn’t sure which head he’d remove from its offending body first.

  Since he had neither, Mulroney knew now what he had to do. His next move was no longer a matter of choosing the best option, but of securing survival. “Well, get whatever ore you’ve got ready for loading. I’ll send back one of the Mi-17s to haul it to our Bunia facility. As to pulling out, that isn’t an option. If hand labor is all we have, we’ll make do. Slow as molasses is still better than no production at all. Shift every worker and sledgehammer to breaking down those stockpiles. We’ll fly in from Bunia what’s necessary to complete the grinding and ore processing by hand.”

  Mulroney explained what he had in mind. “And, Clyde, if you don’t have a minimum of twenty tons of ore ready by the end of the week, you’re fired.”

  The Earth Resources CEO walked away before the mine administrator could make any response. His executive helicopter had lifted off earlier to make room for the medivac mission and was now settled down outside the perimeter fence. Instead of calling for its return, Mulroney signaled for the guards to open the gate. His strides across the muddy field afforded privacy to pull out his satellite phone. But he had not yet punched the speed dial when his phone jangled. An instant later, Howard Marshall’s face appeared on the screen.

  “I did the checking you asked. Wamba’s had no communications with any of the multinationals bidding for the It
uri concession. Doesn’t mean he couldn’t be casting nets elsewhere. But I don’t think so. Bottom line, he’s hitched his star to you, and I’d say he’s well aware he’s not likely to get a better deal on that molybdenum from any of the runner-ups. Which doesn’t mean he won’t keep trying to get more out of you.”

  “Yes, well, that’s what I was hoping to talk to you about.” Mulroney explained the latest developments. “Unfortunately, our losses here at the mine and Wamba’s shakedown have left me in just a bit of a cash-flow situation. Which is why I’m prepared to offer you an additional stake of my controlling interest in the Ituri concession. A modest ten million should tide things over until we can get security under control and the molybdenum operation running again at full speed. In fact, consider that ten million a short-term loan because you’ll have it and your earlier investment back within three months guaranteed, with another 50 percent on top.”

  The Earth Resources CEO’s measured tone gave no indication he’d just tossed his last chip into the game. Howard Marshall didn’t answer immediately, but Mulroney recognized only too well that suddenly bland expression. So when the American did speak, his words held no surprises.

  “And how do you figure making such a guarantee? Wamba isn’t all the checking I’ve been doing. Why didn’t you mention the Equatorial Guinea oil shutdown? Or the conflict mineral embargo from the Central African Republic, where you’ve got your diamond concession? As to the Ituri concession, that’s been a zero return to date. I’ve had my accounting department do the math. Earth Resources’ claimed assets no longer seem to add up to its outstanding liabilities. And that was even before your bid on Ares Solutions. The other stockholders would not be too happy with the report I’m looking at. Some might even go so far as to talk fraud. For old times’ sake, I can only hope you’ve got a good explanation. If only because I wouldn’t give much for the odds of that knighthood if this same report reaches Buckingham Palace.”