Congo Dawn Page 13

  Trevor Mulroney would give even less. Nor would either palace or shareholders be pleased with what was a perfectly good explanation. But he didn’t begin his defense immediately.

  “Howard, have you ever considered that Earth Resources is now among dozens of multinational business enterprises—including your family’s own Marshall Corp—with a gross annual product greater than half the member states of the United Nations? In fact, our two corporations alone have more power, wealth, and influence than the bulk of would-be empires throughout human history. People like us are the ones who make this planet work. We create the jobs. We bring need and supply together. We foster production, prosperity, and therefore peace among nations.”

  Mulroney could no longer keep bitter fury from raising his even tone. “Yet just because our power and influence don’t fall within any single geographic or political territory, every backward, corrupt, bloodthirsty gang of thugs who manage to seize for ransom some chunk of the earth’s surface area has more voice in global policy than we do. And can hold hostage our properties and investments to their own mismanagement, incompetence, and greed.”

  It wasn’t necessary to explain which particular “gang of thugs” was currently affecting Mulroney’s blood pressure. On the screen, Howard Marshall’s eyebrows rose high. “It’s the way the game’s always been played. Mobutu. Wamba. Our distinguished new president in Kinshasa. They come and go. We stay. Or walk away if the profit-risk margin gets too wide.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Mulroney responded sourly. “How many generations has your family been buying up and deposing dictators for your own business interests?”

  “For my country’s interests,” Howard Marshall corrected genially. “Business and national.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you see a difference. The point is, there was a time when multinationals didn’t put up with tinhorn despots and their shenanigans. When they ensured their own profit margins. Let’s not forget India was forged from a bunch of quarreling warlords by a private merchant army backed by my own country’s crown. Indonesia was similar. Britain’s East India Company in India. The Dutch East India Company across Southeast Asia. King Leopold here in the Congo. They all protected their own interests. And in so doing built not only business empires, but political empires still friendly to the West.”

  His digression had brought sudden realization to his virtual companion’s face. “Ares Solutions! So that’s why you bid for it.”

  The Earth Resources CEO permitted a slight smile of admission. “9/11 has made mercenaries respectable again, as you should know, considering your country has shelled out the most in contracts. Instead of defending the thrones of Third World dictators, we’re now the private enterprise arm of Western armies, embassies, corporations. Once again, a company like Ares Solutions has more firepower than the average UN member army.

  “But if there’s one thing those early multinationals knew, it’s that sometimes you’ve got to make war to make peace. When I took back over Ares Solutions, I made an offer to the UN. A full-scale quick-deployment armored battalion, complete with air support, ground service, high-tech weapons that could put a fast end to any of the current conflicts requiring UN peacekeeping forces from the Congo to Haiti, Sudan, Kashmir. By taking the fight to the enemy instead of hunkering down behind barbed wire and electric fencing, we could save the lives of thousands, maybe even millions. Give these people a chance for a real life. And for a whole lot less than the billions our governments have contributed to decades of one futile peacekeeping operation after another. Including right here in Bunia.”

  Reaching the executive helicopter, Trevor Mulroney caught the interested eye of the Ukrainian pilot inside. He turned his back to the chopper as he finished scathingly, “They turned me down, of course. Doing something that actually makes sense instead of parading around in their pretty blue helmets would be just too easy.”

  Mulroney’s intention might have been to set his business investor’s mind at rest, but the expression showing on his phone screen had abruptly lost its blandness. Howard Marshall found voice to interrupt.

  “Whoa, hold it there! Mulroney, are you out of your mind? You’re proposing to invade the Congo with an armored battalion? Is that why you’re there now? Do you really think Kinshasa would just stand by and cheer? Earth Resources may have the demographics of an entire country. But those geographic entities actually holding a seat in the United Nations don’t usually appreciate a multinational usurping their function. Maybe in the eighteenth century, but not in the twenty-first. And for what—to reopen one mine?”

  “Hey, let’s not run ahead of ourselves,” Trevor Mulroney cut in. “Of course I’m not proposing an invasion. You think I’m stupid?”

  The American was wise enough not to respond.

  “You don’t use an RPG launcher to take out a wasp. But I do want to bump this operation up another notch. We now know this Jini was here at the mine within the last few hours. And he’s on foot. Which means if I can get a perimeter in place, not within a week, but now within twenty-four hours, I’ve got him corralled. We can end this once and for all. But to do that, I need more resources. More boots on the ground. Transport to fly in Wamba’s men instead of bringing them overland. As to cheering, let me assure you Kinshasa and Bunia both will jump at any helping hand that restores profits flowing into their own wallets. Especially when they don’t have to pay out of pocket themselves.”

  “Yes, well, except it’s my pocket, not yours, that you’re suggesting gets picked.”

  “Your pocket can handle it. Marshall Corp’s invested more than I’m asking in mineral exploration over the last year just in Africa.” How he’d obtained those figures, Trevor Mulroney did not elucidate. It was enough to let his virtual companion know the Earth Resources CEO had his own intelligence sources. “The return here in goodwill alone will be worth your investment if a private corporation can claim credit for restoring peace to a war zone where people have been dying un­necessarily for years. Not to mention the precedent, should we pull this off, for the next time one of our assets is at risk in some Third World thug-controlled hole-in-the-wall.”

  “Goodwill doesn’t pay shareholders, too many of whom happen to be my family members,” Howard Marshall countered sharply. “Mulroney, I’ve never seen you like this. You’ve always known when to fold. When to walk away. This one almost seems—well, personal. Look, I don’t like to lose an investment. And I’m truly sorry for your troubles. We’ve gone back a long ways together. But Marshall Corp is not a philanthropic organization. Nor is Earth Resources, however much sympathy one might feel for these villagers and miners hit by your rebels. For the ten million dollars you’re asking, Marshall Corp can walk away from Ituri and begin again elsewhere. And molybdenum is hardly a rare metal. We’ve got a lead right now on a new molybdenum find in Chile seeking investors. Bottom line, one single mine in the middle of a Congolese war zone offers nothing worth pouring good money after bad. So may I suggest you cut your own losses and see what you can do to salvage your company.”

  “Ten million euros, not dollars,” Trevor Mulroney corrected. “And actually, that’s not quite the case. Which is why I’m prepared to offer you personally, not Marshall Corp, this once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunity.”

  “What is not the case?” Howard Marshall demanded. “The Chile discovery? Or that there’s nothing special about this particular mine?”

  “Both.” Trevor Mulroney would have given much to go no further. His business partner would not be happy at what he’d already withheld. But he’d played his last chip and had no other moves left on this particular chessboard, if that wasn’t a complete mix of metaphors.

  And he knew his ally.

  Simply, quietly, his even tone belying the fantastic import of his words, he explained.

  Hot, angry phrases rose to Robin’s mind, but before they reached her lips, a rapidly escalating roar pulled her gaze skyward. The un­mistakable sound of a C-130 Hercules this time, not he
licopter ­rotors.

  It came into view directly overhead, massive, round-bellied, painted a steel gray, and unmistakably of military origins. The C-130 cargo plane, workhorse of the US Armed Forces, designed to take off and land on short runways under adverse conditions. And so in­evitably the transport hire of choice for mercenary and humanitarian operations in any of the planet’s wildest back corners.

  Dropping in altitude, the C-130 circled left in a steep bank that would line it up with the grass airstrip down the path. And now the higher drone of rotors joined in. The second Mi-17 was arriving. Up the path on the hospital veranda, cries of alarm rose, fingers pointing at the sky. Patients who had hunkered down in the open now stampeded for the veranda. Those on the veranda were crowding and shoving at the clinic door, swallowing up the white lab coat with the clipboard.

  This was exactly the panic Robin had been trying to avoid. Swinging back to the woman, she said urgently, “Look, if you know who I am, then I can’t imagine how you could think I owe Michael any apologies. But that’s not why I’m here. I have orders to forewarn whoever’s in charge here that your community is about to receive uninvited guests. A lot of them. But of first priority, we’ve got wounded down there on the runway. Evacs from an insurgent attack on a nearby mining facility. Among them women and children who are going to die without immediate medical attention. If Michael isn’t available, is there some other doctor or even a nurse?”

  The woman’s coldness instantly dissolved into concern. From behind her, the tall, black man in the white lab coat stepped forward. “I am a doctor.”

  “Then please come with me. And hurry! There’s one boy—” Robin looked at the woman. “I’ll come back to explain about the airplane as soon as we can get the wounded to medical care. Just let your people know there’s no reason to be afraid even if they see soldiers and guns.”

  As the woman let out a gasp of dismay, Robin spun around to leave. But her Vietnam vet bodyguard put an arm out to block her path. “I’ve got this one, Duncan. My pal and I have played field medic more years than you’ve been alive. We’ll get the doc squared away. You stay here and carry out your orders.”

  “But if he doesn’t speak English—”

  The African doctor abruptly shifted languages. “I speak enough. Let us go!”

  The two men were now racing down the path, the African shouting orders in Swahili even as he ran. The panic on the veranda subsided immediately. Several men separated from the crowd to follow the Vietnam vet and his companion toward the airstrip.

  Leaving the two women to stare at each other. Now was the time to carry out Trevor Mulroney’s command. Explain the logistics of two thousand armed combatants about to descend on this tranquil community. Make promises to soothe local ruffled feathers.

  Instead Robin said abruptly, “Where could you possibly have seen pictures of me? And if you know so much about me, then you must know it is Michael who owes me an apology, not the other way around. Or didn’t he tell you just why he left the Navy? Why I’ve heard not so much as an ‘I regret your loss’ in five years?”

  Robin’s glance fell suddenly on the woman’s left arm cradling the sleeping toddler, a narrow silver ring visible on the fourth finger of her hand. “Are you—?” She cleared her throat to try again. “Are you Michael’s wife?”

  Genuine amazement banished the frown marring the other woman’s gentle line of mouth. “No, of course not. I’m his sister, Miriam. I’m married to Ephraim, the doctor you just met. Did Michael never tell you about me?”

  Yes, Robin could now see the resemblance. The dark-mahogany curls always cropped to a crew cut in Robin’s memory. The width of forehead and shape of cheekbones where not marred by scarring. Eyes more amber than Michael’s tawny-brown shade, but with the same thick, long fringe of lashes.

  The roar of aircraft was starting to make conversation difficult. The C-130 had made its turn and was low over the treetops coming in for a landing. The second Mi-17 had retreated to a higher elevation and was circling directly overhead. Stepping back through the unpainted metal door, the woman raised her voice.

  “Look, why don’t you come on inside. Tell me whatever it is you came here to tell me. And it looks like we’ve both got some questions to ask. I’ll answer yours if you’ll answer mine. Over a cup of tea, maybe? Or would you prefer something cool to drink?”

  The smile had not returned to the woman’s face, but hostility had left her amber eyes. Robin stepped hesitantly forward through the doorway. Inside, large screen windows supplied light and a cooling breeze to a single open living area.

  To Robin’s right, one corner held a small gas stove. But the poured-concrete alcove intended for its propane cylinder was currently empty. Instead a slab of concrete beside the stove held a more typical Congolese cooking range: a raised cast-iron grill with firewood smoldering under a pair of sooty enamel pots. The smoke drifted upward toward a chimney opening overhead.

  There was no refrigerator or sink. But a plastic basin sat on a wooden counter edged in colorful pagne material, and Robin counted two of the huge pottery jars that had been keeping water cool and clean in Africa’s tropical climes for thousands of years. Shelving held plastic and enamel dishes while woven baskets hanging from rafters brimmed over with onions, cassava, carrots.

  A wooden table and chairs completed the kitchen dining area. Across a concrete floor, wicker seats made a living room grouping around a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks. Beyond the bookshelf, Robin spotted the purpose for that high-tech array on the roof. A computer terminal hooked up to a headset as well as an ordinary phone receiver, along with a printer and other paraphernalia of twenty-first-century communication.

  If simpler and smaller, the setup was not dissimilar to a mobile communications unit such as Ares Solutions used in the field. Why had Robin assumed that remote mission outposts were still relegated to the kerosene lanterns and ham radio roll call of her mother’s childhood stories?

  The left and rear walls were whitewashed wooden partitions. More pagne material curtained doorways. Through one curtain pushed to the side, Robin glimpsed army-style cots and an old steamer trunk.

  In all, the home was simple and austere even by military base housing standards. But compared to Taraja’s other mud-and-wattle homes, it was unexpectedly comfortable. Though wrought-iron bars outside the window screens and heavy wooden shutters currently open wide indicated how easily this place could be sealed into a fortress against storm or invaders.

  Stepping through the open curtain, Robin’s hostess eased her sleeping toddler onto an army cot while offering a small smile over her shoulder at Robin. “This is my daughter. Her name is Sarah, God’s princess, if you know the biblical story. And this one’s Michael, named after his uncle as well as the biblical archangel.”

  She pulled forward the child who’d been hiding behind her skirts, a boy, three to four years old. Raising her voice, Miriam switched suddenly to the swift Congolese-accented French she’d been speaking when Robin met her. “Benjamin, can you put on the tea water for our guest?”

  Another boy, several years older, emerged through one of the other pagne curtains. He offered Robin a shy smile as he hurried to push a teakettle from the side of the cooking grill directly over the embers. It immediately began to steam.

  As he drifted back over, Miriam pulled him close in a hug. “And this is my firstborn, son of my right hand, as the patriarch Jacob named his son. Though of course in the Bible, Benjamin was the youngest son, not the oldest.”

  Now that she knew the African doctor she’d met was their father, Robin could see Ephraim in the sleeping toddler and younger boy’s long, narrow features and high-bridged noses. The oldest boy bore no resemblance that Robin could see to either parent, his features darker than his siblings’ and round with the wider, flattened nose and out-thrust jaw more typical to Governor Wamba and his men’s tribal affiliation.

  But Robin’s attention had been drawn away to a large corkboard nailed to the wooden
partition. Along with scribbled notes and what looked to be flight schedules was tacked a profusion of photos. Some, dog-eared, even black-and-white, could have hung there for decades. There were aerial photos of what must have been Taraja before its destruction. Photos of Africans crowding around the same red-and-white Cessna Robin had seen in Bunia. Group photos of African children in school uniforms. Adults in lab coats.

  From the school and hospital that had burned down?

  Multiple photos showed two Caucasian couples at time periods and in clothing styles ranging over several decades. Michael’s parents and grandparents? And photos of a young Michael with a small girl posing in front of what appeared to be this very house. Sitting in a classroom with African children. Playing on the grass airstrip. Smiling out from the pilot’s seat of the Cessna.

  “Was this your family’s house? Michael never mentioned having a sister. Or much of anything about his family except how much he loved growing up in the rainforest.”

  “Yes, this is where we grew up. My grandparents built this house. And I guess I’m not so surprised Michael never mentioned me. Because that would mean bringing up everything else that happened,” Miriam said cryptically.

  Robin took a step away to look at a second collage of more recent computer printout photos tacked to the partition. Most were snapshots of Miriam’s three children. But Robin stiffened. No wonder Miriam had recognized her!

  “Michael e-mailed me that from Afghanistan.” Stepping up behind Robin, Miriam gave a nod toward a photo whose backdrop Robin remembered only too well. It had been an off-duty field trip to the Band-e Amir lakes almost three thousand meters up into Afghanistan’s Himalaya Mountains. The photo showed Robin, her brother, and Michael perched on a large boulder with the shimmering lapis lazuli of a mountain pool behind them, Chris with sketchbook in hand, Michael with an arm around Robin’s shoulders and a smile curving his firm mouth, while Robin—had she ever really looked that happy?