Congo Dawn Read online

  The guard did not shift his position blocking the doorway. “That is not permitted. My orders are that only the healers can enter to tend the prisoners. The prisoners are not allowed to speak.”

  “And my orders are to ensure the well-being of these patients,” Robin responded sharply. “You were there when Mr. Mulroney placed these people in my charge.”

  A slight exaggeration perhaps. But stubbornness as well as genuine concern would not allow Robin to back down. Inside the ward, the little girl’s sobs rose to a wail. The nurse had turned at the sound of voices, taking a step toward the door. She froze as the closest guard’s assault rifle immediately rose. Across the ward, the teenage boy’s thin body had tensed with the watchful caution of a deer poised to bolt from a hunter. Wide-spaced dark eyes, elongated, high-nosed features held neither fear nor anger but complete emptiness of expression. A boy that young should not know such wariness.

  “I will not leave until I’ve satisfied myself personally as to the well-being of these people. So please step aside before I have to call Mr. Mulroney and let him know you are refusing to allow me to carry out my orders.”

  The first guard’s reaction was unexpectedly swift and violent, his own rifle rising as he took a step forward to center its muzzle directly between Robin’s eyes. “I do not know this Mulroney. My orders come from Makuga. And he does not permit disobedience to his commands.”

  Taking in a too-twitchy grip on the trigger mechanism, Robin could regret now abandoning that M4 back at camp. The guard’s grin held vicious triumph, the pupils of his eyes too distended for the afternoon sun. How were Wamba’s militia managing to feed their drug habit in the middle of the rainforest?

  Something to bring up if she made it alive to the next team meeting. Robin’s Glock was still tucked into its holster at the small of her back. But she was not about to instigate a shooting war with so many civilian bystanders. Instead she reached for the hand radio at her belt.

  “Then you will explain to Makuga himself why you are refusing to allow me to carry out the orders of his employer and yours.” Keying the mike frequency, Robin spoke into the radio. “Krueger, is Makuga still with you? I’ve got a problem up here with one of his goons.”

  “He’s here.”

  A moment later, angry Swahili crackled from the hand radio’s tiny speaker. “Who has disobeyed my orders to cause trouble? Their punishment will be painful!”

  At the militia commander’s unmistakable growl, the guard lost his grin and stepped hurriedly aside. Robin spoke into the radio in Swahili. “Never mind. It was a misunderstanding.”

  The other guard made no effort to deter Robin as she stepped into the ward. Nor did the nurse, who sidled past Robin and guards to scurry down the hall, her hands still filled with gauze. Stopping in the middle of the concrete floor, Robin checked off seven occupied cots. A match to the number of patients they’d ferried from the mine. The humid warmth of a jungle afternoon was such that none were covered by blanket or sheet. Which allowed Robin to see that the patients all looked clean, comfortable, their bandages fresh and white.

  Most appeared to be sleeping or unconscious. But the little girl still wailed miserably. The older boy pulled himself to a sitting position to address her in a sharp, low murmur. Instantly the girl’s wail subsided to a whimper. Robin walked over and spoke gently to her. “Can I help you? Are you in pain?”

  “Mama! Baba!”

  Robin sat on the edge of the cot and placed an arm around the little girl, taking care not to jostle the bandaged arm in its sling. “Your mama and baba could not be here. But we will soon have you back with them.”

  A promise Robin hoped she could keep. She caught the teenage boy’s watchful stare from the next cot. Only the broad bandage wrapping his sutured thigh and the hollowed look of his wide-spaced eyes sunk deeply into their sockets by pain and exhaustion gave indication of the injury that had almost killed him. Now that he was no longer lying prone and unconscious, Robin could see that he was at that awkward stage of growth where childhood was just giving way to adolescence. Thirteen or fourteen years old at most. In Robin’s homeland he would still be a child. Here in the Congo he was old enough to be counted a man and a criminal. Old enough to wage a war like so many of Wamba’s youthful fighters.

  Did he remember Robin’s hand stemming the scarlet ebbing of his life force on the Mi-17? Robin returned the boy’s gaze squarely as she wiped gently at tears staining the little girl’s face. “Hello. I am so glad to see you are doing better. My name is Robin in my language. But you can call me Chiriku.”

  Chiriku—literally a sparrow or other small bird—had been her childhood nickname among Swahili-speaking friends to whom Robin had been just nonsense syllables. “What is your name? And this little one’s?”

  Whether at Robin’s atrocious Swahili accent or the image conjured by her nickname, the twitch of a smile touched the boy’s lips. The tension of his muscles relaxed visibly, though his eyes slid toward the guards before he answered in the softest of murmurs, “Jacob. And she is Rachel.”

  Bible names, like Ephraim—indicators of the Christian missionary heritage among these people.

  “Are you still in pain? Is there anything you need? Or Rachel? Anything I can bring you?”

  But before the boy could respond again, a guard strode across the room and glared at him. “I said no speaking! Speak again, and it will be more than your next meal that is taken from you.”

  The unmoving tension had returned to the boy’s thin frame. Robin found herself freezing in place as well. What was this, a prison camp instead of a mission clinic? The absurdity of it all would have been laughable were it not for that white-knuckle grip on the assault rifle, the furious flare of the guard’s nostrils.

  Robin could have persisted. There were countless questions she wanted to ask. To find out what had ever placed a boy so young behind high chain fence and barbed wire. But not at the risk of drawing down on him the guards’ ire as soon as she was out of the room. Reluctantly, Robin detached herself from the little girl and rose to her feet.

  Though Pieter Krueger is going to get an earful when I’m back at camp! This is hardly the treatment we agreed to when we let Makuga send guards. What does he think these people are going to do—jump out of their bandages and escape through the window?

  The guard retreated to a less threatening distance as Robin headed back across the ward. Clearly, the Taraja staff were caring well for their patients, despite the oppressive presence of armed militia. She’d talk to Ephraim before leaving. See what contribution the Ares Solutions team might offer in return, at least in the way of medical and food supplies. But for now, she’d done all she could do here. Time to carry out her official commission.

  Robin had almost reached the door when she felt a tug on her slacks, heard the tortured Swahili. “Jini . . . he is coming. . . . Save us. . . . Oh, it hurts . . . it hurts.”

  Turning swiftly around, Robin saw that the fingers clutching her slacks belonged to the female burn victim. She’d lain so still, Robin had assumed she was unconscious. But now she’d begun tossing so frenziedly on her cot, the newly adjusted bandages were in danger of being ripped off.

  “Jini . . . coming . . . Jacob . . . find . . . husband . . . children . . . attack . . . men . . . guns . . . fire . . . Jini . . . save us. . . . Oh, it hurts!”

  The low, moaning speech through mangled lips was so garbled as to be almost unintelligible. As Robin eased away to free herself, the fingers clutched more frantically. Robin’s heart contracted in pity as she saw that those fingers were among the few parts of the woman’s body not bound in gauze. Did she have a husband and children back at the mine? She must be frantic if she’d had no word of them.

  No longer resisting the woman’s grip, Robin stooped down to look into dark eyes rolling wildly in that white swaddling of bandage. “Just rest; don’t move. Your family is safe. There have been no further attacks. And this Jini will not come near any of you again, I promise you. We
will catch him.”

  But instead of calming the woman, Robin’s words seemed to agitate her further, and as the woman’s gaze darted back and forth, Robin realized the burn victim wasn’t truly conscious. Though her babbled Swahili was so distorted Robin could make out only the occasional word, it sounded as though she was trying to explain what had happened at the mine. One word repeated again and again.

  Jini.

  Ghost.

  Robin tried to hold the woman still as she thrashed. “Please, you must not move or speak. Jini won’t harm you again. And your family is safe, I promise.”

  But now the guard was at Robin’s side. Not to offer help, but to pull Robin away. “This woman must not speak. You will not stay here. You must go now!”

  The guard sounded as frantic as though he’d be the one punished for his prisoner’s infraction. This time Robin had no intentions of conceding. But her defiance proved unnecessary because the Taraja nurse was now rushing back into the room. Her hands no longer held the gauze bandages, but a syringe. “I am so sorry. I ran out of morphine with the others. Please, let me pass.”

  Even before the Congolese nurse plunged the syringe into the burn victim’s flesh, the sound of her voice appeared to calm the woman. With a soft sigh, she relapsed into unconsciousness. Above the nurse, Robin caught a look of mixed fury and alarm on the guard’s face.

  Then, beyond him, she saw Jacob, his thin frame rigid, his gaze fixed on the chaotic bedside scene. The boy’s elongated, high-nosed features and dark eyes were no longer empty of expression.

  Robin could see no reason for the emotion that now filled them.

  Stark, horrified terror.

  Robin offered no further resistance when a guard insisted on escorting her all the way to the veranda. But I will be back—count on it!

  Heading down the path, Robin slowed her pace as she approached the cinder-block mission house. In carrying out her commission, should she seek out Michael as Pieter Krueger had ordered? Or simply leave a message with Michael’s sister? Maybe even the Congolese doctor, Ephraim? The latter would be infinitely less distasteful. But also more cowardly.

  The decision was taken from her as Robin recognized multiple voices floating from an open screen window. Glancing inside, she spotted all three of her contemplated targets. Miriam sat in front of the computer monitor, husband and brother leaning over her shoulders. The Skype video image on the screen was a fortyish Caucasian male. His voice crackled from the monitor’s speaker. “We need confirmation of a clear airstrip, or we’re going to have to reschedule the run.”

  “We’re working on that now.” The response came from Michael. “We’ll let you know as soon as we have something concrete.”

  “Good. I’ll talk to you then. Miriam and Ephraim, my wife wants to know when you’re going to hop a flight over to Bunia. You haven’t been out of Taraja since you left here.”

  “Tell her we miss her too,” Miriam said. “And that air flight goes both ways.”

  “I’ll tell her. But with the new baby, don’t expect to see her out your way for a while. Over and out.”

  The speaker went dead just as Robin tapped hesitantly on the window screen. “Hello? Excuse me?”

  The three at the computer swiveled immediately around. Miriam jumped to her feet. “Well, there you are. We were just talking of sending someone down to your camp to find you.”

  As Miriam hurried over to open the door, Robin stepped inside. “What is it? The patients? I was going to ask if there’s anything we can arrange for their care. I know so many must be a real drain on your resources.”

  Ephraim’s dark, handsome features lit up with the first smile Robin had seen on him. “That is most kind of you. It is of course our pleasure to care for these people.” The Congolese doctor’s English had a strong American accent. “But it is also true our resources are scarce. Anything you can supply, especially morphine and antibiotics, would be appreciated. And bandages.”

  “But that’s not the issue at hand.” Michael didn’t look directly at Robin as he approached, nodding toward the computer terminal. “We’ve got a King Air fitted for medivac on standby to airlift the most critical patients to Bunia, where a Doctors Without Borders team is waiting to receive them. But the pilot can’t take off without confirmation of a clear runway on this end. Is that C-130 still hogging our airstrip?”

  Yes, the Ares Solutions operation had certainly impeded any local access to the airstrip during these last twenty-four hours. Robin pulled her hand radio from her belt. “I’ll find out. I think the last cargo plane has taken off for the day. We can make arrangements to keep the choppers clear of the runway while you’re using it.”

  “No, it’s too late for today. We’re talking a ninety-minute run from Bunia, and the King Air has to be back on the ground there before dark. The pilot says he can take off at dawn tomorrow morning. Which will put them here by the breakfast hour. Oh, and by the way—” Michael’s tone hardened—“since you’re volunteering your boss to shell out assistance, maybe you can let him know we’ll have a bill for the medivac. King Airs don’t come free, and Taraja prefers to use its budget for patients without a wealthy sponsor!”

  Robin felt color rise in her cheeks. The cost to Taraja hadn’t even occurred to her when she’d suggested evacuating the explosion casualties here. “I’m sure Mr. Mulroney will be happy to reimburse you for all your kindness to his employees. Just put a bill together for any patient costs. And I can check on that medivac right now.”

  Pieter Krueger answered her page. “Yes? You got those workers we need?”

  “I’m dealing with that now. But the clinic’s asking when the airstrip will be free for a medivac flight to move some of the mine casualties to Bunia.”

  “A medivac flight? For what? At your insistence, we evacuated these people to the Taraja facility. That should be the end of it. Makuga has made clear he expects them returned to the mine as soon as they are in condition to be moved, not elsewhere.”

  Reaching over, Michael lifted the radio from Robin’s hand. “That you, Krueger? Dr. Michael Stewart here. Didn’t expect when you asked me to read that map you had plans to move into my neighbor­hood. A heads-up would have been appreciated. And for your information, our regular medical supply run had to divert yesterday thanks to your preemption of our airstrip. Including pharmaceuticals urgently needed for our own patients as well as those you guys delivered here. You want to keep taking advantage of our facilities, you’d better clear us a landing. As to the medivac flight, some of your casualties are going to need serious long-term medical care. Moving them back to your mine facility is not an option.”

  “That’s not up to you, Dr. Stewart.” The radio speaker crackled. “Seems we already went over this. You have no jurisdiction here. Schedule your supply run if you want. But you do not have consent to transport prisoners without Governor Wamba’s direct authorization.”

  Michael’s tone lost any semblance of amiability. “This isn’t a point of discussion, Krueger. You may control our airstrip. But you don’t command Taraja or dictate our patient care. Nor do I think your employer’s going to want to explain to the international media or the authorities in Kinshasa why his so-called security operation is impeding a globally known humanitarian organization from aiding victims of a guerrilla insurgency attack. Especially women and children. If those patients aren’t permitted out tomorrow, Doctors Without Borders is going to want to know why—loudly and ­publicly.”

  The radio was silent. Robin had reached to take it back from Michael when it crackled again. “Fine. You’re cleared from sunrise on tomorrow. Now let me speak to Duncan.”

  Robin lifted the radio to her mouth. “Yes?”

  “Mulroney called. Teleconference in one hour. You can explain your latest fiasco. Just so you’ve got those workers here by then.”

  As the radio went dead again, Robin looked across at the other three. “Sorry about all that. I can’t apologize enough for all the in­convenience we’r
e causing you. And now to add one more. I’ve been tasked to inquire if Taraja may have some men free and willing to do some digging and clearing. They’d be paid well.”

  “But this is not an inconvenience,” Ephraim spoke up immediately. “On the contrary. The people are afraid of your soldiers. But they also have needs for which cash wages will be welcome. If you guarantee their safe treatment, I will speak to the men and make arrangements.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Just send whoever you have available down to the camp. I will personally guarantee they’re well treated. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve taken enough of your time.”

  But Robin didn’t head immediately toward the door. Taking care not to glance at Michael, she turned instead toward his sister. “Before I take my leave, I wanted to apologize too on my own behalf. When I left here the other day, I called stateside and discovered I’ve done you and your family a great wrong all these years. I don’t expect you to forgive, but if I could explain—”

  “Oh, Robin, you do not have to apologize or explain.” Miriam took a swift step forward, and at the immediate shift to compassion in her amber eyes, Robin found herself swallowing a sudden lump in her throat. She knows! He told her!

  “There’s nothing to forgive either. Let’s just put the past behind us, shall we?” Miriam shot a challenging glance toward her brother as she gave Robin a quick hug. Without answering, Michael headed across the living area to the computer.

  “And please, don’t even consider rushing off. I heard your colleague say you have an hour. Stay a bit and have some tea with us. It would mean a lot, really. It isn’t often we get visitors from the outside, especially another woman. The MAF pilots come up sometimes for a meal, but they’re all men. I’d like to hear what you’ve been doing since—well, since Afghanistan.”

  That Miriam wasn’t simply being polite was evident in the shining honesty of her eyes, the smile that again radiated the warmth and friendliness with which she’d originally welcomed Robin. How long had it been since Robin had sat down for a chat with another woman? Since before the Haiti detail—Robin’s teammates there had also been exclusively male.