Congo Dawn Page 3

  But today Robin saw instead the rheumy, sunken eyes of several small children peering from an alley between shops, their naked bellies swollen from parasites and malnutrition. The angry desperation of vendors battling for a rare sale. Piles of rotting garbage that competed with the fragrance of fresh-picked fruit. The casual, even bored brutality with which the two guards were now using the butts of their weapons to beat back a few peddlers who persisted in hassling the new arrivals.

  I am so tired of war and hunger and poverty. Of places and jobs like this. Of human misery and sheer human meanness that never seems to reach its limit! All the more reason to get through this checkpoint and this contract as quickly as possible.

  Which did not prove so simple a matter as Robin had hoped.

  The interior of the border outpost was a single large room open to the thatched roof. A metal filing cabinet, scattered plastic chairs, and the rickety wooden table that served as the immigration counter constituted its sole furnishings. Geckos scurried up walls where whitewashed plaster had crumbled to reveal mud brick beneath. Something unseen rustled in the dried palm fronds directly above Robin’s head. The only lighting filtered through a pair of small windows.

  “So you understand, your papers are no good here.” A short but powerfully built man, the outpost commander had barely glanced at the stack of signed, stamped immigration forms before waving them away. On the table in front of him, empty Primus bottles crowded a manual typewriter. A sickly-sweet aroma of marijuana smoke suggested the lethargy and reddened, dilated glares of two more guards who’d jumped to their feet as the group entered were not after all due to boredom or interrupted slumber. “This means you cannot enter my country.”

  “I don’t understand. How can these visas be no good?” Robin asked with a patience she did not feel. Even as she spoke, through the open door she took note of the motorcycle she’d heard earlier pulling up outside. Bundles lashed to its frame were piled so high she caught only a glimpse of blue jeans as a passenger dismounted. Robin pushed the stack of paperwork across the table. “These visas are issued by your own government. We received them just this morning in Nairobi.”

  “Then that is the problem. You have not crossed into the DRC from Kenya, but from Uganda. So that requires a separate visa. You cannot proceed without it.”

  But you rejected our visas before you even knew we’d originated in Kenya! Robin didn’t dare introduce logic audibly into this proceeding. Recent years had taught her only too well the lessons of dealing with Third World bureaucracy. Never argue injustice. Never look a uniform in the eye. Grovel humbly and smilingly. Above all, let small-minded, petty officials, especially those carrying automatic weapons, feel as big and powerful and important as necessary to get the job done!

  Behind Robin, Pieter Krueger’s body language radiated im­patience while others of the team were now jostling through the open door. Though Ugandan border control had required them to leave their weapons with the C-130, such a sizable group of large, muscled ex­patriates was attracting unfriendly glares from the commander’s two bodyguards. Robin didn’t care for the restless twitchiness with which they were fingering their AK-47s.

  In her most conciliatory French, she pleaded, “But we have a plane waiting to pick us up. We won’t have time to return to Uganda and come back. Surely there must be something we can do. Someone we can talk to. We have come to your country by direct invitation of the Ituri governor, Jean Pierre Wamba. See, here is his letter of authorization.”

  The commander’s glance of incomprehension at the typed French and scrawled signature under an official letterhead confirmed Robin’s suspicions of the man’s illiteracy. “And what good is this? How am I to know it is not a forgery? No, you must return to Uganda and purchase new visas.”

  He wasn’t going to budge. Her shoulders slumping in defeat, Robin murmured unhappily to Pieter Krueger, “I’m sorry, but I’ve tried everything I can, and I’m afraid we’re just out of luck. He insists we have to go back to Arua and get new visas before we can cross. Can you radio our pickup and let them know we’ve got another delay on our hands?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding! Mulroney swore he’d taken care of all the paperwork for this mission. Like I said, these people just won’t stay bought.”

  It was as well Robin didn’t understand Krueger’s stream of low, furious Afrikaans. As the outpost commander’s unyielding expression dissolved into a scowl, she braced herself to break into the South African’s invective. But an amused voice, its accent unmistakably American, did it for her. “Hey, don’t give up so fast. You should know Commander Patrice isn’t really expecting you to go all the way back to Arua. Just to offer the proper incentive. As any half-baked briefing for travel in this region should have warned you. Here, maybe I can be of assistance.”

  Robin’s peripheral vision identified a glimpse of blue denim as the motorcycle passenger. But it wasn’t the welcome offer of help that whirled Robin around. She could actually feel blood draining from her face as her eyes widened in shock. No, she hadn’t imagined she recognized that sardonic baritone. The motorcycle passenger appeared almost slight next to a huge Bulgarian mercenary who’d entered behind him until he strode forward enough to reveal he was several inches taller than Robin’s own five feet eight inches. He looked thinner than Robin remembered, though no less muscled under a T-shirt so red with dust its original hue was a matter of dispute.

  And older, deep grooves traced the stern edges of his mouth from high-bridged nose to firm chin. Nor did those tawny-brown eyes, fringed in long, dark lashes, hold any of the smiling warmth Robin had once known there. They were instead guarded and somber as though with unforgotten pain or grief. An always-deep tan was now burned to coppery bronze only a shade lighter than his close-cropped curls. All but for a single ridge of healed scar tissue that ran palely in a jagged line from below his left ear down his neck to disappear beneath the thin material of his T-shirt.

  The sudden whitening of that scar, his change of expression to disbelief as Robin whirled around, made clear she, too, was amply recognizable despite the passage of years.

  He’d approached so close now that she could make out her own wavery reflection in his stunned dark gaze. Tired oval features that never truly tanned, thanks to the same genetic makeup responsible for a red-gold mane currently tucked under a floppy brimmed hat. A straightforward blue-green gaze this man standing in front of her had once compared to the quiet beauty of the Himalayan mountain pool beside which they were bivouacked at the time.

  His sharp inhalation of breath, the stiffening of his body in midstride, permitted Robin to release her words through unsteady lips first. “Michael Stewart! What—what are you doing here?”

  He unfroze, finishing his stride so that he closed the gap between them. “What am I doing here? I at least belong here! What are you doing here? And with this bunch. You’re the last person I’d have thought would ever trade in fatigues to go freelance.”

  Of course, Michael had grown up in sub-Saharan Africa, son of American medical missionaries, though Robin did not remember exactly where. Or her subconscious deliberately chose to forget. His stories of African rainforest life, as idyllic in their telling as Robin’s own childhood memories, had contributed to the bond that once existed between them.

  He broke off, his firm, straight mouth twisting suddenly, his glance sliding away from Robin before he added quietly, “I never got a chance to say . . . I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time . . . I am so sorry about your brother. My deepest condolences.”

  After five years of waiting for those words, they were as unexpected, even unwelcome, as his appearance. Now it was Robin who froze. She was no longer in the muggy, dark confines of a Congo border outpost, but on a chill, high Himalayan mountain ridge. The dust in her nostrils no longer equatorial Africa’s red soil, but the powdery, light dirt of Afghanistan. Dampness streaking her face no longer sweat, but tears. Explosions and the rat-tat-tat of automatic gunfire rang in h
er ears. Her bloodied hands frantically pressed back the crimson flood welling up through shattered body armor.

  Then the roar of the evac helicopter hovered down, and this man’s younger self was jumping out to push her aside. The last time she’d seen or heard from Michael Stewart, he’d been lifting Robin’s groaning, semiconscious, but very much alive youngest sibling into the heli­copter. Not just her sibling, but the incredible, talented, wonderful human being who’d been Robin’s best friend in this world.

  And this man’s too.

  Or so she’d believed.

  “You’re sorry! That’s all you have to say? When you swore you’d save him? When you abandoned both of us? When it’s your fault he died?”

  Fists pounded against a hard chest. Fingernails scratched at tanned features. Boots lashed out to strike blue denim. Screamed-out invective, raw with anguish, released long-pent-up fury.

  “Why are you telling me this now? Why didn’t you come to me before? When it still mattered! When I’d still believe you! Don’t you know how much I hate you more than I ever thought I cared about you? That I will never to the end of my days ever forgive you?”

  The blood rushed back into Robin’s head. A deeply drawn-in breath filled her gasping lungs, slowed her racing pulse. No, from Michael’s unscratched features and the disinterested expressions all around her, Robin had disgraced neither herself nor her mission. Her tantrum, both verbal and physical, had remained where it belonged—only in her mind. A step backward placed her at a safe distance from her target. She did not, could not respond to his statement.

  Instead, she demanded coolly, “You said you could help us? Just how, exactly?”

  The outpost commander had shown no objection to Michael’s interruption. On the contrary, he’d lost his scowl. Behind him, the two guards were actually lowering their weapons. It was Pieter Krueger who stepped up beside Robin to query suspiciously, “You know this man?”

  “We served together in Afghanistan,” Robin explained tersely. “This is—”

  The new arrival was already stepping forward to offer a handshake. “—Dr. Michael Stewart, on assignment here with Médecins Sans Frontières.” He rolled the pronunciation of the Switzerland-based humanitarian organization across his tongue like a native French speaker. “Zipped over to Uganda for some medical supplies needed ASAP at a mission hospital compound out in the Ituri Rainforest near Bunia. A delay at the pharmacy there cost me my seat on this morning’s UN flight.”

  So since Robin last saw him, Michael had achieved his dream of becoming a surgeon in his father’s footsteps. He held up a cell phone. “A UN colleague in Bunia just tipped me off they’ve scheduled an extra charter to pick up an expat security team stranded down here. Can I hope you’re that team? And that I might hitch a ride back to Bunia?”

  The South African’s narrowed glance from Robin to the newcomer held neither welcome nor friendliness, but his broad shoulders hunched a grudging admission. “Yes, it is our charter. And if you can spring us through this minefield in time to make our flight, I’m sure we can arrange a tagalong.”

  Michael was already turning to the outpost commander, breaking into such a colloquial mix of Swahili and French that Robin had to strain her language skills to follow it. But there was no mistaking that the American surgeon was no stranger here. Or that he’d come prepared to negotiate his own passage. As Michael spoke, he un­obtrusively deposited next to the empty Primus bottles three sizable plastic containers labeled ibuprofen. Now smiling broadly, the commander retreated with Michael to the rear of the hut for a brief murmured conversation. When they walked back, the commander scooped the ibuprofen out of sight into a file cabinet drawer while Michael swung around to address the Ares Solutions contingent.

  “Now that Commander Patrice has heard the urgency and importance of your mission, and as a personal favor to this region’s beloved leader, Governor Wamba, he has reconsidered his decision and will issue a special visa kept for just such emergency situations. But the forms and stamps needed for these special visas are very costly. The price will be one hundred US dollars or fifty euros each. Cash only.”

  Neither tone nor expression displayed any tinge of irony as Michael translated the outpost commander’s words. Robin was less controlled at suppressing an outraged gasp. “But that’s twice what we paid in Nairobi just this morning!”

  Considering this country’s meager living standard, it was also likely more than the outpost commander’s entire monthly salary. “He can’t be serious. If we have to pay an additional fee, fine. But don’t tell me there’s some special visa he’s suddenly authorized to issue. This is nothing but a bribe and an outrageous one! I’m not sure I’ve even got that much cash still on me. And how did you get by with a few bottles of painkiller?”

  An irate murmur rippled through the Ares Solutions group. In response, the Congolese guards abruptly raised AK-47s. Registering the angry expressions and aggressive body language on both sides, Robin could be thankful her own team had been forced to stow away weapons. The first major assignment she’d been given for this mission was not going well.

  Michael’s own expression had hardened to the same unyielding stone as the Congolese commander’s. In a low voice, he said harshly to Robin, “Look, call it a bribe or what you want. But you can take it or leave it. Bottom line, the government here doesn’t often bother paying these guys’ salaries. So the only way they eat is by collecting their money elsewhere. You prefer they take it out of those dirt-poor villagers out there or some pack of wealthy foreigners wandering into their territory? Certainly none of you look like you’ve missed any meals. As for me, you do an emergency appendectomy on the guy’s kid, and maybe he’ll cut you a break too!”

  From his girth, the outpost commander had missed no meals either. But Pieter Krueger was now speaking up impatiently. “Look, the doc’s right! You’re just wasting time and energy arguing with thugs like this, and we’re sure not going to shoot our way out. So now we know what’s needed, let’s just get out of here. Anyone doesn’t have the fee on them, I’ve got some cash I can advance. Whatever you spend will be reimbursed along with your other travel expenses, so dig into those pockets before we miss another flight.”

  Michael Stewart was already heading out the door. Commander Patrice took his time comparing the team’s head count to a pile of dollars and euros before proceeding with his “special visa,” a simple ink stamp on the forms they’d already handed over. By the time the group climbed back into the truck, the motorcycle with its high load was long gone. But when the market truck jounced several kilometers later onto another dirt airstrip, Robin spotted the bike at the end of the runway, its African chauffeur helping Michael unlash packages.

  For all their haste, the airstrip itself was still empty. But just as the market truck drew up behind the motorcycle, Robin heard the drone of an approaching aircraft. By the time the Ares Solutions team had off-loaded their own luggage, a white and sky-blue twin turboprop plane with United Nations lettered in black along the fuselage was touching down. The plane taxied to their end of the runway, stirring up a fresh storm of red dust until the propellers slowed to a stop. A section of fuselage unfolded to become steps leading down.

  Robin’s teammates were already grabbing duffel bags and heading for the plane. As Robin hoisted her bag to her shoulder, Michael abandoned his packages to stride swiftly toward her. “Look, we have to talk.”

  “You’ve had five years for that.” Robin didn’t even glance his direction as she pushed by him. “I’m not interested.”

  A statement that was not true. There were many things Robin wanted to ask Michael. Where have you been all these years? Why did you never bother to so much as call or write? Was it guilt or indifference?

  Robin wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed when Michael didn’t persist. Instead he turned back to count off some bills to the motorcycle driver. A tall, lean man had now emerged from the interior of the plane and was hurrying down the steps. Hi
s physical fitness belied an age Robin knew to be early fifties, a quarter-inch haircut too blond to detect any gray strands. Though she’d never met him personally, Earth Resources CEO Trevor Mulroney was no stranger to Robin; his corporation’s recent acquisition of Ares Solutions had disseminated widely throughout the private military industry as well as international news coverage.

  In press photos, Robin’s new employer had always been styled in the tailored suits, Rolex, and handcrafted dress shoes expected of a billionaire entrepreneur. But the ease with which he’d shifted to the mercenary “uniform” of khaki clothing, body armor, combat boots, and Oakley sunglasses currently pushed up onto his head to reveal a piercing blue gaze was no real surprise. The news coverage had indicated that Trevor Mulroney was a decorated veteran of the British Special Air Service and on the short list at Buckingham Palace for a knighthood to reward both military and civilian contributions to the British Crown.

  More startling was the machine pistol visible in a shoulder holster. This despite the red circle slashed by a line that was the planet’s universal interdiction symbol interposed atop the outline of a machine gun just above the plane entrance. UN contract flights even in the planet’s darker corners had a deep-seated bias against civilians toting weapons aboard. An indication of just how much clout her new boss wielded.

  And for Trevor Mulroney to be supervising in person, this op must be higher profile than the simple security mission Robin had envisioned. The Earth Resources CEO took time to greet each arrival, checking them off a clipboard as they slung their luggage into an open cargo bay and boarded the plane. Until Robin arrived at the foot of the stairs.

  Sweeping Robin with a head-to-toe survey, her new boss visibly blinked. “And just who in bloody blazes are you? Krueger only mentioned one extra passenger.”