Congo Dawn Page 34

  But his demand came too late. Robin had already lifted her radio to her mouth. “Duncan to HQ. Duncan to HQ. I’ve got a situation. Requesting—”

  She’d no opportunity to finish. As a bare foot kicked the gun from Robin’s hand, a hand simultaneously slapped the radio to the ground. Robin was still registering the two mud-camouflaged men in loincloths who’d dropped from overhead tree branches when Michael snatched up the radio. His falsetto was a disturbingly accurate facsimile of Robin’s voice. “Never mind. Found what we needed. Everything under control. Heading back soon.”

  Dropping the radio into his medical bag, Michael looked at Robin. “Did you really think your dangerous rebel leader wouldn’t have the forethought to post guards?”

  Both Joseph and Michael’s youthful guide were now on their feet, the latter once again snatching up bow and arrows, Joseph scooping up the Glock. As one newcomer shoved Robin to her knees, another bound her wrists in front of her with a vine. Robin glared at Michael. “I will never forgive you for this!”

  Sadness crossed Michael’s face. “That’s your prerogative. For now, you’re going to listen. Joseph?”

  But now it was the rebel leader who shook his head sullenly. “What is the purpose? She is the enemy. An ally of my enemy Mulroney, who seeks to destroy me. We must leave here at once. We have already lost too much time.”

  “She isn’t an enemy but a friend I trust. A friend who will help you once she knows the truth.” Michael shot Robin a warning glance as she opened her mouth to refute the claim. “And if it has been this long, a few more minutes will not change the situation. Not for Jacob, at least. Please, Joseph, just tell her what you told me.”

  “Quickly, then.” The rebel leader lowered himself gingerly back to the ground. Grabbing for his medical bag, Michael began plastering a bandage over his earlier stitches as Joseph spoke. “You must understand I never wanted to become a fighter, only a geologist like others who uncovered the treasures of my country. When I went to Taraja to study, it was all I dreamed of. But then came the attacks. Because there was room, and I was the youngest, I was given a place on the plane that came.”

  The place that might have been Miriam’s and her parents’. Robin listened at first grudgingly since she could hardly stop her ears with bound hands. But by the time Joseph described that last flight out of Taraja, finding himself a boy of eleven in a Bunia refugee camp, his story had gripped her so she no longer wanted him to stop.

  “I heard in the camp of the massacres. That my own village had been destroyed. Certainly no survivors from there arrived in the camp. I found work translating for the many foreigners who came to Bunia, and later they brought me to Kinshasa. When they saw my desire to study, they arranged a scholarship to attend university in London. They arranged employment, too, in a laboratory. That is where this happened.”

  The rebel leader lifted his left arm to reveal the scar. “It was a year ago now. My own carelessness. But though I had realized my dream to become a geologist, though I believed my family dead, my heart still yearned to return to the Ituri. Then I found the means.”

  As Joseph told of his discovery that the gray, chalky “graphite” of his childhood pebble collection actually contained high-grade ­molybdenum, Robin’s mind was working furiously. If he’d been eleven when the insurgency swept through Taraja, then this hardened rebel leader was no more than twenty-one now. And the scar. If it had happened only last year in a European laboratory, how had Trevor Mulroney come to know of it? Unless some survivor of Jini’s attacks had reported it.

  “So it was just over six months ago that I returned to the Ituri to discover with joy that my father, my older brothers and sisters, cousins, all my village had not in truth been destroyed. And then to discover with grief that I had been betrayed. That in returning home, my dream, my discovery had not brought a new beginning for my people, but only death.”

  “My father ordered me to flee, so I did. Then I wished I’d disobeyed when the soldiers burned the village, killed those who resisted, took captive the rest. Including my father. I remained free only because a party of hunters was just arriving back to the village and the soldiers did not discover them. They helped me get away.”

  The two newcomers had taken up silent, hard-eyed sentry positions on either side of the rebel leader. Joseph gestured toward them, then toward the youth who’d snatched up the bow and arrows. “My older brother Simeon. My cousin Caleb. My nephew Nathaniel.”

  Yes, Robin could see now a strong family resemblance. Michael interjected, nodding toward the oldest man. “I mentioned that Simeon studied at Taraja when I was a kid. He confirms Joseph’s story.”

  “There were eight of us who escaped. But some no longer live.” Grief thickened the rebel leader’s voice. “We tried to free the rest. But the soldiers were too many. Then soon more arrived. Fences and watchtowers rose. So we found other ways to impede the invaders. Uhh—!”

  At the groan, Michael dropped his hands away from Joseph’s ribs. “Okay, I’ve done all I can do without a real medical facility. The bullet’s out and the stitches should hold if they don’t get too much strain. But you’ve got at least two bruised ribs. The good news is if you made it this far, I don’t think they’re broken. Unfortunately, I have no morphine on me. But I can give you some ibuprofen for the pain.”

  Shaking capsules from a pill container, Michael handed them to Joseph, who washed them down with one of Robin’s purloined water bottles.

  The interruption gave Robin opportunity for her own interjection. “Yes, we’ve witnessed how you chose to impede! Organizing a rebel army. Attacks on the mine and convoys. Stealing ore. That’s bad enough. But looting and burning neighboring villages? The bomb and attack on the clinic? In any case, why would these soldiers care about keeping your village prisoners? Especially women and children. After all, if it’s workers they need, surely bringing in healthy male prison labor as has been claimed would make more sense. You understand how hard it is to buy your story. And even if someone did hijack your molybdenum find, that doesn’t make you less guilty of all the rest. Being an insurgent. Leader of a rebel army.”

  “Lies! All lies!” Joseph threw the water bottle to the ground, fury engorging his broad, dark features enough to bolster every story Robin had heard of this man. The rebel leader leaned so close Robin could feel his spittle on her face.

  “There never was an army—can you not see that? Only the eight of us. Five now with those who have died. Six if you count the boy Jacob who is now with us. I make no apology for waging war against the soldiers at the mine, against the convoys. Not when they held our families captive. But the villages—it was not us who destroyed them. It was the soldiers. To make it seem we were the guilty ones. To give excuse for their war against us! As to the bomb—”

  Joseph squeezed his eyes shut as though to shut out painful images. Fury ebbed from his features so they were once again young and lost. “That was a mistake. The explosives were not intended for the steam generator, but to blow holes along the fence during the night. We had planned an attack. A diversion so the prisoners could escape through the river wall to where we had canoes waiting and then into the rainforest. Those who died were friends, family. I will carry their deaths to my grave.

  “As to why they hold my people hostage, that is simple. For the same reason they killed the injured you took in the helicopter to Taraja. The same reason they still seek me. Because of what they know. Because of what I know. They dared not let those you saved speak freely to outsiders, so they killed them in the night. All but the boy Jacob, also my nephew.”

  With the strong resemblance, it was no surprise when Joseph nodded to Michael’s guide. “They are sons of my oldest brother, among the first killed when the soldiers attacked. When Jacob escaped to us, he told us what had been done to the others. If they have not killed the rest of my family, my village, it is only to use them as bait, as hostages to trap me. Because I alone know the full truth of what treasure resides in the ro
cks of my birthplace. I alone know just who is our true enemy. And the weakness by which he might still be defeated.”

  Joseph’s dramatic pause seemed to invite response, so Robin conceded him one, keeping her tone conciliatory, and not just because of the fierceness of his glare, the bonds on her wrists, or the weapons his henchmen carried. Despite that spittle still dampening her face, she could actually feel sorry for the man. His story was, after all, similar enough to countless other such tales of corruption, oppression, and injustice across the Congo, across Africa, to be plausible.

  But was the rebel leader really naive enough after months of fruitless conflict to think he could still win a fight against the powers that be in Kinshasa and Bunia? Or even against a hired team like Ares Solutions? At best, the kind of a truce that had placed a warlord like Wamba in the governor’s palace might permit the rebel leader to lay down arms and walk away. But if Joseph believed he could stuff the genie of discovered mineral wealth back in its bottle so his people could return to quiet village life, he’d discover soon enough that was an impossible outcome.

  “Actually, the molybdenum discovery’s no real secret anymore. It’s been pretty well publicized. And since you’ve studied and worked overseas, I hope you can understand that even if your authorities unfairly seized your discovery, that has nothing to do with the mining consortium who’ve brokered a deal to develop the find. Earth Resources, in this case. Did it ever occur to you that your people haven’t been released, that you’re still being hunted, because you won’t stop attacking the mine? That if you’d lay down your arms and make peace, they would too? In fact, I’d be happy to volunteer as a go-between. I’m sure my boss, Trevor Mulroney, would be willing to pay reasonable reparations, help your village start over elsewhere, if he can just get the mine open again.”

  Robin hesitated before adding more delicately, “As to what happened at the clinic, you say you learned about it from Jacob. But we found your footprints. Canoe marks. Signs of where you met up with Jacob. If you didn’t go there . . . well, to rescue Jacob and keep the others from talking, what were you doing there in the middle of the night?”

  She’d gone too far. The rebel leader jumped to his feet so violently Michael put out an admonishing hand toward the bandage he’d just taped into place. But it was not Robin’s insinuation that he might indeed be a murderer that Joseph chose to address. “Do you think I am stupid? That I do not understand my enemy or know who he is?”

  A whistle of sharply indrawn breath, a hand pressed against his ribs were Joseph’s only concessions to pain as he paced back and forth. “It is true I did not at first know the commander of the soldiers who came that day in the helicopters. Not until much later did I know him to be Wamba, one of the very warlords responsible for the massacre of Taraja, now sitting in power in Bunia. Nor did I know the aide who carried out his orders to destroy my village until he returned to direct the defenses of the mine.”

  Samuel Makuga. This time it was Robin who drew in a sharp breath.

  Joseph sank down again in front of Robin. “But I did recognize one of the mzungus who came with the soldiers because he was my employer as well as yours. Trevor Mulroney, for whose company I worked in London, Earth Resources. The man I believed to be my benefactor. A friend, even, who could bring at last peace and prosperity to my birthplace. This—” Joseph eased his arm away from his ribs to display its scar. “Trevor Mulroney was in the laboratory the day I so carelessly permitted the crucible to spill valuable metal. Instead of punishing me, he had me taken to the hospital. Paid my salary while I healed. Then took me back as employee. So of course it was to him I ran with what I’d discovered in those small pebbles I’d clung to like some amulet of good fortune since childhood. But they proved instead to be the worst of fortune as he proved to be no friend, but one more greedy, deceitful mzungu whose only interest in my land, my people, was to steal its treasure.”

  Robin shot Michael with a glare. “This is what you were insinuating? I might have swallowed Wamba’s involvement. Makuga’s, too, since there’s little I’d put past either of them. But Trevor Mulroney? CEO of one of the world’s biggest and most reputable mineral consortiums? The guy’s up for a knighthood, for goodness’ sake! More than that, he’s not stupid. Why should he swoop in and attack some local village when all he’s got to do—what in fact he did do—is fork over considerable funds to purchase that molybdenum concession for Earth Resources legally?”

  Robin cast a flicker of contempt from Michael to Joseph. “Considering all the damage your friend here has cost Earth Resources, it says a lot about Trevor Mulroney that instead of just cutting his losses and investing elsewhere, he’s committed himself to restoring peace to the Ituri people. My guess is your pal here was so busy running away that day, he didn’t recognize one mzungu from another as well as he thinks. Or else he’s flat-out lying. But without any possible motive, there’s no way you’re going to convince me that a Fortune 500 CEO as well vetted as Trevor Mulroney is some kind of awful villain just because he’s been successful in business. And therefore by proxy, Ares Solutions is too.”

  “You’ve raised a valid question.” Michael’s stark admission took Robin by surprise. He was taking her side now? “Joseph hadn’t got to that point when you popped in. But since I do believe him, I’m sure he’s got a motive in mind. Joseph?”

  As he threw Joseph a questioning glance, Robin turned her own gaze with some trepidation back to the rebel leader. If her earlier queries had roused antagonism, to what rage had her defiance pushed him? But to Robin’s surprise, Joseph’s dark features had drained from fury to calm, his full mouth curving into a confident smile.

  “You say you need only a motive to believe me? Of all you have asked tonight, that is the easiest. It is not the molybdenum for which Trevor Mulroney has seized my birthplace, but a far greater treasure. Rhenium.”

  “Rhenium?” Joseph’s statement had left Robin only more confused. “Isn’t that some kind of rare heavy metal?”

  “Yes, one of the rarest. Its high melting point and strength as well as malleability permits its mixture with other metals to form some of the strongest alloys ever created. But because it is so rare—no more than forty or fifty tons produced worldwide each year—much of its use is reserved for military applications. Above all for producing jet engines that will stand up to the heat of supersonic fighter planes. Most rhenium is produced as a trace by-product of gases released from processing copper. But the quantities are so low an entire copper mine might produce fifty kilos of rhenium in a month, a year. Which is why one kilo of rhenium is worth a hundred and fifty kilos or more of processed molybdenum. When I left London, molybdenum was selling at thirty of your dollars a kilo. Rhenium at more than five thousand.”

  The rebel leader’s explanation had settled into a lecturing tone more characteristic of a classroom than a jungle clearing. A reminder that this young man had not always been a mud-daubed, half-naked insurgent fighter.

  “But rhenium has also been found naturally in some molybdenite deposits. Usually only .1 or .2 percent, though some samples have tested as high as almost 2 percent. But only in the smallest amounts. Until I tested my rock collection. Though I had collected the samples­ from all over the rock outcroppings that rose behind our village, each gave the same result: at least 3 percent rhenium. You see what a ­treasure I’d found? In one month’s production, such a molybdenite mine could generate more rhenium than the entire planet generates in a year.”

  The excitement of that memory lit up Joseph’s eyes in the dim glow of the tiny fluorescent lantern. Then his features clouded over, his voice growing soft and resigned. “I should have thought what it would mean for rhenium to be no longer a rare metal, but as common as tin. I should have listened to the rumors inside my laboratory that all was not well with Earth Resources. But like you I believed Trevor Mulroney to be a man of honor. And there still would have been profits enough for any man if he were not greedy.”

  Robin was doin
g the math in her head. A hundred metric tons of ore on that barge. Another hundred in the convoy Jini had blown off that dirt track beyond the fallen hardwood. At 3 percent, that would be six thousand kilos of rhenium. At five thousand dollars a kilo, right there would be thirty million dollars. Not even counting the molybdenum profit itself. No wonder Trevor Mulroney had been so furious at the loss. Or considered a few million euros a worthwhile investment to restore production.

  If it was all true.

  As Joseph stared broodingly down at hands that had once held beakers and chemicals instead of a bow and arrows, it was Michael who summed it up aloud. “What you’re saying is that once word got out of such a huge find, rhenium prices would tumble. Not to mention Kinshasa would hardly let Mulroney scoop that kind of profit at the price tag of a molybdenum concession. As things are now, Mulroney can stockpile the rhenium. Release it at will onto the world market. He could make billions. That enough of a motive for you, Robin?”

  Now Robin wished desperately her hands were free so that she could shut out what she was hearing. If only she could go back a few hours to when she still had absolute conviction of what was evil and what was good. And that she, Christina Robin Duncan, was fighting squarely on the side of good. Back to when her mission was a simple one.

  Catch a killer.

  Finish her contract.

  Earn a bonus.

  Save a small girl’s life.

  Looking at Michael, Robin demanded harshly, “You realize there’s not a shred of proof to back up any of this? That you’re asking me to take the word of an insurgent killer with every reason to lie against one of the most respected businessmen in the world?”

  “But I have proof.”

  The quiet conviction of Joseph’s words banished any last hope that Robin might still be permitted to slide away into yesterday’s certainty and ignorance. Reaching behind him, Joseph drew from the underbrush a briefcase, inexpensive, battered, caked in mud. As he snapped open its latches, his nephew stepped forward eagerly, juggling bow and arrows to shine Michael’s flashlight directly across its contents.