Congo Dawn Read online

  “Chris R. Duncan, sir, reporting for duty.” Robin pointed to an unchecked name on his clipboard, giving the official appellation lettered across her Ares Solutions credentials. “Right there. I’m the team linguist contracted for this operation.”

  “But you’re a woman!”

  The statement was so obvious, this time it was Robin who blinked. Trevor Mulroney and Pieter Krueger had hardly been alone in this group to remark on her gender. An inevitable by-product of her career choice, the murmurs, sly glances, guffaws of laughter, and occasional crude pickup lines from her male companions had trailed Robin all the way from Nairobi. Which was precisely why Robin’s own unisex beige slacks and button-up shirt were of sturdier material than this equatorial setting called for and deliberately on the baggy side, her oval features naked of cosmetics, red-gold hair scraped back into a bun tight enough for a Victorian spinster.

  Or a female Marine on patrol. “Yes, of course I’m a—”

  A forefinger stabbed at the clipboard. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, lady. But I hired a trained soldier with combat experience for this job. Maybe you didn’t bother checking, but this is the Congo. And we’re not headed to some neat little UN compound, but a war zone.”

  Trevor Mulroney shuffled aside his list to pull out a single-sheet computer printout. “I’ve got here a Chris R. Duncan, age twenty-seven, served as a lieutenant in the US Marine Corps before going freelance PMC. Specialty: languages. Conversant in six, including French and Swahili. Combat experience includes one tour of duty in Afghanistan. While there, received the Medal of Honor for conspicuous bravery under fire. Since I’m well aware the Americans don’t permit women in combat units, that was a particularly careless mistake. Your next mistake is that I have long-term business ties in Nairobi, Kenya, and I recognize this name. A Colonel Christopher Robert Duncan commanded the US embassy Marine unit there back in ’98 at the time of—”

  “—the American embassy bombing,” Robin finished quietly.

  Trevor Mulroney stared at her. “That’s right. This Chris R. Duncan must be the son. I assume that’s where he picked up his Swahili. Whether or not you do speak the language, next time you’re going for a fake résumé, I’d pick a less conspicuous family record to hijack.”

  Let’s not leave out Grandpa Brigadier General Christopher Robert Duncan and Great-Granddaddy Major General Christopher Robert Duncan. If the blood had left Robin’s face, it was not just the mention of Nairobi, but because she’d recognized the young, thin face under a Marine dress uniform cap stapled to the top right corner of the printout. Swallowing with difficulty, she shook her head.

  “You have the bio right. You just have the wrong Chris R. Duncan in the picture. My younger brother, Christopher Robert Duncan, also served briefly in the Marines. Personnel was constantly mixing up our files. But Christopher was still a private when he was . . . when he lost his life in the line of duty in Afghanistan.”

  Robin didn’t allow the sudden tightening of her throat to affect the evenness of her tone. “The rest of the bio is mine, I can assure you. You’re right that the US military doesn’t assign women to combat units. But lines get blurred in places like Afghanistan, and the Afghans don’t take kindly to foreign males interacting with their womenfolk. I was part of what they called a ‘female-engagement team,’ attached to combat units as liaisons to the 50 percent of Afghans who happen to be women. The medal—I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  A very wrong place at the absolute worst moment of her life.

  Firmly, Robin went on. “I apologize if your fact-checkers mixed my military records with my brother’s. But a quick check will confirm I am the actual former Marine lieutenant, Christina Robin Duncan, hired for the position of team linguist. Though in civilian life I prefer to go by Robin. As to being a woman, I make no apologies for that. I am very good at what I do. I’ve been freelancing as a linguist for any number of private security firms for the past four years. Including your own, most recently. Which is why I assume I was offered a generous incentive to transfer from the Haiti UN contract at a moment’s notice. As requested, I took the first available flight to Nairobi to meet up with the rest of your team. They wouldn’t be meeting this flight if I hadn’t been along as translator.” Perhaps a slight stretch of the truth.

  Mulroney checked her name on the clipboard, signaling at least temporary surrender, but his nod was brusque. “Well, I can hardly leave you here, so get aboard. But believe me, I’ll be contacting Ares Solutions HQ just as soon as we reach Bunia. Bottom line, I don’t care if you’re who you say. Rendezvousing with burqas in Afghanistan hardly qualifies as combat experience in my book. I don’t know what idea you have about this op, but it’s not some translation gig for a bunch of State Department tourists masquerading as a UN fact-finding detail. We’re not looking at just a chance of fighting; it’s a certainty. I simply can’t afford to waste resources or transport for anyone who can’t protect themselves, much less take the fight to the enemy.”

  “I can assure you I’m quite capable, not only of protecting myself, but of doing the task of a combat soldier if need be.”

  “And I can personally testify the lady has not exaggerated her language qualifications. Surely, old friend, for such a pretty little bokkie, you can make an exception here.”

  Robin’s reaction to an arm suddenly wrapped around her shoulders was as unplanned as it was immediate and automatic. Bending abruptly forward, she twisted her body sharply. Even as she broke free from that uninvited embrace, a large male frame flipped head over heels to land with a thud that kicked up a cloud of red dirt. Before her assailant could move, Robin’s knee was pinning down his breastbone, the razor-sharp blade of a knife she’d yanked from a certain discreet inner pocket of her right boot pressed against his Adam’s apple.

  Trevor Mulroney’s reaction was as swift as Robin’s, the Uzi machine pistol jumping to his grip as he ordered curtly, “Drop it!”

  But Robin was already rising gracefully to her feet, her knife disappearing back into its hidden sheath. Gaping faces of her teammates crowded in the plane’s doorway or pressed themselves to the portholes as Pieter Krueger scrambled to his own feet. Beyond him, Michael Stewart, still loading packages into the cargo hold, had straightened up to watch the exchange, his tawny gaze unreadable.

  “So you can defend yourself.” Trevor Mulroney slid his Uzi back into its holster. The Oakley sunglasses shifted toward Pieter Krueger. “Though you, Krueger, I remember as a whole lot faster. I certainly hope I haven’t chosen the wrong man to handle combat operations on this mission.”

  Savage fury had wiped the smile from Krueger’s good-looking features. He glared at Robin as he brushed red dust from his clothing. “She couldn’t do that again with fair warning.”

  “That’s rather the point, isn’t it?” Robin responded sweetly. Here was the time to lay down those hard boundaries. “Don’t ever touch me again without my permission!”

  An unexpected smattering of applause greeted her ultimatum, and Robin registered expressions of approval and respect among her travel companions. The Ares Solutions operations manager could respond with anger or shrug it off as a joke. He chose the latter, hands spreading wide in capitulation, handsome features once again displaying an arrogant grin as he called out, “Okay, boys, she caught me fair and square. Now you know here’s one bokkie who doesn’t mess around, so watch your hands.”

  Trevor Mulroney’s own smile was sardonic as he returned his gaze to Robin. “If you’re as competent with your other duties, maybe I should reconsider requesting a replacement. Since language skills like yours are in short supply and Krueger here vouches for your credentials. Now if you two are finished, let’s get this show on the road.”

  Pieter Krueger brushed past Robin up the steps and into the plane without glancing her way again. Retrieving her knapsack and tossing her duffel bag into the cargo bay, Robin followed. As Michael Stewart and Trevor Mulroney ducked through the
door behind her, a man in the uniform of a UN contract pilot stepped out from the cockpit to tug up the steps. Russian or maybe Ukrainian by his coloring and features. A safe-enough guess since much of the UN air fleet was contracted from the former Soviet Union.

  The aircraft cabin was narrow, just two seats on either side of the aisle, but with only their team aboard, there was ample room to spread out. Robin ignored renewed applause as she threaded past her teammates.

  Not all were applauding.

  Robin caught a cold and humorless blue gaze from Pieter Krueger, then a somber glance from Michael as he slid into an empty row. Settling into a window seat, Robin tamped down a hysterical giggle. Or was it a sob? She’d laid down the necessary boundaries, but she’d also clearly made an enemy. And was it just ghastly coincidence, deliberate manipulation, or some twisted cosmic sense of humor that had brought her together in this place with the one man on the planet she’d never wanted to see again?

  I don’t believe in coincidence. And I’m not important enough for God to waste humor on me. But I sure can’t see Michael manipulating something like this either, since he can hardly want to see me any more than I want to see him. Especially after all these years. If I’d just remembered he came from anywhere near this part of the continent, I’d have turned down this contract, no matter how big the bonus.

  No, you wouldn’t! Robin released a pent-up breath as the plane’s twin propellers roared back to life. It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. Only the job she was here to do.

  Robin had come to this place and time for one purpose only. And not to fight some war. She was here to save the life of the only person Robin still permitted to wrap warm fingers around her frozen heartstrings.

  A precious redheaded four-year-old whose birth certificate bore her own name of Christina Robin Duncan.

  Fortune favors the bold.

  The axiom was one by which Trevor Mulroney had steered his life. Now only the boldest course would salvage the fortune to which that life had been dedicated.

  Mulroney unhooked an intercom mike as the twin prop picked up speed down the airstrip. All over the plane cabin, bodies were slumped, seats tilted back in defiance of takeoff protocol, eyes closed, earbuds tucked in—the universal posture of off-duty warriors. His new team looked exactly like what he’d ordered. None, by their résumés, the squeamish sort. All with extensive freelance experience in fighting Africa’s dirty wars.

  Except the woman.

  Whether Lt. Chris R. Duncan proved a problem or an asset, time would reveal. Since he had far more pressing problems to address, Trevor Mulroney simply made a mental note to roll a few heads in his latest acquisition’s human resource department as he announced, “Welcome to the Congo. We’ll be hitting the ground running in about ninety minutes, so make the most of your siesta. There should be drinks and snacks somewhere. Feel free to forage.”

  By the time Mulroney replaced the mike, his new employees were already mobbing the galley area normally graced by a flight attendant. Mulroney ignored the breach of airline protocol as he ducked into the cockpit. Any of this bunch who couldn’t keep their feet during a flight takeoff might as well break a leg now and not waste a slot on his team.

  The ground was now receding quickly. Dropping into the co­pilot’s seat, the Earth Resources CEO connected a Bluetooth earpiece to his satellite phone’s video feed and punched in a number. The UN pilot raised no objection to this fresh violation of procedure. Nor did Mulroney worry about eavesdropping. Communicating flight arrangements had already stretched the Russian’s limited English, and from the rhythm with which the pilot jigged in his seat, his headset was currently broadcasting a Congolese soukous band, not flight data.

  “Mulroney, you old son of a gun, good to hear from you. But what’s so urgent to drag me from a Pentagon brunch before the coffee’s poured? And what in seven shakes of a bull’s tail are y’all doing over there in the DRC? Figured you’d be at Buckingham Palace getting gussied up for the queen. I’m told we’ll be calling you Sir Trevor any day now. Congratulations.”

  Trevor Mulroney didn’t ask how the gray-haired Caucasian male grinning up from his satphone screen had on tap Mulroney’s current GPS coordinates from six time zones back across the Atlantic. Instead he bared porcelain caps in a smile that conveyed none of the mingled resentment and contempt he felt for his virtual companion. Resentment because this man on the screen had attained the pinnacle of multibillion, multinational power and wealth that was his own sole life ambition. Contempt because he had reached that pinnacle by sheer accident of birth, not scrabbling after it as Mulroney had by his own wits and courage and hard work.

  “Since when did you start getting your news from the tabloids? Yes, it’s true the nomination made the final cut. But nothing firm from Her Majesty yet.”

  In reality, whatever his passport indicated, Trevor Mulroney considered himself no more British than his virtual companion was the homegrown cowboy the man’s exaggerated drawl affected. The Earth Resources CEO had reached his adult growth in Rhodesia back before its ungrateful black majority insisted on throwing off benevolent European rule. His ambition then had not extended beyond taking over his family’s sizable tobacco holdings and enjoying a white man’s life of privilege in Africa. To preserve that heritage, he’d fought bitterly like every other patriotic white Rhodesian in Prime Minister Ian Smith’s Bush War.

  Mulroney had still been in his teens when he first met the man on the satphone screen. A freshman diplomatic attaché at the US embassy in Rhodesia’s capital city of Salisbury, now renamed Harare, Howard Marshall came from a family tree as close to aristocratic as his own democratic nation claimed. For generations, its members had walked the halls of power in Washington, DC, built business empires across their own country and abroad. The clan had spawned senators, ambassadors, national intelligence directors, and at least one president. A young Trevor Mulroney had supplied some usable intel to the freshman diplomat. The swiftness with which a certain troublesome native political activist disappeared had confirmed Mulroney’s own suspicions that Howard Marshall was far from a simple attaché.

  Ian Smith had in the end, of course, lost his war. Once Rhodesia abolished white rule in 1980, renaming itself Zimbabwe, the Mulroneys had joined an angry exodus back to their original citizen­ship country, Britain. With no professional training other than managing a vanished family estate, Trevor Mulroney had parlayed his bush-fighting experience into a career with the elite British Special Air Service. He’d served with enough distinction to earn a commendation for valor during the first Persian Gulf War before leaving the SAS for what he still considered his true home, sub-Saharan Africa. With a motley assortment of South Africans, Rhodesians, Algerians, and other white mercenaries left disfranchised by black in­dependence in their nations, he’d fought his way across Africa in conflicts from Angola and the Congo to Sierra Leone and Equatorial Guinea. Eventually he’d founded his own private military company, named unsubtly after the Greek god of war: Ares Solutions.

  Meanwhile, Howard Marshall had followed the usual family track up the rungs of power. While eschewing elected office, he’d served in various State Department positions, including embassy appointments across sub-Saharan Africa, a region in which the Marshall clan had accumulated extensive oil and mining shareholdings. The two men had kept in touch, Marshall throwing Ares Solutions the occasional security contract bone while Mulroney handled several discreet operations for certain unnamed contacts of Marshall’s. But by the 1990s, white mercenaries running Africa’s civil wars had fallen from popularity.

  Mulroney sold off Ares Solutions to a British SAS buddy just in time to miss the post–9/11 private security bonanza of Iraq and Afghanistan. Not that he’d suffered financially, because what his clients hadn’t paid him in hard cash, he’d accepted in mineral options.

  By the time his SAS buddy was racking up millions securing embassies and shepherding convoys, Trevor Mulroney had notched his first billion in diamonds, gold, a
nd coltan and had sunk his first oil well off the Equatorial Guinea coast. Ranked now as one of Britain’s ten wealthiest business tycoons, he’d long since shed his Rhodesian accent, and no one but the tabloids had the gumption to bring up his colonial origins or the dubious foundation of Earth Resources, Ltd.

  When his former SAS buddy had decided to cash in and find a tropical beach to enjoy his new wealth, Trevor Mulroney had seized the opportunity to return the private military company to his own assets portfolio. Not out of personal nostalgia, either. Mulroney had his own vision for what a new and improved Ares Solutions could offer this planet.

  And his own interests.

  Howard Marshall was by this time firmly ensconced in his own nation’s capital, where he’d served a stint as CIA director for one administration, ambassador to the UN for another. He currently chaired the Strategic Forum on Sub-Saharan Africa, a think tank dedicated to the profitable development of Africa’s vast natural resources. All without neglecting the defense industry consortium that was a specialty of his own particular family branch.

  Because one empire was never enough for such a man, Howard Marshall had also invested generously in the industry’s newest mineral development consortium, Earth Resources, its own specialty the always-growing list of rare earth minerals so essential to twenty-first-century technology, including many of the Marshall clan’s commercial ventures.

  Trevor Mulroney would be happy enough with the single empire he possessed. He could only hope his virtual companion had not yet turned his intrusive nose to sniffing out just how shaky that dominion really was. Who could have anticipated the recent revolt that closed down Equatorial Guinea’s oil production the same week Earth Resources sank its first well? And those ridiculous “conflict mineral” embargoes might have been designed to target a map of Mulroney’s own mineral concessions.