Congo Dawn Page 8

  “Done. For now. But I must see the fifty thousand in cash before I will give orders to allow your cargo plane across the border.”

  Trevor Mulroney was smiling affably, but his own cold, blue gaze held no corresponding humor as he addressed Wamba directly. “So you speak English. Forgive me for having brought a translator for all our meetings to date. If I’d been aware—”

  The lift of wide shoulders held no apology. “I was in exile for many years in Uganda and Kenya. A wise man does not neglect to learn the language of his hosts. But sometimes it is useful to listen to a person’s words when he does not know they are understood.”

  From Mulroney’s suddenly wooden expression, Robin knew he had to be wondering if he’d said anything in English he wouldn’t have wanted Governor Wamba to understand. The militia commander’s own stare shifted for the first time to Robin. A sudden display of strong, white teeth proved more fearsome than his frown. “Though since you will need her no longer, I will take your translator as my profit instead. I have never possessed a woman with hair like fire before.”

  Without warning, Wamba reached out to grasp a red-gold strand that had somehow escaped Robin’s cap. It was not the first time such a thing had happened to Robin. In her childhood, the African villagers­ had been as fascinated by tresses the shade of sunset as she was by their own tight, black curls. But never then had she felt as violated as though the man had laid hands on her body. She dared not move, could barely force air into her lungs.

  So far today she’d been infuriated by the border outpost ­commander. Annoyed by Pieter Krueger’s antics. Distressed at Michael’s reappearance. But never frightened.

  Robin was afraid now, this uniformed giant with his cold, dead eyes and rivers of blood on his hands without question the most terrifying, dangerous human being she’d ever encountered. Surprise tactics such as she’d used on Krueger would have no impact on that massive frame, and their small team could not begin to defy Wamba’s combat force should the Congolese warlord choose to carry out his threat. There wasn’t even any appeal. This man was the law here. The only law, accustomed to doing as he chose, taking what he wanted.

  Which didn’t keep rustles and angry murmurs from sweeping through the Ares Solutions team. Weapons went up immediately among Wamba’s militia. The mounted machine guns swiveled. Shadows froze. All but one quick, hard step behind Robin. Michael Stewart. And though he alone here bore no weapon, there was something equally dangerous in the tautness of muscle, the coiled-spring tension of his body language, as he stated flatly, “No disrespect intended, Governor Wamba, but that isn’t going to happen.”

  That fearsome smile did not waver. But to Robin’s surprise, and her relief, the militia commander released her hair strand. “She is your woman, then, Doctor? You had only to say so. A doctor who can heal my kidneys is of greater worth to me than any woman.”

  “She’s no one’s woman,” Trevor Mulroney interjected smoothly. “At least not here. But since your men don’t speak English, I’m still going to need her services. In any case, you don’t want this woman, however unique. I’ve seen her take one of my best fighters down with a knife to his throat.” He jerked a thumb toward Pieter Krueger, behind him. “A man would be a fool to permit so dangerous a weapon near one’s bed.”

  As Governor Wamba’s smile abruptly left his face, Robin could almost hear a collectively suspended breath. Then the governor burst out laughing. “I possessed such a woman once. And you are right. Since I am no fool, I will leave you with your translator.”

  At Wamba’s shout in Swahili, his troops broke formation and began piling back into their vehicles. Trevor Mulroney swung around on Robin. “Duncan, you’re dismissed.”

  Still shaken, Robin retreated to the pile of unloaded bags. Michael did not follow but spun around on a heel to head across the tarmac toward the Cessna. Its pilot hurried forward to meet him, a folding dolly over his shoulder. Presumably the connecting flight Michael had mentioned. MAF was lettered on the Cessna’s tail. Robin was well acquainted with Mission Aviation Fellowship, a Christian humanitarian organization. Since MAF’s intrepid volunteer pilots were usually last out of a combat zone and first back in, Robin had recently accompanied UN fact-finding contracts on MAF flights in both Haiti and Sudan when commercial airlines were still refusing to resume service.

  The Earth Resources CEO huddled in conversation with Governor Wamba only briefly before the huge warlord refolded himself into the Hummer. Mulroney’s affable expression evaporated as he strode back toward the plane. “That was not in the mission plan! Once that C-130 arrives, let’s make sure we’re not caught again with our pants down.”

  When he turned to Robin, his tone was more censorious. “As for you, Duncan, this is precisely why I don’t hire women for the field. I’m heading into town with Wamba. Got to scare up some cash and make some plans. I shouldn’t be long. For the rest of you, the airport is closed since there are no further scheduled flights today. And you won’t be here long enough to warrant troubling our neighbors for hospitality.”

  Mulroney nodded toward the huge white and sky-blue development they’d flown over upon landing. Down here on the tarmac, one could see the airport was actually two complexes. Chain-link and concertina wire fencing closed off a profusion of helicopters, personnel carriers, and a large cargo plane, all with the white and sky-blue markings that screamed UN. On the Congolese side, the only aircraft currently visible outside a small terminal and hangars was the MAF Cessna.

  Mulroney had turned his frown from Robin to the UN complex. “Especially since our peacekeeping buddies over there have been less than helpful to our mission thus far. And they have a certain—well, let’s just say a negative attitude about gun-toting professionals coming into their territory who aren’t under their command. We’d never have got this charter flight if I hadn’t assured them it would be ferrying unarmed noncombatants.”

  His frown became a grin as a blue glance swept over the Ares Solutions team’s mysteriously materialized hand weapons. “In any case, you’ll have to make yourselves comfortable in that hangar over there until I make some arrangements. Duncan, you may need to translate if you run into a guard. Just watch yourself. Any more incidents like this and you’re on the next plane out, no matter what your credentials. Oh, and deal with that hair. Paint it brown or something. Around here, it’s a red flag to a bull.”

  The Earth Resources CEO’s thin pun as he flapped a hand toward Robin’s head brought chuckles from her teammates. Robin was not amused. And Neanderthal attitudes like yours are why jobs like this get complicated. None of you have to hide who you are to do your job!

  But a fair universe was something Robin had long given up expecting. Instead she wordlessly tucked the offending strand under her cap as Mulroney strode back to the Hummer. The convoy was roaring away by the time she’d shouldered her duffel bag to trudge after her teammates toward the indicated hangar. The UN plane was now taxiing toward its own quarters. Robin’s occasional glance as she crossed the tarmac followed Michael and his tall friend trundling the trolley piled high with packages toward the Cessna. But she caught neither man looking back, and just as the Ares Solutions team reached the hangar, a whine of propellers rose behind them.

  Robin turned to watch a red-and-white bird shape speed down the tarmac. Lifting off, it banked west.

  So Dr. Michael Stewart had exited her life as quickly and definitely as he’d reentered it.

  The hangar proved to be a completely empty metallic shed resting on a concrete pad, the doors standing wide open at both ends, which permitted a clear view of the chain-link fence dividing the airport from the city of Bunia beyond. The only life Robin spotted beyond her own team was a handful of guards lounging in the shade of the terminal and hangars. A breeze whistling through the open doors offered scant relief to the equatorial heat beating down on the metal shell. Robin could be thankful for her foresight in seizing on the amenities of the UN plane. There was more than one disadvantage to bein
g the only female on a field team.

  But at least there was shade, and her teammates were already discarding their burdens and making themselves comfortable. Pieter Krueger had ignored Robin since their earlier run-in. But Robin remained leery enough to drift over next to the more innocuous Carl as she slid her own luggage to the concrete. Carl was looking patently miserable, narrow features behind metal-rimmed glasses pink from heat and sunburn, his unkempt hair and clothing dark with sweat. He’d deposited a wheeled travel bag on the concrete. But he kept his computer case hugged tightly to his chest as he wandered toward the rear of the hangar, where he could look out through the chain-link fence.

  “Are we really locked up in here? I’m dying of thirst! And hungry! I never did manage to purchase anything back there at the border. It looks like there’s shops over there. There’s got to be a way we can get out there to buy some food and drinks.”

  Another indication the Shaggy clone had minimal field experience. Stepping up beside him, Robin dug into her own knapsack to pull out one of several water bottles she’d stowed there along with a trail mix bar. She handed both to Carl, then dug out another water bottle for herself. Rule of thumb on the road: always carry on your body enough basic survival supplies to endure at least forty-eight hours if caught by landslide, flood, canceled flight, political coup, hostage situation. Or just poor planning and careless hosts, as now.

  “Hey, thanks!” Carl Jensen was already tearing into the trail mix bar, gulping the water.

  Not yet opening her own bottle, Robin studied the dusty, sunlit panorama beyond the perimeter fence. The regional overview Robin had skimmed on the plane listed Bunia’s sprawl as encompassing more than a quarter-million residents. But the airport complex was on the city fringe, and most of what she could see beyond the fence was open pasture, tilled fields, and scattered thatched huts. A dirt road led to a graveled parking area outside the exit end of the small terminal. Across the road a few buildings and market stalls presumably offered food and drink to deplaning passengers.

  Or catered to the residents of the UN complex. A more sizable populace filling a nearby field behind more chain-link fence, concertina wire, and neat rows of tents would not have cash for such purchases. Robin had seen its replica recently enough in Haiti for instant identification.

  A UN refugee camp.

  A painted mural displaying diamonds and gold jewelry above one storefront explained Bunia’s size, despite its virtual isolation except by air. According to that overview, the hills around this plateau were rich in gold, coltan, and other minerals. In more peaceful times, the city’s mineral trade had been the bedrock of its economy. More recently, the region’s natural resources were both target and financier of tribal militias, government forces, and neighboring occupiers alike. Chief among the latter were the Ugandans who had entered eastern Congo more than a decade back, ostensibly as peacekeepers, but accused of allying with various militias in return for mineral payments.

  Including the eventual victor, Bunia’s current governor, Jean Pierre Wamba.

  Still, when international pressure finally ousted Ugandan forces from Bunia in 2003, the outcome had not been peace, but a bloodbath that ripped Ituri province apart. Hundreds of thousands more were left displaced from burned-out homes and fields. Many of them, all these years later, still occupying that UN refugee camp across the way.

  Michael’s own childhood home had been among the burned-out communities, by his brief comments. And his parents had been there during the attack. Did Michael have any living family left? Robin shook off that line of thought, refusing to allow memories of Michael to dog her.

  The arrival of an unscheduled flight had inevitably attracted attention. Uneasy glances at a strolling airport guard did not keep a group of locals from drifting over to where they could peer through the fence into the open hangar. And not to pitch a sale. The moment the guard disappeared around a corner, a large woman in a bright-yellow pagne and matching turban broke away from the pack.

  “Please, my daughter is blind. She has not eaten in days. I need money for medicine. Have mercy, for the love of God!” Though she spoke in French, her upward cupped palm, the bandage covering the eyes of a small child she thrust against the fence, needed no translation.

  “Would you look at that poor kid!” From Robin’s side, Carl Jensen left the shade of the hangar door. As he hurried toward the fence, he reached into his computer case. The handful of bills he pulled out were American dollars, almost as easily cashed in the DRC as Congolese francs.

  Catching Carl’s action, Robin started immediately after him. “Are you out of your mind? What do you think you’re doing?”

  But she was too late. Carl had already thrust the bills through the chain links toward the woman.

  As though the action were a signal, the entire group surged forward. Unlike the perimeter defenses protecting the UN complex, the fencing here only reached Robin’s shoulder. A host of hands grabbing at Carl’s offering sent the bills flying. While some scrambled for the money, others were reaching through the chain links, between the barbed-wire strands. Their clutching grips pinned Carl against the fence as they snatched at his glasses, an iPod he’d tucked into a breast pocket, his computer bag.

  Reaching the fence, Robin wrestled the computer bag away, then tugged urgently to free Carl himself. The man clearly had no skills in self-defense. What was he doing on this team?

  A sharp burst of automatic gunfire brought Carl’s abrupt release. Two airport guards raced forward, though it was not their weapons that had fired into the air. The commotion had drawn the entire Ares Solutions team to crowd the hangar’s open rear doors. Glancing around, Robin caught the metallic sheen of an Uzi machine pistol disappearing back under the armpit of one of the gray-haired Vietnam vets.

  Ernie Miller, if Robin remembered their introductions correctly. She mouthed a thanks as she urged Carl back toward the hangar.

  The airport guards were now using the barrels of their rifles as battering rams against any remaining hands reaching through the fence. With shouts of pain and anger, the crowd fell back. The large woman who’d triggered the assault shook a furious fist toward the congregated Ares Solutions team, her broad, dark features under the bright-yellow turban twisted with hate. “You mzungus, you are all the same! You take and take and take and never give!”

  Then she did something startling. The angry fist became a forefinger sliding across her Adam’s apple in an unmistakable gesture of a slit throat before she pointed that finger at Carl. Not even the guards’ shouted threats stemmed her vituperation as the crowd drifted toward the marketplace.

  As soon as they were at a safe distance, the Ares Solutions team headed into the hangar, and Robin rounded on her companion. “Well, that went nicely! So is this your first freelance out of the playpen? Or are you just an all-weather idiot? Bottom line, you never give handouts to a beggar in a place like this! You don’t look at them. You don’t meet their eyes. Not unless you’ve got enough for everyone. Or a hankering to start a riot. You’re just lucky you didn’t get yourself killed out there. Or at best robbed blind!”

  Though Carl’s iPod was now gone, he’d managed to protect his glasses. Pale-blue eyes blinked rapidly as he adjusted the metal rims back in place. But sunburned features showed as little penitence as comprehension. “That’s pretty harsh, Ms. Duncan. So excuse me for making an effort to help a blind kid! I wouldn’t have pegged you of all people as so lacking in plain human compassion!”

  Why, because I’m a woman and therefore a pushover? Robin wanted to scream in defense. Do you know how long it took me not to care? To steel myself to walk past starving children and ignore a mother’s pleading eyes? But you can’t save everyone! And you’ll just break your heart trying! The only way to survive out here is to keep your mind on your own job. Worry about your own family. Your own survival. Maybe that’s how these people survive all this too. By focusing on their own lives. Their own next meal. Their own next breath.

 
Carl was still speaking, aggrieved. “And why’s that woman so angry? At me, anyway? I mean, I was the one trying to help. It was her own people who stole the money I gave her. We’re the good guys here, trying to restore order to this godforsaken place. So why take it out on me?”

  How did one disillusion such naiveté? Robin made an impatient gesture. “Just take a look at yourself.”

  Carl’s iPod might be gone, but one wrist still bore an expensive diver’s watch. A glint of gold chain was visible above a sweat-stained collar. His computer bag was of fine, burnished leather.

  “You’re carrying more on you, in that computer bag, in your luggage over there, than that woman’s likely to own in a lifetime. The money you so casually doled out as charity is more than she’ll see to feed her family for a month. Every day she watches rich foreigners walking off planes into her country to make their fortune off the backs of the Congolese. I mean, think about us. Sure, our op will hopefully restore some order. But let’s not forget we were hired first and foremost to restore mine production for a British billionaire. And we’ll be paid well for doing so. Nothing wrong with that. But from that woman’s POV, why should she see us as saviors instead of exploiters? Or feel any particular gratitude for the occasional crumbs that get tossed her way?”

  The other contractor could not have been far different in age from Robin herself. But at his change of expression, now bewildered and unhappy, Robin suddenly felt old enough to be his mother. More gently, she added, “Look, if it makes you feel any better, that woman wasn’t the real thing. Or her kid.”

  Carl didn’t appear convinced. “How would you know?”