Cut to the Bone (33 page)

Richard was in the bathroom while Zain settled in the pub’s second room with their drinks. A pool table stood empty in the centre of the room. An old-fashioned jukebox against the wall. This could be a fun night out. Nostalgic, simple.

Zain missed his phone. He wanted to check his messages, update DCI Riley. Do some surfing while he waited.

Richard came back soon enough, looking more relaxed. He had removed his outer layers, revealing cords, a jumper and shirt. Zain saw the man clearly for the first time. He was younger than he’d first thought, probably late thirties, early forties. He had a short beard, a bit like Zain’s, dark brown, matching his dark eyes. His hair was cut short, but slick on top, giving him a trendy look.

Richard sat down and emptied his glass, prompting Zain to get him another beer.

‘You sure you don’t want something stronger?’ he said, returning with their drinks.

Richard shook his head, taking his beer from Zain and supping the top before putting his glass down. ‘I just needed that to steady myself,’ he said.

Richard looked towards the door leading to the main room before carrying on with his story. The customers in the main room were mainly old men and middle-aged couples.

‘It wasn’t all in one place,’ he said. ‘And I got about forty minutes on the computer, before his PA came back in.’

‘What wasn’t all in one place?’

Zain wanted to hurry the man, but he knew this was probably only the second time he had told his story to anyone. The first probably being Ruby.

‘The documents were a bit cryptic. They referred to trucks, jeeps. Also supplies, food, steel. It wasn’t anything that jumped out at me. But there was a lot of action over a three-day period. Dozens of emails saved in one folder. Some were short, confirming an action had taken place. Others more detailed, but again they kept referring to logistics. Numbers of vehicles used, supplies being moved around. They were all referring to the “Bunda project”, the “Bunda action”. I Googled on my phone, found it. Bunda is a small village near the Rwandan border. It’s been through every level of hell. The genocide in Rwanda spilled over into it. Then the civil wars. The mass atrocities on its civilian population. I asked myself why anyone would stay there.’

‘I’m guessing people have nowhere to go.’

‘Yes. And it’s their livelihood. The people were cheap labour for the mines surrounding Bunda. Mines rich in coltan. Do you know what coltan is?’

Zain shook his head.

‘Columbite-tantalite. That’s its proper name. It’s a metal ore more vital than gold and diamonds. Coltan is in practically every electrical device there is. It has something called tantalum in it. That’s what we use. Mobile phones, computers, PlayStations, iPads. Whatever people use these days, it needs coltan chips. And most of us don’t even have a clue where so much of it comes from.’

‘The Congo?’

‘They say about sixty per cent of the world’s coltan is there. No one knows exactly how much, the place is such a mess. You don’t go in and do geographical surveys. DRC is the third biggest producer at the moment, shipping its dirty gains all over the place. China, India, Europe. All the surging economies and developed countries, using metal picked from the carcasses of the poorest.’

Zain let his eyes wander around the room. The world was full of depressing, monumental crap. People got screwed over; the system was fucked. What was an individual against all that?

‘How is KNG involved?’ he said.

‘They own coltan mines around Bunda. It’s their secret little enclave. I found all this out afterwards, not while I was in Cain’s office. What I found there was the name Pierre Sese. He had signed off on something. I did a search in Cain’s files, and found a contract. Pierre Sese giving KNG access to the coltan mines. In return for money, trucks, food, steel, all sorts.’

‘A business deal?’

‘Of sorts. You see, I found afterwards that KNG bought the mines from Sese at a knockdown price. Less than ten per cent of their value in actual terms. What they gave him on top was what he needed.’

Zain could guess what Richard was about to reveal.

‘You know why he needed all that? To help his militias. They went marauding around the countryside, butchering, enslaving, burning. They killed hundreds, everyone they didn’t like, indulging in ethnic cleansing. It’s all in a UNICEF report, Amnesty too. All official, documenting the crimes they are accused of.’

Richard laughed. ‘You know there’s a child, the only survivor of a small village. Fifty-nine people died there in one night. Apart from this nine-year-old boy. Jean Paul Motumbo. And they say he’s lucky.’

‘Lucky how?’

‘He survived. He was hidden in the rafters of the roof, the only one small enough in his family to hide there. He watched as Sese’s men butchered his parents. Jean Paul’s three brothers – twelve, thirteen and fifteen – were in the room. Sese took them, to turn them into killing machines. And they say Jean Paul is lucky.’

Zain felt sick. Images floated through his head. Anger followed. He wanted to hurt the people that did this.

‘Have you got these documents?’ he said.

‘No, only what I could print out. Cain’s computers are all local area networked. Only an encrypted USB stick can be used on it, otherwise the system crashes. He has no internet connection to it.’

‘How did his machine get hit, then?’

‘The DOS attacked the network, like a domino effect. It hit the LAN eventually.’

‘What about the emails?’

‘They were sent to another computer, possibly his phone or a laptop. He must have uploaded them. Or his PA did.’

‘So you couldn’t send anything to yourself? Or save anything onto a memory stick?’

‘No. I know from the documents that I saw that for three days in particular, KNG were driving those fucking bastards from village to village and supporting them as they tore that place apart. Sese’s men and what they did . . .’

‘How do you know for sure?’

‘I tied it together. The emails, the contract. The reports. You know KNG sold some of the coltan mines back to the DRC government in Kinshasa? They sold them at a profit of twenty-three times what they paid for them. Robbery under the African sun, like fucking colonialism. The DRC government bought them back because, years ago, KNG were logistically helping the current government in their war, when they were militias. It’s like a poisonous cycle, militias rising up, slaughtering everyone in their way, getting into power. And when in power, they help the men that backed them on their way up. And KNG? Companies like that hedge their bets, support every side. They buy their mines cheap, and then sell them back at huge profits. And it’s done legitimately, for everyone to see. And nobody does anything about it.’

‘What can an individual do against what you described?’ said Zain.

‘It’s funny, isn’t it? Here we are, two grown men. And neither of us can see a way to fight that, to change it. Insurmountable. That’s what it felt like to me. The more I researched, the worse it got, and the more powerless I felt. And then I came across the Joseph Kony video.’

‘I remember hearing about the video.
Kony 2012,
wasn’t it?’

‘It was made by an American director, Jason Russell. He and two of his fellow college students set up a charity, Invisible Children, Inc. Its main purpose was to expose the war crimes and recruitment of child soldiers by the Ugandan warlord Joseph Kony. That’s what the
Kony 2012
video did; it got their message heard, started a momentum.’

‘And you thought . . .’

‘Yes. I thought of Ruby. And she had enough guts for a million men.’

Zain started to see it all then, as everything fell into place for him. He understood what had happened. How the anguished Richard Brown, too scared to go to the police, worried about getting directly embroiled in a situation that might put his kids in jeopardy, had instead turned to Ruby Day. And how that young girl, barely out of her teens, was ready to stand up in a way that had put her directly in the path of whatever had taken her. The people that had killed her. The same people that were going to kill Richard.

PART FIVE

THE DIRTY GAME

Chapter Ninety-four

Zain had driven through the rain, which started as a drizzle and soon became heavy. Car lights blurred around him, as though he was seeing them through refracted glass. It was midnight before he got to Regus House. The office was empty, the automated lights all off. They flickered into life as he walked to his desk, grabbed what he needed and headed back out.

DCI Raymond Cross, his old boss from SO15, was waiting for Zain outside Westminster Cathedral on Victoria Street.

Traffic was still flowing, and a crowd made their way to the all-night bus station on Terminus Place. This road would never see peace, or an hour when no one was wandering along its pavements. Imagine living with a neighbour that played loud music or banged on the walls 24/7.

DCI Cross and Zain sat on the steps leading up to the cathedral doors. Its red and white brickwork reflected shades of orange from the street lamps. Zain was wearing jeans, boots, a burgundy shirt and his short black jacket.

Cross was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, tie done up neatly. Flasher coat. At least he wasn’t wearing his trademark ‘man from Del Monte’ hat, his silver hair neatly combed. Strangers could never mistake him for being anything but a cop.

‘How are you?’ he said.

‘Just fine, sir. Thank you,’ said Zain.

‘How are you getting on with Riley?’

‘Everything’s great, sir.’

‘She’s quite something. You slept with her yet?’

‘No, sir. Not yet.’

‘Working on it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘She knock you back?’

Zain didn’t like to think it was him saying no. Objectively, Kate Riley was stunning. Not model beautiful, but the sort of beauty that was more about her attitude, the way she carried herself. The steel in her blue eyes. The respect she engendered in her team. There was something about women like that, women in control of their own destinies.

She was his type, completely.

‘I have a lot of respect for her, sir.’

Cross laughed. He took out a cigar. Cuban, expensive. Zain remembered, as the familiar smoke surrounded him. He knew in daylight it would be blue-grey. It smelled like the old pub he had met Richard Brown in.

‘What made you call me tonight, then?’ said Cross.

‘I need your help. I need experts, and I need them to do something quickly. I need SO15, and I need their . . . friends.’

‘What have you got?’ said Cross.

‘Ruby Day’s hard drives,’ said Zain.

Cross enjoyed his cigar for a minute, the silence between them filled with the traffic and shouting voices.

‘Harry Cain is involved,’ said Zain.

Zain thought he heard the cogs in Cross’s head turn. You didn’t have to explain to a man like DCI Raymond Cross; he would put the pieces into place in his head.

It had been the same when he had recruited Zain.

Zain had been a radicalised, lonely teenager. He had been friendless, mixed-up and lacking identity, and gone to find one. Back then, 9/11 had just happened, and he was the first cohort to be brainwashed online. His mother had a choice between thousands of Hindu gods and the Muslim one, and chose none. His father was lapsed from his own Christianity. They believed in love and humanism.

Zain, the multicultural conundrum, was an easy target for men who knew how to prey on the vulnerable. Luckily for him, Cross had called. Zain had helped Special Branch, as they were. And in the process had saved himself, and let Cross rescue him.

He looked at Cross now, both men bonded by something deeper than they could ever articulate.

‘You ever wonder what we do this for?’ Cross said.

‘Always,’ said Zain.

‘Look at that. That man is barely able to walk in a straight line and, look, there you go.’

Zain watched as the drunken man Cross referred to walked to a tree on the edge of the cathedral courtyard and pissed against it.

‘Like a fucking dog,’ said Cross.

The man started shouting to his friends, running after them before he had finished or zipped up.

‘He had the freedom to do that, sir,’ said Zain. ‘That’s worth something.’

‘You still think we are free?’ said Cross.

‘In a way, yes. We are part of a system that suspends actual freedom, I am aware of that. On a daily basis, in the little parts of life, people have the sense they are free at least.’

‘And you think it’s a fair price?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t take you back,’ said Cross.

Zain froze, the reference to his captivity and its aftermath like ice. ‘I understand, sir. You fixed my occupational health report. Gave Hope glowing references. That was enough.’

‘You’re a good officer. You proved yourself. I just couldn’t put you at risk again, not until you’re ready.’

Don’t feel it, he told himself. But it was too late. Cross had pulled the scab, and the fresh blood of hope was trickling out.

‘It’s fine. This team is a good place to be.’

‘And Hope?’

‘He knows. About the doctored OH report,’ said Zain.

‘Not from me,’ said Cross quickly.

‘He wanted a favour in return. I did some things for him, during this investigation.’

‘Such as?’

‘I changed a despatch call. And I gave him updates on Riley when he wanted.’

The cogs were turning again.

‘You see, Zain, on one side of that coin, you have betrayed Riley. On the other, you now have something on Hope.’

Zain didn’t reply. Instead, he reached for the plastic bags next to him. They were clear packets, containing metal boxes.

‘These are Ruby’s hard drives. From her laptop and her desktop. I need them analysed. There’s evidence of someone hiding deleted files by overwriting them. I need them located, but don’t have the right tools. And Forensics will take weeks, if they can do it at all.’

‘What are we looking for?’

‘A video or files. Anything relating to KNG and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Specifically coltan mining and Pierre Sese.’

‘The warlord?’