Forcing herself forward, she moaned softly, feeling as if every muscle in her body had been bruised by the fall. But she kept pushing, trying to inch her way out as the heat and
smell
intensified. It felt as if the tunnel were closing in around her and, as the minutes passed, she could feel herself becoming weaker. The adrenalin was starting to fade, leaving her utterly exhausted. There was nothing left to give. All she wanted to do was lie still and finally let it all end.
She stopped, too drained to continue, but hands pushed against the soles of her feet. One of the miners was just behind her, shoving her on, desperate to get out of the hideous tunnel.
Up ahead, she could see a glimmer of light. The tunnel opening was only fifty feet further on, but instead of feeling elated, she suddenly felt a cold wash of fear. Then she realised why. The light wasn’t natural. It was coming from a torch beam.
Somehow the LRA had already found them.
FABRICE LET HIMSELF
into the back office of the Soleil Club and bolted the door behind him. It was 6.30 in the morning. He sniffed. The air was heavy with the familiar stench of spilled liquor and overflowing ashtrays.
Tables stood in a semicircle around the bar with half-filled glasses stacked on top. A strip light had shattered over one of the pool tables in the far corner, showering the red felt with splinters of glass and a thin coating of neon powder. Lying just next to the table was one of the pool cues. It had been snapped in half during a brawl, broken into a jagged spike.
Fabrice stared at the carnage, whistling softly to himself. He felt the soles of his tan loafers stick slightly to the concrete floor as he walked over to the bar. He had just showered and was looking fresh in a pair of pressed white slacks and a laundered cream shirt. Picking his way round a fallen bar stool, he found the youngest of his barmen fast asleep, with the side of his head slumped against the counter. Fabrice pulled him up by the neck of his T-shirt.
‘What’s their tab so far?’ he asked without preamble. He glanced across at the group of people sitting in the far corner near the dance floor. They had been drinking hard since early the previous night.
The young barman blinked several times, trying to galvanise his brain into action. He searched for his notepad, eventually finding it half-soaked in alcohol and lying on the floor next to his feet. His eyes scanned across the smudged pencil scrawls, trying to decipher what he had written.
‘I’m not exactly sure, sir,’ he stammered, ‘but Monsieur Étienne, he gave me this to cover the charges.’
He pulled a sweaty wad of US dollars out of his pocket.
‘There’s five hundred, sir.’
Fabrice nodded slowly.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Now get your ass out of here.’
As he made for the exit, Fabrice called after him: ‘And tell everyone I want this shit cleaned up by two this afternoon. No later.’
Leaving the notes where they lay, he reached down to a low drawer and pulled out a ten-year-old single malt whisky. Tucking his fingers into four glass tumblers, he slowly approached the group in the far corner.
Eleven men lay slumped in the low chairs together with a few of the club’s girls. Of the eleven, only three were still awake. They sat hunched over the low table with cigarette smoke curling up from an overflowing ashtray in the centre. The last of their drinks stood bunched up next to a near-empty bottle of cheap brandy, while on the far side of the table lay a rolled up fifty-franc Congolese note and a
discarded
credit card. Pressed into the plastic surface of the table were faint smudges of white powder.
As Fabrice approached, the men looked up with bloodshot eyes.
‘One on the house?’ he asked, raising the bottle. All of them were mercenaries with faces hardened from years of fighting. Despite their casual clothes and long hair, there was still something military about the way they sat and moved. They had spent the better part of their lives in the cruellest, most war-torn shitholes on the planet. And it showed in everything they did.
Jean-Luc Étienne was one of the three men still awake. He glanced up at Fabrice.
‘You’re a good man,’ he breathed, his voice rough from cigarettes. ‘It’s another beautiful day in Africa and we thought we’d spend it getting as drunk as shit.’
‘Wise man,’ Fabrice answered, pouring out a couple of drinks and handing one across. ‘This stuff should see you on your way. A little boom-boom never hurt anyone.’
He watched as Jean-Luc collected himself, then sniffed loudly. He grimaced as the remnants of cocaine burned his nostrils, making his nose run again. Wiping it with the back of his hand, he smiled at Fabrice.
‘You must be spoiling us,’ he said. ‘This is the good stuff. I thought you only brought it out for the diplomats.’ There was humour in his eyes, but Fabrice didn’t relax for a second. He knew that smile all too well and knew how capricious it could be. The drunken merc before him had a quick temper, and even quicker reflexes.
Fabrice raised his glass in a toast before slugging back the whisky. He didn’t usually drink this early in the morning, but this time it was worth making an exception.
‘Only the good stuff for my man. You been flying recently or those MONUC pricks got you grounded again?’
‘You know, Fabrice, you’re a fucking class act,’ Jean-Luc said, swaying slightly. He raised his glass and Fabrice dutifully refilled it, struggling to stop the whisky from washing over the rim as Jean-Luc’s hand shook. ‘Anyone gives you any shit, you come speak to me. You hear me, Fabrice? And by the way, I owe you one for letting us stay on in the bar last night.’
‘Any time.’
‘No, I’m serious. Some of my boys really needed a drink. I owe you one.’ Jean-Luc paused, his face draining of any trace of bonhomie. ‘And I always pay my debts. You got that?’ His cheeks reddened suddenly with anger. ‘You hear what I am saying? I pay my fucking debts.’
‘
Oui, je vous entends très bien
,’ Yes, I hear you very well, Fabrice replied calmly. ‘Why don’t you guys all have another shot? Get the good stuff while you can.’
He turned to the other two left conscious and sitting at the table, finding them deep in conversation. They were the pilots for the Rooivalk helicopter and since they had returned from their last sortie, the younger of the two, Anton, had done little else but chain smoke cigarettes and down shots. He had come in as the new rear-gunner pilot only five months ago, and at twenty-six years old was still new to the game. With short dark hair and a thin, wiry build, he looked
younger
than his age, with narrow brown eyes that darted continually from one thing to the next. Despite his tough Israeli heritage, he was always teased for being the sensitive one of the group, usually preferring to sit quietly and watch events unfold. But something had happened to change all that.
On the other side of the table, Fabrice recognised Jean-Luc’s right hand man, Laurent. He talking in a low voice like a protective father, occasionally resting one of his huge arms on Anton’s shoulder. At six foot four and over one hundred and twenty kilos, he was a monster of a man with thick, curly black hair, greying at the temples, and pale blue eyes which shone with withering intensity.
Fabrice had got chatting to him once before and soon realised that Laurent was the kind of man who’d tell you his whole life story on a first meeting. He had been raised in the Karoo desert on his family’s farm, before being conscripted by the South African military to fight the SWAPO guerrillas on the Angolan border. It was a dirty little war, filled with bloody injustices and complicated politics, yet Laurent talked about it in absolutes; everything to him was black or white. Fabrice had quickly understood that this was the way he approached his whole life. Everything was rigid, mechanised. You got orders. You followed them.
As Fabrice patiently waited for either of the pilots to respond to his offer of a drink, Anton suddenly shouted a string of expletives. Laurent didn’t react, but instead stared up towards the ceiling and exhaled heavily, expelling a great
cloud
of cigarette smoke. He had been dealing with Anton’s explosive outbursts all night and was tiring of the bewildering range of emotions the boy seemed to be going through. It had been like that ever since the last sortie.
They had been ordered to peel off in a search and destroy, but as they closed in, had realised that the target was nothing more than a couple of pygmy boys, firing at them with bows and arrows. Anton had radioed in for clarification, but orders were orders. Seconds later, he had opened up with the 20mm cannon.
On the return flight, Laurent had noticed the smell of vomit even before they had touched down in Goma. During the post-flight checks, he had seen it on the side of Anton’s overalls and realised just how much of a mess the kid was in. Ten hours of drinking later and Anton was still as worked up as he had been the moment they arrived in the club.
‘Hey!’ Jean-Luc shouted, clicking his fingers to get their attention. Anton and Laurent fell silent, turning to him in surprise.
‘When a man like Fabrice offers you a drink, you drink it,’ he growled, his eyes on Anton. ‘Anyway, you should know by now … drinking’s the only way to get through all of this shit.’
They both took the whisky, thanking Fabrice as Jean-Luc settled back into his seat.
‘Been meaning to speak to you,’ Fabrice said now. ‘My man down at the airport was telling me there’s some movement going on.’
Jean-Luc’s expression didn’t change.
‘Yeah,’ Fabrice continued. ‘He said that there’s some cargo coming in and out, but it seems that this time no one wants to cut me into the deal.’
Jean-Luc inhaled slowly. ‘You should tell your man at the airport it can be dangerous, talking out of turn around here.’
Fabrice gave him a glowing smile. “‘You know what it’s like. Everyone knows everyone’s business. Talking all the time.’
‘Such busy little bees,’ Jean-Luc whispered.
‘Well, since I sorted out those import licences for you, thought you might want to return the favour? I’m not asking much, but you know how it is round here, Jean-Luc. Everything comes through me.’
Jean-Luc’s eyes widened as he inhaled deeply through his nose, flaring the nostrils. The drugs had dilated his pupils so much that his eyes looked entirely black.
‘Get me decent fuel rates from “your man” at the airport and I’ll cut you in. Ten per cent of my take.’
Fabrice raised his glass. It had been easier than he had expected. Jean-Luc was obviously in an amenable mood.
‘Consider it done.’
‘Now leave me the fuck alone,’ Jean-Luc slurred, the naked aggression deepening his voice.
Fabrice’s smile stayed locked in place as he leaned forward and gently placed the rest of the bottle of malt on the table.
‘All yours,’ he said. Then, when he was halfway out of his seat, he paused. ‘By the way, word is someone’s looking for you. Seems like some Americans want to meet you in person.
My
boys on the border said they came across last night, asking questions. You need a place to hide out?’
Jean-Luc’s jaw clenched as he processed the information.
‘Tell them I’m here. I’ll be waiting.’
TWO MEN CAME
in through the main entrance to the Soleil Club and stopped near the pool table. They waited, letting their eyes grow accustomed to the dark, before the one closest to the door quietly spoke into the radio mic attached to his lapel. A moment later, four more men strode into the bar with Devlin the last in line.
Laurent was the first to see them. With the toe of his boot, he kicked two of the other sleeping mercs awake as Jean-Luc slowly raised his head. The Americans fanned out into the room, taking up covering positions as Devlin drew nearer their table. They all had muscular necks and forearms, and haircuts that looked too short to be anything else but military. They were dressed in lightweight trousers, browns and tans, with an assortment of safari jackets bulging slightly under the left arm. To a man, they were staring at Jean-Luc.
As Devlin stepped further into the light, his lips parted a little, revealing clean white teeth.
‘I see you got your mouth fixed up,’ Jean-Luc remarked,
his
voice slow and gravelly. ‘But then again, you Yanks always did like big teeth, didn’t you? Heard you have to file them down into these little points just to get those glossy caps on.
Mon Dieu, c’est dégueulasse
! How much did those nice, big white teeth cost you, Devlin? Or did the CIA pay for them?’
Devlin didn’t react, standing stiffly in the centre of the room.
‘We’re here for the co-ordinates of the mine,’ he said, his Southern accent making the words come out in a low drawl. ‘You got your price for the sample of fire coltan. Now I want to know exactly where it’s coming from.’
Jean-Luc leaned forward. ‘Have we been flying a little too low for your radar to track us? Pity, that.’
‘This ain’t the time for games, you French son-of-a-bitch. Tell me what I want to know.’
Jean-Luc yawned, stretching his arms up and flexing out his back. In the silence, Devlin shifted his weight in anticipation.
‘No,’ Jean-Luc said with an air of finality.