The Secret Chamber (44 page)
On the side of Mont Ngaliema, the first light of day crept past the curtains of the presidential palace. It threw into relief the silhouettes of the Louis XV furniture and the high, ornately crafted ceiling of the master bedroom. Lying on the bed, a man was fast asleep, but every few seconds his body jerked involuntarily and he twisted from side to side, knotting the sheets around him. Sweat prickled across his forehead, while his cheeks twitched in spasm. He was starting to wake, and as the daylight crept a little further into the room, his eyes jolted open.
Joseph-Désiré Mordecai slowly raised himself off the bed and sat with his head in his hands. Sweat dampened his palms. As he slowly pulled his hands back from his face, he could see they were trembling. The nightmares had started again.
Since they had reached Kinshasa and his LRA forces had easily overthrown Kabila’s ill-disciplined government troops, Mordecai had locked himself in the presidential apartment with orders not to be disturbed. He had left instructions to change the LRA’s name, founding instead
Le Mouvement Démocratique du Congo
or MDC, and already every sycophantic minister from the old regime had switched sides and was pledging allegiance. What was left of the MONUC forces were hurriedly dismantling their compounds, while the Mai-Mai rebellion in the east had been swiftly crushed. It had taken a sizeable part of his army to do it, but now every last Mai-Mai village had been razed to the ground. Despite the Americans’ money, barely a single man, woman or child from that tribe was now left alive.
Already, the delegations from the West had arrived to start negotiating for mineral rights.
He had learned that the French had tabled a motion in the UN Security Council to downgrade the level of criminal status of the LRA, wiping any notion of genocide from their files, while stories had been circulated in the press that the newly formed MDC was in fact nothing to do with the murderous LRA rebel group formerly led by Joseph Kony. The whitewash had begun, and Western governments were experts at it.
Mordecai heard a gentle knock at the door.
‘I said I was not to be disturbed!’ he roared, wiping the sweat
off
his forehead. He stared down at his trembling hands. The nightmares … They were getting worse. He was starting to get them during the day as well, his vision fogging as the images flashed before his eyes. The days and nights were blurring into one; becoming an endless halflight filled with the tortured faces of his victims. But there was one face that kept coming back to him, no matter what he did. That woman by the river. The one that had split his lip and broken his nose. She had been the first to stand up to him, the first without fear, and now, every morning, he would wake seeing her hateful eyes.
Something had switched that day. It made him feel naked and unsure, his confidence diminishing with each new morning, and each new vision. He felt crippled by the very thought of going to sleep and knowing that she would be there when he woke, with those eyes burning into him.
There was another gentle knock at the door.
‘Sir, the American delegation has arrived,’ a voice said nervously through the door. ‘And you mentioned, sir, that … that you wanted to speak to them. They have now been waiting for over two hours.’
‘Let them wait!’ Mordecai screamed. After a pause, he raised himself from the bed and slowly turned away from the door. He paced across to the window and slid his fingers around the edge of the curtain, cautiously drawing it back. From where the palace was situated, high up on the hillside, he could see right across the city. The fires had finally stopped and the war was over. For over a week now, he had been the ruler of all the Congo.
Moving into an antechamber, he went to the beautiful
bathroom
and swiftly got dressed. His clothes had been laid out for him: a sombre, charcoal suit with a discreet pale blue tie. Hanging in the cupboard just next to him, he could see one of his old white suits, now freshly laundered but still grey stains remained on the cuffs and ankles. He reached forward, gently rubbing his thumb and forefingers across the fabric. How had it come to this so quickly? He was already starting to dress like one of them.
As he finished getting ready and moved back to the bedroom door, he paused, his hand just resting on the handle. He stayed like that for several seconds, with his forehead pressed up against the hard wood, and exhaled deeply, feeling the same trepidation he had felt on waking back in the jungle, he had always found it so easy to face the light, to find the truth. Now everything seemed so unclear.
Pulling the doors back, Mordecai suddenly stepped out into the light. His bodyguards were there, flanked by two private secretaries, waiting.
‘Take me to them,’ he said, making his voice seem casual and unhurried.
The secretaries quickly led him down one flight of red-carpeted stairs and then another, winding through the interior of the palace to where a crowd of waiting diplomats were assembled in the great hall. There were hundreds of them, grouped by nationality and mutual interest. As Mordecai approached the entire room fell silent, each one of them staring expectantly towards the new leader of the Congo.
‘Muzongos,’ Mordecai said to himself as a smile appeared on his lips. ‘They never learn.’
I am always amazed at how selfless people can be. Time, knowledge and energy were offered to me in abundance on this book and I am indebted to a long list of people, from those that accompanied me on the adventure itself to those that inspired me, even unwittingly.
For Oli Steads agreeing to come with me to the Democratic Republic of Congo and guiding me through the process. Then, to those who helped so much along the way; Tom Mills for advice in London, Rosemary Ruf for taking us in at the Okapi Reserve, Mbake Shiva through Thalia Liokatis, who was just so kind and caring. To Luis, our fixer in Goma, and Jon Cadd the Cessna pilot who got us in.
Thanks to Adam Pletts for that evening discussing Kony in Beirut, and Cirine El Husseini for proofing every draft and doing the Arabic translations. To Jeff Willner and his help with the Swahili translations and Charlie Scott for the military know-how which saved the book from my Rambo
clichés
. To Simon and Chika for their corrections, and for Mike for being a sounding board over pints at the Windsor castle.
Then to Tim Glister at Jankow and Nesbit for such unfailing support. Kate Weinberg, the source of so many ideas and structure for this book. Like the first, I really couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you. The same goes for Rosie de Courcy who went through the manuscript time after time, beating it into shape. It gives me such confidence to know you are there.
Thanks must go to Rick and Margie Garratt in Cape Town for suffering my tired moods and giving up various parts of their house to becoming offices. Oscar and Electra, for spending so little time with you this time round in South Africa. But finally, my thanks go to Robyn. Always there, always patient. We got through it together.
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Epub ISBN 9781409023173
Published by Arrow 2011
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Copyright © Patrick Woodhead 2011
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