Nearly three hundred of China’s most influential families were either directly or indirectly involved with the Guild, an organisation which tapped into every vein and artery of life in mainland China. They ranged from high-ranking PLA officers such as himself to Party members operating at Politburo level. Whatever it was, the Guild was there, its hand at work in every major undertaking since the overthrow of Mao in the 1970s.
But the Guild was a mercurial entity, multi-layered and complex. Families would align for a common purpose, only to find themselves competing against each another on a different matter. Alliances were tenuous and short-lived, the power struggles all part of a seemingly endless cycle. But there were times when the in-fighting had to stop. The scale of a project would reach such critical mass that it pulled the families together again to serve a single cause, one in which success would benefit all while failure would only destroy them.
The Goma Project was of such a size. They all knew it. The stakes were too high for any single family to opt out, and now each of them wanted to be sure of a return on their investment. The pressure was suffocating, the expectations unrelenting. For the last year and a half, Jian had been made to feel it every hour and minute of his life.
Turning away from the window, he curled his fingers into the leather necklace. His thumb rubbed over the blood-red stone hanging from it, finding the natural warmth of it strangely pleasing. The jewel was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Presented in a beautifully crafted, hardwood
setting
, it wasn’t a diamond or gemstone but in fact a piece of the mineral they were buying in its purest form. His contact had called it the ‘Heart of Fire’, and it had been sent to him only one week ago. Since that time he had worn it every day, fascinated by the warm, mesmeric red of the substance so few people even knew existed.
The ‘Heart of Fire’ was a token of all that was to come. The fortunes of the Guild hinged around this one mineral, and the gift to Jian had served as a perfect reminder to the others that
he
was the one who had brokered the deal. He had been given this gift. No one else.
The car eased to a standstill and Jian heard the driver move around to the back. A second later, there was a gentle tap on the window and the door opened. As daylight flooded into the muted interior, a woman appeared, her long blonde hair flowing down past her shoulders. She paused, looking at Jian for approval before delicately easing herself into the seat next to him. He let his eyes run slowly over the elegant pointed lines of her shoes, up the length of her legs and over her close-fitting grey skirt. She carefully smoothed the fabric across her narrow hips before finally looking up at him.
She was younger than her clothes suggested, the skin perfectly smooth under her eyes and her lips still naturally full. The lipstick was a tone too garish for his tastes, but otherwise she had obviously paid heed to the instructions she had been given. She gave a well-practised smile that, despite her professionalism, succeeded in being charming, and twirled a finger through her white-blonde hair.
‘My name’s Imogene.’
Jian squinted at her, taking in every detail. Even the perfume she wore was the one he had asked for and his nostrils flared as he drank it in, marvelling at the way his preferred scent seemed to change against each new girl’s skin.
‘Beautiful,’ Jian whispered, his voice deepening with anticipation. ‘Just beautiful.’
LOUIS BWALANDE STOOD
on the runway smoking a cigarette.
Despite the sun’s having set over an hour ago, he could still feel heat rising up from the tarmac and drew one arm across his forehead, wiping off the sweat on to the sleeve of his dirty uniform. He had been the airport manager at Goma for the last seven years, and was well accustomed to smuggling all types of contraband. But tonight was different. Every few seconds, he found himself glancing up towards the long row of white UN planes parked alongside the runway, and out towards the towering silhouette of the volcano.
The Frenchman should be here by now.
Louis inhaled deeply on his cigarette, trying to calm his nerves. The Frenchman should have been here twenty minutes ago. As he blew the smoke out, a bout of coughing shook through him, making him retch. He shook his head and stared down in disgust at the glowing red ember of his cigarette. He hated smoking and was terrible at it, but tonight
he
felt a compulsive need to do something. Waiting was always the hardest part.
Glancing down at his watch, Louis ran through a mental checklist. He had already chosen the hangar farthest away from the MONUC military base. It was the perfect place in which to avoid attention, partially hidden behind two moss-covered Boeing 727s that had been bulldozed off the runway a few years back and left to rot. There was nothing suspicious about that; scrap Boeings and Antonovs were as much a part of any Congolese runway as the tarmac itself. They lined every landing strip from Goma to Kinshasha, a legacy of five years’ civil war. Like everything else that had once functioned in this country, they had been left to blur slowly into the landscape, like litter on the side of a road.
Louis turned as the lights from a convoy of 4 × 4s swung in a semi-circle around the airport terminal, before pulling to a halt by the runway’s decrepit fenceline. He could see figures climbing out, waiting in the shadows. The client didn’t trust the usual handlers and employed a Chinese crew from one of the nearby tin mines. Everything was arranged by the Chinese themselves and Louis was never given the slightest hint as to who the client actually was. The only thing he had deduced from all the military hardware involved was that the client must be part of the Chinese Army or, at the very least, well connected to it.
But, despite all their precautions, Louis had managed to get to one of the Chinese handlers. It had taken weeks, but finally money had won him round. Tonight was the first time they would actually go through with their plan, and as the
moment
drew closer Louis suddenly regretted the whole terrible idea. The
muzungos
watched everything like hawks and were as vindictive as they were greedy. They would kill him without a second thought if they suspected he was skimming the deal.
For several minutes everybody waited in silence, with just the sound of the cicadas chirping in the background and the occasional beep of a car horn from somewhere deep within the city. Pacing along the side of the runway, Louis felt sweat beading under his shirt and pooling in the small of his back. What the hell had he been thinking, trying to double-cross the Frenchman in the first place? This was madness.
There was a roar of engines as a Russian Iluyshin 76 plane passed overhead. It switched on its landing lights, washing the dead space between the terminal and the beginning of the runway with a searing white light. Long black shadows sprang up across the dried grass, turning slowly with the trajectory of the plane, before the undercarriage touched down and the reverse thrusters thundered.
Gratefully screwing the cigarette into the ground with the toe of his boot, Louis waved towards the silent line of Chinese handlers, signalling for them to follow him. With a hiss of hydraulics, the ramp under the plane’s enormous tailfin lowered, revealing eight Chinese Special Forces soldiers crouching within, rifles tight against their shoulders, eyes scanning the group of assembled men. Each was dressed in black fatigues with front webbing pouches stacked full of ammunition. Night-vision goggles were tilted up from their
faces
and only their eyes were visible through the balaclavas pulled tight over their heads. They eyed the handlers warily, making minute adjustments of the QBZ-95G assault rifles in their grip. It was obvious neither side was taking anything for granted.
In the dull red light of the plane’s interior, Louis could see pallets stacked in neat rows throughout the entire length of the hold. It was the same every week. Each box had its identification marks scratched off, but despite the secrecy he already knew what they contained – standard issue AK-47 rifles. It was the most prolific weapon in Africa, and each week hundreds more were arriving at his airport. But guns had never interested him. It was the cargo they were being traded for that Louis was after.
As the plane’s engines powered down, a new sound rose up from the north. Helicopters were flying towards them, snaking low over the lip of the volcano and hugging each contour of the vertiginous ground. The low thud of their rotors grew louder as they approached, before they began banking round in tight formation towards the edge of the runway. Everyone shielded their eyes from the downdraft as the bulbous frame of three Oryx Mk2 helicopters came into the light.
Each helicopter slowly turned on its axis, giving their door-mounted 7.62mm GMPG machine guns a perfect line of fire before finally touching down. Soldiers jumped out while a fourth helicopter continued circling, covering them from the air. As it passed a second time, the main body came into view, revealing the unmistakable stepped
configuration
of an AH2 Rooivalk attack helicopter. From the back of the plane, the Chinese soldiers cast glances at each other. They had never expected to see such firepower in a backwater like Goma. Aside from the missiles, the Rooivalk had a 20mm cannon under its chin that could cut an entire plane in two.
A man slowly clambered out of the leading Oryx and moved with no particular hurry towards the rear of the plane. As the crowd parted and he stepped into the red glow of the cargo bay’s interior, they saw he was stocky, with a chest that stretched the fabric of his black T-shirt. A white kerchief was tied around his neck and his hair was longer than the usual military crop. He stood with one foot on the metal ramp, and then turned back towards his helicopters, signalling for them to begin unloading. As hardened plastic sacks were piled out on the ground to be swapped for the crates of AK-47s, the man kept his back turned towards the Chinese soldiers, seemingly oblivious to their presence.
Louis had recognised Jean-Luc as soon as he had stepped off the helicopter. There was just something about the way he moved. He exuded a cat-like confidence which succeeded in being both languid and unpredictable within the same pace. With his wide shoulders and thick-set forearms, he could easily have been mistaken for a bare-knuckle brawler if it weren’t for the rugged squared-off jaw and intelligent, deep-set eyes.
Louis always dreaded Jean-Luc’s arrival. Even when sober, there was a volatility to him which meant he could just as easily attack or hug you within the same breath. He would
ignore
direct questions, then moments later find something totally inconsequential hilarious. And trying to second-guess his moods was exhausting.
Looking out over the crowd of Chinese faces, Louis tried to spot his handler before the Frenchman suddenly swivelled round towards him.
‘Louis,’ Jean-Luc called, his gravelly voice cutting through the crowd. ‘
Comment vas- tu, mon ami
?’
The manager’s cheeks immediately tightened in a smile.
‘I am very well, Monsieur Étienne. Thank you so much for asking.’
Jean-Luc stepped off the ramp and placed one of his huge hands on Louis’s shoulder, pressing down on it while slowly nodding to himself. It looked as if he had done something extremely agreeable but had now forgotten exactly what.
Louis’s smile ratcheted a little tighter. He could smell the faint trace of aniseed on Jean-Luc’s breath from the
pastis
and wondered if he might be resting against him for support, rather than out of any sense of goodwill.
‘And how are you, sir?’ Louis asked.
Jean-Luc’s expression didn’t alter, his smile set but vacuous. He swung his left arm up clumsily, waving for his men to bring over the cargo.
‘Now,
mon ami
,’ he said, whispering the words conspiratorially. ‘Why don’t we have a little chat about the rates you charge on my fuel? Surely we deserve a little discount?’
‘But, Monsieur, it is not a question of deserving.’
Jean-Luc squeezed his shoulder playfully. ‘But all the
business
I bring you. For an old friend, that’s got to be worth something?’
Louis gently shook his head, turning his gaze towards the ground.
‘Monsieur, it is the same for every person landing here. Even MONUC pay the same contract rates.’
Jean-Luc jerked his chin closer.
‘Do I look like fucking MONUC?’ he spat, sending tiny flecks of saliva into Louis’s face. His eyes were glazed, the right one moving slightly out of sync with the left.
‘Well, do I?’
Louis stayed motionless, surprised even now by the hostility in Jean-Luc’s voice. In everything he said, there was a seething undercurrent that could boil over at any moment.
‘I will see what I can do, sir.’
Jean-Luc patted his shoulder as if the deal had already been done. Then, without another word, he swung his arm around Louis until they were standing side by side like old comrades-in-arms. They watched while the Chinese soldiers fanned out from the back of the plane and on to the tarmac, taking up position silently with their rifles held at the ready. Then the handlers came into the cargo hold in single file, working quickly to unpack the wooden crates and run them over to the helicopters.
The whole process was completed in silence. Men passed crates to each other, keeping their eyes lowered and avoiding eye contact with the soldiers. Every few minutes the downdraft of the circling Rooivalk washed over them, its rotors deafeningly loud at such close range.