Andrews finally put the report down, drummed his fingers on the desk, looked at him, then away and then back at him. ‘We might have a problem.’ He paused. ‘In the Congo.’
Andrews waited for his response. Realizing it could be a long wait, he continued. ‘As you know, the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) has a UN Peace Keeping Force (UNPKF), which has not been particularly effective in keeping the peace. In fact, the UNPKF has been accused of not doing enough to keep out rebel troops and of being involved themselves in drug and gold smuggling.’
Andrews waited for a response, got none, and forged ahead. ‘But the UN Force is not what’s troubling us. There are a bunch of military contractors out there, gone to train the DRC’s army. Six of them. The agency has used them in the past but stopped dealing with them. Too brutal. Don’t play by the unwritten rules in our game. They deal with multiple paymasters at the same time, and some of those paymasters are the bad guys. That’s bad with a B. Folks we would terminate. Hence the agency blacklisted them. Now over the past few months there have been whispers of military contractors actively working with the other side, the Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda.’
Andrews snorted. ‘Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda, aka FDLR. That’s the French name for them. And don’t even ask me why a force for the liberation of Rwanda is active in the DRC, but they are, and are fighting the DRC government troops, who we are backing.’
‘So?’ Zeb prompted.
‘The chatter is that these contractors are not just working with the FDLR, but have gone rogue. Now the fucking thing is we haven’t a clue if these rogue contractors are the ones who went to train the DRC troops. The intel is not the most reliable out there. The agency blacklisted those six, but it would be a political minefield if the rogue contractors turned out to be the six the agency used in the past. China is expanding its presence in Africa, and we want to be seen as the good guys. We want you to go to the DRC, find out who those guys are and what the fuck they’re up to. No action. Just investigate and report.’
‘Nope.’
Andrews waited for an explanation, got none, and did his routine of looking away and back, and drumming his fingers. ‘Yes, I thought you’d say that. Not challenging enough for you, I expect. Hang on a second – I want you to meet someone,’ he said and slipped out of the room. He came back with the Director.
And then it became personal; Andrews knew Zeb couldn’t refuse the Director. The Director and Zeb’s sister went back a long way, and the Director never hesitated to draw on Zeb’s goodwill bank if she had to.
* * *
Zeb has been in the Democratic Republic of the Congo for a couple of months now under the guise of a charity worker. He has worked in remote villages and steadily moved his way from Kinshasa in the west, to North and South Kivu in the east.
He has travelled by train, boat, and ridden carts and donkeys. He has gone drinking with the Congolese, helped thatch huts and build schools, all the while keeping his ears open for gossip on foreign contractors. Information has been surprisingly easy to come by. The aid workers and the Congolese are all too happy to have a sympathetic ear after all the years of inhuman brutality.
The history of the Democratic Republic of the Congo has been one of civil war and corruption right from its independence in 1960. It has witnessed army mutiny, armed rebels backed by Rwanda and other neighboring countries, turning the country into a vast battleground, all fuelled by a thirst for the country’s rich natural resources.
There are numerous mercenaries in the Congo. Some of them South African, some Belgian, a few British and American, and many other nationalities. He has met a few of them. Most of them have been hired for the protection of villages, as bodyguards of businessmen or politicians, or for protection of business assets. Some offer security consultancy to various government bodies and businesses.
It’s in Kindu – almost in the center of the DRC – that he first hears of a group of contractors who have gone to the other side. The Congolese who mention them are fearful and whisper about mass rape and these contractors in the same breath.
‘La mal personnes’ and ‘atrocities’ are the words they use to describe the contractors. After many Ngok and Primus beers over several days, he hears that the contractors and the FDLR soldiers they are associated with, are now based near Lake Kivu, near the border with Rwanda.
He isn’t surprised at the ease of gathering this intel – it’s not easy for six white men to blend in with black soldiers. They would be easily noticed.
The Congolese say these men capture and loot mines, often killing mine workers in the process. Small-scale mining is widespread in the DRC, and because of their size, it’s very easy for armed bands of men to hijack the mines.
The FDLR soldiers and the white-skinned contractors take the mines over and trade in gold, minerals, diamonds, and ivory – anything that has value. They prey on the local villages for food and women. The DRC’s army and police are either incapable or unwilling to deal with the problem or, more likely, are in collusion with the criminals. The UN Peace Keeping Force is usually too late to the scene and stretched too thin.
On a few occasions, he meets victims who have suffered at the hands of this renegade band of thugs. They all speak of the ruthlessness of the soldiers, both black and white. He records his conversations with the Congolese victims and pretty soon has a dossier of atrocity. A few victims have even identified the mercenaries from their agency photographs he carries. He has decided to visit a few villages in North and South Kivu before making his way back to Kinshasa and then back to the US.
* * *
And this was how he came to be lying in wait on the outskirts of Luvungi, one of the villages in the vicinity of Lake Kivu. This is the third village near Lake Kivu that he has surveilled. It’s been a couple of hours since the trucks left, the jeep is still there, and nothing has changed. He doesn’t know how many soldiers have gone in the trucks or how many have been left behind.
He’s going in.
It isn’t in him to be a passive spectator. Andrews can go fuck himself.
The rainforest comes almost to the edges of the village, with plenty of foliage to give him cover. He decides to start with the hut on the extreme right and make his way to those on his left where the Jeep is parked.
He centers himself and drifts from shadow to shadow towards the perimeter of the village. Some of the huts are dark; some are lit from within by lamps, candles, or burning ovens, throwing a mosaic of light and shadows on the ground outside the huts. No movement that he can see. He sidles around the side of the first hut and peers through the door, his body masked by the wall.
Nothing.
Something cooking in the oven, but the hut is empty. The next hut is empty too, and so are the next ten. He goes to the next row of huts closer to the road. He can hear a woman wailing inside, another voice murmuring something. He peers inside. A woman, barely clothed, is lying on the mud floor, her mouth and forehead bleeding, a wash of blood down her thighs. Another woman is pressing a wet cloth to her head.
He stills even more, his pulse slowing, his mind going into the familiar grey fog, preparing the body for wreaking violence. Extreme violence. The next hut is empty, and after a quick glance, he moves on. Something tugs at the edge of his vision, making him return to the hut and look again, more carefully this time.
There, just near the oven, something familiar and yet not. He steps inside and sees a baby, maybe six months old, lying close to the fire, her hand outstretched towards the coals. He hunches down and puts his ear to her chest. Her heart is beating. He moves her farther from the fire, puts it out, and ghosts out.