Ways to Die in the Congo
Chapter One
Brazzaville ROC
GMT plus One
Tony Rhodes peered through the bamboo slats at the Belgians assembled for breakfast. The cellar floor was damp, the ceiling’s timber beams sweated moisture; the tables were inverted crates stenciled with the faded words Brazzaville-Maya Maya.
He didn’t look into the faces of his own men; they were handing out bowls of happy rice-made all the happier through liberal doses of alprazolam-his men moved with the easy grace of a veteran crew on an over-the-pole flight. Light and shadow lanced the room, precursors of dawn. Tony relaxed when he spotted a smile of gratitude from one of the seated men; thank you for my gruesome bowl of watery slop, my stained mattress, my concrete floor where human waste gurgles below the trap. Thirty-six hours and a smile.
Kidnapping was the easy part. His hostages were relieved to be alive, safe from the Cobra Militia, to have three hots and a cot and fresh water. The tough part was yet to come; Tony Rhodes turned to watch the sun come up over the Congo River. Pelicans rose in a choreography dictated by the gathering light; an ugly DRC corvette prowled the river alert for smugglers. Correction. Alert for smugglers who hadn’t paid their matabiches, the Congolese version of baksheesh.
Beyond the shanties and go-downs the Congo River spread broad and dark above the rapids. Every structure on the brown shore leaned as though a mighty tide had risen to deposit the maze of ramshackle buildings packed so tightly that rats walked from rooftop to rooftop, their claws scratching. Tony heard them every morning in the pre-dawn mist.
Tony’s company, The Lower Rapids Barge Service, occupied a go-down, a warehouse enclosed on three sides. The building had a corrugated metal roof, and though high on the riverbank, had been built on piles. Indistinguishable from its neighbors, the go-down’s exposed side faced the docks that creaked in the river’s current. A private area had been set aside for Tony’s use; nothing more elaborate than a high school locker room. He showered using a bucket of fresh water and a bar of soap he’d swiped from the Savoy in London; Tony kept his flip-flops on and snapped the towel like a bullwhip to dislodge any scorpions curled up in the folds. Scorpions loved warm dark places; what the hell, so did he. He dressed quickly and climbed the rickety stairs at the rear of the go-down. The back door gave way to an alley that led to the road; it was a quiet place to watch the harbor. Above the mangroves on the shoreline a stand of white-blossomed ebony trees obscured the view to the south. Green-backed herons launched in search of breakfast. Tony liked the graceful birds; they were the color of money.
Along the breakwater fishermen prepared a fleet of pirogues, the small boats jostling one another in the current. Two militiamen harangued the crews; their voices carried on the swell of air as the boatmen crossed their arms and stared at their feet. The militia presented a security risk as they scoured the river shanties for children to sell. In forty-eight hours it wouldn’t matter; Tony would be in Kinshasa by then.
A corpse floated by, caught in the current. There were a lot of ways to die in this place; forgotten diseases flourished, medicines were hard to come by, and an unknown percentage of the population was HIV positive; maybe being shot by a Cobra militia wasn’t such a bad way to go. The bronze sun shimmered, flooding the horizon; it was instantly hot, and Tony patted his face and neck with a handkerchief. Notes were taped to his office door which meant the telephone exchange wasn’t working.
The Rwandan guard saluted. Tony nodded to the man and unlocked the door. He hit the light switch and waited as the fluorescent tube sputtered to life; a winged cockroach launched from the plank floor, and Tony ducked. It happened every damned time he turned on the lights.
Thirty-six hours had passed since the snatch on the smugglers’ pier. The Belgians had been debriefed, fed, debriefed some more. The intel they’d provided was useful; the diamond mines in the east were being dewatered. The Belgians had fled Kasai-Orientale in one hell of a hurry. FMC Belge kept offices in Kisangani close to the open pits where the Kimberlitic pipes forced diamonds to the surface from the core of the earth. He’d proven his theory that FMC was a corrupt company; Martin Reis, the man who directed their Congo operations, had helped Mobutu Sese Seko steal two billion dollars in American aid. Tony planned to steal it back; the ransom from the Kidnap insurance would finance the operation. His hostages had seen Reis in Kisangani, but only at a distance. The Belgian engineers had endured a week at a fly-camp close to the pits; one of their party had disappeared. The scraps of information convinced Tony that time was of the essence; Reis was on the move, something had spooked him. Tony unlocked a briefcase, setting it on the desk before gathering the op files; his notes on the interrogation had faded in the humidity, the yellow pad felt damp. Out on the river a flat barge throttled up as he loaded the bag. Rain hammered the tin roof. The squall wouldn’t last. It was the dry season and the rain would evaporate in seconds.
The kidnapping clock started now; Tony observed the moment like a pilot passing the point of no return. He’d had Sammy Moyer contact FMC Belge the previous afternoon, and Lloyds would be on notice. When the ransom was received his funding problems would be over; the real work could begin in earnest. The Belgians were the lowest rung on the ladder. It was a beginning.
Tony locked the briefcase and slid it under the battered desk. He glanced around, satisfied with his basic precautions. Outside, Tony secured the door and tore the notes free. The only important message confirmed that a shipment of diesel fuel would arrive at N’djilli that afternoon. Tony folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. The pavement hissed as the rainwater cooked away.
“Bonobo men,” said the Rwandan, pointing toward the road.
A trio of Africans waited by the gate. Tony walked briskly over the plank bridge above the ditch that separated the dock area from the road. Odors rose from the stagnant water, urine and superheated fecal matter; he took quick shallow breaths until he was across the ditch. One of the men held up a cage; a pygmy chimp with sad eyes gazed at Tony. Pygmy chimps were an endangered species found only in the Congo. They had wonderfully expressive faces; Bonobos hated being caged.
“Combien?” Tony asked.
The men shrugged, argued among themselves in Lingala. Tony produced some CFA notes; the men frowned. Tony gestured to the Rwandan who carried a two-liter can of diesel fuel up the path. The Rwandan set the jerry can down; the leader of the group smiled and nodded. Then he opened the cage and grabbed the small chimp by the scruff of his neck. The chimp’s hands and feet were bound with wire; it began to make worried sounds staring plaintively up at Tony. The leader of the Bonobo men crushed the chimp’s skull with a metal pipe. Tony smiled his approval. Bonobos were a local delicacy; they’d have chimp stew for lunch. The Rwandan lifted the tiny corpse and used his machete to carefully scoop the little creature’s brains back into his skull.
“Ca va?” Tony asked.
“Bien,” the Bonobo men said. Smiles all around. Good neighbors.
The sun was high enough to illuminate Brazzaville. The spires of the cathedral rose amid the colobus trees in the south end of town. Oil palms caught the last whisper of the Atlantic breeze; the few high-rise buildings visible were the university and the whitewashed hotels downtown.