African Ice (6 page)

“The contents of your suitcase bother me, Mr. Ramage,” he said, fingering the stamp gingerly.

“What bothers you?” Ramage asked, irritated at the delay.

“I am a simple man. I own two white shirts. One I wear to work every day, and the other I wear to church on Sunday. I could not imagine owning more than two white shirts.”

“So what's your point?” he asked.

“You have six white shirts in your suitcase, Mr. Ramage.”

Troy shrugged. “So what?”

“Perhaps you are considering selling these shirts in Kigali. And selling merchandise without a license is illegal.”

“What the—” Ramage began, but he was cut off in mid-sentence by Samantha Carlson.

Sam reached across the table and lifted four shirts out of the bag. She handed them to the customs agent. “Mr. Ramage brought the shirts to give as gifts,” she said. “He told me while we were in the air that he hoped he would find someone in Rwanda that would appreciate them.”

The official smiled again. “How thoughtful, Mr. Ramage. I'm sure I can find someone who can benefit from these shirts.” He tucked them under his desk and stamped Troy's passport. They filed from the relative comfort of the inadequate air conditioning in the terminal out the front door and into the blazing African sun.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Troy turned to Sam.

“Keeping you out of a Rwandan jail,” she replied tersely. “If you think any of
this
looks bad,” she waved her arm at the squalid slums that bordered the airport, “you should see the inside of the prison. It makes this quite palatable.”

“She's right, Troy,” Travis said as he scanned the line of cars and taxis for their contact. “They don't need a reason to throw you in jail here. You do what's necessary to keep them happy.” He cocked his head slightly to the right. “Those are probably our guys.”

About a hundred feet from the doors, two Land Rovers were parked against the curb, their motors idling. One man leaned on the tailgate, and when Travis caught his eye, he nodded. The group turned and walked down the crowded sidewalk toward the waiting vehicles. As they approached, the man smiled and asked, “Travis McNeil?”

“That's me.” He extended his hand and the man shook it. “And you are?”

“Philip Acundo,” he said. “Personal aide to Colonel Mugumba. We are to accompany you to Goma.”

McNeil ran his eyes over the man, evaluating what he saw. The man's skin was typical for the region, very black and stretched tautly over his facial bone structure. No wrinkles. His eyes were deep hazel, the whites in striking contrast to the darkness of his skin. His teeth were white, but in need of orthodontic work. Still, when he smiled, he looked pleasant enough. McNeil's eyes paused at the area near Acundo's armpit. A slight bulge. The man was armed.

Acundo motioned to the four-wheel-drive vehicles. “Please, let's get loaded up and drive into the city.”

The group split into two, Travis and Samantha traveling in Acundo's vehicle, and the remaining three members of the team in the other truck. The four Congolese soldiers, all dressed in civvies, split into two per truck. The drive into the heart of Kigali was slow, but hardly boring.

The roads were partially paved, but long overdue for maintenance. Potholes peppered the road and jarred the riders whenever the driver hit one. Both sides of the road were lined with shanties, pieced together with discarded boards and covered with corrugated metal. Scores of natives, dressed mostly in motley clothes, watched suspiciously as the two-vehicle procession motored slowly into the city center. Remnants of the long-past Belgian influence still showed through in places. French signs were as prevalent as English, and the architecture reminiscent of a European culture was now replaced with African influence.

The foliage was thick and tropical. Umbrella and banana trees punctuated the white buildings, and low broad-leafed plants thrived everywhere. Hibiscus, lianas and ferns grew wild, wherever a patch of dirt allowed. Raw sewage, open to the tropical air, fed and watered the shrubbery. Samantha watched the passing spectacle with vivid recollection.

Four years had not changed Rwanda's only city. People still moved about the grimy streets and narrow alleys, eking out a subsistence on whatever they could lay their hands on. Many suffered from diseases unfamiliar to the western world. Signs of AIDS were everywhere—hollow cheeks, sunken eyes devoid of life, and people stricken with viral pneumonia. In such a temperate climate, good health should be easy. But it wasn't.

The United Nations deemed the AIDS epidemic to be out of control in numerous Central African countries, Rwanda and the Congo included. They adjusted the mortality rates accordingly, and the life expectancy had dropped in Rwanda to less than forty years. Contraceptives were almost unknown, birth control a bad joke, and abstinence totally unheard of. Sex was killing these people now, just as the horrific infighting in 1994 had decimated the Tutsi population. 1994.

A year that would live in infamy in Rwanda. Modern-day genocide while the civilized world watched. She had seen the aftermath much more clearly four years ago. The hatred still embodied in the Tutsi people as they strove to live alongside the Hutus, who had randomly killed over 800,000 of their brethren. And the fear in the Hutus. The massive refugee movement had been just returning from the Congo as she worked on her doctorate in geology. Two worlds so far apart, she thought. The other was her life in New York, with the penthouse and money in her bank accounts. Anything she wanted was available, providing she had the cash. But not here.

Central Africa could not provide for its people. And what it did provide often proved deadly. Floods in the rainy season washed away entire villages and poisoned the water supply with human feces. Drought in the dry season killed the cattle and starved the masses that lived hand to mouth. Malaria was rampant in the forested areas, and the temperatures on mountaintops were cold. Even snow was possible. She wondered how anyone could survive here.

They pulled up in front of the Meridien Kigali Hotel Umubano on the Boulevard de L'Uhunganda. The hotel was a testament to what the local business community could do if given a chance. It wasn't a new structure, but was well kept and nicely renovated. The facade was white stucco with adobe brick highlights. Generous arches welcomed the traveler into the foyer, where a fountain gurgled softly with crystal-clear water. McNeil headed straight for the concierge desk, and returned a minute later looking pleased.

“I need a few things, and our concierge tells me there will be no problem getting them. Remind me to tip him well when we leave.”

Samantha followed him into the lobby and across the tile floor to the registration desk. The clerk was efficient by Rwandan standards, and they had their rooms in under a half hour. McNeil pointed at the restaurant as they made for the stairs.

“Lunch?” he asked, glancing at his watch. “It's almost two o'clock.”

“Sounds great,” Samantha responded. “Okay to eat here?”

“You're the one who's been to Kigali before. Didn't you stay here?”

“Briefly. Headed from the airport into the jungle. None of this five-star decadence for me.”

He grinned as he pulled a chair back for her. The hotel was okay, but certainly not five-star. She sat and a moment later their waiter appeared. They ordered drinks and Samantha said, “I don't know much about you, except that you were born in San Antonio and spent time with the SEALs when you grew up; being macho and saving the world. Anything else you'd like to add?”

He grinned again. “If I leave it like that, I'll come off a lot better than if I start telling stories,” he said. “I'm a bit of a klutz.”

“Really,” she said, interested. “How so?”

“Oh, like the time I fell out of an airplane.”

“Fell or jumped?”

“Jumped. But my parachute screwed up. It folded in on itself at about a thousand feet, and I hit the ground like a lumpy meteorite.”

“They usually burn up,” she pointed out.

“That didn't happen, but I did break one hundred seventeen bones. And spent the next year in a hospital. I haven't jumped since.”

“That's why you didn't want to fly into Butembo from Kinshasa. You're scared of flying.”

“Flying doesn't bother me. It's what can happen if the plane stops flying when it's supposed to be flying. Parachuting from a crippled plane into the Congo rain forest is dangerous. In fact, it's probably one of the top ten extreme sports on the planet.”

She looked thoughtful. “How about something a bit more personal about the kid from San Antonio—what your parents did, that kind of thing.”

He fumbled in his breast pocket for his cigarettes. He tapped the bottom of the package and one popped up. He slid it out and placed it between his lips, then struck a match and puffed once. As he shook the match to extinguish it, he wondered what to tell her. The truth was abhorrent, out of the question.

When his mother had met his father, she held a respectable position as a social worker with the city of Houston. She dealt with the downtrodden, the dregs of the oil-rich city. Mary Lambert had a natural intuition that allowed her to separate the grifters from the needy, and she doled out social service justice with a fair hand. She made a difference in people's lives. Young mothers, their eyes hollow sockets, carried crack-addicted babies into her office every day. She touched the nerve that showed these seemingly hopeless cases there was a light in the darkness. Mary understood the process: clean them up, restore their self-worth and give them dignity in lieu of drugs and disease. She turned people away from life on the streets toward mainstream society by recognizing what natural assets they had, and encouraging them to enroll in courses that made them saleable. She found them employment and stayed in touch, letting her clients know she was there—that she cared. Some failed miserably, but many flourished. Mary Lambert was a jewel in the cracked and broken crown of thorns that was the Houston social service department. Until Joe McNeil walked into her office.

She had instantly recognized him for what he was—a con man looking for an easy ride. A guy who would rather spend an hour lying to Social Services and walking away with some food stamps than get out there and dig around for a real job. But for some reason, she couldn't say no to him. He was an attractive, mid-twenties man, two years her senior, with an easy one-sided smile. Joe had even white teeth and wavy blond hair that framed his boyish face. She was attracted to him even though she suspected he harbored a dark side. For the first time in her six-year tenure at social services, she cheated the system. Joe was the recipient of undeserved public money—money he spent on drugs and booze. Against every instinct, she began to sleep with him. When sober he was a great lover, often bringing her to climax. When he drank to excess, his performance shriveled. Mary began to drink to wipe out the desires that couldn't be satisfied by a drunken partner. More often than not, morning would find them passed out on the floor or the couch, the bed unused. And mornings were becoming difficult for Mary.

In fact, mornings were just the tip of the iceberg. Her entire life began to unravel as she plunged into the same abyss from which she spent her days trying to pull out other addicts. Her work suffered. Travis figured it was about the time he was conceived that she began to use crack cocaine. She started smoking one pipe in the morning to get her going. By the time Travis was born, she was a full-fledged crack addict, living the precarious edge between two worlds. When her baby was eighteen months old, the shadowy world of crack and alcohol finally won the battle. She was fired for embezzling funds and told to go quietly or criminal charges would be filed. She returned home to her alcoholic husband and told him she was unable to support him any longer. He beat her to within an inch of her life. From hospital records Travis dug up later in his life, he knew she had spent thirty-two days recovering from the beating. And it wasn't the last.

Young Travis had watched as Joe McNeil's true colors emerged. He regularly beat Mary, and by the time Travis had reached double digits, his father had turned pimp, selling Mary on the street for pitiful sums of money to buy his booze. They lived in squalor, Travis going to bed hungry so often it became the norm. He would lie awake listening to them fight, praying for a miracle. In a way, he got it. Seven days before his eleventh birthday, his parents began to fight over who should get the last hit off the crack pipe. His father repeatedly hit Mary in her face and stomach as the young boy screamed for him to stop. When he did, Mary was unconscious and bleeding profusely from a gash on her cheek. Travis's father lit the pipe and sucked in the mind-numbing smoke, then sat back contentedly to watch television. When his mother awoke, she staggered into the bathroom to clean up. From there she walked into the bedroom and returned with the family gun. Travis watched as his father rose from the couch and moved toward her, threatening to kill her if she didn't give him the gun. She pumped five bullets into his chest, three of them cutting through his heart. She turned the gun to her temple, said good-bye to her son, and pulled the trigger. The sixth and final bullet tore through her brain, spattering blood and gray matter across the room. He was an orphan.

An aunt in San Antonio, from his mother's side, offered to take the boy, and Social Services agreed. He packed up his meager possessions and moved from Houston to the much smaller center, and to a loving, caring family. What had happened in the past belonged in the past, Aunt Sarah had told him. He had the rest of his life ahead of him, and nothing could be done to right the wrongs he had been subjected to.

He had assimilated into the new environment well, achieving good grades and making whatever sports teams he tried out for. With the sports letters came the girls, attractive ones with developing bodies and lustful desires. He reciprocated, giving the young women what they wanted. He was the hottest commodity in school his senior year, and he took that with him into college. He made the football team as a wide receiver in his freshman year, racking up seventy-one catches for one thousand two hundred forty-three yards and sixteen touchdowns. The scouts were watching as the whiz kid suited up for his sophomore year. Third game into the season, his chances at the big leagues evaporated when an opponent forced his knee to flex in a manner no knee can withstand. The ligament damage was so great, the team doctors told the boy he'd be lucky to walk without a limp. A professional sports career was out of the question.