Rare Earth (6 page)

When she stopped, Marc pressed, “I need to hear the rest.”

“As he was saying that, the line went silent. The phone was still connected, I could hear him breathing. I called his name. Then he whispered that the mercs were hunting him.”

“He said that? Specifically?”

The hand that swept the hair from her face trembled. “His exact words were, ‘The mercs are tracking me. I just heard them ask where the Israeli was hiding. Two Anglos, six African.' He said they were coming his way. He said to tell our father . . .” She swiped her face. “Then nothing. Until now, nothing.”

“You've tried to phone him back?”

“Of course I've tried. Morning and night I've called his line.” The anger turned her voice coppery. “Lodestone stole my brother.”

“You don't know that.” His protest sounded weak to his own ears.

“Oh, but I do. And I am still frightened that I might be putting my trust in the enemy.” She shut her eyes to the thought, and murmured, “What I would give to taste a clean wind.”

T
hey arrived at the Red Cross camp in the early afternoon. The first sign they had of their destination was a pair of flags dangling limply against a pale blue sky. As the gates came into view, Kitra pointed out a collection of huts near the entrance.

“Lebanese traders,” she explained. “They hear when a camp is starving. They flock like carrion to rotting meat. When the refugees grow desperate enough, they will sell whatever they have, including children.”

The Lebanese trading posts were flanked by armed guards, all of whom scowled as the trucks appeared. Refugees standing in front of the huts reached out in supplication as the trucks rumbled past.

Kitra explained, “This camp started during the AIDS crisis. Just as they brought that under control, the region was hit by a blight called black sigatoka. It devastated the two main staples, plantain and banana. Both crops will feed a family from a small patch of land, and both were vulnerable to the same disease. No one had ever heard of it before. In two years it wiped out every farm in this entire district.”

The Red Cross administrators were pitifully glad to see them. The camp director could not hold back his tears as they off-loaded the boxes of Plumpy Nut and cooking oil and sacks of mealy grain.

Marc left the others to finish unloading and started listing everything the administrator wanted with their next shipment. He did the same with the chief medic. Kitra approached him twice, both times to urge him to greater speed. They did not want to be caught in open territory after sunset. The bandits, she insisted, would not know the trucks were empty.

They reached the forest fronting their own camp's main gates just as the sunset was fading. Fatigue had long rendered them all silent. Marc had visions of a hot meal, a drink of water that did not taste of the road, a shower, and bed. But when the camp came into view, Marc knew that was not happening. Parked before the main gates was a United Nations helicopter, the white paint glowing almost gold in the dusk.

As they approached the chopper, Marc finally asked the question he had carried all the way back. “Why risk trusting me at all?”

Kitra turned from the dusty lane leading to the camp's heart, and replied, “Because you know no fear. Just like Serge.”

He did not know how to respond.

“No, that is not correct. Serge was different. He was fearless because he was happy.” The admission brought fresh pain. “He was defined by joy. And you, Marc Royce? What are you defined by?”

He did not wait for the truck to halt before climbing down.

Kamal stepped through the camp gates and said through Charles that the UN officials were with the camp elders. They assumed Marc and his team would be exhausted and had suggested they all meet in the mess hall. Marc rode into the central compound with Kamal standing on the truck's running board.

The water from the overhead cistern was blood-warm and soothing. He drained the tank, then dressed in fresh clothes and headed for the mess hall. He was standing behind Kitra in the buffet line as the screen door slapped open and a beaming burly man entered. “Marc Royce!”

“That's me.”

“Stand easy, Mr. Royce. I know all about how tired a day on the road can leave you.” He offered Marc a hand the size of a spade. “Frederick Uhuru. UN district administrator. May I join you?”

“Sure thing.”

“Let us take this table by the window.” The UN administrator was huge and solid. He was also clearly tired. Weariness and old sweat made his broad features appear almost greased. He wore a blue shirt with the UN insignia over the pocket, and navy trousers. A pair of young aides planted themselves by the side wall as Uhuru settled onto the bench opposite Marc. “The elders have some grand things to say about you and your methods, Mr. Royce. They are normally reluctant to speak of strangers. So reluctant, in fact, I am left with the distinct impression that you are a stranger no more.” Uhuru's deep voice carried a lilting formality as he turned and waved over a group of newcomers. “Your camp's new batch of administrators arrived at HQ just as we were departing. We offered them a lift.”

The UN administrator rattled off introductions, and Marc shook their hands, though his weary brain could not keep hold of their names.

Uhuru asked, “How would you describe the situation at the Red Cross camp, Mr. Royce?”

“Just as you told me on the phone. Organized starvation.”

“Can your group supply both camps?”

“Not with what we have in Lodestone's Nairobi warehouses. I spoke with our HQ on the return journey.”

“The Mombasa port is in a state of absolute chaos. Ten times the normal ship traffic has jammed the waterway. Mountains of goods wait to be off-loaded. And once they are, the roads are nearly impassable because of the refugees. Your people have transport helicopters, do they not?”

“Yes.” Marc had toured the Lodestone hangar during his seven days in Nairobi. “And fixed-wing transport designed for short takeoffs and landings in the bush.”

“Splendid.” He lifted himself from the bench far enough to extract a ratty map from his pocket. “There are three more camps in this vicinity that face similar straits, Mr. Royce. I want you to take temporary responsibility for getting them supplies. They are here to the northeast. Your nearest landing strip is here in Eldora, the district capital. There was formerly another strip at the base of Mount Elgon, but it is lost beneath a blanket of volcanic ash. I know; I flew over it this morning.”

Uhuru raised his hand and a young aide instantly handed over a pen and blank document. “I am hereby authorizing you to fly in sufficient supplies to keep these camps operational for the next ten days. No, let us be realistic and make it the next three weeks. And don't forget medical supplies, will you, Mr. Royce?”

Marc watched the man print out the instructions and knew he was being handed a blank check. “Absolutely not.”

“Be sure and include as many Plumpy Nut packets as you have in stock. I am seeing too many children with swollen bellies. And I dislike that among my children. I dislike that intensely.” Uhuru signed the document with a flourish, then ponderously pushed himself from the table. “Be so good as to accompany me, Mr. Royce.”

As they left the mess hall, Kitra remained seated in the far corner, isolated by the shadows. She lifted her head and gave Marc a silent plea. Marc nodded once in reply and followed Uhuru into the dusk.

They crossed the central yard and started down the main road toward the exit gates. As they passed the chief's encampment, Uhuru lifted his hand and called a cheery farewell in what Marc assumed was Swahili. Two of the camp's elders responded in kind. The administrator's aides and one of Kamal's men followed at a discreet distance. Marc figured he would never have a better chance to ask. “I need a favor.”

“Of course I will help if I can, Mr. Royce.”

“One of the medics here has gone missing.”

“I am aware of this. Serge Korban, yes? Nine days and counting. I fear his chances are not good.” The declaration did not alter the man's apparent good humor. “Korban is an interesting name. Do you happen to know where he is from?”

“Israel.”

“Ah. So many people are drawn to our country in times of tragedy. From so many places. And here you are, newly arrived, and already you have taken on the woes of the missing man's lovely young sister.”

“Can you help?”

“I doubt it, Mr. Royce. I doubt it most sincerely. Serge Korban had entered an official no-go area, and did so without proper authorization.”

“He was investigating why a village had been displaced.”

“A curious task for a medic, wouldn't you say? And you know what curiosity did to the cat.” Their footsteps scrunched over the loamy earth. Marc felt eyes press on him from all sides. “I also want you to fly in tents. We need to establish satellites of existing camps to the west of here. Tell your Nairobi office to supply us with ten thousand tents, on a cost-plus basis. As swiftly as possible.”

Marc did not know what to say, so he settled on, “Thank you.”

“What brings you to Kenya, Mr. Royce? I find this most interesting. Is it merely a nose for profit, or is more at work?”

Marc sensed the piercing quality of an experienced diplomat, probing deep beneath the surface. “We were talking about tents. And Serge.”

“We were talking about whatever it is that I wish to speak on. And I detect a reluctance to discuss your own motives.” As they passed through the camp gates, Uhuru waved a hand in response to the guard's salute. Uhuru said, “I only ask because I wish to know what it is that drives my new fixer.”

“I'm sorry, what?”

“Fixer is a long-established title in this line of work. A fixer does anything and everything for a profit. They make things work when everything else is broken down. Communications, transport, supplies, all gone. And yet a fixer makes the impossible happen. My first fixer, that was in Nigeria back in the eighties. The man made his reputation by supplying ice cream in the middle of a heat wave. The power was knocked out, the roads were melted, even helicopters could not fight the invisible heat drafts. Six weeks it had been like this, people driven mad by the heat and the lack of drinking water. And suddenly this fixer delivers five hundred gallons of ice cream. Six flavors. Ben and Jerry's. I will never forget the taste of that first bite. Marvelous.”

“Can you ask about Serge?”

“I have never stopped asking.” Uhuru swung around. In the glare of the helicopter's landing lights, a hard glint shone through his polished veneer. “You are new to this country, are you not?”

“I've been here less than two weeks.”

“And already you are being offered an opportunity that many wait a lifetime for and never receive.” A hint of angry impatience rumbled in the deep voice, echoing the volcano's distant rumble. “A word to the wise. You must learn to focus upon the opportunity. This is Africa, Mr. Royce. Opportunities such as what I am offering are few and far between.”

As the rotors began whining up, Uhuru offered Marc his hand. He raised his voice above the engine noise and said, “The fixer I told you about is still there. His office remains just down the hall from the regional governor, though few can even remember how he won the treasured post. That is a fixer's dream, Mr. Royce. You and your company would be well served if you kept that at the forefront of your mind.”

M
arc stood in the camp's main office and spoke to his Nairobi headquarters via the satellite phone. The signal bounced over whatever communications satellite was closest, then back to earth. The voice on the other end was turned metallic and tense by the process. Boyd Crowder, Lodestone's chief officer in Nairobi demanded, “Cost-plus? You're sure he said that?”

Marc replied, “Those were Frederick Uhuru's exact words.”

The generator chugged from the darkness out beyond the baobab tree. Lights from the mess hut illuminated the tree's knotted and twisted limbs. He heard insects strike the office window's screens, quick staccato drumbeats against the African night. Shadows flittered past his open window, bats chasing insects at impossible speeds.

Boyd Crowder repeated, “Emergency food and medical supplies for five camps.”

“And ten thousand tents.”

The line buzzed and crackled. Boyd Crowder was a grizzled veteran of many wars. Marc had seen the man on numerous occasions, first in their Washington headquarters and then during his brief layover in Nairobi. Crowder had served with the U.S. Army for sixteen years, ending his professional career as a full colonel. He had run Lodestone's Nairobi office for three years. Until tonight, Crowder had treated Marc as just another recruit.

Crowder said, “I'm pulling you out.”

“Uhuru didn't say anything about my leaving the camp, sir.”

“You answer to me, Royce. We're understaffed here in Nairobi. An order of this size is going to almost double our current turnover. You need to be back here coordinating these shipments all the way from supplier to the camps.”

Much as he yearned for a hot shower and a good meal, the prospect of leaving only heightened his lack of answers. “Uhuru gave me the impression he wanted me posted here for the duration, sir.”

“I'll call the UN's district HQ and square it with him. We need you back here ASAP. Be ready to move at sunrise. Crowder out.”

The next morning Marc entered the camp chapel just as the first song began. As usual, most of the camp dwellers had arrived long before him, and filled the structure with noisy tumult. These services at dawn and sunset were the only times the camp showed any vibrancy.

When the singing began, people stood and swayed to the music. The volume was as amazing as the harmony. The words were all in Swahili, but Marc thought he recognized several of the tunes. The sun was well up over the horizon before the singing halted and the people dropped to the benches for Charles to lead the service.

Kitra occupied her regular place, the far left corner, up where she could slip away easily to the medical tent. She remained crouched on the bench, her elbows planted on her thighs and her face in her hands. When the service was over, several women leaned in close to Kitra and spoke to her with quiet intensity.

After everyone else had departed, Marc walked down the central aisle and settled onto the bench next to Kitra. Marc waited, content to remain as long as was necessary. There was a wind from the north, holding the night's chill a bit longer against the rising sun. The baobab's branches rattled. A child wailed in the medical tent and was quickly soothed. Marc found himself thinking back to his old church in Baltimore, the way he had sat through the services and the singing, often holding his late wife's photograph and wondering if he would ever truly live again. Do more than go through the motions of an endless line of empty days. He stared beyond the chapel's shadows, out the open side to where the corrugated roofs glinted in the sunlight. Ironically he felt at home here. Being comfortable with such upheaval probably meant there was something seriously wrong with him. But this was where he felt he belonged. Dealing with chaos, giving strength to the weak. Protecting those who were wounded and hurting. Just like now.

He said, “Tell me how I can help.”

The words were enough to lift Kitra from her crouched position over her knees. Her hands came away as wet as her cheeks. “Last night I dreamed that Serge spoke to me from beyond the grave.”

Marc reached over and settled his hand on her shoulder, as he had seen the local women do. Only later did he realize it was the first time he had touched her.

Kitra went on, “When I woke up, I felt as though he had come to me for a purpose. Ever since I've worried that I haven't done something. Or missed something. Or . . .”

Marc waited until he was certain she would not speak again, then said, “My wife died four and a half years ago. I used to have these long conversations with her, sometimes in church, but mostly in dreams.”

She wiped her face with shaky hands. “What did she say?”

Marc recalled vividly the burden he had carried for over a year, that she wanted him to move on. But this was not the time to say such things to Kitra. “Usually I didn't hear the words. More like, the vacuum of her not being there had to be filled somehow.”

Kitra's voice broke as she asked, “Is Serge dead?”

Marc tried to reply as gently as possible, but he did not mask the truth. “Uhuru, the UN administrator, doesn't give your brother much of a chance of survival.”

She shuddered her way through the news. Marc waited with her. Finally she asked, “Should I leave here? Go back to Israel?”

Marc let his hand slip away. “I can't tell you that. Do you have family there?”

“My parents.”

“Do they know?”

“It was the hardest call I have ever made.”

“I'm sorry you had to endure that, Kitra. But I think it was important they heard the news from you.”

She swallowed again. “I keep thinking Serge would want to find me here if he returns.”

Marc recalled how he had himself been anchored by the home he had once shared with his wife, how he had spent four years clutching frantically at fading memories. He said simply, “I will pray for you both.”

That was enough to calm her. “I am asking. What do you think I should do?”

“I spoke with Lodestar headquarters last night. They want me to return to Nairobi. I think you should come. The answers we seek aren't here.”

She was silent a moment. “All right, Marc.”

He started to rise, then, “There's something you said yesterday. I agree with the question Serge asked. Why should the administrators make a land grab here? I mean, after the volcano erupted. The village is blanketed with ash. The land is worthless.”

“Who knows what they were after?”

Again Marc had the distinct impression she was holding back. He pressed as gently as he could. “Did Serge have any idea what might be behind this?”

The question lifted her from the bench. “This was once some of the richest agricultural land in all of Kenya. One day the rains will return and all this ash will be washed away.”

Marc rejected that with an impatient shake of his head. Stolen farmland in Africa, no matter how valuable, was not going to interest the people who had sent him to Kenya. “There has to be something bigger. A diamond mine. Or gold.”

She wiped her face with both hands. “Serge thought of that. The nearest known deposits of either are hundreds of miles away.”

“Then what . . .?” Marc stopped at the sound of approaching footsteps. He turned to find Charles coming down the chapel's central aisle.

The pastor told them, “The elders wish to have a word.”

Despite his solid Kenyan roots, Charles knew he would never sound like a born-and-bred Nairobi native. He had spent seven vital years in America, from his last year in high school through seminary. Upon his return to Kenya, he had found a great deal of hostility toward America, directed especially at rich black Americans who swaggered down the Nairobi streets and bought whatever they wanted and took pride in referring to themselves as
African Americans
. These strangers had no idea what the word meant, and made no attempt to learn. Charles shared the locals' disdain and did his best to distance himself from them.

Sometimes, when he was tired or stressed, the American mode of speech slipped back into his brain. Or when he was spooked. Like now. Because Philip seriously spooked him. There was an edge to the young chief, a deep brooding core of African blood . . . and something else.

Philip was two years younger than Charles. Yet there was a timeless dignity to the man and his demeanor. Charles knew the chief spoke fluent English. But in the presence of Marc Royce, Philip insisted on holding to Swahili. Why, Charles had no idea.

Philip told him, “Say to Marc Royce, I know he is leaving for the city.”

Charles felt goose bumps as he translated.

Marc Royce jerked slightly in surprise, then asked, “How does he know this?”

When the question was translated, Philip replied, “The angels came to me in my dreams. They said this.”

Marc nodded slowly, giving Philip's words the time they deserved. This American surprised Charles. He was extremely tough—Charles had seen this firsthand in the forest. And yet Marc also showed a genuine concern for people and their needs. Even strangers in a strange land, mired in poverty, trapped in a refugee camp. Marc Royce cared deeply. Of this Charles was certain.

Marc Royce asked, “God speaks to you in dreams?”

“Sometimes I am not certain whether I am asleep or awake,” Philip replied, once Charles had translated. “Only that God's messengers have come. My task is not to understand, but to listen well.”

“To listen,” Marc added, “and then to act in accordance to the divine will.”

Philip smiled. Charles felt a faint twinge of astonishment. Philip almost never smiled, and yet in the presence of this newcomer it had happened twice.

The chief said, “I see the word around camp is correct, that the faith is more than merely words for this one.”

Marc asked, “How is it that you're so much younger than the camp's other elders?”

Charles told him, “I mentioned how his parents had passed on.”

“I'd appreciate hearing it from him. Sometimes I learn more from how the answer is shaped than what the words actually say.”

The elders on the other stools shifted as Charles translated. The senior Kikuyu said to Philip, “Perhaps I was wrong when I spoke the other day. About him not being the one.”

Philip continued to speak through Charles, “All we have is dignity. The other reasons for our authority, the land and the village and the heritage, all this has been taken from us. I treat the elders with the same dignity that I seek from them. Charles has told you that my father was a chief before me, and his father, back twelve generations. So long has our village existed. I was twenty-three when I lost my parents to the automobile accident. The village elders voted and placed my father's staff in my hand and moved his cattle into my kraal. That is the way of my people. And then the regional governor saw what we were doing, with new agricultural techniques, training our brightest in the universities, and seeking peace with all our neighbors, and I was appointed district chief as well. That was the year the drought struck.”

“What can you tell me about your tribe?”

“We are the Luo. We once were river people, following the ebb and flow of the great river you call the Nile. Nineteen generations ago, my people were driven south by Arab invaders flying the flag of a new religion called Islam. We followed the Rift south. There in the valley we met a tribe we had never heard of before. They called themselves the Masaii, and to our astonishment, we shared the same tongue. We took this as a sign and searched out land of our own. The Masaii claimed the Rift, but the land above the great valley, it was empty and unclaimed. And so we came to be here. Centuries before the English arrived, with their papers and their stamps and their writing. And now, Marc Royce, pay careful attention, for I am about to tell you a great thing.” He waited for Charles's translation, then went on, “Now there are people who claim the land of our village is not ours and never has been.”

So it was with many of the wise ones in this land, Charles reflected as he translated. They took whatever question or comment was made and redirected it so that the matter they wanted to discuss became its heart, the central theme, the reason why they spoke at all.

Marc turned to Kitra and asked, “This was the village where your brother was taken?”

Kitra hesitated long enough for Charles to translate. It was Philip who spoke. “I will answer that, Marc Royce. Serge Korban was taken not from my village but from another within my district. So I consider his abduction a matter of personal importance. As well as a concern for these two friends, one who is missing and one who weeps for her brother in the night.”

Kitra's swallow was audible. Charles saw Marc glance over, and saw too the emotions this strong man held in check. Marc then asked, “What does it mean, district chief ?”

“As Charles has told you, I am both chief to my village, and chief to my district. The village voted for me, the government in Nairobi appointed me. I was one of the first chiefs named by the newly elected government. Before, there was much corruption. Many district chiefs paid for their office with bribes they later collected from the regions. As a result, the Nairobi government is hated by the people of this great land. The new government promised to change that. New district chiefs are to come from the region they oversee. They are to be respected. They are to be trusted. My people trust me, Marc Royce. And this is how I repay them. By clinging to my dignity in a camp where we have lost everything.”

“How can I help?”

“To answer that, I must first know who you truly are. I must see to the heart of you. I must know whether you can be trusted with the future of my people.”

The American then told them the most surprising tale. He described his background as an intelligence agent, the loss of his career through the illness and death of his wife. How he had been drawn back into service and sent to Iraq. Then his return to America, and the secret nighttime trip to the Washington hotel. He spoke of power beyond their imagination, of people connected to the White House, and questions for which Marc had no answer. Kitra's eyes grew round, for clearly she had known none of this.