The Secret Chamber (18 page)

‘I can force open the door with this.’

‘There’s no time. We’re going to have to swim out underneath the plane.’

Luca grabbed her under her arms, his powerful fingers biting into her skin. He paused, knowing full well the pain he was about to inflict.

‘Go,’ she whispered. He wrenched her whole body sideways, using all the strength in his thighs. The veins on the sides of his neck bulged as he inched Bear free, her legs scraping against the crumpled control column and ripping the fabric of her trousers in a long snaking tear. Bear’s shoulder hunched, pulled unnaturally high against the metal spike of the throttle. A horrid gurgling sound came from somewhere deep within her lungs as Luca heaved again, every muscle in his back straining with effort. Suddenly her legs came free, sending them both tumbling back against the other side of the plane.

Bear was pressed against him, her breathing shallow from
the
pain. She slowly opened her eyes and followed Luca’s gaze to where the water was gushing through the open tear in the cockpit beside René. It poured down on to his massive head, flattening his thick crop of hair and filling his open mouth. It streamed down on to his face with such force that it seemed to blur his features, and Luca just stared, transfixed.

‘We have to leave him,’ Bear whispered. ‘He’s gone.’

Luca blinked. He knew she was right. But as the water rose past René’s broad shoulders and up to his neck, he also knew this would be the last glimpse he would ever have of his friend. Suddenly, he felt a terrible urge to stay with him, as if to make amends somehow for it all.

‘Come on, Luca!’ Bear shouted, pulling him forward.

Grabbing her hand, he felt his fingers curl around hers, before he breathed in as deep as he could and plunged forward, into the foul water.

THE REAR WHEELS
of the Mk2 Oryx helicopter touched down with a delicate bump. As the engines slowly powered down with a low-pitched whine, the downdraft from the rotors washed out across the searing hot tarmac, diffusing a mirage of heat waves.

Jean-Luc climbed out of the front passenger seat, slamming the door shut with a wide sweep of his arm. He stalked across the open tarmac of Kigali International Airport with his fist pressed against his forehead to shield his eyes from the glaring midday sun. It was 42 degrees in the shade and the fabric of his white T-shirt clung to his back and armpits.

Putting a cigarette to the corner of his mouth, he lit a match, recoiling sharply as the sulphur flared up more than usual. It sent a plume of smoke into his eyes, making him curse out loud all the way to the terminal building.

‘Welcome to Rwanda, sir,’ the young official said, raising his arm in salute. ‘Your passport, please.’

Jean-Luc dug in the top pocket of his shirt and slammed
his
passport down on the counter. He stared at the official with undisguised annoyance, his chin jutting out dangerously. The official looked down at the passport and back to Jean-Luc’s face. He began to speak, then picked up the well-thumbed booklet and let his forefingers delicately trace across the surface of the creased leather as if trying to decipher some kind of Braille.

‘How long will you be …’ he hesitated, his eyes meeting the full wrath of Jean-Luc’s stare ‘… be staying … here in Kigali, I mean.’

Jean-Luc gave a slow shake of his head.

‘Read the top of the damn’ passport,’ he said, his voice hissing out between nicotine-stained teeth. The official looked down again. The word ‘Diplomat’ was stamped in lettering so faded that he had somehow managed to miss it the first time round.

‘That will be all, sir.’

Snatching back his passport, Jean-Luc crossed the marble floor to the rank of taxis neatly parked outside. He stood still for a moment and slowly shook his head. It was incredible how different from Goma this airport was, despite their proximity. Here, there were no hustling crowds fighting for a place on a bus, or fat officials eyeballing the passengers like cattle as they marched them through the turnstiles, looking for the easiest bribes. Rwanda had been reborn under President Kagame’s iron fist and now even plastic bags had been outlawed, transforming the land of a thousand hills into a newly whitewashed tourist destination.

Jean-Luc signalled to the first taxi and was about to open
the
rear door when a white Toyota Land Cruiser pulled to a halt in front. It had the word ‘UN’ stamped in bold lettering across it. A man emerged from the driver’s seat.

‘Mr Étienne, if you will.’

As the engine fired to life and the Toyota pulled into the three lanes of bustling traffic, heading towards the city centre, Jean-Luc swivelled in his seat to face the other passenger.

‘The CIA couldn’t think of anything more original than a UN vehicle?’

‘Oldies but goldies,’ the man replied, giving a crooked smile that accentuated the crow’s feet around his eyes. He had a slight accent from somewhere in the Deep South and a wholesome, all-American jawline faintly smudged by stubble. His blond hair had begun to grey at the temples and he had deep tan lines running across his forehead from a lifetime spent in the sun.

‘Where are we going?’ Jean-Luc asked.

‘Does it matter?’ the man replied.

Jean-Luc grunted, noting that the smile was still playing faintly around the other man’s lips. It was as if he’d heard a joke several minutes ago but now couldn’t quite remember the punchline.

They sat in silence while the Toyota wound through the lanes of traffic and pulled off on to a dust track towards the main market. Slowly bouncing down the potholed road in second gear, they passed lines of stalls made of thin wooden sticks bleached grey by the sun. Each was manned by a brightly clad woman selling piles of vegetables and waiting with the patience of stone for her next customer. They passed
line
after line of them, the mass of people growing denser as they drew closer to the main hub of the market.

Jean-Luc lit another cigarette. ‘So, what do I call you, then?’

‘Call me Devlin.’

‘
Putain
,’ Jean-Luc spat. ‘Devlin? What, you think this is some kind of joke? What are you going to do? Kill this president as well.’

Devlin’s smile widened a little.

‘It wasn’t us who killed Lumumba in the Congo. The Belgians did that one.’

‘Sure they did.’

They entered the main entrance to the market, through two disused gates set back on their hinges. Devlin nudged the car to a halt by one of the roadside shebeens, where some locals were leaning out of the open shutters with bottles of beer clutched in their hands.

‘Where I come from we only drink on weekends. We should make the most of this.’ Devlin got out, slamming the car door shut. ‘Although something tells me they won’t have any of your
pastis
liquor here.’

There was a low table at the back of the shebeen, set slightly apart from the rest. They sat down and Devlin ordered two beers.

‘You know,’ he began, resting his hands lightly on the table, ‘a couple of months back we had a message come through like yours, offering more information on this “Mordecai”. Met the informant myself, hoping we might get to run someone within the LRA. Young guy, was one of the
lieutenants
turfed out of Uganda with Kony, but still part of Mordecai’s inner circle.’

Once the beers were opened, Devlin waited for the barman to leave before continuing.

‘He turned up dead a couple of weeks later with his arms and legs hacked off. He was all piled up in this big pine box.’ He paused, forehead creasing in concentration. ‘No, that ain’t right. It wasn’t pine. Oak, perhaps.’

‘So?’

‘Well, we were kinda thinking, if one of his own lieutenants can’t get information through to us, what makes you think you can?’

Jean-Luc grabbed his beer and took a swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Because I’m not some idiot child soldier with a head pumped full of amphetamines. I’ve been running cargo for Mordecai for months now.’

‘Cargo?’

‘A mineral that everyone wants to keep quiet. Very quiet. Even the handlers are Chinese.’

Jean-Luc pushed a small plastic sack across the table, one end glued down to seal the contents inside. Devlin stared at it for several seconds before taking it off the table and resting it on the neighbouring seat.

‘So what is it, this mystery cargo?’

‘Just get your guys in the lab to take a look. It’ll be worth the price.’

‘It fucking better be, Étiene. You have any idea how much bullshit you have to go through to get that kind of money?’

Jean-Luc stared across the table. ‘You asked for proof. There it is. So don’t ever question me again.’ He paused, inhaling on his cigarette. ‘I can get through to Mordecai because I already have.’

‘You’ve actually met him?’ Devlin asked, trying to mask the surprise in his voice.

‘No one from the outside has. But I know where he’s hiding.’

Devlin exhaled deeply, running his fingers through his blond hair.

‘OK, OK. This is good. I’m going to need to know what contact you’ve had with him. We know he’s out in the Ituri but it’s one hell of a big place and we’ve got some blanks that need filling.’

‘Blanks? I’d say you guys haven’t got the faintest fucking idea what’s going on north of the river. You’ve been stationed out here in Kigali all this time, too scared shitless to do anything but file a report to Langley every couple of minutes.’

Devlin stared across at the table, the same distant smile returning to his lips.

‘Langley do love their reports,’ he said, seemingly oblivious to the affront. ‘Look, the priority is the relationship with the Chinese. We know they’re all over the Congo like a rash, but we wanna know what they’re doing hanging around with this Mordecai. We need to get detailed reports of their movements, exact shipments and what the hell they are using this new mineral for. You get us that, and you got yourself a deal.’

Then he shrugged. ‘As for the man himself, Mordecai’s one of them tinpot militia leaders. Dime a dozen out here.
We’re
only interested in him for his relationship with the Chinks. In the meantime, let him slaughter a few villagers up north, if that’s what gets him off.’

Jean-Luc gave a grim smile, eyes dropping down to the table where the last of the cigarette he’d been smoking lay in the ashtray. It had burned down to the filter.

‘You’re underestimating him,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘He’s building an army that’s a whole different animal from the Mai-Mai or FDLR. He’s not here to skim a few diamond mines or get his hands on some gold deposits. Mordecai is looking at something bigger, much bigger.’ Jean-Luc stared down at his hands, clenching the knuckles together with a soft crack. ‘I’ve been a merc all my life, but I’ve never seen soldiers so fanatical. They do anything he says, even if the mission is suicide. A man with an army like that can do a lot in Africa.’

Devlin leaned back in the seat, folding his arms across his chest.

‘Sounds like we’ve got the damn’ bogeyman out there,’ he said. ‘If Mordecai wants to make a bigger play, we’ve still got contacts. Wouldn’t take much for us to send over a few shipments to the Mai-Mai and get them to tie him up with a nice little war. But come on, Étienne. You wouldn’t be hyping this up a bit just to get a better price, now would you?’

‘You keep talking like that and I’ll double my price,’ Jean-Luc countered, leaning across the table, his eyes darkening.

‘Well, here’s the thing,
mon ami
. I did a little research of
my
own and figured that maybe you’d be wanting something else instead of money.’ Devlin smiled, then put his hand out. ‘Actually, you mind if I have one of them cigarettes? Gave up years ago, but can’t seem to shake it.’

Jean-Luc pushed a dark blue packet across the table with some matches stacked on top. After a moment, Devlin drew down on the cigarette.

‘Wow, these are strong. What are they?’

‘The money,’ Jean-Luc said flatly, a vein on the side of his neck pulsing with annoyance.

‘Well, I did some checking and your name flagged up in an ICC investigation. Just a mention, of course, but no one wants the ICC on their tail, now do they?’ Devlin inhaled again, nodding slightly to himself. ‘I’ll tell you how this deal’s going to work. We pay you nothing, but you give us all the information you have on Mordecai and the Chinese. That happens and I’ll personally see to it your name fades from the memory of the International Criminal Court.’

Devlin raised his glass in a toast. ‘We got a deal? No sense letting something like that stay with you till the grave.’

Jean-Luc remained silent.

‘Be nice to get back to France one day, wouldn’t it? Get back while you still have a little lead in your pencil.’ Devlin’s eyes tilted up towards the cloud of smoke he’d just exhaled. ‘You gotta remember something, Étienne, I know exactly what you did in Sierra Leone. I can have you arrested, just like that.’

Devlin clicked his fingers together then took a sip of his beer, resting the bottle against his lips while he stared across
the
table at Jean-Luc. His eyes sparkled with complicity, but failed to see Jean-Luc’s right hand shooting upwards, slamming the bottle of beer hard into his mouth. It smashed against his teeth, the glass stem cracking off and clattering down noisily on to the tabletop. Blood spattered across Devlin’s right cheek along with the splintered remains of one of his front incisors.