The Devil's Kingdom

‘Where’s Shelton?’

  ‘Having breakfast in some joint across the street.’

  ‘Reel his lazy ass in ASAP and stand by. Things are about to start happening.’

  Bronski sat up straight in the front seat of the van and kept watching the house. Moments later, Masango burst from the back door and hurried towards the Mercedes parked under the shade of the trees like a man with soldier ants in his boxer shorts. He opened the car, but didn’t get in. Instead he reached inside and brought out a cellphone. Probably a damn burner, Bronski thought, irritated that he wouldn’t be able to trace the call or listen in. Although there could be little doubt who Masango was calling, to find out what the hell was going on.

  Bronski might not be able to listen, but you could glean a lot about a conversation from just watching. He grabbed his binoculars and focused in on Masango’s face.

  Masango paced up and down under the trees as he dialled a number, nervous as a beetle in a chicken coop. He waited impatiently for a few rings and then started yakking away like crazy and gesticulating with his free hand. From his body language, it was hard to tell whether he was shitting himself with anxiety or shitting himself with relief. Maybe a mixture of both.

  Bronski kept watching. He cursed as Masango, still on the phone, disappeared out of sight behind some tall bushes. When Masango reappeared, he’d finished his call. He jumped straight into his Mercedes, fired it up, K-turned it out from the shade of the trees and took off down his drive in a tearing hurry.

  Bronski started the van as the Mercedes streaked past. He pulled out of the parking space and followed. It felt so good to be back in action at long last. ‘We’re moving,’ he said into the radio. ‘Shelton there yet?’

  ‘All present and correct, boss.’

  ‘Heading north. Gasser and Shelton, you should see me any moment now. Stay in contact.’

  Masango was really shifting. As he weaved through traffic, keeping the Mercedes in sight, Bronski saw Gasser and Shelton’s silver Peugeot filter into his rear-view mirror, three cars back. Jungmayr’s green Nissan wouldn’t be far behind, gunning it to catch up. They were all pros at covert surveillance and would switch positions constantly so that Masango would never spot the tail. In any case, it looked as if the African had other things on his mind.

  Bronski expected Masango to continue north and then cut across town to catch the ferry over the river to Brazzaville. Instead, though, the Mercedes led a twisting route eastwards, parallel with the river for several miles until it became obvious to Bronski that they were heading out of town. Where was the sonofabitch going?

  Bronski calmly considered his options and then got back on the two-way. ‘Gasser, Shelton, Jungmayr, I want you to cross into ROC and sit on the police HQ in Brazzaville until further instructions. I’ll stay on Masango and see where he goes.’

  He didn’t need to give specifics on the best way over the border. His guys would know to avoid the public ferry and rent a private speedboat to take them the quick route, though they had plenty of bribe cash handy and all the right visas already in place in case they got tangled up with immigration bullshit. They’d be in Brazzaville in a couple of hours, tops.

  As for Bronski’s own destination, he had no clue where Masango was leading him. While the Mercedes sped eastwards out of Kinshasa, Bronski picked up his cellphone and called Eugene Svalgaard.

  ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist just yet, boss, but I think something’s happening over here.’

  Svalgaard sounded as though the call had caught him napping, but he responded to the news as if he’d been given an intravenous shot of cocaine straight to the brain. ‘What kind of something? Is it good news? You have it? Victor? Did you get it?’

  ‘There have been some developments. Not quite sure what they are exactly, but it looks like your rock just surfaced in Brazzaville.’

  ‘Where the hell’s Brazzaville? Doesn’t matter. I’m on my way. Meet me there.’

  ‘Hold on—’ Bronski began, but Svalgaard had ended the call. When Bronski redialled the call, Svalgaard had turned off his phone. No doubt already floundering out of his hotel and straight for the Learjet.

  ‘Prick,’ Bronski muttered.

  He followed the Mercedes to a remote private airfield thirty miles east of Kinshasa that was little more than a tongue of cracked concrete in the middle of yellowed brush land. There hadn’t been a living soul in sight for the last five miles, which had made tailing Masango difficult and forced Bronski to hang back almost a quarter of a mile, following a dust plume.

  It was hot. Felt like rain was coming. He parked the van behind a clump of thorn bushes on a hill overlooking the strip, where he watched Masango get out of the car and stand alone at the side of the empty concrete runway, waiting and looking up at the overcast sky. He checked his phone once, but was probably getting no reception out here.

  Masango went on waiting and Bronski went on watching for a little over thirty minutes before the drone of a light aircraft became audible and a speck appeared in the sky, coming in from the east. Soon after, a pearly white eight-seater turboprop touched down and taxied to a halt as Masango ran to meet it.

  Out of the plane stepped a large, powerfully built man in military khaki covered with all the gold braid befitting his self-awarded rank, a red beret clamped on his head. The mirrored aviators, the Havana: no question in Bronski’s mind who the guy was.

  Jean-Pierre Khosa.

  The General looked even nastier and more pissed off than he did in the only photo Bronski had seen. Considering that he’d just had his precious diamond filched from him, it wasn’t hard to guess the reason for his foul mood. Even Masango looked terrified of the guy.

  Khosa was accompanied by five hard-looking men with automatic weapons who posted themselves around the aircraft and scoured the surrounding area like bodyguards on VIP close protection duty while Masango led Khosa to the Mercedes and they got in.

  Bronski had no desire to be shot to death by an African warlord’s heavies that day, or any day. Having seen enough, he started the van and made his exit.

  Chapter 58

  Back at Mama’s, Ben dropped off Tuesday, Sizwe, and the kids. Tuesday was flagging and in need of another dose of painkillers. In any case, there was no need for the whole gang to accompany Rae to the embassy. The children gathered in the street outside the auberge, and Rae said goodbye to each one in turn with a little hug. Ben waited behind the wheel of the Land Rover.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he called from the open window.

  Now that the time had come, Jude looked as glum as Ben had ever seen him. He’d never seen a more miserable-looking former hostage about to be returned home and safe than Rae, either. The two of them walked to the car as if they were going to the gallows. Jude let go of her hand to open the back door for her. She lifted one foot inside, and then stopped.

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  Jude’s face lit up with all kinds of conflicting emotions. ‘Come on, Rae, please. Don’t do this. You have to go.’

  ‘Does it have to be this morning?’ she said. ‘Can’t it be later? Please. Let me stay just a little longer.’ She seemed close to tears. She clutched Jude’s hand again and clasped it tight against her side, as if she never wanted to let it go. Visibly moved, Jude put his arm around her shoulders. She rested her head on his.

  ‘Oh, Christ, here we go,’ Ben heard Jeff mumble, too quietly for Jude and Rae to hear.

  Jude looked at Ben. ‘Can we put it off until this afternoon?’

  Ben paused a beat, then turned off the engine and stepped down from the Land Rover. ‘I don’t think a few hours will make much difference in the great scheme of things.’

  Jude flashed the brightest smile Ben had seen from him in a long time, and quickly led Rae back indoors. Moments later, they disappeared into Rae’s room.

  ‘Those two have got it pretty bad, haven’t they?’ Jeff said, shaking his head.

  ‘Seems that way,’ Ben replied.

  ‘Now
we’ve got a bit of time on our hands,’ Jeff suggested, ‘I say we take a gander around and see if we can’t find somewhere with an internet connection so’s I can try to wire through some dosh from the bank.’

  For years, Ben had been so in the habit of never travelling anywhere without the comfort of a wad of cash in his pocket that it unsettled him deeply to find himself completely penniless in a strange place. The feeling was also an alarming reminder that his financial situation back home was still just as precarious as when he’d left it. He hated having to ask her, but he borrowed a few francs from Mama so he and Jeff would have some basic expenses money in town.

  Brazzaville was a relatively small city with a population only a fraction of that of neighbouring Kinshasa. After not too much searching around, Ben and Jeff discovered the Institut Français du Congo in the Place de la République, a small modern culture and arts centre that also featured a busy little internet café. It might have been 1990s technology anywhere else, but here it felt like a lucky find. They bought coffees and commandeered a computer terminal, from which Jeff emailed Le Val’s business banking manager in Normandy. He outlined the situation and the urgent need to wire several thousand euros to a bank in Brazzaville, where some kind of temporary holding account would have to be set up to accept the funds.

  Within minutes, the guy in Valognes emailed back to say it was an unusual request but he’d try and see what he could do.

  ‘Best we can manage for now,’ Jeff said as they headed back towards Mama’s. ‘Looks like we’ll be toing and froing for the rest of the day checking emails. I’m sure Alex can sort something out for us. What’s the matter? You look worried.’

  Ben lit up his last Tumbaco. ‘Even if we get the cash through without a hitch, once we see Rae off it’s not going to be easy for you, me and Tuesday to get out of here with no passports. Jude’s okay, but the rest of us are in a fix.’

  ‘Yeah. The joys of civvy street, eh? And it’s not like we can turn up at the Brit embassy pretending we had them nicked, either. Seeing as how we got into Africa under the bloody radar in the first place.’ Jeff paused, mulling over the problem. ‘Okay, try this on for size. We double back to that internet café and email Auguste Kaprisky. Ask him if he’d send the Gulfstream back out to pick us up.’ Calling in a favour from the ageing billionaire had been what had got them from France to Somalia so quickly when the news of Jude’s situation had first reached them.

  ‘I’d be surprised if Kaprisky knew what email was,’ Ben said. ‘He rattles around inside that old chateau of his as if he was living in the nineteenth century. It’s a miracle he even has a phone. You know his number?’

  ‘What am I, a walking directory?’

  ‘Then it’s not much of a plan,’ Ben said.

  ‘But the private jet idea works. How else can you zap about from one continent to another without papers?’

  ‘True, but sadly, we don’t happen to own one.’

  ‘What about your sister? She’s still the big cheese of Steiner Industries, isn’t she?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘Ruth’s taken enough risks and losses because of me in the past already. And I don’t think she’ll ever let me have another company plane, after what happened to the last one.’

  ‘Fair enough. We could always make our way to the coast and see if the four of us can hitch a lift on another Svalgaard Line tanker.’

  ‘I can just see that,’ Ben said.

  ‘I suppose the Dakota’s out of the equation?’

  ‘I’d say so, Jeff, yes.’

  ‘Then I’m all out of ideas. Why don’t you come up with one for a change?’

  ‘Give me time. I’ll think of something.’

  They’d been away from Mama’s for nearly three hours. When they arrived back there, a pair of four-wheel-drive police cruisers and a bulky armoured van were parked outside. The van looked like something for hauling dangerous criminals off to jail in. Three ROC cops in paramilitary uniform and toting assault rifles were guarding the door of the auberge.

  ‘The SWAT team’s here for you,’ Jeff said. ‘Shouldn’t have nicked the Land Rover.’

  But as they walked past the guards and went inside, it soon became clear that the police were there on other business. With Mama, Jude, Rae, Tuesday, Sizwe, and the kids inside the kitchen were two more armed officers and Chief Zandu. Mama looked nervous, Jude and Rae more so. Tuesday’s eyes were flashing warnings at Ben and Jeff. The children were huddled in a corner, watching the cops warily. Zandu was sitting at the table as if he owned the place.

  ‘They arrived half an hour ago,’ Jude said.

  Zandu didn’t get up. ‘We have been waiting for you. Where have you been?’

  ‘Sightseeing. What’s this about?’

  ‘I want to show you all something,’ Zandu said.

  ‘Like the magic disappearing diamond trick?’ Jeff said, a little too loudly.

  ‘Then show us,’ Ben said.

  Zandu shook his head and smiled, apparently not at all bothered by Jeff’s comment. ‘Not here. You must come with me.’

  Ben pointed at Jude. ‘If you have more questions to ask him, then you can ask them here.’

  Zandu shook his head again, but this time the smile was gone. He stood up. ‘No. You must all come with me. Everyone.’ He pointed at Mama. ‘Except her. She can stay.’

  ‘This is fucking ridiculous,’ Jeff laughed. ‘We have six kids here. You want to show them too? Is there a new funfair in town or something?’

  Jude was giving Ben anxious looks. What’s going on?

  ‘Whatever this is about,’ Ben said to Zandu, ‘these people have nothing to do with it. Take me, if you want. Everyone else stays. That, or nothing.’

  Zandu nodded at his two officers. The guns pointed at Ben. ‘No more talk,’ Zandu said. ‘We go, now. Quick.’

  ‘And if we refuse?’

  ‘Then I will have you all arrested,’ Zandu said simply.

  ‘On what charges?’

  ‘No charges are necessary. I am the chief of police. I can put you all in jail and leave you there for as long as I want. Nobody will ask questions.’

  Ben felt anger and anxiety rise up in him, both at once. Now he understood the purpose of the prisoner van outside. He knew that Zandu could be taken at his word.

  Ben pointed at Rae. ‘What about her? She has an appointment at the US Embassy here in Brazzaville, in less than an hour. People are waiting for her there. If she doesn’t turn up, you’ll have the American government all over you. Is that what you want?’

  But Ben knew even before he’d said it that the bluff was a waste of time. If there was a way out of this, he couldn’t see it yet. For the moment, they had no choice but to comply. Zandu was losing patience fast.

  ‘I know,’ Jude said to Ben as the twelve were escorted outside at semi-gunpoint. ‘You told me so. I shouldn’t have gone to the police. It was a terrible mistake. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You lie down with dogs, you rise with fleas,’ Jeff said.

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘I’m not sure. We’ll work it out. Don’t worry about it,’ Ben answered Jude. But he was, more than he was willing to let show.

  Zandu’s men separated Rae and Jude from the others and put them in the back of the lead police cruiser. They herded the kids into the back of the second, then put Ben and the rest into the back of the van, which was enclosed with sheet metal on the inside, no windows, just metal benches for the prisoners to sit on. Some people had ventured from neighbouring houses to watch the arrest. Others peeked from windows, too afraid to come out. Zandu’s men slammed the van doors.

  It was a bumpy ride as they set off at speed through the city’s unpaved streets. Sizwe was silent. Jeff was muttering a steady stream of obscenities. Sitting on the metal bench next to Ben in the dark interior of the van, Tuesday said, ‘Shit, guys, if I’d known this was going to happen I wouldn’t have argued in favour of going to the cops. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I
t’s just harassment,’ Ben said. ‘They probably want to shake us down to see what other goodies we might be hiding.’ Tuesday didn’t seem much comforted. Ben didn’t blame him.

  It was over twenty minutes of jarring and lurching before the van finally stopped. They heard doors opening and boots clumping and voices, and then the back of the van opened, flooding it with sudden bright light.

  ‘This would be the new police HQ,’ Jeff said, peering out. ‘Very snazzy.’

  The large grey concrete-block building they’d stopped outside was some kind of disused warehouse in an empty avenue of derelict industrial storage facilities. A faded sign for Primus beer hung lopsided and rusting above the doorway. It was the kind of place you brought people to shoot them and dispose of the bodies in the river, which Ben could smell nearby. They were somewhere close to the docks. The city’s modern high-rises and the landmark of the Namemba Tower seemed far off in the distance.

  The police cruisers had pulled up in front of the van. Jude, Rae and the kids were being marched towards the building by the cops. Ben watched the guns. They were cocked and the safeties were off. A sudden move against Zandu’s men wouldn’t have been a good idea. Ben wanted to say something, but he kept his mouth shut and kept watching. Whatever this was about, and whatever Zandu had in store for them, he’d find out soon enough.

  And moments later, when the rest of them were herded at gunpoint into the shady, dank inside of the warehouse, he did.

  Because the twelve of them weren’t alone in there with Zandu and his men. Several more figures stepped out of the shadows to meet them. Two of them, Ben had seen before. But he was only looking at one of them. A face he’d thought he’d laid eyes on for the last time.

  ‘If you knew how happy I am to see you again, soldier,’ said Jean-Pierre Khosa. Something in the General’s clasped hand caught the light from the doorway and sparkled softly.

  The sound of Khosa’s laughter filled the warehouse.

  Chapter 59

  ‘What a surprise,’ Ben said. ‘I only wish I could share the sentiment.’