King Solomon''s Curse

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’

  Fisher approached from the desk, holding up his room key. It was an actual piece of metal rather than a swipe card, attached to a large block of wood. ‘Welcome to the nineteenth century! I suppose this is one way to stop people from stealing them.’

  Fortune grinned at him. ‘Would you prefer to be locked out of your room when the electricity fails?’

  ‘The power goes off?’ asked Lydia.

  ‘Most nights, yes. The hotel has a generator, but not always enough gasoline to run it.’

  ‘Sometimes the old brute force approach is best,’ said the amused Nina, holding up her own equally bulky key fob. ‘You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you, Eddie?’

  He was looking distractedly back into the bar. ‘Hmm? Oh, yeah.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ He composed himself, then retrieved their bags. ‘Come on, then. Let’s check out our pad.’

  By the time they were installed in their third-floor room, sunset had arrived with equatorial swiftness. They sat on the small balcony to watch. Butembo became more visually appealing in inverse proportion to the amount of remaining daylight, shadows hiding the squalor.

  ‘So, that guy downstairs,’ Nina asked, ‘who was he? Paris said he’d heard of him . . .’

  ‘His name’s Brice. Used to work for the British government.’

  She picked up the disdain in his voice. ‘You mean MI6?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She smiled. ‘You really don’t like spies, do you?’

  ‘Nope. Bunch of sneaky, lying bastards. Doesn’t matter which side they’re on, they’re as bad as each other.’

  ‘Well, Peter Alderley’s okay.’

  ‘Alderley! That tosser.’ But he said it with a crooked smile.

  ‘How did you meet this Brice, then?’

  ‘Job I did a while back,’ he said, being deliberately vague. ‘Ended okay from my point of view, but not his, which he was pretty pissed off about. He wound up quitting because of it, and now he’s out here as a private contractor.’

  ‘Not someone I want to get to know, then.’

  ‘Nope. Alderley’s a bell-end, but he’s a relatively good guy. Brice is just an arsehole, though. Anyway, let’s not—’

  He broke off as the lights scattered across the darkening town flickered, then vanished. The hotel’s own lights briefly dimmed before returning. ‘Whoa. Fortune wasn’t kidding about the power,’ said Nina. The sun was now gone, the sky turning a bruised purple in its wake.

  Eddie shook his head. ‘Happens a lot in this part of the world, even in pretty big cities. The only places you can guarantee the lights’ll stay on are the ones with lots of tourists . . . or the country’s rulers.’

  ‘Where the money is, in other words.’

  ‘Yeah. I got cynical about that a long time ago. Even back home in England.’

  ‘You still think of it as home? Even after living in New York for twelve years?’

  ‘Always will, because, well, it is home. It’s where I grew up, it’s what made me who I am . . .’

  He trailed off with a small frown. Nina caught his change of expression. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Something Brice said, that’s all. Made me wonder where I actually belong.’

  ‘You’ve got a wife and a little girl! You should know where you belong.’

  He smiled, then regarded his watch. ‘We should call Macy soon.’

  ‘It won’t be her bedtime for a couple of hours.’

  ‘I’m thinking more about our bedtime. It’ll be a long day tomorrow, for both of—’

  Eddie stopped mid-sentence again, but this time at the sound of gunfire. He jumped from his seat to shield Nina as he scanned the dark streets below. The shots, he could tell, were from a rifle rather than a handgun, probably a Kalashnikov set on single shot. Shouts reached him from a few hundred metres away, but he couldn’t pick out any activity at ground level. ‘Think we should go inside.’

  ‘Yup,’ Nina quickly agreed. Even before Eddie had closed the French windows behind them, they heard another gunshot. ‘Who do you think it is?’

  ‘Militia, probably – maybe this lot Fortune told us about.’

  ‘I’m glad the hotel’s behind that wall.’

  ‘Won’t keep ’em out if they really want to come in.’

  ‘Thanks, honey. You know how to make a woman feel safe.’

  Someone knocked on the door. The Englishman cautiously opened it. Ziff was outside, eyes wide. ‘Did you hear those shots?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Nina told him. ‘Eddie thinks it’s the militia.’

  ‘They didn’t sound far away! I hope the hotel is safe.’

  She looked at her husband. ‘You want to tell him, or shall I?’ He gave her a grim smile.

  ‘I assume you think the whole town is unsafe, then?’ asked the Israeli. ‘At least we’re leaving in the morning.’

  ‘The countryside won’t be any safer,’ Eddie told him.

  ‘Wonderful.’ Ziff put a hand to his head. ‘Still, I suppose it will make your television show more exciting. If we make it back alive, that is.’

  ‘I’m sure Fortune and Paris will make sure we do,’ said Nina, trying to sound reassuring – both for Ziff’s benefit and her own.

  A door opened down the hallway. ‘Did you just hear shooting?’ asked Lydia in alarm. The New Zealander was clad in an oversized T-shirt, clutching it protectively around herself.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ said Eddie. ‘If you’ve got earplugs, you might want to put ’em in, though.’

  ‘Oh, great. We’re in a war zone.’ She retreated and closed the door.

  Ziff regarded the doorway curiously. ‘Isn’t that Mr Fisher’s room?’

  ‘I’m sure they’re just sharing to save the production company some money,’ said Nina, holding in a smile. The director and sound woman weren’t a couple, but it had become clear that they were at the very least friends with benefits.

  The bearded archaeologist gave her a wry look, then returned to his own room. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, Nina.’

  ‘See you then,’ she replied. Eddie closed the door. She saw when he turned that he was deep in thought. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t think Fortune and Paris will be enough to look after you all,’ he said. ‘Not with these militia twats running around.’

  ‘It won’t just be them. Fortune said he’d hired three other guys.’

  ‘They’re porters, not bodyguards. And I don’t know anything about them.’ A pause, then: ‘I’m coming with you to the river.’

  ‘What?’ she protested. ‘Eddie, it’s a full day’s drive away – that’s a two-day round trip for you. And it’ll take at least another day before you can get back to Macy.’

  ‘My dad and Julie can look after her for a bit longer.’

  ‘That’s . . . kind of an imposition. Are you serious?’

  ‘Bloody right I’m serious. Fortune’s a good man, and Paris seems on the ball, but they’re just two guys. And two guys aren’t enough to protect a nice juicy party of rich foreigners.’

  ‘And you think having three guys will make all the difference?’

  ‘You know what the third guy can do. Especially when it comes to keeping you safe.’

  She couldn’t dispute that after everything they had been through together. ‘Yeah, but . . . Eddie, you can’t leave Macy with her grandparents for an extra two days. It’s not fair on them, and it’s not fair on her.’

  His attitude did not change. ‘I’ll tell you what else wouldn’t be fair on her: her mum not coming back at all because some militia scumbag decided to steal some camera gear. Once you’re safely on the boats I’ll head back, but I’m not leaving you until then. And that’s that.’

  ‘It is, is it?’ Nina said, defi
ant – but knowing that on this occasion, there was no way he would back down. Nevertheless, she refused to retreat herself. ‘Then I think you should be the one to explain to Macy why her daddy isn’t going to see her for at least another three days. And also explain to your daddy.’

  ‘I will, don’t worry. And I know Macy’ll be upset, but there are things that’d upset her a lot more. As for Dad, pfft.’ A dismissive sound. ‘He always preferred playing golf to being with his kids, so he can bloody well make up for it with his grandkid.’

  Nina had more to say, but another couple of gunshots outside – more distant, but still clear – held back the words. ‘Hope that doesn’t go on all night,’ she said instead, with false levity.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Eddie replied. ‘I’ll let Fortune know about the change in plans, then we’ll ring Macy. After that, we’d better get some food and then some shut-eye. ’Cause tomorrow’s going to be a long day.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, still frustrated with him. ‘I get the feeling it will.’

  8

  If there were any further incidents in the night, Nina had been too tired to hear them. But she awoke before dawn, filled with renewed energy. Reaching Butembo was merely the overture; the expedition proper was about to begin.

  Knowing they had a long journey ahead, the team had a full breakfast before assembling outside the hotel. The two minibuses awaited them, along with a well-worn Toyota pickup truck. Joining the explorers were three Congolese men. ‘Our porters,’ Fortune announced. ‘Masson Kimba, Lenard Chumbo and Cretien Wemba.’

  ‘Morning,’ said Eddie, shaking hands with each in turn. Kimba was broad and muscular, his smiling round face shaded by a ragged red baseball hat bearing the incongruous logo of Manchester United football club. Chumbo, in contrast, had a wiry build and prominent cheekbones, but his expression was equally cheerful. The last man, Wemba, fell unremarkably between the others’ extremes. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of knock-off designer sunglasses with reflective blue lenses. ‘Nice to meet everyone.’ He turned back to Fortune. ‘They know how to handle themselves?’

  His Congolese friend – his suit from the previous day replaced by a more practical but equally stylish safari outfit – nodded. ‘They will not panic if there is trouble. You can count on that.’

  Eddie stepped back as Nina and Ziff introduced themselves to the newcomers, noticing that Rivero was recording events with a professional Handicam. ‘You putting this on Facebook?’

  ‘I’m always shooting, man,’ Rivero replied. ‘The more footage you got, the easier things are in the edit. Besides, you never know when something’s gonna happen.’

  ‘Make sure you get my good side,’ Eddie joked.

  Fisher shook hands with the porters, then straightened imperiously to address all the Africans. ‘Just so you all know, I’m the director, which means I’m in charge,’ he told them. ‘I call the shots. If I say something needs to be a certain way, then that’s how it gets done. I’m not really a bad guy, so if everyone does what I say, I won’t have to act like one. Okay?’

  The porters exchanged looks, Wemba frowning behind his glasses – then Paris exaggeratedly bowed to the director. ‘Oh, yassa, yassa, massa. We all do what the great white man say, yassa.’ Fortune laughed.

  Fisher’s cheeks flushed. ‘That’s – that’s not how I meant it. It wasn’t!’ He turned to his crew for support, only to find them trying to hide smirks. ‘Really, it wasn’t.’

  Eddie nudged Rivero. ‘Did you get that?’ The cameraman nodded.

  The three chuckling porters responded to an instruction from Fortune and began to load the baggage into the waiting vehicles. Rivero conspicuously refused to surrender his Sony, while Lydia hurriedly retrieved a padded bag that Eddie guessed contained her sound equipment. Just as soldiers were fiercely protective of their gear, so too were the documentary crew.

  It did not take long for everything to be secured. Fortune addressed the group. ‘It will take eleven, twelve hours to reach Nakola – if we are lucky. The road is bad, so we cannot go fast, and we may be stopped along the way. If that happens, stay in your seat and let Paris and me handle it.’

  ‘That sounds kinda ominous,’ said Fisher.

  ‘Why do you think we’ve got three bags of US dollars?’ Nina said. ‘It’s not for snacks at gas stations.’

  ‘Huh. So we’re gonna get shaken down?’

  ‘Just tell ’em you’re the director and you call the shots,’ Eddie told him, grinning. Fisher huffed.

  They boarded the three vehicles. Fortune started the lead bus, Paris following suit in the second and Wemba bringing the pickup to rattling life at the rear of the little convoy. ‘D’accord, tout le monde est prêt?’ Fortune asked over a walkie-talkie. Both replies were in the affirmative. ‘Okay,’ he told his passengers. ‘We are go.’

  He pulled away, the other vehicles following. They waited for the security gate to open, then rolled into the streets of Butembo, heading out of the dusty town.

  ‘You weren’t kidding about the roads,’ Nina complained. Three hours into the journey, and any tarmac surfaces were a long way behind them. The scenery was beautiful, rippling hills dotted with increasingly dense stands of trees and bushes, but once they left the main route between Butembo and Goma far to the south to head west towards the Congo basin, hard-packed red earth was the best surface they could hope for. Unfortunately, even that was an infrequent luxury, the track mostly suspension-punishing ruts, potholes and stones. ‘I’m starting to feel seasick.’

  ‘Starting?’ said Fisher queasily. He had chosen to ride with Nina, Eddie and Ziff in the lead bus, his crew in the second.

  ‘This is the good part of the road,’ Fortune assured them cheerily.

  Nina sighed. ‘Eddie, the next time I decide to head into the jungle to look for a lost city, remind me to bring a big-ass cushion.’

  ‘Or you could, y’know, not go at all,’ suggested her grumpy husband from the seat behind. He had endured plenty of hard rides in his military career and beyond, but now he was in his mid-forties he was realising to his annoyance that his tolerance for discomfort had lowered considerably.

  ‘You didn’t have to come with me,’ she said pointedly. ‘You were supposed to be going back to Macy.’ She turned away to watch the landscape roll by.

  Eddie sat back, glowering. Fisher glanced between the couple, then leaned closer to him. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’ said the Englishman.

  ‘Nina. So she’s always like that, then?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You know. Ah . . . pushy. Okay, rude.’

  Eddie almost told him to mind his own business, but was irked enough by Nina’s attitude to reply. ‘Yeah, she is,’ he said quietly. ‘About anything archaeological, anyway. Once she decides to go after something, that’s it. That’s all she cares about.’

  He paused, about to correct himself for being unfair, but Fisher spoke first. ‘Yeah, I’d noticed. But you seem like a pretty determined guy – you’re ex-military, right?’ Eddie nodded. ‘So why do you put up with that crap?’

  Eddie stared at the American. ‘Because I love her. Why do you think?’

  Fisher shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Just . . . just making conversation, you know. No offence.’

  The convoy continued along the ragged road for another thirty minutes – then Fortune sat bolt upright. ‘Eddie,’ he said in a warning tone before delivering a terse radio message to the drivers behind.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Ziff.

  ‘Think we’re about to stop,’ Eddie cautioned. Ahead, the road weaved through a narrow pass between two humped hills – where a couple of vehicles blocked the road. As they drew closer, he saw men lounging in the shade of nearby trees scramble upright.

  ‘Military checkpoint?’ asked Fisher hopefully.

 
‘Nope.’ The waiting men were armed, but none wore uniforms. ‘Militia.’ Fisher swallowed and shrank in his seat.

  ‘Call themselves Insekt Posse,’ said Fortune, slowing as a man stepped into the road and held up one hand, an AK in his other. ‘You can tell by the armbands.’

  Eddie saw that the group all wore strips of red material around their arms. ‘They dangerous?’

  ‘They can be. They will probably take a bribe, though.’

  ‘So long as they don’t take our gear,’ said the nervous Fisher. ‘Not sure the network would pay for a documentary shot entirely on someone’s phone.’

  ‘If they take your cameras, they will take your phones too,’ Fortune told him. ‘But we will handle this.’

  He stopped thirty feet short of the man, the two other vehicles pulling up behind. Eddie assessed the four militia members as they approached. All were barely into adulthood, the oldest at most in his early twenties, and had the macho swagger common to undisciplined young men with guns facing those without. He also saw they had red, watery eyes and almost woozy movements; they were high on something. That would slow their reactions, but he didn’t know what it would do to their tempers . . .

  ‘You got guns in here?’ he asked Fortune.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the African as he opened his door, ‘but you won’t need one.’ He gestured to Paris, who joined him, then they went to meet the gunmen.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Nina, watching warily as Fortune spoke in French to the oldest of the group.

  ‘If anyone can handle them, it’s Fortune,’ said Eddie. All the same, he wished his friend had told him where he had stashed his weapons. He deliberately avoided direct eye contact as one of the militia rounded the bus, staring menacingly at each passenger in turn. The young man was pungent with the odour of both tobacco and whatever narcotic had laced it.

  To the relief of the travellers, negotiations were quickly concluded. The leader called out to the others, then came with the expedition’s bodyguards back to the lead bus. ‘They wanted everything we have as a toll,’ Fortune announced, ‘but I have bargained them down to one thousand American dollars.’