'A' for Argonaut (41 page)

“Where do I find dos Sampas?”

Fifty-Four

Mbuji-Mayi

B
ena-Bendi, an isolated outpost on the Sankuru River, was 200 hundred miles northwest of Mbuji-Mayi. It sat in the wilderness just on the eastern edge of Parc National de la Salonga Sud in the Province of Bandundu.

They had driven for long exhaustive hours through dense jungle from Tshikapi over a rough, rocky road to Joseph dos Sampas’ outpost there. It was a former
pension
he used as his field headquarters. While the flora had no rival, the rest of the ambiance was the polar opposite from the Presqu’ile de Banana villa in which Amber Chu had paid him a visit. The fragrance of frangipani, an attempt at lending a peaceful atmosphere to the landscape, filled the air with a sweetness that reminded Maran of San Diego‌—‌and Dennis. In testimony to the nature of the building now, it was ringed by a fortified bunker manned with machine gunners.

Tracha sat outside In the reception room of the elaborate estate that was dos Sampas’ retreat.

In the rebel leader’s office, Maran and dos Sampas sat alone on upholstered leather chairs at a long coffee table. They picked at a tray of sugary banana crumb cake and drank from steamy mugs of English tea.

They got right into it.

“Mr. Davis,” dos Sampas began, using Maran’s journalist alias.

“I understand you and your friend claim to be from a national magazine in the U.S.”

“
Are
from a national magazine. I have the assignment contract from the editor to prove it.”

“Mr. Davis, I’m not even going to ask you the nature of your ‘diamond story.’ We’ve all seen the Hollywood versions. We are both serious men. So you will forgive the fact that we have done background checks on Mr. Rodney Davis or, should we say, Mack Maran.”

“No doubt. What about it?” he noted, but he was not shocked at the fact that the rebel leader had been able to penetrate his cover. Nothing in the clandestine world shocked him.

“You are obviously a man of equally impressive repute.”

He’s done his homework,
Maran thought.

“What do you know?”

“We know that you are an ally against Grigol Boyko.”

Maran waited to see where this was going.

“He is a very powerful man. One of West Africa’s more notable mining and airline magnates. Unfortunately, a man of even more impressive repute in the security field, or, more accurately, illegal arms and global terror.”

“You say,” Maran wisecracked.

“Mr. Boyko may be about to meet his match in you. You have more on your mind than a magazine interview with Mr. Boyko. We know about your SAWC mission in Cabinda, the ambush, the massacre. Is there more?”

“He had a woman with him, a close friend of mine. He has her son.”

“And you want to get him.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Boyko’s
our
enemy,” Maran said.

“As is Vangaler,” dos Sampas disclosed.

“Are you sure of that?”

“The e-mails he sent to me?”

“Go on.”

“I’m impressed with your hacking skills. Yes, he has been in touch. We decided to lead him on to see if we could use him.”

“And?”

“He can’t be trusted,” dos Sampas understated.

“Good decision. One more thing.”

He stood, towering over dos Sampas who still sat at the table.

“Go on.”

“I noticed your security people are armed with U.S. M16s. Where do you get them?”

“Ah, correction. That’s ‘have gotten.’ Past tense. Defunct relationship.”

“Who?” Maran demanded. “CIA?”

Dos Sampas stood, faced Maran nose to nose.

“I can’t tell you that.”

Maran’s entire body stiffened. Past experience leaped to the fore. It told him that this was no time to confer, banter, negotiate. If he were to gain respect and convince this man of his seriousness, it was right now. He leaped on dos Sampas and grabbed him around the neck with his left hand and backhanded him across the face.

“Let’s not play games,” Maran said and hit dos Sampas in the chest, knocking him back into his chair. Then he reached out and helped him to his feet.

“Do you always introduce yourself that way?” dos Sampas asked as he rose, brushing himself off. A bright red flush glowed under the brown skin of his right cheek.

“Why don’t we start over?” Maran said. “Tell me what I need to know and this will work out for both of us. And don’t jerk my chain.”

“OK. Why not? CIA? Not this time. Gentleman by the name of Pajak. Alex Pajak, most cooperative. Indiscriminate. We happen to know Boyko is also one of his clients,” dos Sampas revealed.

Pajak! The ghost in the Pentagon.

“Do you know where Boyko is?” Maran asked.

“As I say. Mr. Pajak is most cooperative. Men like him know nothing about allegiance. For that reason, we are very circumspect about dealing with him. He’s never been here, for instance. Has no idea where we can be found.”

“Where is Boyko?” Maran insisted.

“A few hundred miles down the Sankuru; it’s his mining center.”

“MecaMines.”

“We not only know where he is, we know he has your woman, Amber Chu,” dos Sampas added.

Fifty-Five

Sankuru River, a tributary of the Congo River

D
os Sampas, Maran, Tracha, and the crew prepared the gear they purchased for their trip up the Sankuru River, a tributary of the Congo River, to Mbuji-Mayi and Boyko’s MecaMines. They stocked up on manioc, maize, groundnuts, and cured wild animal meat. By this time, they didn’t even bother to inquire what kind of meat it was. It all had the same taste: salt. In addition to all the kitchen, first aid equipment, and other supplies they could find, they brought a series of Congo River navigation charts from the U.S. Army, updated by GPS and sent by Sergei from BANG!’s Boston Command Post.

They packed several crates of weapons supplied by dos Sampas, including a number of copies of the 7.62mm MK-17 assault rifle and a 40mm GMG grenade machine gun. Flabbergasted again by how these guys could have gotten hold of such up-to-date toys-for-boys designed specifically for the U.S. Army Special Operations Command, Maran decided to keep his mouth shut about it. He still had his H&K. Tracha brought aboard a duffel bag with what he told Maran was a “surprise.”

As Maran boarded, he took note of the boat, another significant curiosity. The vessel, though painted a bright orange, reminded him of one of the U.S. Navy’s PBRs, a Vietnam-era Patrol Boat, Riverine, last used in his mission off the coast of Panama. It drew only two feet of water fully loaded. The drives could be pivoted to reverse direction, turn the boat in its own length, or come to a stop from full speed in a few boat lengths.

“We stole it from Vangaler,” dos Sampas told Maran with a huge grin.

How did Vangaler get it?

As they pulled out into the river, they passed a dozen
pirogues.
In the dugout canoes, fishermen hurled nets, rowed against the swift current. The water looked like a listless platform of undulating gelatin. It threatened, with a sinister whine, to spirit away all who challenged it along with the floating water hyacinths, papyrus, and other jungle detritus off to the unknown.

“How long will it take us to get to Mbuji-Mayi?” Maran asked dos Sampas. They sat on a rolled up Zodiak inflatable boat strapped to the starboard side of the deck.

“There’s no telling. The river is unpredictable. We’ll stop over for a night outside Ranbundu, a small village, a
kitente,
royal compound for the Aballopwe clan of the Lubas. You’ll find it a little different. One of the remnants of African animism, demonic ritual.”

“Sounds good to me,” Maran replied. He slapped at several persistent mosquitoes that apparently lapped up the insect repellent he had poured over his exposed skin. The air swarmed with them. “Thought we were going to Kisangani.”

“That’s only Boyko’s cover operation: wholesale trade to legitimize the massive revenues from his real business. Big mining center. Looks legit, but he’s never there,” dos Sampas said. “The tribal chief in the
kitente,
Moise Ngoye, is a friend. Knows who you should see to get to Boyko. It won’t be easy, but a lot of his tribesmen, the Luba, belong to a secret society, the Bambudye. Work for him. They hate him more than you do. If they’re afraid to help, they’ll know someone who will. There’s enough hatred going around to give the Devil a hard-on.”

“I always thought that was a permanent fixture,” Maran wisecracked.

Later, rain drizzled down
like beads. Maran stood with dos Sampas at the helm. He turned to look behind them at the fans blowing bellows of vapor as the boat propelled over the river. His throat tightened. He felt like he would choke if he tried to speak. His mind drifted off to thoughts of Amber.

She’s alive!

Bone tired, Maran fell asleep on his feet with dos Sampas standing next to him at the wheel in the control cockpit, oblivious to the rain, when a jolt threw them both to the deck. The current nearly tossed the Vietnam-era craft into a boulder that jutted out of the river like a giant hippo and swept them out into the far side. The bank, which rippled with sharp log and rock snags, was riddled with holes, pockets, and river debris. The current wasn’t through battering them and flung them downstream into the outer circle of a whirlpool twenty yards wide. On one side, a stout palm tree trunk jutted out from the bank and divided the water. The current swung them toward it, assuring a collision. White water flew over the gunwales as the bow banged into the trunk, spun and flew up as if it were a surfboard on a turbulent, crosscurrent-thrashed wave. The men on the bow flew backward, landed in heaps on top of one another. The river churned, viscous and amber as honeyed milk; it rose in streamlined spirals. Dos Sampas screamed, “Hold on! Don’t give up!”

“Aiyee. Jesus save us.” A Portuguese Catholic soldier prayed with an ear-splitting screech.

Another powerful blow tipped the craft nearly straight in the air. Maran clung to the ropes that secured the equipment to the deck.

“Vortex! Whirlpool! Tie in, tie up to the craft,” dos Sampas ordered.

Dos Sampas’ hands gripped the wheel so tightly, the knuckles protruded like whitened hex bolts over the skin of his fists. The craft spun, rising in the air. With the brief new vantage, Maran saw ahead the inverse water tornado that sucked them forward, a giant black hole at the center of the deep, swirling murk. Whitecaps crested on the surface and poured over the deck all around them.

A huge, power-driven blast of water nearly overturned the craft.

“Help us! Oh Christ,” another soldier screamed.

The craft rocked precipitously, careened almost to its side. The water rushed across the deck and took most of the cockpit out. Maran struggled to his feet, inched his way to the control panel. Dos Sampas shouted orders.

Maran gripped the propeller controls, forced them forward, pushing, straining against the connecting cables to the propellers. The hum of the propellers at cruise speed rose to a whine. They picked up force, rocketed toward an island, away from the threat.

Maran’s body was propelled off balance, rocked over with the force of the newly opened propulsion. His shoulders cleared the rail. His feet left the deck.

“Sampas!”

The rebel leader let go of the wheel, leaped to Maran’s aid, grabbed him by the collar to yank him back in the boat.

Maran came off the gunwale. His feet hit the deck. Both men shot forward as one unit and slammed into the front control panel with a thud.

Blood trickled down Maran’s face. He helped dos Sampas to his feet as the propellers screeched. The craft skittered over bumps against the bank of the river. Branches raked the men’s faces. They had no choice but to stand and make it back to the controls. Boxes of equipment were raked overboard as the craft shimmied down the bank until the current wedged it into a tangle of trees, vines, and shrubs. It came to rest between a felled umbrella tree trunk and a boulder. A flock of hornbills flew out of the branches above them. A dwarf mongoose scooted down the trunk to escape into the forest.