The Chimera Sequence (24 page)

The noise outside increased. Olsson looked across the tent and met Grace’s eyes. Even after two long days working side by side, he still couldn’t read anything in his assistant’s detached expression. The walls of grief and resignation were too thick, layered as they were with two decades of death and disappointment. She rose and walked slowly to the entrance. The deep lines in her face and weariness of her stride made the woman look far older than her forty years.

“What is it?”

Lars stood up and joined her just outside the tent. A small group of armed men were entering the camp from one of the roughly cut forest trails. Two of them dragged another man between them.

“They are saying FDLR,” Grace said. “This man is FDLR.”

The Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda. Olsson knew some of his patients back in Goma had come from the same rebel group. Formed twenty years earlier by genocidal Hutus who had fled justice in their own country, they were now firmly embedded as an ongoing source of instability and destruction in the Virunga region.

The group stopped outside Lukwiya’s tent, and he appeared now, looking angry. “Where did you find him?”

The oldest among them responded. “At the mine, last night, with three others.”

The mine? Olsson knew the FDLR and other rebel groups made a killing with their low-tech and completely illegal open pit mines, digging for gold, coltan, and more all over North Kivu. There would always be buyers, as long as the price was right. But this was the first he heard of his own captor’s involvement.

“And what of them?”

“Dead. This one, he try to hide in the forest, but we find him.”

Lukwiya stepped forward and grabbed the captive by the chin. “What has he told you?”

“Nothing, sir. He will not speak.”

The man’s hands were tied behind his back with a piece of twine, and a dirty rag covered his eyes. Better for him to have died with his friends.

“We will see about that.”

Lukwiya brought a knee up hard between the man’s legs, and Olsson felt his own stomach turn. The captive let out a grunt as his knees buckled, and the two men on either side let him collapse into the dirt.

“Tell me, Hutu pig, what were you doing at our mine?”

Nothing. Lukwiya bent over and pulled the blindfold from his head.

“Look at me.” The man only cowered further into the ground.

But Olsson looked. Not at the victim, but at Lukwiya himself. Yes, it was still there—the fear that had been growing in the senior LRA commander’s eyes over the past couple of days. Olsson was trying harder to stay on Lukwiya’s good side, now that his own role as doctor was somewhat superfluous. How to manipulate this fear, though, encourage it, play off of it, those were the questions of the hour.

Without another word, Lukwiya turned back into his tent, only to reappear seconds later holding a long
panga
machete in one hand. He motioned to his two men to lift the captive up.

The whites of the man’s eyes, flashing in stark contrast against the midnight black of his sweating face, called out to Olsson across the clearing. But it was too late. Lukwiya grabbed one of his ears, lifted the machete above his head, and came down fast.

“No.” Grace’s voice beside him was barely audible.

There was a struggle, and then the captured man was on the ground again, deep red blood streaming from a gash on the side of his head. He was crying now—hoarse, angry screams—as he thrashed helplessly in the dirt, flailing his arms behind him.

Olsson’s medical sense kicked into high gear. He couldn’t just watch this and do nothing. It was as if Lukwiya read his mind, though. The commander turned to look directly at him, still holding the severed ear in one hand, blood dripping down his fingers, and shook his head. It was a warning.
This is not your conflict.
Olsson stayed where he was and hated himself for it.

Lukwiya said something to the gathered crowd, and in seconds a young boy came running up holding a long smoking branch in one hand. A hiss of steam puffed from the man’s head as Lukwiya plunged the glowing embers into the wound and held it there for seconds that seemed like minutes. The man’s screams jumped an octave. Olsson didn’t want to watch but couldn’t pull his eyes away from the gruesome spectacle. So this is what torture looked like. He’d seen the aftermath, too many times, but never the act itself. Lukwiya’s face showed complete detachment, but the younger fighters were excited, ready for more.

Slowly, the screams faded to sobs, and then stopped completely. The man was pulled to his feet, and Olsson could see that the bleeding had stopped, the wounded side of his head now a clotted mess of mud and ash. The primitive cauterizing heat had done its job. Lukwiya brought his own face just inches from that of the much shorter captive’s.

“Now, will you speak,” the leader said. “Or do we take the other ear?”

The FDLR rebel stood motionless, his face a mask.

Lukwiya turned toward Olsson and shouted something in Acholi. Grace moved back into the tent and returned pulling one of their patients by the arm. The boy was one of Olsson’s favorites, a tiny child who couldn’t have been more than ten. He was among the first to make it over the hump of this pox disease, his fever breaking and appetite returning the night before. His body was covered with hard raised lumps, but the respiratory signs seemed to be resolving. None of this was what made the boy really unique, though. Fresh pink scars burst like cartoon explosions across his head and face—they were all that remained in the place of ears, nose and lips. And yet somehow there was still a will to live, hiding deep inside all that brokenness. Olsson wanted to bring him to Paris, set him up with one of MSF’s partner organizations that offered plastic surgery. The boy’s face would never be perfect, but he shouldn’t have to live the rest of his life as a misunderstood monster.

Now the boy was being paraded in front of a new victim.
This is what we can do to you
. And it worked. The man started sobbing again, but this time quick words spilled between each breath.

“They said…”

Lars couldn’t hear. He took a few steps across the clearing.

“… new mine, something valuable.”

Lukwiya looked up and met his eyes. “Get back in the tent, or you will be next.”

Shit
. Olsson stopped and slowly turned back. So much for understanding what was really going on here—why the LRA had decided to set up in Virunga in the first place. But he liked his ears. He glanced over his shoulder one more time and stepped back into the darkness of the tent.

Lukwiya turned back to the pitiful creature in front of him. So the FDLR knew they were making money—something about a new mineral from a hidden mine—and they wanted a piece of the pie. No way the Prophet would agree to that. Now with the market for illegal coltan drying up, this mine was the LRA’s lifeblood. Of course, Kony was still hidden away up north. No reason to bother him with the small problem of the disappearing buyer. Yet.

If this Hutu scum was telling the truth, though, there was quick work to be done. “What do they say we have discovered, then, these bosses of yours?”

The man spoke through gritted teeth, his head tilted to one side. “Diamonds, going to Zim.”

“Yes,” Lukwiya said, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Maybe it is diamonds.”

“Or something new, for China?” The shorter man spoke earnestly, as if he really thought Lukwiya would tell him a secret the miners themselves did not know. “Only guesses. This is why they send us, to scout and report back. We do not want a fight, only our fair share.”

Lukwiya didn’t doubt that. From what he had heard, the FDLR was far more concerned with growing their business empire than in toppling the Tutsi government next door. Cash could corrupt even the most passionate convictions. But no, there would be no sharing of this mine. Not as long as he was still alive to enjoy the very welcome rewards that resulted from controlling such a rare commodity. Lukwiya eyed the Breguet Marine watch resting comfortably on his wrist. A special gift from the buyer, personally delivered after their first completed transaction. He’d been on the run too long, slept under the stars too many times, to let it all go so easily.

“Take him.” Lukwiya dismissed the man with a flick of his hand and turned back to the tent. He pulled out his phone. Still nothing. He would try one more time, then move on. The Persians were not the only ones interested in what he was selling.

The insistent buzzing finally shifted from its role in his confused nightmare into a barely conscious reality. Fadi Haddad swung a heavy hand across the edge of the bed and felt for the phone in the darkness. He brought the glowing screen just inches from his sleep-blurred eyes. Give them a minute to adjust, and then:
Incoming call: Myriam’s Mobile.

That woke him up.

“Myriam, where are you?” Out of bed now, pulling back the blinds to look for her car, always the third one at the very end of the driveway. It wasn’t there.

Sniffling on the other end. She was crying.

“Myriam, where are you?” He tried not to sound mad. This was the third time in as many months that she had gotten herself into some kind of late-night trouble. A light turned on behind him. Nour was up.

He tried again: “Answer me. Are you okay?”

A deep breath, then a pause. Another car accident? Arrested at a club? She had always been a strong girl, able to control her emotions, even use them to her advantage. And she knew how to play him, his little girl, too grown up at nineteen for her own good.

When the words finally came, they were worse than he ever expected.

“Aba, why?” Her voice was hard with anger, even betrayal. “How could you do this to us.”

It was a statement, not a question. And then she was sobbing again, and another voice said something in the background. There was only one thing she could be referring to—the same thing that had been giving him nightmares all night, and the night before. But how? Haddad felt his wife’s warm hand on his bare arm and pulled away. She couldn’t know about this too. Not yet.

“She’s fine,” he said, walking toward the door. “I’ll take care of it. Just get some sleep.” She wouldn’t—sleep, that is—he knew that much. Even though Nour trusted him completely, she loved their only child too much to turn off the worry switch that easily. And the last few months had been hell in that regard.

He was already on the stairs when a man’s voice came on the line.

“
Kaif halak, ya akhi.
” How are you, my brother. Lebanese Arabic. The nightmare became reality. How did they find her? “We have your daughter, at the shop. She would be pleased to see you here very soon.”

The shop was the term they had agreed to for his self storage facility. A simple measure, but these days Haddad never knew who might be listening. The roads were completely empty as he flew past block after block of cookie-cutter McMansions and onto the parkway that would take him straight there. He was going to make it in record time.

Or at least he would have. Blue lights in the rearview mirror. He automatically looked at the speedometer and slammed on the brakes. Was he really going that fast?
Allah, not tonight
. The siren came on as a Fairfax County Police cruiser pulled up behind him. Allah wasn’t going to help this time.

“License and registration.” The cop’s massive body almost filled the driver’s side window when he leaned down to look inside. Haddad felt his heart pounding recklessly. Thirty years in the States, and tonight, of all nights, was the first time he’d ever been pulled over. At least this guy looked more bored than angry. Haddad handed him the documents and leaned back into his seat, trying to look calm. The cop straightened up and stepped back from the car, looked through the papers, then leaned back in. His eyes drilled into Haddad’s, an expression that could only be suspicion growing on his face. Haddad nodded and tried to smile, but the cop just turned and walked back to his cruiser.

Did he know something? Broken bits and pieces of a hundred disastrous scenarios raced through Haddad’s mind. Or was it just guilt by association, the almost daily judgment Haddad felt from other Americans simply for having a name that looked Muslim? But why tonight?

“Mr. Haddad.” He was back. “Looks like you’ve done a pretty good job of staying safe on our roads for quite a while now.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So what made you think it’d be a good idea to drive fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit at this time of night?”

“I apologize, sir. Didn’t realize how fast I was going.”

“And where
are
you going?”

He’d thought about this one. “Well sir, my daughter Myriam, she is at a sleepover but hasn’t been able to get any sleep. Scary movies, you know how it goes. My wife made me come out at this hour, bring her home.” It was close to the truth.
See, I’m a regular suburban dad, just like you.
That was the idea, at least.

“Mind if I take a look in your trunk?”

Haddad exhaled. Guess that strategy hadn’t worked. “Sure, of course.” He reached down and pulled the lever.

Thirty seconds turned into a minute. What was he doing back there? Haddad knew he had dropped off all the supplies in storage unit twenty-six, three days earlier. Even if there had been some little thing left behind, why should a county policeman get worried about eggs, alcohol wipes, or insulin syringes? Unless the whole operation was already compromised, and this guy was just playing with him before the arrest. But how? They had been too careful, for too long, for it all to come crashing down so quickly.

The little Chevy shuddered with the impact of the trunk slamming shut.

“You’ve got quite a collection back there, Mr. Haddad.” The tone of his voice had completely reversed. “Always nice to find another man who can appreciate the quality sounds of old vinyl.”

Haddad couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The hobby was usually something he was more embarrassed about than anything, digging around the hidden corners of thrift shops and used bookstores for classic records from the sixties and seventies. But this time it just might save the day. He let himself laugh, a real laugh. “I know every album that was back there, so if I find one is missing…”