The Orphan Uprising (The Orphan Trilogy, #3) (25 page)

#

As the orphan-operatives waited for Nine to show up at the refinery, their six CIA colleagues were wearing down their shoe leather trudging the streets of Kindu looking for him. Knowing their target was a man of means who could afford to frequent the best hotels, the agents concentrated their search on the city’s upmarket areas. That suited them just fine as the back streets and poorer quarters of Kindu were best avoided.

The storm that had threatened earlier arrived with a vengeance. It rained as it can only rain in the tropics, drenching the agents and making their job all the more tiresome.

51

Dusk had fallen and Nine had just about given up on hearing back from Lusambo’s people. Since being returned to his hotel that afternoon, he’d waited on tenterhooks for news. Not a word. He was preparing to dine in the hotel restaurant downstairs when there was a knock on his door.

Nine answered the door cautiously and was pleased to see Christian standing there, dripping wet. The one-armed Rwandan was holding the wallet and money belt his companions had taken from Nine earlier.

Christian handed the items over. “You come now.” He walked off toward the nearest stairwell. 

Nine quickly checked the contents of the returned items. Predictably, the ten grand had been taken from the money belt, but the contents of his wallet were intact. He picked up a pre-packed airline travel bag and followed the Rwandan downstairs. Among other things, the bag contained the confidential file on the secret orphanage and prints of the aerial photos he’d taken earlier. He’d had them downloaded and printed off soon after arriving in Kindu.

Stepping outside, Nine was immediately drenched in the torrential rain. Through it, he could just make out Christian waiting for him on the other side of the street. He was in the same old van and was impatiently revving the engine. There was no sign of the Rwandan’s two Congolese companions.

Nine ran across the road, dodging puddles, and climbed in beside Christian. He held on for dear life as his one-armed chauffeur gunned the accelerator and took off. The former operative could hardly see anything as rain lashed the van’s windscreen.

Ten hair-raising minutes later, they arrived at a jetty on the river where a boat awaited them. Beyond it, the Congo disappeared into the darkness like some evil entity.

At first glance, the boat appeared to be typical of many of the craft that plied the river, transporting food and produce to the settlements that lined its banks. A converted passenger ferry, she appeared to be well past her used-by date and in a state of disrepair.

Closer inspection reminded Nine appearances could be deceiving. While the boat’s exterior paintwork left a lot to be desired, her reinforced hull was strong – and presumably bulletproof – and judging by the sweet throbbing sounds coming from below deck, her engine was powerful. The vessel’s crew were not typical of other Congo River boat crews either. Nine counted at least a dozen others already on board. In the darkness they were just shadowy figures. However, the way they conducted themselves and the automatic weapons they carried told Nine they weren’t fishermen or traders. He assumed they were members of Lusambo’s Mai Mai militia. At least he hoped they were.

Nine thought he recognized the two Congolese he’d met earlier, but couldn’t be sure. None of the men seemed to notice the rain, which now fell heavier than ever. They were obviously used to it.

Christian escorted Nine aboard the boat. They were met by the skipper, a gangly Ugandan appropriately called Skipper. He exchanged brief words in an unidentifiable African dialect with Nine’s escort before dismissing him.

As Christian departed, Skipper quickly frisked Nine and inspected the contents of the travel bag he carried. Then he motioned to one of his crew members, a young Zambian, to escort the white man below deck.

The Zambian led Nine toward the stern. As Nine followed, he looked over the near rail as one of the rebels shone a torch down onto the surface of the water. The torchlight picked up two pairs of luminescent eyes.
Crocodiles!
Nine reminded himself not to fall in.

Descending a ladder, he found himself in a large cabin adjoining the galley. There, he was met by two unsmiling Congolese who had evidently been assigned to guard him. They motioned to him to sit down. Despite the fact that it was dark outside and the cabin’s windows had been blacked out with paint, one of the guards blindfolded their passenger.

Nine heard Skipper give the order to cast off. Moments later, he could feel the power of the current as the boat and everyone aboard her were carried downstream. Skipper, or someone, gunned the engine and the boat responded, showing an impressive turn of speed.

Just over an hour later, Nine heard the order given to douse all lights on board and to maintain silence. Then the motor shut down and the boat just drifted along in the current. The only sound was the relentless rain which hammered the boat’s hull and deck.

Nine guessed they were passing the coltan refinery. That was confirmed when he heard the sound of machinery and other industrial noises coming from the far bank. Putting two and two together, he guessed his traveling companions didn’t want to advertise their presence to the armed personnel stationed at the refinery. Those people would be allied to the DRC Armed Forces, or to the Government at least, and therefore no friends of the Mai Mai militias operating in the eastern regions of the country.

Five minutes later, the engine revved back to life and the boat resumed its journey downriver at full speed.

#

Just under two hours later, the boat pulled in to a jetty on the near bank. Several pairs of rough hands manhandled Nine up the ladder and onto the deck where he discovered the rain continued unabated. From there he was escorted off the boat and hoisted up into the back of an open-deck vehicle, which took off at speed along a muddy track that cut through the jungle.

Still blindfolded, Nine lost all track of time as the vehicle slid and bounced its way along the track. Every now and then he was struck by an overhanging branch or vine. Curses from others sitting nearby told him he had company. To Nine, the only redeeming feature of this part of the trip was the vegetation overhead formed a natural umbrella, keeping most of the rain at bay.

At some point the order came from the vehicle’s driver to remove Nine’s blindfold. One of Nine’s traveling companions removed it immediately.

Nine saw he was traveling in an open-top, military-style Jeep. Three armed rebels sat with him in the back and he counted two more rebels up front, including the driver. The three in the back looked at him dispassionately. He guessed they’d just as soon slit his throat as deliver him to wherever it was they were going.

The former operative glanced at his watch. It was close to midnight. That didn’t leave much time for what he had in mind.

52

Finally, the vehicle broke clear of the jungle and entered a clearing that was home to a force of a hundred or so rebels. Nine guessed they were members of Lusambo’s Mai Mai militia.

The camp had a temporary look about it. Living quarters were comprised of tents that were lined up in rows, military fashion. An assortment of armoured vehicles and light artillery pieces were parked in between the tents. Camouflage netting covered the entire encampment, keeping it hidden from any aircraft that may be looking for it.

Through the rain, half a dozen sentries could be seen patrolling the camp’s perimeter. There was no sign of the others. Nine assumed they were either sleeping or away on patrol. The camp itself was a quagmire of mud and slush.

The Jeep Nine travelled in stopped outside the biggest tent. It was in the center of the encampment. A towering, stern-faced Congolese man emerged from the tent, yawning. Two sentries standing guard outside the tent snapped to attention when they saw him.

Nine didn’t need to be told that he was looking at Captain Undo Lusambo.

The captain motioned to the rebels in the back of the Jeep to bring the visitor to him and he disappeared back inside the tent.

Twenty seconds later, and mercifully out of the rain, Nine found himself standing before Lusambo. The captain was flanked by two lieutenants. A woman was fussing around at the back of the tent, boiling water over a gas stove. Lighting in the tent was supplied courtesy of kerosene lamps, which hung from the tent poles.

“Captain Lusambo at your service,” Lusambo said in perfect French. “You will join me for tea I hope?” The captain threw a towel at his guest.

Nine was a little taken aback. “Ah, thank you, yes.” He used the towel to dry his face and hair.

Lusambo dismissed his lieutenants then sat down on one of three folding chairs that had been set up. Smiling, he motioned to Nine to sit down. “And what should I call you Mister…Williamson?”

Nine had the good grace to look embarrassed as he sat down facing the rebel leader. “Ted Williamson’s an assumed name. I am Sebastian Hannar.” Even though it went against his training, he somehow felt it proper to use his real name. It felt good to not have to lie about who he was and he hadn’t been able to do that for some time.

The two men stared at each other, each assessing his opposite. Nine was impressed by what he saw. At six foot seven, Lusambo made an imposing figure. Not even his loose-fitting camouflage fatigues could hide his strong physique, and his intelligent eyes appeared all knowing.

Lusambo was similarly impressed. He liked the look of this green-eyed white man who had risked his life to seek him out and journey to his camp in the middle of the night. The captain assumed Nine must have pressing business to attend to and looked forward to hearing what he had to say.

They were interrupted by the woman Nine had seen earlier. She held a tray supporting three mugs of tea and a plate of plain biscuits. A refined-looking, statuesque woman, she smiled lovingly at Lusambo who gave her a playful slap on the rump as he took one of the mugs from her.

“Meet Leila, my sweetheart, Mister Hannar,” Lusambo announced proudly. He used the term
sweetheart
loosely: Leila was his wife, though Nine had no way of knowing that.

Nine nodded at Leila as he took the other mug of tea from her. He was immediately struck by her beauty and wondered where she came from. She was quite different to the Congolese women he’d seen. 

Leila smiled politely and sat down on the other side of Lusambo. It was evident she was a party to all his business dealings.

Lusambo noted Nine’s interest in his wife. “She is from South Sudan,” he said. He’d switched to English in deference to his wife for that was her second language behind Arabi. “She saved my life once and so I have devoted my life to making her happy.” He squeezed her hand and she reciprocated.

Leila turned to Nine. “Are you married, Mister Hannar?”

“Please call me Sebastian. Yes I am married- -”

“I’m sure Sebastian has not come all this way to discuss his home life, my dear,” Lusambo interjected.

“Well, that’s not quite true,” Nine ventured.

The Lusambos looked at their guest, surprised.

Nine proceeded to tell them why he was there. Starting with Francis’ abduction and ending with his arrival at their camp deep in the Congo jungle, he left nothing out.

When he’d finished, he opened the travel bag he’d brought with him and pulled out the confidential file on Omega’s secret medical lab upriver from the camp. He selected a stack of grizzly photos of the lab’s medical subjects – mainly African children – who had been disfigured by scientific experiments, and handed them to the couple who then studied them in silence.

Leila was clearly shocked by what she saw. Her reaction was one of a mother’s compassion for her children. She expressed her horror at what was going on at the lab and her heartfelt sympathy for Nine’s situation.

Captain Lusambo’s reaction was totally different. He’d heard thousands of sad stories over his lifetime. Nine’s story was sad, but almost everyone in Africa had a story as sad, or sadder. Lusambo just wanted to know where he and his militia fitted in to Nine’s sad story, and how well they’d be paid. So he asked exactly that.

Nine explained what he had in mind.

53

Lusambo heard him out. When Nine had finished, the captain asked: “So let me see if I have this right. You want me and my men to risk our lives to attack Carmel Corporation’s refinery upriver and rescue your son. Am I correct so far?”

Nine nodded.

The captain continued, “And will you pay us a hundred thousand Yankie dollars with another hundred thousand on top if we get your son out alive?”

Again Nine nodded.

Lusambo looked thoughtfully at Nine as he considered the proposal. He suddenly looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Arcel!”

One of the sentries Nine had seen earlier entered the tent. “Yes Captain.”

Lusambo snapped an order at the sentry in Swahili. The sentry disappeared, returning a minute later with the two lieutenants who had been there when Nine had arrived. Lusambo then conferred with his lieutenants in Swahili, not realizing that Nine was able to follow the gist of their conversation.

Nine was able to deduce that Lusambo was relating his business proposal to the men and asking for their opinion. It seemed they liked the idea of adding one to two hundred thousand American dollars to the militia’s coffers, but they didn’t like the risks involved.
This is not going well
. Nine’s hope began to fade when he realized Lusambo shared their opinion.

After a few minutes, the captain dismissed his lieutenants then turned to Nine.

“Let me save you the trouble,” Nine said. “Your men think it’s too risky and you agree with them.”

Lusambo assumed Nine had just deduced that from their tone of voice. He didn’t contradict his guest.

Nine asked, “Is it the money? I am open to negotiation.”

The captain shook his head. “It’s not the money. Even a million dollars wouldn’t change anything.”

Lusambo said the refinery was heavily defended by armed mercenaries hired by the Government. He went on to explain how the rebels couldn’t match the mercenaries’ superior firepower and how his men were largely limited to surprise hit-and-run raids on smaller targets. “Besides,” he said, “the refinery is not a priority target for us. Even if we were able to over-run it, we could never hold onto it. The Government would send its troops in and we would be annihilated.”