by James Steel
The camera walks over the bodies and the screen fills with blackened corpses for a minute, a pair of black welly boots walking at the bottom of the screen the only thing breaking the view.
The shot cuts to another of men in civilian clothes wearing white facemasks as they go about picking up the bodies, loading them onto stretchers and dumping them in the river. The men call the camera over and it looks down at a row of twelve bodies laid out on the riverbank. They are blackened and distorted but it is obvious from their size that they can only be children and babies. The camera focuses in shakily on one of them and when the auto focus clears the screen it shows a tiny curled and blackened hand.
Alex hits the stop button and looks in horror at the view counter: 23,687 hits.
He looks back at Sophie, who is still curled up hugging her knees.
What do I say? I love you and want to go to you but you won’t even look at me.
Thoughts whirl in his head. Part of him screams with defensive rage at the injustice of it. He had to take that action or else all the gains would not have happened. It looks bad but it was a tactical military necessity with collateral damage.
He stops the thoughts dead, he knows none of it will be any good and just starts quietly, ‘Sophie …’
‘Don’t speak!’
She still won’t look up at him but her voice lashes him like a whip.
‘Just leave,’ she says more quietly.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Joseph stands laughing on the roof of the cab of a beer truck and shouts, ‘Kivu for the Kivuans!’ in Swahili and waves his new Kivu flag.
He looks down and sees the large crowd of KPP youth wing swarming around the Ngok brewery. They ran out of home-brewed beer by the end of yesterday’s rally and someone yelled that they should nationalise the local breweries so today a crowd of several hundred young men formed up outside their accommodation block on the edge of Bukavu. The same number of former Congolese army troops joined them from the local barracks; they had a great time at the rally as well and are excited by the wave of nationalism sweeping the country. They have brought their rifles with them.
Gabriel tried to stop them going, shouting in vain at the men and boys he recruited. He’s appalled at their indiscipline but they took no notice of him – the chanting and singing drowned him out as different groups set off to take over the main breweries: Primus, Ngok and Turbo King.
The Secretary of State is coming tomorrow and Joseph and the boys are driving up to Mukungu to welcome her there. They want to take some drinks and make a party of it. The workers at the brewery were terrified and ran off when they arrived and broke open the gates.
The trucks are loaded with crates of bottled beer; they’ll have a great time. Youth wing groups are assembling in Goma and other towns to travel up to the farm complex by bus again. It’ll be a blast, just like the independence day celebrations.
Someone gets into the cab and starts up the truck. The roof wobbles under Joseph’s feet and he nearly falls off. His friend Simon is next to him and shoots a hand onto his shoulder to steady the two of them. He laughs and shoves a green bottle of Ngok with its crocodile emblem into Joseph’s face. He giggles hysterically, points at the truck and shouts, ‘Alamuki!’ the slogan for the crocodile – ‘He’s awake!’
Joseph doubles up laughing and they crouch down and cling onto the radio aerial as the truck lurches forward and swings out of the brewery.
Alex comes out of Sophie’s front door and stands for a minute looking out over the lake with an agonised expression on his face.
After a while he collects himself and turns to walk away towards the ops room. His head is in turmoil as personal pain and professional disaster wrangle with each other. The phrases ‘war crime’, ‘mercenary thug’ and then Sophie’s sharp, ‘Don’t speak!’ all fight inside his head. His whole body burns from her refusal to touch him.
He doesn’t know which is worse: the rejection by the person he cares for, or the fact that thousands of people view him as a murderer, with more seeing the film every minute as that view counter on YouTube ticks up.
As an exile from his social class, his whole identity is built on his professional reputation and pride and now those same exacting standards are turning in on him and jabbing unforgiving goads into his soul. His body feels like a demolition site, full of jagged pieces of rubble, bits of sharp wire, shards of glass and pieces of dirt, every part of him is in pain.
As with Achilles, his fame has become his doom.
The action of walking helps him think and the sight of the ops tent up ahead forces some control over his emotions.
Just deal with the professional problem now and talk to Sophie later.
He makes himself put on a controlled expression and ducks through the flaps into the large tent. He calls Col and Yamba into his office, sits them down and gives them the bad news.
Col is outraged. ‘That bastard’s stitched us up!’
Yamba looks at him and then at Alex and nods. ‘Who else can it be? It was KPP workers that cleared the site and obviously filmed it as evidence. Now we are in a political battle Rukuba’s released it on the net as a smear campaign to discredit us.’
Alex nods. ‘That was what I was thinking.’ He is sickened by the duplicity of Rukuba’s actions.
He looks up at his two old friends; he is heartened by the way they both talked about ‘us’ and not ‘you’. He looks at them both and thinks, ‘God, I’m glad I’m working with you. You would never let me down.’
‘Thanks, guys,’ he says.
They both shrug. Their loyalty is intrinsic; they didn’t even think about it.
Yamba asks, ‘So what are we going to do now?’
Alex starts thinking straight. ‘Well, I suppose we have to draft some sort of rebuttal and get it out to the press. We’ll have to think carefully about how we frame this, we can’t release details of the Lubonga operation and we can’t be seen to publicly blame Rukuba. We need to try and think what the Americans are going to …’ He groans and rests his forehead on his hand as he begins to realise the issues they have to deal with. ‘God, what a fucking mess!’
There is a tap on the wooden panelling that screens them off from the ops room. ‘Colonel?’
‘Yes.’
‘President Rukuba on the line for you, sir, says it’s urgent.’
Alex looks quickly at Yamba and Col and then says, ‘Right, put him through.’
The phone on his desks blares, sounding unnaturally harsh. He stares at it, composes himself and picks it up. ‘Mr President.’
‘Colonel Devereux, are you aware of a video that has recently been posted on YouTube? My communications staff have informed me of it this morning and I am very concerned.’
Alex is speechless at the polished delivery and wonders how to respond for a moment, he wants to shout at the man. He manages to keep in control and plays the game. ‘I have seen the video and it is very unfortunate. It presents an entirely one-sided view of the Lubonga action. I am very concerned about how it has come to be released by the KPP now.’
‘Colonel, don’t start getting accusatory with me! The source of the film is neither here nor there, the point is that it shows that a major war crime has been committed here on the sacred soil of Kivu!’
Alex loses it. ‘Look, we both know full well that that incident was collateral damage as part of a necessary military strike, not some war crime. You’ve known that for months but have released this video now as part of a smear campaign against First Regiment …’
‘Colonel, I will not listen to these crazed ideas! You are suspended as commander of First Regiment pending a full investigation; I am issuing this executive order forthwith. Major Douala will take control of Johnson’s visit. Thank you, Colonel, goodbye.’
The line goes dead and Alex is left red-faced and raging. He slams down the phone.
‘Bastard!’
‘What d’e say?’ asks Col.
‘I am fucking well suspe
nded pending a full investigation. Yamba, you’re in charge apparently.’
Yamba shakes his head in disbelief.
Alex tries to get a grip on things. ‘Right, let’s just think what we’ve got to do.’
‘We can draft that statement for the press at least,’ says Yamba.
‘Yes, good idea.’ He pulls a pad out of his desk and they start trying to think how to go about rebutting the accusations and dealing with the suspension.
After an hour they have a good outline defence and Alex’s BlackBerry chirrups on the desk next to him. He glances at it with irritation and sees a message from Sophie. Being with the others and having to deal with Rukuba had kept him occupied.
He snatches it up and reads the message: ‘Alex, I’ve gone to Bahomba outstation on one of Bilal’s helicopters. Please don’t try to follow me, I need to get away and think.’
Shit.
His face betrays his distress.
‘What’s up?’ Col asks quietly.
Alex takes a deep breath; they know about him and Sophie and how much he cares about her.
‘It’s Sophie, she showed me the video today.’
They both look grave as they imagine her response to it.
‘She’s gone to Bahomba outstation on one of Bilal’s choppers.’ Alex gets up. ‘Where is Bahomba?’
He walks round the partition and goes over to the large map of the province laid out on the birdtable with little markers stuck on it for the location of different units and militias. He peers at it trying to think where Bahomba is; there are hundreds of little villages in the province and a lot of projects running. Col and Yamba join him but can’t find it.
Eventually Alex calls over to Zacheus. ‘Major Bizimani, where’s Bahomba?’
Zacheus gets up from his desk and walks over. He thinks for a moment and then leans over the map. ‘It’s near Violo somewhere; it’s a tiny place up in the hills. Why?’
‘Sophie’s gone there. We might need to get some security up to her.’
Col looks at Alex. ‘Is that wise? I think she wants a bit of space, like.’
Alex thinks for a moment about their earlier exchange and feels at a loss. He nods. ‘Yeah, you’re right, let’s finish this document.’
Chapter Forty-Nine
The Fadoul refinery on the outskirts of Goma is a large complex surrounded by a high chain-link fence. The corrugated-iron sheds where the tin, coltan and gold ores are sorted are painted a faded blue with the Fadoul Ishfaqi logo on them. On a flat area of ground behind them sit Mr Fadoul’s two Mi-17 helicopters.
The refinery office building is next to a dusty and deserted street and screened from it by a high metal gate. It’s early afternoon on 7th July, just before the Secretary of State is due to arrive at the nearby airport. Tensions are running high in the city – KPP youth wing members have been getting out of hand here in Goma as well, with former government troops joining them. Everything is locked down and no one is out on the streets.
A minivan with blacked-out windows pulls up quietly in front of the main gate and an officer in a Unit 17 uniform gets out and walks over to it. He knocks politely on the small metal door set into the large double gates and waits. A bearded Lebanese guard pulls open the hatch in the door and peers out at him.
‘Yes?’ he says warily.
‘I need to speak urgently to Captain Mahmood Bashoor on an official matter.’
The guard eyes him for him a moment. He has camouflage combat trousers and a baggy green shirt belted in with a wide webbing belt but is unarmed. The guard thinks for a moment; refusing to deal with these guys usually just causes more hassle.
The hatch shuts and there is a scraping as bolts are drawn back and the officer steps through the gate. Then he pulls a silenced pistol from inside his baggy shirt and motions the guard up against the wall.
At the same time the side door of the minivan slides quietly back and six men wearing black cloth hoods and armed with machine pistols run silently up behind him and slip through the open door. They quickly gag and cuff the guard hand and foot and then move on rapidly into the buildings.
Patricia Johnson is flying into Goma in her specially configured US Air Force Boeing 757. She looks at John Ciacola who is sitting across a narrow desk from her in her office at the back of the aircraft.
‘OK, so what is this Colonel Devereux’s response to the allegations?’
Ciacola has been busy monitoring the internet in the communications office next door towards the front of the aircraft.
‘He posted a statement on the KDF website yesterday denying any allegation of war crimes, saying it was collateral damage.’
‘Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?’
‘But the key thing is he isn’t denying that he was in control of whatever military operation resulted in those pictures.’
Johnson nods; she has seen the footage and is sickened by the pictures of burnt babies. ‘I cannot believe what sort of a man would do that.’ She shakes her head. ‘So let’s be clear here, we are not having anything to do with this guy at all on the visit, right?’
‘Correct. I’ve been in touch with President Rukuba’s office and he assures me that he has suspended the colonel and will investigate the allegations fully.’
‘Hmm.’
She looks out of the window and can only see jungle and hills, part of the fifteen-hundred-kilometre-wide green sea that divides Kinshasa from Kivu.
‘OK, can you make that clear to the press before we land? I don’t want us getting sucked into that mess by association, we’ve got enough issues to deal with as it is.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The plane descends into Goma, touches down on the newly repaired runway just after 3 p.m. and taxis over to one side of it, away from the airport terminal. There is a pause as the steps are driven up and State Department staffers hurry down and check that all the arrangements are in place.
Johnson looks out of her window again and sees the five camouflage-painted Mi-17s lined up on the side of the apron near the plane. She hates flying in helicopters but has had to do a lot of it in her job and just forces herself to get through it.
The three staffers walk over to Major Reilly on the tarmac and confer with him. Around the helicopters are a group of fifteen Delta Force soldiers toting a mixture of M4 carbines with grenade launchers and M249 light machine guns.
Reilly isn’t taking any chances.
Also talking to the group is a tall, serious-looking African major and a white sergeant major with a moustache, both dressed in smart uniforms and berets.
She walks out of her office, through the communications and staff offices to the front section of the aircraft to talk to the press. She is always very careful to cultivate good relations with them and there has been a lot of coverage of the trip, with all thirty allocated press seats booked. The gangway is crowded with people as they get up and stretch after the long flight and pull laptop cases out of the overhead lockers.
She squeezes past them down the aisle. ‘Hey, Bill, good to see you.’ She shakes hands with Bill Jakowski of the New York Times. She’s known him for years.
‘Did you see my headline?’
‘Yeah, I caught it on the website. Bit overdramatic, don’t you think?’
Jakowski smiles. ‘Well, we gotta sell papers, and besides when do I ever get a front page as Africa correspondent?’
She smiles and walks on. ‘Hi, Carla, how are you, haven’t seen you for ages.’
Carla Schmidt is CNN’s roving danger woman reporter whom they send out on high-profile assignments. She’s in her forties and looks tough and drawn. ‘My editor thought this might be an interesting story and pulled me out of Afghanistan for it.’
Johnson is concerned what she might mean by ‘interesting’ but doesn’t show it. She doesn’t like Schmidt but admires her professionalism. They chat for a bit and then Johnson moves on down the gangway. All the main networks have sent reporters and camera crews and there are teams f
rom Al Jazeera, the BBC and the other big international operations.
The press disembark first and their bulky cameras and satellite equipment are unloaded from the hold and carried over to helicopters along with the Johnson team’s baggage and secure communications equipment. Finally, when everyone is on the choppers, Johnson comes down the steps, strolls over to them and they take off at 3.30 p.m.
Col and Yamba and a few KDF officers accompany them but the bulk of the room is needed for the Secretary’s entourage. It’s forty miles to Mukungu and they make the hop in twenty minutes, landing in the stadium area at the bottom of the hill. The large stage from the independence day celebration has been left up.
Johnson walks down the ramp with her hair shielded under a UN blue headscarf and is met by KPP staff. Unit 17 soldiers with rifles ring the bottom of the hill and Major Reilly eyes them warily through his mirrored Oakley shades. His experienced eyes also scan along the terraces on the hillside behind them; they are packed with KPP youth wing members who are jogging on the spot and singing and waving Kivu flags. Joseph is amongst them and stands on tiptoe to peer over the men and boys in front of him to get a glimpse of the Secretary of State. He waves his beer bottle over his head and roars a greeting.
Johnson looks round at the loud noise and smiles and waves; she is used to excited crowds wherever she goes in the world.
Major Reilly walks up next to Staff Sergeant Moretti, who is watching the crowd, holding his rifle across his chest with his finger on the trigger. ‘Must be about five hundred,’ he shouts over the noise of the crowd and the choppers.
‘Yeah. Can’t see any weapons but a lot have got beer bottles.’
‘Yeah, I think they’re just sightseeing at the moment.’
‘All combat-age males, though, hardly any females.’
