The Secret Chamber

by Patrick Woodhead

  Christophe briefly turned back from his work. ‘You know your history.’

  ‘Yeah, I am afraid I do. But the LRA have been around for years. What’s suddenly changed now?’

  ‘After they got pushed out of Uganda, the LRA tried to establish a new base on the Congolese side of the border. Kony was basically defeated and left with just a ragtag bunch of child soldiers and a few of his most loyal officers. They were broken and everyone thought the war was finally over.’

  Christophe shook his head slowly, pausing for a moment.

  ‘But then Kony himself was murdered. A new leader emerged and things began to change. They got worse. Much, much worse.’

  ‘So who is this new leader?’ Luca asked.

  ‘No one from the outside knows anything about him apart from his name – Mordecai.’

  At the mention of the name, the top half of the boy’s body jerked upwards. His eyes stared at them, brimming with terror. He started shouting for his mother, tears running freely down his dirty cheeks. Christophe put his hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down.

  ‘Calme-toi,’ he soothed. ‘It’s OK. Calme-toi.’

  The boy’s whole body began to shake, the emotion breaking through in violent waves. He wailed again and again, his back arching and his legs kicking out across the operating table, ripping open two of the stitches in his leg. The flesh peeled open again with a globule of congealed blood oozing out on to the stainless-steel table.

  He shouted louder, banging the back of his head against the table as he called his mother’s name again and again.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Christophe shouted, clicking his fingers together at the assistant. ‘More morphine.. Now.’

  He jabbed the syringe into the boy’s upper arm, and his cries almost immediately began to fade. A few seconds passed before Christophe looked up at them.

  ‘I’ve never heard a name inspire so much fear. It’s on every villager’s lips when they come in here. Some just repeat it over and over again.’ He shook his head slightly as if not quite believing what he was saying. ‘It’s like he’s the bloody devil himself.’

  ‘Where did this guy come from?’ René asked.

  ‘Who knows? Some say he was one of Kony’s officers, others that he came from southern Sudan. But whatever happened, the one thing I do know is that when he took over, the LRA suddenly became well financed, with someone supplying them with new, sophisticated weapons. They got stronger and stronger, defeating all the other militia groups, and eventually started herding up the villagers. Everyone just disappeared; men, women, children. Everyone. It was only a few months later that we started finding bodies washed up on the riverbanks. They all had this pronounced swelling on the side of the head, mainly around the temporal lobes. Christ knows what had caused it, but for each one of them it was the same.’

  Christophe stared ahead, his eyes vacant in the light.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said his name in here,’ he added, admonishing himself with a slow shake of his head. ‘But now you both know it, I hope to God you never have to hear it again.’

  Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of one forearm, he suddenly looked very tired.

  ‘Listen, I’m going to be a while longer patching this one up and I am sure I am on report already for bringing you guys into the tent. Joshua was a good friend and I want to help you, but I already know where this will end.’

  He turned to face Luca.

  ‘There are only two choices. Either you accept what I have said – that Joshua is gone – and go home. Or somehow you find your way north … and never come back.’ He paused, as if already knowing which way it would go. ‘I sincerely hope you choose the first option, Luca. Any man who travels all the way to the Congo looking for someone must be a good friend.’

  Turning to René, he nodded.

  ‘Take care, René, and if you can’t talk him out of it and need some help, then look up a guy in town called Fabrice. He runs the Soleil Palace and has his hooks into almost everything around here. I treated him once and he kind of owes me.’

  ‘Is he someone we can trust?’ René asked, running his fingers through his thick black beard.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, no. Don’t trust anyone out here.’

  With a shake of his head, Christophe turned back to his patient and continued stitching, leaving Luca and René to file out of the tent in silence. As they reached the edge of the refugee camp once again both drivers were waiting patiently, leaning against their motorbikes with plastic tarpaulin wrapped over their shoulders against the onset of rain.

  Luca trudged towards them, his face angled towards the ground. He didn’t seem to notice the rain beating down upon him, and his shoulders were hunched in thought. René had seen that look many times before on their journey from Nepal. Just as they reached the bikes, he took hold of Luca’s arm, pulling him to a standstill.

  ‘I know I’m the one who got you to come here in the first place, but given all that the doctor said, you know no one would blame you for giving up now. Not even Jack.’

  Luca slowly shook his head.

  ‘Whatever is out there, I’ve got to try. I owe Joshua that.’

  René exhaled heavily, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the rain. ‘Well, I guess we’d better get hold of this guy Fabrice and see what he can come up with.’

  Luca looked up into his eyes.

  ‘It’s you who doesn’t have to do this, René,’ he said. ‘This was never your job. When we get back to Goma, I’ll head off alone.’

  René gave a snort.

  ‘Still haven’t learned anything, have you? Without me you can barely tell your arse from your elbow. Whatever happens, I’m going.’

  Luca smiled, and in that single moment René suddenly saw a hint of his old self shining through. It seemed to wash away all the doubts he had been bottling up ever since they had left Nepal and a wave of optimism flooded through him. It was as if the rain dripping down their cheeks could wash away the past and somehow let them start anew.

  Clambering on top of the nearest motorbike, René balanced his weight on it with some difficulty before the engine fired up with a plume of sooty smoke.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter either way,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got another twenty kilometres before getting back to Goma. Chances are we’ll be dead long before the LRA get around to killing us.’

  Chapter 11

  BEAR MAKURU WALKED through the old formal gardens of the Ihusi Hotel towards the shorebanks of Lake Kivu. Despite the years of war and successive owners, the gardens still retained something of their former glory. By the water’s edge, mauve wisteria hung in thick plumes, while the soft scent of honeysuckle drifted up on the shore breeze. Only the laurels seemed to have suffered from a lack of pruning, leaving long serpentine lines of hedges that appeared almost sinister in the evening light.

  Bear stood still. Squinting out over the lilac-blue waters of the lake, she tried to relax. The rains had passed as quickly as they had come, and now the water looked serene and inviting, the perfect antidote to Goma’s forty-degree heat and dusty streets. But it wasn’t the heat that was getting to her, more the incessant string of bad luck she had encountered since arriving in the Congo.

  After a two-day flight from South Africa to Goma, the plane’s right-hand magneto had started running rough and it had taken her almost the entire day pressed against the searing hot tarmac to fix it. No sooner had she got the engine running cleanly than soldiers had arrived in two jeeps and surrounded her. For three hours she had sat in the MONUC Captain’s stifling office, answering the same questions over again and again.

  Only after the Captain had pushed her own flight plan across the table did she understand why they had impounded her plane. She had faxed it over to Pieter’s office three days ago, and despite the words ‘Strictly FYI’ scrawled in bold red letters across the top, one of Pieter’s more enthusiastic office juniors had sent it on to the officials at Goma airport, who in turn had inform
ed MONUC. They had immediately questioned her motives for flying north into a region clearly demarcated as a military no-fly zone. With so much cross-border smuggling, any plane venturing into that airspace was immediately considered suspect.

  Bear had eventually been discharged pending an enquiry, and simply watched as they drained the fuel from her plane’s wings before towing it off into a restricted area. She was grounded, and all because of one of Pieter’s idiot members of staff.

  Turning away from the view, Bear pulled down the sleeves of her overalls and tied them in a knot around her waist. She looked filthy. Even the white vest she was wearing had become stained grey from working on the Cessna’s engine, while her whole body reeked of aviation fuel. Despite the hotel’s reputation as a bohemian hangout for war correspondents and UN workers, she wondered whether they would even let her in, dressed as she was.

  Ignoring the sideways glances from some of the local girls, Bear stalked past the bar and drew up a chair by the water’s edge. Gulping down a bottle of chilled Primus beer, she stared out at the still waters of the lake and tried to control her anger.

  How could Pieter’s staff be so damn’ incompetent? All she’d needed was a few basic things and they’d even managed to screw those up.

  At least he had arranged a meeting with the man called Fabrice, who was rumoured to be able to get his hands on just about anything this side of the border. Bear only hoped that twenty-four gallons of Avgas wouldn’t be beyond his capabilities. She’d dealt with such types before. They were invariably the same: egomaniac pirates, as mendacious as they were resourceful. But all she needed from this guy was some fuel and a clear idea of where she was headed.

  The food she had ordered arrived. As she cut into a fillet of grilled tilapia fish, her eyes idly passed over the other drinkers and diners, and connected with a man who had been staring at her ever since she first sat down. He wore a khaki hunter’s vest and a sand-coloured shirt which clung damply to the swell of his belly. Thin wire glasses were perched on top of a red, aquiline nose, while his naturally fair skin was darkly freckled from years spent working in the tropics.

  Bear broke his gaze, but the man was already getting to his feet.

  ‘Hi, I just thought I should introduce myself,’ he said, clutching a half-full beer glass. ‘I’m Jeffrey Watkins, the Reuters correspondent out here. Haven’t seen you around.’

  Bear gave a tight smile. ‘Just arrived.’

  ‘Well, that’s great. Just great. More meat for the grinder, huh?’ he said, giving a soft chortle. His free hand rested on the back of the chair opposite, knuckles squeezing against the plastic.

  ‘You know, Goma’s a fascinating place, just fascinating. Been in Africa for nearly a year now, so getting under its skin a little, eh?’ He swung his body round again, bringing the beer up to his chest and clutching it tight like a preacher might a book of psalms. ‘But don’t worry, in time you’ll get used to the madness. Be happy to show you around in the meantime.’

  Bear put down her fork, picking a piece of fish from her teeth as unattractively as she could.

  ‘I was born in Bunia, just north of here,’ she said. Shaking her head, she reached one hand towards her stomach. ‘Damn’ fish gives me gas.’

  Jeffrey watched, his smile loosing a little of its elasticity. ‘Born here, huh? That’s great. You know, I’m interviewing women from all the tribes for a global piece I’m doing. Actually, the story’s going to be pretty big.’ He jabbed his finger towards her. ‘Don’t tell me your tribe … Lendo, right?’

  Bear sniffed loudly.

  ‘Hema.’

  ‘Of course. Perhaps I could interview you? You know, for my article. It’d be about getting your voice out there.’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ Bear said, grabbing the beer bottle and swilling it around a couple of times. She took an enormous gulp, her throat working up and down as she drained nearly half the beer before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Jeffrey waited patiently.

  ‘We could go out for dinner somewhere else,’ he suggested. ‘You know, make a night of it.’

  Bear glanced up at him, then down at his belly. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Come on, what’s the harm in a little dinner? You might like it. OK, just a drink, then. We …’

  ‘Mon Dieu, ça suffit! My God, enough of this!’ Bear snapped. ‘What is it you don’t understand? I don’t want dinner because I am eating right now, and in case you missed it, I’ve been twirling my wedding ring around my finger since you first came over. Now, do yourself a favour, Jeffrey, and go crawl back to your table.’

  Jeffrey’s jaw clenched, accentuating the sunburn at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Bloody … hell …’ he managed before there was a loud burst of clapping from behind. They both turned to see an African man dressed in an immaculate white suit, with Gucci sunglasses carefully balanced on his nose. He rocked forward as he clapped, grinning so widely that each one of his white teeth were on display.

  ‘Damn, Jeffrey, you are just a sucker for a beating,’ he said, reaching forward to slap the journalist on the back. Beer swilled over the top of the journalist’s glass, welling out over the front of Jeffrey’s shirt. ‘You’re like some kind of fucked-up pitbull. Tenacious, but dumber than hell.’

  He then stared down at Bear and, raising his fists like a prizefighter, gave her a huge wink.

  ‘And you! Wow, you gonna make a boy fall hard. I love that whole vest, grease-stained shit you got going on there. Ain’t nothing sexier than a girl that knows her way round an engine.’

  Fabrice smacked his lips together as he pulled back the chair Jeffrey had been pawing. He sat down, adjusting his sunglasses a little, and allowed the full wattage of his smile to shine on Bear.

  Jeffrey coughed quietly. ‘If you don’t mind, Fabrice, I was …’

  ‘… boring her to death. Why don’t you try one of girls at the bar? I’m sure they’d love to hear all about that little article of yours. Just make sure you pay them their hourly rate.’

  As Jeffrey slowly retreated to his own table, Fabrice shook his head.

  ‘Gotta love journos like that. Barely left the city in nearly a year and wants to write about the real Africa. Damn’ muzungos never get it. You want to get anything out here, you got to get out there and take it for yourself.’ He paused, squeezing his fists together. ‘You gotta have balls.’

  ‘The trick is to have them. Not think with them,’ Bear countered, folding her arms across her chest and pushing her cleavage up a little. Fabrice smiled again, trying to stop his eyes from flicking downwards. Taking one of the chips left over on Bear’s plate in front, he pointed it at her.

  ‘And while we’re on the subject, that’s exactly what I got you by. I am the only one around here that can get you the fuel you need to get into the Ituri. Guess that makes me your new best friend.’

  He chewed on the chip thoughtfully. ‘And, girl, trust me when I say this: I ain’t cheap.’

  Bear’s expression stayed fixed. Her eyes were drawn to the side of Fabrice’s cheek, where burn marks rose up to his hairline. She knew that guys like this were a dime a dozen in the Congo; maybe not as slick or successful, but underneath they were always the same. They had seen too much war and horror to respond to threats, and universally seemed to follow only three passions in life: money, women, and a pathological hatred of MONUC.

  Bear leaned across the table, releasing her hair with a sideways toss of her head.

  ‘You know you’ll get your money, so why don’t you relax about that? But this isn’t just about me getting what I want. You help me get that fuel and it’d be like sticking a finger up to MONUC. Screw everything else, wouldn’t it just be fun to bust my plane out of the compound, right from under their damn’ noses?’

  Fabrice’s eyes were masked behind the mirrored sheen of his sunglasses.

  ‘Sounds like you’re the kind of girl that likes to mix business with pleasure.’

  ‘When
it suits me.’

  He slowly shook his head.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling this is going to hurt?’ He signalled to the waiter for a beer. ‘I tell you what, you give me a thousand US a gallon and I’ll get you all the fuel you need.’ He paused, sniffing the air. ‘That way you can use it for the plane instead of washing yourself in it.’

  ‘Don’t play me for a tourist, Fabrice. Two hundred a gallon, or I get it from someone else.’

  ‘Where do you think are – JFK? There’s only one airport round here and the manager’s my boy.’

  ‘Three hundred a gallon and I’ll give the MONUC base the finger while I buzz the tower.’

  Fabrice gave a deep laugh, clutching hold of his stomach as if it might crack. He banged the table a couple of times, making the bottles clank together, before finally offering her his hand.

  ‘Five hundred and you take some cargo for me. And that’s the last offer you’re gonna hear.’

  Bear held back, her eyebrows arching suspiciously.

  ‘Cargo?’

  ‘Yeah. A couple of muzungos are on some screwed-up mission to find a friend of theirs. They need to get into the Ituri and one of them’s hell-bent on the idea. Damn’ nearly started a riot in my bar when I told him it wasn’t going to happen. Should have dumped the kid in the lake, but there was something about him …’ Fabrice paused, his expression clouding over as he remembered the same irreconcilable anger that he had carried for years after his parents had died. There was something about the Westerner that had reminded him so clearly of himself back then.