The Secret Chamber

by Patrick Woodhead

  ‘This is it,’ Luca shouted.

  As they both braced themselves against the impact, René’s voice came through on the intercom.

  ‘Take care of each other,’ he said, then his voice was suddenly drowned by the screech of the stall warning. There was a pause as the plane flared over the surface of the water, almost as if hovering above it, before the weight of the engine swung the nose down, pitching them into the river. The force of the impact smashed their bodies forward, the webbing of the seat belts cutting into their skin as a wall of water engulfed the entire frame of the aircraft. The windows instantly smashed in, the perspex banging against their arms and faces while a tide of brown water surged into the cockpit.

  They felt the tailfin rise up behind them, twisting them vertical in their seats and arcing them over in a slow somersault. It crashed down flat against the water with a hollow thump, the momentum of the crash finally subsiding as the plane came to rest on its port side in the water, the cockpit already half-submerged.

  Luca opened his eyes and slowly turned his head. He could see Bear’s body pressed against the dashboard with her long hair matted across her cheeks and face. She was totally still. The whole of her seat had somehow broken free from the impact, slamming her body forward and into the controls of the plane.

  Luca fumbled with the release clip of his seat belt, his fingers frantically working the metal clasp before finally managing to prise it open. He fell forward into the well of brown water at their feet and tried to steady himself. Water ran down into his eyes and as he raised his hand to wipe it away, he noticed his palm shone red. An open cut above his eye was pumping out blood.

  He reached out, wiping back the strands of hair from Bear’s face, leaving a trail of his own blood across her cheek. Her eyes were closed. He put his ear to her mouth, trying to hear her breathe. There was soft moan, then her own hand slowly rose to her shoulder in reflex. Luca saw that the short shaft of the throttle handle had punctured her shoulder just above her left arm. The metal had broken off, and was bulging out through the skin on her back.

  Unclipping her seatbelt, Luca took hold of her good shoulder and slowly pulled her back from the controls. Bear’s mouth widened into an agonised scream as her damaged shoulder flexed from the motion. She screamed again, her jaw clenching tight, as he heaved her clear of the controls. Her body swung backwards, but her legs remained locked to the seat.

  ‘Are your legs broken?’ Luca asked, but Bear just stared at him. She looked totally disorientated.

  ‘You’re … bleeding,’ she whispered, trying to raise her hand to point. ‘There’s blood.’

  ‘I know. It’s OK. Your legs. Can you move them?’

  Bear’s eyelids slowly sank down as she started to drift into unconsciousness. Luca smoothed her hair back from her cheeks.

  ‘Bear, listen to me,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Bear, you’ve got to concentrate. Can you feel your legs?’

  Her eyes opened again, blinking as she tried to clear her vision. After a moment, she nodded.

  ‘I can move …’ she breathed, her lips pursing together ‘… move my feet.’

  ‘OK,’ Luca said. ‘Just stay with me. Stay awake.’

  He swung round to check on René. A huge split ran through the roof of the plane just behind the two front seats, flooding the interior with daylight. The splintered edges of the metal were peeled back, allowing water to lap through the lowest part, spilling down into the main part of the cabin. René lay with his head resting to one side, directly under the torn roof. His eyes were closed, the skin around them slack, while his lips were slightly parted beneath his beard. His massive frame was drenched with water, the black hair on his chest and arms glistening with moisture.

  ‘René,’ Luca called, twisting his body through the narrow gap between the front seats.

  ‘Come on, René,’ he called again, grabbing him by the lapel of his soaking cotton shirt. As he pulled René’s head clear of the side wall it lolled back unnaturally, the weight unsupported by his neck. Luca let go in shock, staring in horror.

  ‘No … no,’ he breathed, feeling the panic rise inside him. He jabbed two fingers into the base of René’s throat, feeling for a pulse, pressing down hard against the soft flesh by the side of his Adam’s apple. He forced himself to stay absolutely still, his senses straining for the faintest beat or twitch. There was nothing.

  ‘Come on, René’ Luca suddenly shouted, the sound of his voice reverberating around the tiny cockpit. ‘Come on!’

  Luca pressed lower on his friend’s neck, waited a few seconds, then moved his fingers higher again, searching in vain for a pulse. He could feel the heat of René’s body, the skin still clammy and glowing with sweat. He gently tilted the head forward and saw a deep-set bruise running all the way from his left shoulder blade up into the line of his hair. The skin was waxy and dull, bruised black at the centre and fading to a dull purple with blotched yellow patches lower down. Whatever had ripped through the wall of the plane had snapped Rene’s neck with such force that it had nearly decapitated him.

  Luca took René’s cheeks in the palms of his hands, willing his friend’s eyes to open, for his chest to rise and fall, for everything to be as it was. It was impossible for him to be gone, to die like this in the middle of a godforsaken jungle in Africa. René was a bear of a man; indestructible. He swore irreverently at every living, breathing thing and could make jokes when all seemed lost. How could this possibly have happened?

  Luca felt a surge of heat rise up his throat and into his temples. His vision started to fade to black towards the edges. He widened his stance to try to keep his balance, but then suddenly gagged, convulsing at the unexpected reflex. Shutting his eyes, he let the tears stream down his face while the huge store of emotion, dulled and suppressed by those endless months in the Himalayas, came flooding out of him.

  ‘Not this,’ he gasped. ‘Anything but this.’

  ‘Luca!’

  He stayed motionless, staring down into his friend’s face.

  ‘Luca!’ Bear’s voice was louder, a shrill scream that made him turn towards her. ‘The water’s getting worse. We’re sinking.’

  The angle of the plane had changed and now water streamed into the cockpit through the broken windows. Torrents of brown river water poured in, weighing down the front of the plane and plunging it further beneath the surface. Luca turned, pushing his way back to Bear, and saw that the water level was already past her waist and steadily rising up the line of her stomach. He sniffed, wiping one arm across his eyes as he tried to focus. They had to get out.

  ‘Over there,’ she said, motioning towards the broken door. It was already peeled back on one hinge, facing down into the depths of the river. The water flooding through the gap was opaque and foreboding.

  ‘What about yours?’ Luca asked.

  ‘Jammed.’

  Bear rocked forward in her seat, wincing at the pain from her shoulder. She tried to pull herself out of the seat using her one good arm, but her legs were trapped by something below the waterline. Luca fumbled with the back of his belt, looking for the survival knife which was hooked into the leather. He drew out the dull blade with its serrated edge.

  ‘I can force open the door with this.’

  ‘There’s no time. We’re going to have to swim out underneath the plane.’

  Luca grabbed her under her arms, his powerful fingers biting into her skin. He paused, knowing full well the pain he was about to inflict.

  ‘Go,’ she whispered. He wrenched her whole body sideways, using all the strength in his thighs. The veins on the sides of his neck bulged as he inched Bear free, her legs scraping against the crumpled control column and ripping the fabric of her trousers in a long snaking tear. Bear’s shoulder hunched, pulled unnaturally high against the metal spike of the throttle. A horrid gurgling sound came from somewhere deep within her lungs as Luca heaved again, every muscle in his back straining with effort. Suddenly her legs came free, sending th
em both tumbling back against the other side of the plane.

  Bear was pressed against him, her breathing shallow from the pain. She slowly opened her eyes and followed Luca’s gaze to where the water was gushing through the open tear in the cockpit beside René. It poured down on to his massive head, flattening his thick crop of hair and filling his open mouth. It streamed down on to his face with such force that it seemed to blur his features, and Luca just stared, transfixed.

  ‘We have to leave him,’ Bear whispered. ‘He’s gone.’

  Luca blinked. He knew she was right. But as the water rose past René’s broad shoulders and up to his neck, he also knew this would be the last glimpse he would ever have of his friend. Suddenly, he felt a terrible urge to stay with him, as if to make amends somehow for it all.

  ‘Come on, Luca!’ Bear shouted, pulling him forward.

  Grabbing her hand, he felt his fingers curl around hers, before he breathed in as deep as he could and plunged forward, into the foul water.

  Chapter 16

  THE REAR WHEELS of the Mk2 Oryx helicopter touched down with a delicate bump. As the engines slowly powered down with a low-pitched whine, the downdraft from the rotors washed out across the searing hot tarmac, diffusing a mirage of heat waves.

  Jean-Luc climbed out of the front passenger seat, slamming the door shut with a wide sweep of his arm. He stalked across the open tarmac of Kigali International Airport with his fist pressed against his forehead to shield his eyes from the glaring midday sun. It was 42 degrees in the shade and the fabric of his white T-shirt clung to his back and armpits.

  Putting a cigarette to the corner of his mouth, he lit a match, recoiling sharply as the sulphur flared up more than usual. It sent a plume of smoke into his eyes, making him curse out loud all the way to the terminal building.

  ‘Welcome to Rwanda, sir,’ the young official said, raising his arm in salute. ‘Your passport, please.’

  Jean-Luc dug in the top pocket of his shirt and slammed his passport down on the counter. He stared at the official with undisguised annoyance, his chin jutting out dangerously. The official looked down at the passport and back to Jean-Luc’s face. He began to speak, then picked up the well-thumbed booklet and let his forefingers delicately trace across the surface of the creased leather as if trying to decipher some kind of Braille.

  ‘How long will you be …’ he hesitated, his eyes meeting the full wrath of Jean-Luc’s stare ‘… be staying … here in Kigali, I mean.’

  Jean-Luc gave a slow shake of his head.

  ‘Read the top of the damn’ passport,’ he said, his voice hissing out between nicotine-stained teeth. The official looked down again. The word ‘Diplomat’ was stamped in lettering so faded that he had somehow managed to miss it the first time round.

  ‘That will be all, sir.’

  Snatching back his passport, Jean-Luc crossed the marble floor to the rank of taxis neatly parked outside. He stood still for a moment and slowly shook his head. It was incredible how different from Goma this airport was, despite their proximity. Here, there were no hustling crowds fighting for a place on a bus, or fat officials eyeballing the passengers like cattle as they marched them through the turnstiles, looking for the easiest bribes. Rwanda had been reborn under President Kagame’s iron fist and now even plastic bags had been outlawed, transforming the land of a thousand hills into a newly whitewashed tourist destination.

  Jean-Luc signalled to the first taxi and was about to open the rear door when a white Toyota Land Cruiser pulled to a halt in front. It had the word ‘UN’ stamped in bold lettering across it. A man emerged from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Mr Étienne, if you will.’

  As the engine fired to life and the Toyota pulled into the three lanes of bustling traffic, heading towards the city centre, Jean-Luc swivelled in his seat to face the other passenger.

  ‘The CIA couldn’t think of anything more original than a UN vehicle?’

  ‘Oldies but goldies,’ the man replied, giving a crooked smile that accentuated the crow’s feet around his eyes. He had a slight accent from somewhere in the Deep South and a wholesome, all-American jawline faintly smudged by stubble. His blond hair had begun to grey at the temples and he had deep tan lines running across his forehead from a lifetime spent in the sun.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Jean-Luc asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’ the man replied.

  Jean-Luc grunted, noting that the smile was still playing faintly around the other man’s lips. It was as if he’d heard a joke several minutes ago but now couldn’t quite remember the punchline.

  They sat in silence while the Toyota wound through the lanes of traffic and pulled off on to a dust track towards the main market. Slowly bouncing down the potholed road in second gear, they passed lines of stalls made of thin wooden sticks bleached grey by the sun. Each was manned by a brightly clad woman selling piles of vegetables and waiting with the patience of stone for her next customer. They passed line after line of them, the mass of people growing denser as they drew closer to the main hub of the market.

  Jean-Luc lit another cigarette. ‘So, what do I call you, then?’

  ‘Call me Devlin.’

  ‘Putain,’ Jean-Luc spat. ‘Devlin? What, you think this is some kind of joke? What are you going to do? Kill this president as well.’

  Devlin’s smile widened a little.

  ‘It wasn’t us who killed Lumumba in the Congo. The Belgians did that one.’

  ‘Sure they did.’

  They entered the main entrance to the market, through two disused gates set back on their hinges. Devlin nudged the car to a halt by one of the roadside shebeens, where some locals were leaning out of the open shutters with bottles of beer clutched in their hands.

  ‘Where I come from we only drink on weekends. We should make the most of this.’ Devlin got out, slamming the car door shut. ‘Although something tells me they won’t have any of your pastis liquor here.’

  There was a low table at the back of the shebeen, set slightly apart from the rest. They sat down and Devlin ordered two beers.

  ‘You know,’ he began, resting his hands lightly on the table, ‘a couple of months back we had a message come through like yours, offering more information on this “Mordecai”. Met the informant myself, hoping we might get to run someone within the LRA. Young guy, was one of the lieutenants turfed out of Uganda with Kony, but still part of Mordecai’s inner circle.’

  Once the beers were opened, Devlin waited for the barman to leave before continuing.

  ‘He turned up dead a couple of weeks later with his arms and legs hacked off. He was all piled up in this big pine box.’ He paused, forehead creasing in concentration. ‘No, that ain’t right. It wasn’t pine. Oak, perhaps.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, we were kinda thinking, if one of his own lieutenants can’t get information through to us, what makes you think you can?’

  Jean-Luc grabbed his beer and took a swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Because I’m not some idiot child soldier with a head pumped full of amphetamines. I’ve been running cargo for Mordecai for months now.’

  ‘Cargo?’

  ‘A mineral that everyone wants to keep quiet. Very quiet. Even the handlers are Chinese.’

  Jean-Luc pushed a small plastic sack across the table, one end glued down to seal the contents inside. Devlin stared at it for several seconds before taking it off the table and resting it on the neighbouring seat.

  ‘So what is it, this mystery cargo?’

  ‘Just get your guys in the lab to take a look. It’ll be worth the price.’

  ‘It fucking better be, Étiene. You have any idea how much bullshit you have to go through to get that kind of money?’

  Jean-Luc stared across the table. ‘You asked for proof. There it is. So don’t ever question me again.’ He paused, inhaling on his cigarette. ‘I can get through to Mordecai because I already have.’

  ‘You’ve ac
tually met him?’ Devlin asked, trying to mask the surprise in his voice.

  ‘No one from the outside has. But I know where he’s hiding.’

  Devlin exhaled deeply, running his fingers through his blond hair.

  ‘OK, OK. This is good. I’m going to need to know what contact you’ve had with him. We know he’s out in the Ituri but it’s one hell of a big place and we’ve got some blanks that need filling.’

  ‘Blanks? I’d say you guys haven’t got the faintest fucking idea what’s going on north of the river. You’ve been stationed out here in Kigali all this time, too scared shitless to do anything but file a report to Langley every couple of minutes.’

  Devlin stared across at the table, the same distant smile returning to his lips.

  ‘Langley do love their reports,’ he said, seemingly oblivious to the affront. ‘Look, the priority is the relationship with the Chinese. We know they’re all over the Congo like a rash, but we wanna know what they’re doing hanging around with this Mordecai. We need to get detailed reports of their movements, exact shipments and what the hell they are using this new mineral for. You get us that, and you got yourself a deal.’

  Then he shrugged. ‘As for the man himself, Mordecai’s one of them tinpot militia leaders. Dime a dozen out here. We’re only interested in him for his relationship with the Chinks. In the meantime, let him slaughter a few villagers up north, if that’s what gets him off.’

  Jean-Luc gave a grim smile, eyes dropping down to the table where the last of the cigarette he’d been smoking lay in the ashtray. It had burned down to the filter.

  ‘You’re underestimating him,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘He’s building an army that’s a whole different animal from the Mai-Mai or FDLR. He’s not here to skim a few diamond mines or get his hands on some gold deposits. Mordecai is looking at something bigger, much bigger.’ Jean-Luc stared down at his hands, clenching the knuckles together with a soft crack. ‘I’ve been a merc all my life, but I’ve never seen soldiers so fanatical. They do anything he says, even if the mission is suicide. A man with an army like that can do a lot in Africa.’