by Tony Park
Pierre stopped a couple of times to ask directions and was met with a jab of a thumb and a toss of the head. The men he asked also took their time to look Liesl over. Inwardly she shivered under their stares, but she forced herself to stand up straight and look them in the eye.
‘We are close. It is this next building.’
Pierre led her into a building and the smell inside almost overpowered her. Urine and faeces competed with body odour, smoke and dank mould to see which could make her gag first. They passed men leaning against walls or standing and sitting in communal cells. As they climbed a flight of stairs, the smell lessened a bit, and weak sunlight filtered through the narrow slit windows.
‘Colonel Menahe?’ Pierre asked a slight, effeminate-looking youth who emerged from a doorway and walked quickly down the corridor towards them, head down. The boy looked over his shoulder and pointed to a door, outside which stood two smirking, hulking inmates. ‘Il est là.’
‘Merci.’
Pierre approached the men, who appeared to be guarding the room, and spoke to them rapidly in French. They replied with a few words and one of them went into the room. Liesl suffered more ogling in silence as they waited for the guard to return. He spoke to Pierre, who then translated. ‘He says we can go in. The colonel will see us.’
‘That’s very good of him.’
Pierre didn’t comment on her sarcasm. She saw him draw a breath as he followed one of the bodyguards inside. The cell was the same as the others they’d seen, except that instead of being crammed with bunks for thirty it had two double bunks on opposing walls and a large office desk in the centre. A well-fed man in neatly stitched pink stood from behind the desk and extended a hand. Pierre shook it while Liesl cast a glance at one of the lower bunks with its rumpled blanket and sheets. The three other beds were neatly made.
‘I am Colonel Jean-Baptiste Menahe. Pierre asks that I speak English, how do you do?’ the man said to Liesl. She shook his moist hand.
‘Fine, thank you. Has he told you what this visit is about?’
‘I received a message earlier today from Pierre, telling me you are a journalist from South Africa who is doing an article about human rights abuses in Rwandan prisons. You have come to the right place and the right man.’ He smiled across the desk at her and motioned for them to take a seat.
‘Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Colonel,’ Liesl said. Pierre had filled her in on the cover story he had invented for her.
‘My pleasure. There are so few distractions in prison. Pierre has been a fair and independent reporter on the justice system, or what passes for a justice system here in Rwanda. His articles locally and his commentary to foreign media have shown the world that many people incarcerated here in Rwanda – myself included – are innocent.’
Liesl nodded. She’d often heard it said by crime reporters that there was no such thing as a guilty inmate in a prison – they all maintained they were innocent.
‘What is happening with your appeal, Colonel?’
‘My lawyer says I have an excellent chance of acquittal, but then they always say that. But I am quietly confident I will be released soon. You see,’ he said, directing his attention back to Liesl, ‘I played no part in the genocide. Indeed, on several occasions I stopped the troops under my command from joining in with the Interahamwe militia. I was brought here on trumped-up charges simply because the new regime believed all in the national army were war criminals. I was a soldier who defended the legitimate government of the day, nothing more.’
Liesl reached into the pocket of the fleece jacket she wore and took out the print of the picture the dying man had given Richard. She placed it on the desk and slid it across the table towards the colonel.
The smile fell from his face. He lowered his head to better study the picture, but kept his hands under the table, as though he was too scared to touch it. After a few seconds he looked up, his eyes drilling into Liesl. She shivered. ‘Where did you get this?’
Liesl took a breath. People had been trying to kill her over this picture, so it was pointless hiding the truth. ‘I took it. At the Kibeho refugee camp in 1995. The man holding the picture – you can see his fingertips at the edge – died that day.’
‘As well he should have,’ the colonel said.
Liesl felt her courage weakening under his malevolent gaze. ‘That’s you in the picture, on the far left, talking to the white man.’
Menahe’s mouth widened into a grin but his eyes remained steely cold. ‘This picture was taken seventeen years ago. This may or may not be me.’
‘You’ve been identified, Colonel.’
The ex-officer turned his eyes on Pierre, who shifted in his chair. Liesl glanced behind her and saw the bulky bodyguards filling the doorway. Whether or not they understood the conversation, they had sensed the change in mood and were watching the conversation with interest.
‘If this is me, what of it? It is a group of men in the bush, nothing more.’
‘A group of men with a surface-to-air missile,’ Liesl said, waiting for his reaction.
Menahe pushed the picture across the desk to her, then leaned back on his chair, causing the legs to creak. He kept his hands out of sight. ‘So what? We used surface-to-air missiles in the army. There is nothing unusual about this.’
‘Then why would someone want to kill me and everyone else who has seen that picture? And who is the white man in the picture, Colonel?’
‘I don’t have to answer your questions.’ The colonel’s tongue darted out and moistened his lips. He looked over their heads towards the bodyguards. ‘I think it is time for you to leave now.’
‘Colonel,’ Pierre said, ‘we are not looking to cause trouble. But what Miss Nel says is true – there are people whose lives are in danger because of this picture. We merely wish to find out why.’
‘My advice to you both,’ Menahe said, leaning forward again, ‘is to burn this picture and forget you ever saw it.’
‘That’s not possible, and besides, it’s the subject of an investigation by the ICTR. You’re probably going to get a visit from one of their investigators and the national prosecutor today,’ Liesl said, playing her trump card. He could dismiss her and Pierre, but not the law, and she wanted to see his reaction.
‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ the colonel said.
‘Why not?’ Liesl glared back at him defiantly.
‘Because now I am probably going to have to kill you.’
24
Carmel got out of the car and closed the door. A light drizzle was falling and she zipped up the waterproof spray jacket she’d brought with her. She knew how changeable the weather could be in the hills of Rwanda. The meeting with the prosecutor had gone well. He had immediately identified Colonel Jean-Baptist Menahe in the picture and told Carmel she could find him at Kigali Central Prison.
Henri opened the back door of the small sedan and pulled his cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He lit one. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK by yourself?’
‘I’ve been here, and other prisons, plenty of times. I know what I’m doing.’ She had been into the prison in the company of an interpreter on many occasions, without the need for armed guards so she was probably safe enough, though in the light of recent events she did feel more nervous than if she were going to interview an accused any other time. All the same, as much as she liked Henri she was not convinced it was appropriate for him to sit in on this interview.
Henri shrugged as he lit and inhaled. He exhaled a long stream of smoke, adding to the fog of wood fires and exhaust fumes that were settling over Kigali under the low cloud. ‘I don’t doubt that, but given what has happened lately . . .’
‘Given what has happened lately, inside the four walls of a prison is probably the safest place for me.’
Henri nodded. ‘What makes you think this colonel will be willing to talk to you?’
‘The chief prosecutor thinks he’s hiding something. The colonel’s probably going
to win his appeal and his freedom soon, but the government investigators have always thought he was holding back.’
Henri waved his cigarette in a circle in front of him. ‘That is my point. Why would he talk to you and not them?’
‘I can offer him something the Rwandan government can’t – his life. If we can find out what’s behind all this and it implicates the colonel further, the Rwandans will keep him in prison and, if he’s found guilty of a capital crime, they’ll quash his appeal and hang him. If I can cut a deal with him, for information, I can probably pull some strings with the prosecutor to get his appeal decision expedited and when he’s out of prison I’ll get him out of the country. If he cooperates I might be able to get him into witness protection, and if he’s guilty of something heinous then at least he’ll be banged up in the The Hague in a cell that would be five-star compared to this place, and certainly better than being hanged.’
Henri leaned back against the car and looked at her, his head slightly cocked.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘You are a tough woman, Carmel Shang. And devious. I would not want you as an enemy.’
She nodded. ‘Just as well we’re friends then.’ She checked her watch. ‘If I’m not out in an hour, send in the SAS, OK?’
‘Consider it done. But I’ll bring some legionnaires, though, as I think it should be Frenchmen who save the day.’
‘Very funny. I’ll be back soon.’
Carmel walked across the road to the prison and joined the throng of men, women and children queuing to visit those inside. A warder in a green jumper, carrying a swagger stick under his arm, walked up to her, a guard armed with an AK-47 in tow. It had been a couple of years since she’d visited the prison, but he looked familiar. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘I’m here to see one of your prisoners. Colonel Jean-Baptiste Menahe.’
‘He is a popular man today. I have seen you before, yes?’
Carmel nodded. ‘My name is Carmel Shang. I am a prosecutor for the ICTR. What do you mean, he’s popular today?’
‘Two other people are visiting him right now.’
‘A white woman?’
The warder nodded. ‘This is very irregular. You must wait here while I call my superiors.’
Carmel looked skyward and held out her hands, palms up. ‘It is raining. Are you going to make me stand out here and get soaked while you ask your superiors for permission to do your job?’
The man looked over his shoulder at his office, and Carmel caught the faint smirk of the guard with the AK-47. She’d successfully managed to shame him in front of his subordinate. ‘You can go inside,’ he said with an imperious nod. ‘And sit with the prisoners’ relatives while I clear this with the chief warder.’
‘Thank you,’ Carmel said, and walked to the gate where she signed in, ahead of the waiting families. The women in the queue, in particular, had watched the exchange and followed her every move as she strode through the gates into the busy courtyard.
Once inside she noted two other warders who were watching over the men receiving visitors. Carmel walked up to one of the guards, who had a pistol in a holster on his belt. ‘I’ve come to see Colonel Jean-Baptiste Menahe. I’m with the other white woman who is with him, but I was running late. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
The man nodded. ‘I speak English, yes. I saw them go in about twenty minutes ago.’
‘I need to get to them.’
The warder looked at his colleague, who just shrugged. ‘I am not supposed to leave my post.’
Carmel maintained her bluff. ‘That’s fine. I will go in myself. Which block is the colonel in?’
The man looked past her, as if hoping to spot a more senior officer. ‘You should not go in there alone.’
‘So, show me the way. How long will it take? My friend had a man with her, yes?’
‘Yes, madam, she did.’
‘Then take me to them. He can escort me out.’
The man said a few words in French to his counterpart who, again, just shrugged. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘Quickly.’
Carmel followed the guard through a maze of ambling male prisoners in matching pink outfits. Her nose rankled at the stenches that came from the prison and she looked straight ahead, ignoring the stares of the inmates. The prison was just as depressing as it had been last time. She’d outgrown her initial fear of the place, but all the same it was still overcrowded and borderline medieval. The soldier in her thought these men were lucky not to have been killed for their crimes, but the lawyer in her recoiled at the abuses of basic human rights, no matter what crimes the inmates had committed.
The sound of a melodious choir wafted from a brick building with a rusted tin roof. Carmel marvelled at the beauty of the massed voices in such a setting, and shivered at the contrast of this beauty with the crimes the singers may have committed. Her escort pushed his way through a throng of men and Carmel quickened her step to keep up with him. Ahead, past the guard, she saw half-a-dozen men running towards them. One of the men had his hand behind his back and started to bring it into sight.
‘Look out,’ Carmel cried, ‘he’s got a weapon!’
The warder turned to look back at her, perhaps not having heard her properly, but in the time it took to do so, the clutch of men was on them. The man Carmel had spied raised his hand and lashed out with a homemade club fashioned from a broken wooden chair leg reinforced with strips of iron. As the warder fumbled for the clip of his holster the club caught him on the side of the head and he fell. Carmel caught the guard just before he hit the ground.
Again, the prisoner with the chair leg struck down at the warder as two other men reached down for him. Carmel found herself pinned under the guard, and as she tried to slither away from the rain of blows and the hands that groped for her, she felt the angular butt of the warder’s pistol dig into her belly. She reached out and grabbed the gun as she felt another hand reaching for the weapon. Carmel had the grip first and, hoping the warder had the pistol loaded and cocked, she swivelled it, still in its holster and slid her finger into the trigger. The prisoner trying to get the gun punched her in the face and Carmel needed no further justification. She pulled the trigger.
The gunshot echoed off the cell block walls and the bullet exited the base of the canvas holster and blew her assailant backwards, off her and the fallen warder. The man with the chair leg straightened and backed off a step as Carmel slid the gun fully from the holster and scrambled to her feet. She raised the pistol, wrapped her left hand around her right and adjusted her stance to distribute her weight over both feet. It was the first time she’d held a firearm since she’d left the army. The man who had punched her was clutching his stomach and screaming.
‘Get back!’ she shouted.
The other prisoners regrouped, a few paces from her, as Carmel swung the barrel of the pistol left and right, keeping them at bay. She slowly lowered herself to one knee and checked for a pulse in the neck of the fallen prison warder. She found it, though it was weak. The wounded man writhed on his back, but she could do nothing for him.
Carmel started edging backwards, but when she risked a glance over her shoulder she saw a phalanx of men in pink blocking the laneway between the cell buildings. She heard shouting and the slap of sandals on mud and looked to her front again to see a new crowd moving towards her.
At the head of the mob were three boys who barely looked eighteen. They ran straight at Carmel. ‘Stop!’
The first boy slowed, nearly tripping as he saw the gun. ‘Don’t shoot!’
‘What’s happening?’
‘One of the chefs, the chiefs, he has a hostage,’ the second boy said.
God, Carmel thought. ‘A white woman?’
‘Oui, madam.’
A siren started to wail. Carmel looked behind her, back up the alley towards the visitors’ compound and the entrance to the prison, and saw the gates starting to swing shut.
*
Liesl had
seen the anger building in the colonel, but she had been totally unprepared for the speed and violence of his attack.
In one fluid move he had drawn a homemade knife, fashioned and sharpened from an offcut of metal, from under the desk, which he’d flipped up and wielded in Pierre’s face, knocking Pierre back off his chair. Colonel Menahe was on top of Liesl with the point of the knife pressing into the soft skin of her neck before she could let loose a scream. The bodyguards moved in on some silent signal and began pummelling Pierre with their fists.
The colonel drew her to her feet, his arm around her neck constricting her flow of oxygen, and walked her out into the corridor and down the stairs of the crowded cell block. Men gathered in his wake and started chattering. Some laughed and others cheered.
‘What are you doing?’ Liesl asked, struggling for breath.
‘You have caused this to happen.’
Liesl stumbled, half deliberately, in a bid to slow the colonel. He let her fall and she slid painfully down three stairs. He kicked her in the ribs and she screamed. He bent and picked her up again, returning her to his iron embrace. ‘Try and delay me again and I will kill you slowly, after I have given you to my men. If you do as I say, I will release you when we are free.’
‘You’re trying to break out?’ Liesl gasped.
‘If I stay in prison now I will be killed.’
It hurt to breathe. Liesl’s mind was racing. She was terrified of what would happen to her, but at the same time she was desperately trying to piece together this new information. ‘But why? It looks like you run this prison.’
