by Tony Park
‘No reason,’ Liesl said. She looked at the other two, asking some unspoken question.
‘I don’t know if it is a good idea to involve more people in this business, given how much trouble the photograph has caused,’ Bousson said.
‘We’re getting desperate,’ the lawyer said to Bousson and Liesl. ‘No one need know his name and I’m running out of leads.’
Aston knew exactly what they were discussing. The woman was tough, and he reluctantly admired the way she was potentially endangering an ‘innocent’ bystander in her quest.
‘Would you take a look at this picture for us, please?’ the Australian asked Aston.
Liesl slid the picture across the table and Aston picked it up and pretended to study it.
‘What is it?’ Liesl asked. ‘Do you recognise any of those men?’
Aston rubbed his chin. ‘When was this taken?’
‘Sometime around 1994, we think,’ Carmel said.
‘A terrible time. I know; I was here not long after the genocide.’
‘You were?’ asked Carmel. ‘You’re not Rwandan, are you?’
‘No, Zambian. I served here with the Zambian infantry peacekeeping battalion. I was a corporal at the time. I have never seen such horror before or since.’
‘UNAMIR II?’ Carmel asked.
‘Yes. You know of it?’
‘Amazing.’ Carmel reached across the table, offering her hand. ‘I’m Carmel Shang. I was here with the Australian contingent. I was the legal officer to AUSMED and, as it happened, to all the other UN contingents as none of them brought their own legal officer. I handled a couple of investigations you guys did.’
‘This is all fascinating,’ Liesl interjected, ‘but we can save the army buddies’ reunion for later. What do you see in this picture, hey?’
Aston pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and made a show of studying the photograph again. ‘This white man, he looks familiar to me. I’m trying to imagine what he looks like now. You say he is an arms trader?’
‘To be honest,’ Carmel said, ‘we don’t know. It’s all just an assumption at this stage. The two other men in the picture are dead.’
‘What makes you think this man still lives in Rwanda?’ Aston asked.
Liesl shrugged. ‘We had to start looking for him somewhere, and as a result of what happened to us today, we think the white man is close.’
‘What happened today?’ Aston asked.
‘We’d rather not say, if that’s OK. It’s the subject of a police investigation. Who is this man?’
Aston rubbed his chin again. ‘I have met him, though his name escapes me.’
‘Really?’ Liesl asked.
‘Yes. I’ve seen him somewhere, maybe here, maybe elsewhere in the country. I think he owns a lodge or a safari business. I’m not aware of him being involved in anything illegal, though, if that was what you were inferring before.’
‘That’s incredible! We don’t know if he’s involved in wrongdoing now or in the past,’ Carmel said. ‘But we’d like to talk to him.’
‘Maybe we should just hand this over to the Rwandan police,’ Liesl suggested.
‘And tell them what?’ Henri interjected. ‘That we’re looking for a man who we think was in a photograph taken seventeen years ago and may have been behind at least one murder and several attempted murders?’
‘It is a bit flimsy,’ Carmel said.
‘But this oke tried to kill us,’ Liesl said.
Carmel nodded. ‘We can’t be a hundred per cent sure, Liesl. Also I’m worried that if it turns out that it was the RPA that shot down President Habyarimana’s jet, and that the current ruling party was involved, then this will all just be covered up anyway.’
‘Hang on,’ Liesl said. ‘You think the Rwandan government might be behind all this, trying to keep us quiet?’
‘I just don’t know, I don’t think we can rule it out.’
‘There is nothing to stop you making some discreet enquiries and perhaps then going to the police if you know for sure that this man has done something wrong, although I must confess I am concerned by all of this talk of murder and attempted murder. Perhaps I should just leave you in peace now and get back to my business here.’ Aston picked up his beer and made to leave. ‘Ladies, I am glad if I have been of assistance, but –’
‘No, wait,’ Liesl said.
‘Yes, please. Stay and have a drink with us,’ Carmel said.
Aston noticed that Bousson had retreated into silence again and was sitting with his arms folded and his lips pursed. He was clearly not happy that Aston had insinuated himself into their conversation. Aston didn’t care. He would deal with the Frenchman as and when necessary. If he wanted to act as these women’s bodyguard, he would find himself with a bullet in the back of his head. ‘Very well,’ he said, dragging over a chair from a neighbouring table. ‘But please allow me to get the next round of drinks.’
Over the next hour Carmel Shang explained that she was an investigator with the ICTR, which Aston already knew, and that she had investigative powers under the tribunal’s auspices and that she agreed it would be better to conduct a low-key investigation at first. Aston was pleased she had played so easily into his hands. He knew well of the animosity between the Rwandan government and the ICTR. Carmel was on the trail of a major scalp and she would not want the man she was looking for to end up in a Rwandan prison.
‘Are you sure you can’t remember this guy’s name?’ Liesl said.
Aston looked at the picture again, squinting at it. ‘I hope it will come to me. It was as if it was on the tip of my tongue. Most of the white people I meet seem to have some connection to tourism or aid. I travel to Ruhengeri often, so I am thinking that could be where I met him. He does not look like the NGO type, though I suppose people do change their colours.’
‘I’ve got to go to Ruhengeri and the Volcanoes National Park anyway,’ Liesl said. ‘We’ve got a cover for being in the area – we can say we’re all going to see the mountain gorillas.’
‘Good,’ Aston nodded. ‘There are always many western tourists in Ruhengeri, so you won’t stick out. I just wish I could remember this man’s name.’
‘Please try, Aston. It’s very important.’
‘I understand, particularly if, as you say, this man was responsible for supplying the weapon that sparked the Rwandan genocide. I will do my best to find him for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Carmel said.
He called the waitress over. ‘My pleasure.’ In fact, it would, he knew, be a pleasure for the man they were seeking, when Aston delivered them to him. He almost pitied them; instead of taking an assassin’s quick, clean bullet, their ends would be slow and painful, and Aston would reap a bountiful harvest of organs and parts from their bodies.
*
Rain pattered on Jan Venter’s green poncho. His fatigues were soaked and he wiped the condensation from the eyepieces of the binoculars and refocused on the Nel family farmhouse below. Another man might have complained, but Venter still considered himself a soldier.
It had been the wettest summer since 2000, and while the floodwaters had not been as high as they were then, they had caused disruptions. The helicopter they had planned to use for their criminal purposes had been called up to rescue people stranded around Hoedspruit by a flash flood, and then the aircraft had been grounded by an electrical storm.
Ironically, the crooked vet who was supposed to have been here by now to dart the wild dogs was busy saving stranded wildlife on game farms around the Lowveld, according to the rushed call Jan had received from the man. Their plan had been pushed back by at least a day, maybe more.
But delays in military operations were like the rain, inevitable and unavoidable. Venter would wait as long as he had to. The money was worth it.
*
Richard finished securing the fresh bandage on his wounded leg in the toilet of the Qantas 747 as the captain announced that the aircraft was beginning its descent. As he wa
lked down the aisle he saw Collette jump up, a broad smile on her face.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I remembered.’
He was tired. They were into the eighth hour of the flight and he’d been too wired and in too much pain to sleep. He’d taken some paracetamol to take the edge off, but he had no intention of arriving back in South Africa too drugged out to deal with any potential threat. ‘Remembered what?’
‘That man’s name.’ Collette stayed standing and Richard paused in the aisle. The other passengers around them were snoozing or engrossed in in-flight movies. ‘I was just watching a documentary about the Second World War. They showed some footage of Hitler and it triggered something in my memory.’
‘How so?’
‘I was studying the war, in history, at the private school I went to in Rwanda around the time that the men started coming to my parents’ place for meetings – the ones in the pictures. And I remembered reading something about one of Hitler’s deputies, and his name was the same as one of the men my father had been talking about to my mother – without me knowing – and when I saw that man, the one who had such an interest in my brother, I asked my father if he was German, because he had the same name as a famous Nazi.’
‘What was his name?’ Richard asked.
‘Hess, as in Rudolf.’
‘What was his first name?’
‘Karl.’
*
Carmel, Henri, Liesl and Aston ended up eating at the hotel bar. Carmel toyed with the fish on her plate. Her stomach was turning and she had little appetite.
It was, she imagined, mostly due to the trauma of her day that she found it so hard to relax. She’d replayed the day’s events over and over in her mind, and if she put herself in the position of an investigator or lawyer cross-examining her testimony, then she found it hard to find any fault in her actions. It was, she realised, not only the fallout of killing the colonel, and possibly the other man that had her on edge, it was also the very close presence of Henri.
He sat next to her, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body through his jeans and her cargo pants. His leg, she reckoned, was no more than a few millimetres from hers. When he’d reached across the table to get to the salt, her leg had actually touched his and she’d felt a frisson of excitement jolt up her body. He was telling a story now, of his childhood in Rwanda, and in doing so he was leaning close to her and putting his hand lightly on her arm, as if to emphasise a point to her.
Carmel sucked in a deep breath. She could smell the raw, slightly acrid odour of his long day, but it aroused as much as offended her. He had been there for her when she had emerged from the horror of the prison siege and she knew enough about psychology to understand that the attraction she was feeling for him now was probably the same kind of base animal lust that had caused Richard to sleep with Liesl back when they’d all been in Rwanda the first time. ‘Survivor sex’ it was called – a primal need to fornicate and procreate after exposure to danger. When she’d first read about this phenomenon she’d wondered if that was what had gone on between Richard and Liesl, after they’d both been through the horrors of the Kibeho massacre. But Carmel, too, had seen horrors in Rwanda, and hadn’t felt compelled to fuck the first man she’d seen. Perhaps that was indeed what she was feeling now, but if she was honest with herself, she had to admit that her attraction to Henri had been growing steadily since she’d first met him.
She looked at Liesl, to see if she was taking an unusual interest in Henri. Liesl smiled back at her, as if somehow reading her mind.
Liesl raised a hand to her mouth, tilted back her head and yawned. ‘I’m tired, and we’ve got to get up early tomorrow to get our gorilla permits and get on the road.’
‘Yes,’ Henri agreed. He had called for the bill earlier and now started counting out Rwandan francs.
‘Let me,’ Carmel tried.
He looked at her, and as Liesl gathered her daypack and jacket, Henri said quietly, ‘You can get breakfast.’
Carmel felt heat rush through her body to her extremities as she looked into his eyes and saw what she hadn’t seen for a very long time.
‘Well, if you will excuse me, I’m going to bed,’ Liesl said.
They both wished her goodnight and Aston, too, announced that it was time for him to turn in. Then they were alone. ‘I would offer you one more drink . . .’ Henri said.
‘But I don’t drink alcohol and if I have another Coke I’ll be up all night,’ she said.
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ he said.
She kept her smile in check. He was definitely flirting with her now and she had to evaluate how she felt about that. On the plus side, he was tall and handsome and she had felt marvellously warm and safe in his arms when she’d emerged from the frightening chaos of Kigali Central Prison. He was passionate about wildlife conservation, as was she, and she had the skills and, yes, even the money, to help him continue to realise his dream of rehabilitating wild animals into the wild. He was, in short, almost the perfect match for her, except that he lived in Zambia and she lived in Australia, and there was no time for romance in her life while there was someone still out there trying to kill her.
‘Shall we go?’ he asked.
They left the poolside restaurant and walked up the stairs to the lobby. Carmel felt a warm flush spreading up through her body, to her chest, neck and face as they waited for the lift to descend. Henri was behind her, close enough for her to hear his breathing. The chime pinged and the door opened.
It was a small lift and when Carmel walked in and turned around, she saw that he was looking down at her. She swallowed. She saw the small smile on his lips. He reached out with his hand and gently laid the back of his fingers on her cheek. It felt as though he’d scorched her.
‘I was worried about you today.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘I know. You are strong. But all the same, maybe you’d like me to come in and sit with you for a while.’
She knew what he meant, but he’d couched it as though she needed babysitting, like a helpless little girl. She didn’t want his faux concern. Carmel stood on her toes and placed a hand behind his neck and kissed him. Henri dropped his daypack, which fell with a heavy clank on the floor of the elevator, and kissed her back, passionately. She felt his tongue in her mouth and she drew it in. God, she wanted this. He put his hand under her arse and backed her against the wall. She could feel his erection, hard through his jeans, and she lowered a hand between them to caress it.
The door pinged open again.
Henri took a breath and stepped out into the hallway. Mercifully, there were no other guests standing there waiting for the lift. ‘My room or yours?’ he asked.
‘Fuck it,’ she said. ‘Who cares?’
Henri’s was closer. He quickly inserted the key card and they were embracing again before he’d even kicked the door closed. He began unbuttoning her shirt and Carmel undid his belt and the top button of his jeans. She reached a hand inside and gloried at the weight and feel of him.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ she whispered into his ear.
26
Dust hung in the thin, weak beams of light that penetrated the cracks between the timbers of the crate. Vite had been taken from the foul-smelling shack where he had been held captive with other animals, but now a new range of horrors was confronting him as his wooden prison rocked from side to side.
Vite’s ears were assaulted by the bleating of the goats tethered around him in the back of a truck. One was perched just above him, its hooves clattering as it scrambled for purchase.
The vehicle they were travelling in juddered in and out of ruts and potholes. His family and the warm breast of the woman who had rescued him, then abandoned him, were just confused memories. He had yelled until he could yell no more, his cries masked by the goats, who seemed to make even more noise when he tried to outdo them. How would his family hear him now?
Further and further fr
om his home he travelled, until at last the machine stopped. A man climbed into the back of the truck, weaving his way between the goats. He rapped on the wood of the crate, but there were many other human voices. Vite cried and the goats made their beeehing noise, and no one rescued him.
He didn’t know it, but he’d just crossed into Rwanda.
*
It was overcast and misty when they met in the hotel car park the next morning. Carmel had returned to her room before dawn, to shower and pack her bag for the trip to Ruhengeri. She’d felt deliciously achy as she let the hot spray pummel her body.
For the first time in years she felt alive. Her existence had for so long been based around her work. It was how she defined herself. Her life was the prosecution of the people who had caused the genocide and she questioned, now, if that was enough. If she could somehow close this chapter in her life and the troubled history of Rwanda, by finding the men in the picture and possibly discovering for certain who was responsible for the act that sparked the mass killings, then she could allow herself a fresh start in life. Perhaps with Henri. She pressed the replay button of her mind and smiled to herself.
Henri had laid her on the bed and got down on his knees on the floor. He’d dragged her bum to the edge and opened her, and kissed her until she’d come, again and again. They’d cuddled and kissed and later in the evening they’d made love on the bed, slowly and gently. Before she’d left his morning she’d climbed on top of him, and afterwards had snoozed for an hour in his arms. She was exhausted and wanted to sleep all day in his arms, but they had to leave this morning.
She’d dried herself, dressed and grabbed a quick continental breakfast, then taken her bag down to the car, which was waiting for them. A local tour operator, organised by Henri, had arrived with a Toyota RAV4 that looked like it had seen better days. A quick walk-around revealed a low-hanging exhaust pipe, bald tyres, and several dents.
‘Where’s the paperwork?’ she asked the slightly built African man as he lifted a big old-fashioned stereo speaker from the boot of the four-wheel drive. He untwisted the wires linking it to the car’s sound system. A scratched CD dangled from the rear-view mirror.
