by Steve Richer
He put his hand around his mother’s shoulders and pulled her into a hug.
When she pulled free, she looked at him with worry in her eyes and said, “What’s wrong, Preston? Every time you told me you loved me since you became an adult it was because you were deploying. Are you going somewhere? Are you saying goodbye?”
Was he going anywhere? It seemed like he’d been on the go forever. There had been that week in Central America and the Caribbean and then that trip to Atlanta. He’d been back for almost a week shopping and making preparations for what was coming.
Yes, he was embarking on a journey. Perhaps his last.
“I have something coming up, mom. I don’t want you to worry about anything, all right?”
“I thought you were done with all this.”
“I have an opportunity to do something good,” he said. “I could make some serious money.”
“Is this what it’s all about, money? If you need anything you know you can ask, right? If you need money... But it’s not about that, is it?”
“I need to do this, okay? To tell you the truth, I’m kinda going crazy in that trailer park, planting trees all day.”
“You still paint?”
He snorted back a chuckle. “I have about as much talent at it as a blind sea monkey with cerebral palsy. But don’t worry about anything, all right? I’m not gonna do anything dangerous.”
“Promise?”
He was about to lie to his mother but she would see right through him.
Chapter 16
Preston stepped on Katogan soil for the first time three days later. It had taken Hewitt and him more than 20 hours to reach this country. Los Angeles to New York, then Paris, Kinshasa, and finally Katoga City. For his part, Carver had made his own arrangements since he had different countries to visit in order to recruit the mercenaries needed.
They found a hotel near the airport. Their biological clocks were haywire and Hewitt’s solution was to drink himself into a deep slumber which, he assured, would last 18 hours. Preston went in another direction and vowed to stay awake until nighttime despite his overwhelming fatigue.
The crushing heat didn’t help matters. It was over 90 degrees and with the humidity it went up to 110. The LA heat wave next to it was nothing more than a chilly Alaskan breeze. They stayed in the hotel for one day and the next, rested and ultimately able to function normally, they searched for apartments to rent.
Taking a taxi to a real estate office, they had their first real look at the country’s capital. It wasn’t quite developed, a mixture of dirt roads, concrete constructions, and low-rise buildings.
Western companies had made inroads into this market though it had been done many years ago. There were fading signs advertising Pepsi, Marlboro, and Volkswagen.
People were dressed in bright colors; yellows and greens were especially favored, contrasting well with the maroon earth. Most pedestrians considered the sidewalks, when there was one, as a suggestion.
Oblivious to the motor vehicles, which were far from abundant, they wandered through the streets often trailed by a goat or a pig which they were delivering to a market.
Driving was a slow process and Preston took time to inspect one such market. It was packed with people. Cuts of meat hung from shabby awnings and there was fresh produce on display. Each stall catered to several customers at once and bargaining looked like a way of life in these parts.
“Lo and behold, lad.”
Hewitt pointed out the window with his chin and Preston saw what he meant. Two soldiers with automatic rifles were patrolling the street.
The two men were young, barely out of their teens. Their threadbare olive green uniform was an old design dating back to the 60s and the soldiers looked sloppy. Their fatigues needed to be pressed and washed.
“British uniforms,” Preston declared.
“Makes sense. Katoga used to be a British colony following the Belgian stint.”
“Are we gonna have the history lesson now?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Hewitt replied with a gleam in his eye that wasn’t entirely from the alcohol.
Preston smiled and urged him to go on, absentmindedly looking at some children playing soccer in the street.
“Scramble for Africa, what do you know about it?”
“New breakfast item at Denny’s?”
“In the 1880s, the European nations were going through a new technological age but also a new philosophical age. Much was happening. Darwin had just come up with his Theory of Evolution, there was rampant racism, not to forget that hoopla about eugenics.”
“Eurythmics?”
“Eugenics, the absolutely vile belief that one could breed out unwanted genetic traits from a population. Proponents argued that it was morally imperative to sterilize homosexuals, the disabled, and the mentally challenged. Adolf Hitler was a fan, as you may remember.
“Anyway, because of this many came to see Africans as not completely human to begin with. Explorers were sent to the Dark Continent. Men like David Livingstone, Richard Burton, and James Grant mapped out the Nile, discovered the great lakes of central Africa. For the first time, Europeans recognized the vast resources available throughout the continent.”
“Okay,” Preston said to demonstrate he was following.
“On top of this, the late 19th century saw a period of economic recession. Britain needed new markets and cheaper labor. There were already companies operating in Africa such as Cecil Rhodes’s De Beers Mining Company but that was... minor, if you’ll excuse the pun. Hell, the man named the entire country after himself, Rhodesia. So you can see the type of attitude men had towards Africa.”
“Yes.”
“Thus began the New Imperialist era as each European country scrambled to claim its own African colony. Katoga was first claimed by Belgium due to its proximity to the Congo. The British got South and East Africa, France took possession of North Africa. Smaller colonies were also established by Portugal, Germany, and Spain.”
“Like the Gold Rush.”
Hewitt nodded. “Almost. What no one ever counted on was that the natives would put up a fight.”
“Of course, why would they?” Preston asked sarcastically. “Is that what happened with Katoga?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, lad. First, I must tell you about the Congo Free State.”
“Fine.”
“Belgium is a monarchy and in the Victorian era it was ruled by a man called Leopold II. He saw Africa as his own personal playground. He established a dummy corporation called Association Internationale Africaine which was granted a large territory – 200,000 square miles – called the Congo Free State and our man Leo was the only shareholder.”
“It’s good to be the king,” Preston quoted a movie though he wasn’t sure which one.
“The company began exploiting the rich state for its rubber, copper, and other minerals. As you can imagine, living in bondage didn’t sit well with the Congolese. To subdue them, Leopold resorted to forced labor and mass murder. Children who didn’t perform certain tasks had their arms amputated. Ten million died.”
“Jesus.”
“I believe Jesus wasn’t there for that particular event, unfortunately,” Hewitt deadpanned. “Eventually, the other European powers got wind of what was happening and the Belgians forced Leopold out of power. The state was annexed by the government in 1908 and became the Belgian Congo.”
“Which brings us to Katoga?” Preston guessed.
“Yes. This neighboring area wasn’t geographically favored. Keep in mind this was before airplanes were common. Katoga is landlocked and the Albreda River is the only navigable body of water in the country. For this reason, it didn’t hold much interest for Belgium, especially not after the Leopold scandal. A backroom agreement was struck and the British took possession of Katoga, painting themselves as protectors, clearly. Within a few years, it had become a full-blown colony.”
Preston nodded and looked away. A rusting m
ilitary jeep was pushing through the crowd, its horn blaring but otherwise inefficient.
“Far from me the idea of bestowing flowers on Her Majesty’s Government, but British rule proved to be a quiet time for Katoga. However, following World War II the age of New Imperialism was over. There was a power struggle of sorts and the country was awarded its independence in 1964. Western-style democracy was ill-suited for a people who had never experienced it before.”
“Civil war, right? I think I read that somewhere.”
“Correct,” Hewitt affirmed. “One of the few blessings in Katoga is the absence of tribal feuds. When the Europeans moved out of Africa, they drew lines to specifically overlook traditional tribal territories. This ensured intestine wars which kept Africans down and unable to challenge Europe on the world stage.”
“But that didn’t happen with Katoga.”
“No. Instead, the country became a playground for opposing ideologies. The Cold War was raging and you were either a capitalist swine or a godless communist. When the Soviets began funding small bands of rebels, the West stepped in and eventually helped the Revolutionary Party of Katoga to emerge victorious. The pro-West party seized power in 1973 and essentially created a dictatorship.”
“So that’s where my tax money goes.”
“Which is why I do my damnedest not to pay any taxes,” Hewitt declared, smacking his lips with growing thirst. “Anyway, they have elections every 10 years but the party gets to select the candidates allowed to run for office. And even then, the president must approve every decision. It is said that a thousand people disappear every year because they spoke out against the government. The Katoga people have never rebelled since 1973.”
Preston knew a little something about that. As a member of Special Forces, one of his main tasks was to go to oppressed people and teach them how to rise up against their government, although he had personally been used mostly as a shock troop.
A regime of terror was successful because once it instilled a deep fear into its citizenry they were not likely to revolt. People became used to what little they had, almost seeing it as a privilege, and were unlikely to jeopardize any of it.
“Once the Cold War was over, money stopped pouring in and they were left to their own volition.”
He saw that Hewitt was tired of talking. He bent forward and rummaged through his satchel. He produced a notebook the older man had given him. It contained some basic facts about Katoga. He started reading and saw that Hewitt had already told him most of it.
The country had two million inhabitants, and most were Christians, a legacy of colonial powers. There were a few bauxite mining enterprises in the north of the country and most people seemed to be content working there as well as in the fields, growing bananas and coffee.
It was one of the poorest countries in Africa. The United Nations estimated that eleven percent of the population had AIDS with only four percent having access to antiretroviral therapy. Mothers died in childbirth, children didn’t go to school. They were the forgotten of Africa.
The forgotten of the world.
Chapter 17
Sunrise was Jasmine’s favorite time of day for jogging. She had a small condo in Westminster which wasn’t too far from her office and the short commute allowed her to run every day. This early in the morning, the streets were basically deserted and the temperature was tolerable.
Her preferred route took her through Little Saigon, that large neighborhood where Vietnamese refugees had settled after the war. She loved the architecture of the Asian Garden Mall, on Bolsa Avenue, with its pagoda-style eaves. It made the place even more exotic than it already was. It didn’t look like New Jersey and that’s all she wanted.
She was dressed in matching Lycra shorts and T-shirt which showed more pale skin than she was accustomed to, but she performed this activity by herself so she didn’t have to be overly self-conscious. Her hair was in a ponytail exiting through the back of her Nike cap.
Her MP3 device played an audio book, a Danielle Steel yarn she enjoyed more than she ought to. With her busy schedule she didn’t have time to curl up on her sofa with a novel and this way she killed two birds with one stone. She looked at the player and noted the chapter was almost over so she headed home.
When she got to her building, a two-story construction stretching for half the block, she nearly decided to listen to another chapter and go for another two miles.
The problem was that her neighbor was coming out of his ground-floor condo, heading for his 1971 Barracuda. He had noticed her and was slowing down. He wanted to have a conversation with her.
She could puke.
She decelerated to a walk and considered going straight up the stairs to her own condo. Still, she wasn’t a complete bitch despite what everybody said about her. Just as long as he didn’t get the wrong idea...
“What’s up, Jasmine?” he said unctuously. “Out for a morning run?”
Why did people feel the need to say obvious things when they couldn’t think of anything clever?
“Hey, Tucker,” she responded with a halfhearted wave.
His name was James Tucker Folsom but he insisted on being called Tucker. God, how conceited could you be with a name like that! He was quite attractive with his swimmer’s muscular body, from what she’d seen of him when he washed his precious sports car.
“Listen,” he said. “There’s this benefit in town tomorrow night, at Steven Spielberg’s place. I was thinking we could go together.”
He was some junior architect and he was apparently going places. He was on a design team drawing houses for movie stars. He was going places all right, just not in her bed.
Nevertheless, she had a cold enough head on her shoulders to recognize he might be good boyfriend material. His job was stable, he was bound to make piles of money. The problem was there was this slick quality about him, almost oily. Smarmy.
His flashy car hinted at an immature personality. It would be nothing more than a relationship of convenience and she was at a point in her life where she preferred being alone than have to suffer through a shallow affair.
“Yeah, I already have plans. I’m sorry.”
She was about to say “maybe some other time” but caught herself just in time. No need to give him false hope.
“I gotta go, I’m already late,” she lied.
Without giving him a second look, and overly self-conscious that he was staring at her ass, she climbed the steps and let herself into her condo.
At her core, Jasmine didn’t put a lot of stock in appearances and when she first moved in her condo she had vowed to only purchase the bare necessities in terms of furniture: one bed, one couch, basic kitchen appliances.
This made sense considering she was a federal agent and was likely to be transferred somewhere else in the country at any time. She didn’t see the need for fancy bookcases and plastic flower arrangements, matching glass coffee tables and antique sconces.
She followed her principle for less than a month.
The condo was small but her initial decor made it seem anemic. It reminded her too much of her childhood house in New Jersey, that home she had escaped and never wanted to see again. So she had gone in the opposite direction and had raided the Pottery Barn for every useless knickknack and piece of furniture she could afford.
She removed her hat and headed for the kitchen. She checked her answering machine; it was blinking. She hit the play button and went to the refrigerator for some orange juice.
“Hey Jazz,” began her mother’s whiny voice. “You always tell me to call early in the morning so you won’t be already gone to work and here I am getting your machine.”
Jasmine rolled her eyes at the long-winded message. That was her mother all right. She had to use a thousand words to say what could be said in 12.
“You know how I hate to talk to machines. What do you think I am, some damn robot? Anyway, how’s the weather out in California? Hey, do you ever go out with that Tucker guy I met
when I visited you last winter? He was dreamy. I think you should call him. Hey, what do you–”
The message clicked off and not too soon either, Jasmine thought as she finished her juice. If that’s what her mother wanted to talk about she had really chosen her moment. Then again, what did she expect?
Her mother had never been the motherly type. She had treated Jasmine as an inconvenience during her youth. Her mother’s lifelong goal had been to sample as many men as possible in order to find one who would support her financially.
This led to a lonely childhood where her mother was never present and all the money they had was spent on clothes, forever improving the chances of finding the right whale.
Needless to say, every man who stuck around long enough recognized her mother’s gold-digging qualities and swiftly moved on. This was exactly what Jasmine wanted to do, move on. University, government work, she was on her own and determined to make it in the world by herself.
Now that Jasmine was older, her mother was a little more caring but also on a mission to find her daughter a husband, someone who would take care of her. For this reason, Jasmine limited her dealings with her.
She put the glass in the dishwasher and then went to the small whiteboard held by magnets to the fridge. It contained a list of every meal she planned for the week, 21 in all. She had just had an idea for chicken cutlets for next Sunday. She looked down and then added the needed ingredients to her nearby, constantly evolving grocery list.
As she headed to her bedroom to shower, the phone rang. She sighed in exasperation and answered the cordless nevertheless.
“Needham.”
“What kind of way of answering the phone is that?” the voice said. It was her mother again. “You’ll never catch a man with those manners, young lady.”
“I don’t answer the phone to catch men, mom.”
Jasmine went into her bedroom and began removing her clothes. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her skin was pale—she was a natural blonde, after all—but her body was otherwise perfect.
