Old Lovers Don't Die

by Anderson, Paul G

  Walking up the stairs which ran up the side of the hotel, he could feel the coolness of the air but it did little to change his mood. He stopped in front of reception out of breath, dripping with perspiration, and angry. Michael, the African receptionist, dressed in a freshly starched perspiration-free white shirt, greeted him from behind the counter with a cheeriness which irritated him.

  “Welcome back, Monsieur Benefactor.”

  Raoul looked at Michael without his normal welcoming recognition, ignored his greeting, and put his hand out for the keys to his room. A shower and clean clothes would make him feel less repulsive. Michael, he knew from previous experience, would be upset at the lack of warmth and recognition in his greeting; he would sulk for a few days but recover when Raoul left his normal tip.

  Providing a generous tip was always part of what Raoul did to ease his conscience. He was uncertain why he had the need to do that, given that he had screwed so many people in his life without a second thought. To make the millions in this world, it helped to have no conscience. To be able to screw people on a whim was a necessity, which ensured success in his line of business. Life, he believed on some level, demanded balance, the bad set-off against the good to maintain stability. Yin and Yang applied to the business world. Without some kind of balance, the poison of life would seep unashamedly into all parts and stuff up the workings of the whole world. The reality was also that the judicious spread of largesse in the form of money provided information and warnings. An investment of a few dollars could pay off with a warning needed for his survival.

  The hundred thousand dollars that he contributed to the local hospital each year had nothing to do with the yin and yang of business, or even guilt as Kariba had once suggested. Neither was it motivated by aberrant altruistic need, as his ugly first wife had suggested. It was a self-preservation investment; if he became unwell on one of his trips to the Congo, there would be somewhere medically half-decent to treat him until he could be evacuated to a Western medical facility. There was also another selfish reason, despite local officials being convinced his donation was related to his generous nature. Raoul was desperate to prevent situations happening, like the one where one of the eleven-year-olds that Kariba had bought him in the beginning had turned out to be HIV positive. Eventually he had persuaded another Syrian family to take her on, but the condition was that he paid the family a monthly allowance to keep her and he had to supply retro viral medication. Now with his donation to the local hospital, there was no longer that risk; any girls Kariba gave him were examined and blood tested before they flew out with him. However, his last contribution nearly caused a situation that he was desperate to avoid. Médecins Sans Frontières heard about the donation and the local director insisted that he appear in their monthly magazine. Raoul refused to participate, as he did when they nominated him for local citizen of the year. That kind of media attention could bring scrutiny of his part in the rape of the Congo resources.

  Room fifty-four was the luxury suite which they always reserved for Raoul. The only issue was that it was located on the second floor of the hotel. This location was something he had complained to the management about on multiple occasions. He even offered to pay to build a luxury suite on the first floor so he did not have to climb the stairs. The old French owners had refused to consider the plans that he had drawn up, or the alternative suggestion he had of installing a lift to the second floor. It would not be in keeping with the overall 1950s appearance of the hotel, they had finally advised him in a sharply worded letter.

  Sweating even more profusely after having walked up the stairs, he cursed the French owners and Kariba again. He walked along the walkway at the top of the stairs until he recognised the small black Baobab tree, etched around the security eyepiece on the door of room fifty-four. He looked at the familiar black flat-topped tree and unlocked the door. Once inside, he headed straight for the air-conditioning switch on the far wall. He turned it down to 19 degrees, immediately feeling its cool breeze. Basking in the coolness for a minute, he looked up, taking in the view through the large sliding windows. In the distance, he could see a few anglers in small wooden boats, the waves from their bobbing prows and nets disturbing the calmness of the Lake Kivu, the small ripples running slowly to the distant shores of Burundi.

  He locked the door and placed a wedge underneath before pulling the chain across, his survival instinct not impaired by his disgruntled demeanour. He knew that meant he would have to get up and unlock the door in a few minutes, when his luggage arrived. However, since everyone seemed to have a key to every lock in Africa, he had learnt to take precautions to prevent any unwanted surprises. He would wait for the bags to arrive before he had a shower.

  He fell back with a wet soggy squelch into the large leather lounge chair feeling the relief of the cool air. As the cool air blew over him, he started to feel cold and hoped the bags would soon arrive so that he could have a warm shower. Looking around the room, he saw the bottle of his favourite Monkey Shoulder whiskey, which had been left on the table as a welcoming gift. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the smoothness in his throat. He licked his lips and was tempted to get up and have a quick shot when the knock at the door distracted him.

  Pushing himself out of the chair, Raoul walked to the door so that he could peer through the eyepiece. It was Robert the concierge with his bags. Raoul opened the door and greeted Robert in French.

  “Mettre ces sacs la-bas,” Raoul said pointing towards the bedroom.

  The door wedge he eased only slightly, his survival habit manifesting instinctively. Looking along the walkway outside his door, he could see Alexey and Sharif, his two bodyguards, entering the room next door. Their arrival always made him feel more comfortable especially since they were closely connected to his room by an internal door. Under normal circumstances he would have only needed Sharif, whose Syrian background was similar to his own. Kariba however had become so unpredictable in terms of his demands and actions, he had had to bring Alexey as well this time. Two bodyguards meant more potential firepower.

  Sharif he had purchased from the military intelligence directorate in Damascus on the recommendation of his great friend, General Alaki. The general believed in looking after his good friends, although such help did not come without a considerable price. Jokingly, the large sums were referred to as a contribution to the general’s retirement fund. Once a year, the general’s close friends were invited to view the top 10 recruits in military intelligence. The recruits had to display their abilities in hand-to-hand combat fighting, handling of small arms, and the use of explosive devices. If you liked what you saw there, you entered a bid in an unsophisticated auction. Sharif was only five foot ten inches, but in hand-to-hand combat his size did not matter for he was unrivalled; that he also placed third in the explosive section made him a good acquisition for Raoul. The $500,000 successful bid had been a small price to pay to ensure his personal safety. Sharif on two occasions had repaid that amount in full when he had killed those who had intended to kill Raoul.

  Alexey, his second bodyguard, was by contrast a huge brute of a man. He stood five inches over six feet with hands the size of feet, knuckles thickened from the repeated smashing of bricks, which he did in his spare time to dissipate his anger. Raoul never really understood why Alexey was so angry, but then growing up in Russia, he thought, would make most people angry. Alexey was trained by the Russian federal security service and after several years of service had been gifted as a personal bodyguard to the Russian oligarch Oscar Benveninski. Oscar who lived in London was a close friend of Raoul’s and laundered most of Raoul’s profit through the major banks. When Oscar had died of a heart attack, Raoul contacted his friends in the FSB and sought permission to take over Alexey. That required the intervention of the Russian prime minister; permission was granted on condition that he still passed information to his Russian handlers. Raoul had agreed and Alexey became the club to Sharif’s rapier, a counterbalance of talents which
worked well in ensuring his survival. He thought he would need them both given Kariba’s recent escalating demands and increasingly erratic behaviour

  Raoul knocked three times on the interconnecting door. He listened as the bolt slid across, the door opened, and Sharif walked in followed by Alexey.

  “Is the nervous package from Aleppo on schedule?”

  “The Antonov will land tomorrow morning with the package on board. General Alaki has men on board protecting the package and they will only sign it off to me.”

  “Good. You will both stay here initially with me for the negotiations. If Kariba is juiced up and becomes irrational, anything could happen. Alexey, remind me to take my Glock pistol and silencer; see whether the hotel has a smaller room than that bloody big dining room. A small room limits the number of idiots that Kariba brings with him and gives us a bit more protection if things get out of hand.”

  “I have already found a room that suits our purposes. It’ll take a maximum of six, three of us and three of them,” said Alexey.

  “Good. If everything goes well we should be out of here by tomorrow night, and even if everything doesn’t go well, we should be out of here by tomorrow night. The Lear jet is locked in the hangar at Goma airport?”

  “Yes, it is, and we have changed all the external locks and have set a motion sensor inside the hangar which is connected to Alexey’s phone. It has been refuelled and the pilots are one floor down.”

  “Keep an eye on them tonight and make sure they don’t try and sample any of the wildlife.”

  Sharif and Alexey nodded at each other before leaving through the interconnecting door.

  Raoul sank back into the lounge chair and thought about the growing unpredictability of negotiations with Kariba. He took another swig of the Monkey Shoulder; at least whiskey was predictable in its effect. He felt its warmth go down his throat and pool in his stomach. Then on cue a few minutes later, he felt the knock-on effect from the previous swig, not yet the alcoholic dysphoria he liked but still enough to relax him slightly. He leaned back in the chair enjoying the effect when the smell of his own perspiration reminded him that he still had not showered. He thought about it and then looked back at the bottle of whiskey. He would shower later.

  “Good morning, Major.” Sharif said, demurring to Raoul’s ex-military rank, as he joined him at the breakfast table.

  “Sleep well?” Raoul replied, not looking at either Sharif or Alexey.

  “We did a patrol at 2 AM and 4 AM. Everything was quiet, both pilots were sleeping.”

  “That’s good; I don’t want to have to get rid of another pilot because he developed AIDS after a visit to the local whorehouse.”

  “Michael says that Kariba is expected at 10 AM,” said Alexey.

  “And his whole fucking drugged up circus,” Raoul said. “Sharif, get a message to the pilot. I have this feeling that Kariba is so high and unstable that anything is possible. His men at the airport are there to load the ore on the Antonov for the return flight, but if they’re on whatever Kariba is on, they may think about holding the plane for ransom or worse, destroy it.”

  “Will do.” Sharif said, getting up from the table.

  As the clock in the main hall struck ten, Kariba flowed into the reception area at the hotel, accompanied by his band of rapsters. Large gold chains hung from their necks, chinking discordantly to the rap music blaring from small portable players. On this occasion, the entourage wore matching robes in bright greens and reds, interlaced with embroidered pictures of African animals. Each of the edges of the gowns was threaded with gold, silver, and diamonds. All had black, shoulder length hair in ringlets dyed with streaks of pink. All they needed was a lion tamer to be a circus act.

  Raoul watched from the distance of the dining room. The music and the constant jiving movement already made him nauseated. He looked across at Alexey who had noticed the guns visible beneath the flowing robes. Alexey passed the Glock pistol under the table to Raoul.

  “Bonjour,” Raoul said in Kariba’s direction, as he walked through the interconnecting glass doors from the breakfast room, robes flowing behind him.

  “What’s with that French shit? We are so not into that. You need to loosen up, Raoul. Free that Syrian brain of yours. Get with it, man. Make your life interesting. Loosen up. Chill out.”

  Raoul had almost decided after the delivery of the Tabun, this was going to be their last meeting when he caught a glimpse of the two young African girls that Kariba had brought with them. They were tall and clearly Sudanese. He had never had beautiful young Sudanese girls before.

  “You’re right, I need to loosen up a little, but then I don’t have that African gene for rhythm that you have.”

  “Those who have the rhythm never need to lie, and those who have the rhythm, their hearts never die, and those who have the rhythm have souls which learn to fly.”

  Raoul looked at Kariba and wondered whether he had taken one tablet too many. He wondered which philosophical giant had supplied the words. He did not intend to ask but he did not have long to wait to find out.

  “Black Dog. The coolest rapster on the planet,” Kariba said as though that was sufficient explanation.

  “Shall we get down to business?”

  “Chill out. Your black pussy will wait. My boys need to check out the room.”

  Raoul could feel the imprint of the Glock, which Alexey had given him in the back of his pants. Kariba now irritated him so much, part of him wished he did not need him and could just shoot him.

  “There is only room for three of yours and three of mine in that room.”

  Raoul watched as Kariba wandered off, his long flowing gown nearly catching the edge of one of the chairs. Two of his entourage high-fived each other before falling behind and walking almost sideways to what he assumed was music from the famous Black Dog.

  Alexey was already in the room when Raoul arrived. He had positioned himself on the far side of the table, his back against the wall, a view out over the lake and more importantly through the doorway. Alexey, from his position, controlled the room, a fact reinforced by the Uzi which rested comfortably on his knees. Kariba sat at the table, two from his entourage standing behind him. There was no jiving now, but the earpieces and the sunglasses remained. Sharif and Alexey would be happy to see that; sunglasses might look cool in a slightly darkened room, but it decreased visual acuity. That could be the difference between staying alive and being shot. Raoul pulled the two briefcases out from under Alexey’s chair.

  “Twenty million American dollars in cash. Fifteen million has been deducted for the Tabun. This is the receipt for a deposit into your Swiss bank account, twenty million from the last shipment as agreed.”

  “I’m more interested in the package that you have for us.”

  “That arrives tomorrow morning once we have completed our agreement today.”

  “We have enough ore to fill the Antonov. I have enough diamonds to keep Antwerp cutting and polishing for a year. The success of your package determines whether there is a next time.”

  “It’s a variation on Sarin nerve gas called Tabun. It’s less volatile and comes as a dispersible liquid which is more easily handled and less likely to kill you than Sarin.”

  “I knew you could deliver,” Kariba said glancing quickly at his two protectors. They both nodded without any understanding.

  “You may not need to use it. I hear Bosco has handed himself in to authorities and wants to be prosecuted for his crimes in The Hague.”

  “Yeah, that’s because he’s got lung cancer and he’s going die a horrible death if he stays in the Congo. Fucking serves him right for trying to take over my kingdom. He knows he is going to die in nine months and giving himself up to authorities means that he gets the best medical treatment overseas. Man, that Bosco is smarter than I gave him credit for. The time is right while there is no new leader in sight to smash the remains of the M 23 gang so no one else gets any ideas and the Chinese go home.”


  “You will have to learn how to deliver it for the maximum effect. I have supplied two large drones, but someone will have to learn how to fly them to be able to deliver the liquid.”

  “You don’t think Africans are fucking smart enough to do that, do you, Raoul?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “When you’ve got rhythm, you just know things. You white motherfuckers always under estimated us, but now we have the brains and the power.”

  “Two of the men arriving with the package will stay behind and teach your man how to fly a quad copter and how to deliver the gas. We will meet at the plane at midday tomorrow.”

  “You want to talk about the other part of our arrangement.”

  Raoul nodded and looked at Sharif and Alexey, indicating with his head to leave the room. Alexey was the last to leave, closing the door behind him. Raoul sat in silence looking at Kariba and feeling his scrutiny.

  “Is it the black pussy or just that it’s difficult to get them this young anywhere else, when you are so fat and old?”

  Raoul did not blink, nor did he reply to Kariba’s question. It was the same question every time and they both knew the answer; he was fat and old and addicted to child sex. The only reason that Kariba repeatedly asked was that it was a rare chance to claim some kind of warped moral superiority. It was the same every time the exchange of girls took place; Kariba would sit and stare at him, and Raoul would stare back at him. Raoul knew there was no moral high ground for either of them to claim; Kariba’s depraved treatment of woman and abuse of children ensured that. Raoul endured the stare, accepting that it was part of the price he paid for the young girls that Kariba supplied. However, he had determined not to look away once Kariba started staring at him; he could never accept that his deviancy was worse than Kariba’s depravity. Looking away would have suggested that to Kariba. He would never give him that satisfaction. Besides he was convinced that most of the men in the world were deviant in some way. Some admitted it but most did not and claimed piety. He knew that 50% of the world’s men did pornography while the other hypocritical 50% did not admit it. Moreover, Raoul looked after the girls Kariba gave to him and did not mutilate them the way Kariba did with those he raped. Once the girls reached twenty years of age, he usually gave them to his good friends as house cleaners. To his way of thinking, if there was anyone, it was Kariba who was on the fast track to hell, not him. He retained his basic decency, which had long disappeared from Kariba’s activities. A light knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and broke the staring deadlock as it usually did.