by Kyle Mills
Stephen Trent had provided a state-of-the-art GPS-enabled satellite phone but made it clear that Josh was to use it only for official business and emergencies. That left him at the mercy of the local phone system.
"Hello?" he shouted into the handset. "Laura? Are you there?"
"Josh! I can barely hear you. Are you in Africa? Did you make it okay?"
TB Flannary wandered in and leaned on the counter, looking at the television and halfheartedly pretending not to listen in on Josh's conversation.
"Yeah, I made it. But it took forever. It's nighttime here."
"I've been waiting for you to call. I was starting to get --"
Her voice was drowned out by hysterical shouting on her end.
"Hang on a sec, Josh. . . . Calm down, Fawn! I don't know what's wrong with it."
"Bullshit!" Fawn's muffled but still unmistakable screech. "You did something, you little bitch! I know you did. You're standing between me and enough money to get out of this shithole."
"I don't know anything about cars, okay, Fawn? Call a mechanic."
"Your mother --"
The crash of the screen door sounded as Laura retreated outside.
"Sorry about that, Josh. How are you? Is Africa amazing?"
"What the hell was that all about?"
He wasn't sure if it was a sigh or just static, but either way his sister sounded tired. "Fawn convinced Mom to let her sell the car to raise money for the Internet pill business she's doing."
"I bought that goddamn car! You --" "Calm down! Geez, everybody's yelling at me." She lowered her voice. "I rearranged the wires on the distributor like you showed me, and for good measure, I hid the title." "Jesus Christ! Laura, you need to --" "Did you see any lions yet?"
"They all got killed in cross fires."
"What? I couldn't hear."
"Nothing."
"What's it like there, Josh? Are you in a but by the edge of the jungle? I saw a movie once where lions hunted and killed people. No. Wait. Maybe that was India. . . ."
He looked down at his sweating beer bottle and then through the open door at a tiki bar wound with Christmas lights. "I don't think I have to worry too much about that."
Chapter 10.
"Where are we going?"
The turn leading to Umboto Mtiti's compound slipped by, and the driver shrugged, continuing to follow the armored vehicle in front of them. Stephen Trent twisted around in the backseat of the heavily armored limousine and looked at the machine gun mounted to the chase vehicle tailgating them. A bored-looking youth was holding on to it, more to keep himself from being thrown from the truck than out of interest in defending them against attack. More often than not, Trent noticed that the barrel was aimed directly at him.
"We're supposed to be meeting the president," he said, trying to prompt one of the men in the front seat to speak, though it was unlikely either spoke English. He moved to the center of the seat, staying as far from the tinted windows as he could and taking measured breaths. He'd hated everything about Africa since the first time his feet had touched the hot, blood-soaked, poverty-stricken ground there. But mostly he hated Umboto Mtiti -- a wildly unpredictable and paranoid man who considered any discussion that didn't take place at gunpoint to be a waste of time.
Trent wondered again how he had ended up trapped halfway between the psychotic Umboto Mtiti and the icily sociopathic Aleksei Fedorov. Too many wrong turns and impossible choices. Too much fear.
And now that fear was growing with every mile the motorcade traveled away from Mtiti's compound. In the distance, he could see the new prison looming, though in truth it was neither new nor a prison. Europeans had originally built it as a factory during their brief attempt to "civilize" the country. It had long since been shut down until Mtiti had decided its stone-and-steel construction would be an ideal place to contain anyone he saw as a threat to his power. It had become a potent symbol inside the country, the way he imagined the Bastille had been in France. The mere mention of it made grown men go weak.
And he was no exception. Despite the limo's air conditioning, the sweat was running freely down his back as they passed through the gate. Above, unused and slightly leaning smokestacks rose into the glare of the sky.
Trent stepped from the limo and into the cloud of dust its abrupt stop had created. Hundreds of dull, hungry faces watched him, though none of the stooped, skeletal men packing the courtyard dared approach. A small contingent of soldiers surrounded him and ushered him forward, shouting and occasionally using a rifle butt against any prisoner who didn't have the strength to move out of the way fast enough.
They passed through a metal door and immediately started down a set of stairs illuminated by a single bare bulb. The heat was stifling, and the smell of excrement and rot made Trent put a hand over his face.
"I think there's been a mistake," he said trying to keep his voice from shaking. "I was supposed to meet the president."
They kept moving downward, the men behind him not quite pushing but unafraid to make contact when they thought his pace was slowing.
He managed to keep from panicking, but only barely. There had been no mistake. Within the narrow context of his backwater country, Umboto Mtiti never made mistakes. He understood the subtle relationship between every faction of every tribe, knew exactly where to draw the line between terrorizing the people and inciting them, and had an uncanny nose for men with charisma and brains. Few survived much past early adulthood.
The steel door they arrived at had the look of one that you entered but never came back out of. Why did Mtiti have him brought here? Did he think he'd been betrayed? Had he decided that NewAfrica had outlived its usefulness? Was he looking to send Fedorov a message?
The lead soldier pulled the door open, but Trent put a hand on the jamb and wouldn't go through. "No. This is a mistake. I --"
"Stephen!"
Inside, Umboto Mtiti moved from the shadows and left Trent with little choice. He stepped hesitantly over the threshold as the enormous African strode toward him and embraced him tightly. The claustrophobia of being wrapped in his thick arms was magnified by the clang of the door shutting behind him.
"I'm sorry for our surroundings, Stephen, but I find myself with little time and much to do. Your trip was a pleasant one, I trust?"
"It was fine, Mr. President, thank you for asking." Trent wiped the sour-smelling sweat from his face and tried to ignore the two men kneeling by the back wall. They were the only other things in the room, naked, bound, and bleeding from various wounds.
"And Aleksei?"
"He sends his regards, Excellency."
Mtiti smiled widely and tugged at the army uniform he'd favored when he'd seized power but had forsaken in recent years in an effort to soften his image with the international community.
His rise to power had begun twelve years ago, at a time when violence was rare and his people's only concerns were feeding themselves and raising their families. The country was being run by a man with strong tribal credentials but not much interest in doing anything other than living a life of relative opulence in the capital.
When the foreign mining companies began to take an increased interest in the region's natural resources, the former president was slow to recognize the shifting paradigm. He had everything he wanted, his people weren't starving or restless, and he'd always distrusted the whites. Unfortunately, that distrust hadn't extended to Mtiti, whom he'd thought of as a son.
Almost overnight, there was money and power to be had that was actually worth something. The coup was comically simple. Mtiti simply walked into the then-presidential palace with a few trusted men and beat his mentor to death with a shovel taken from one of the gardeners. To this day, no one was sure why he'd chosen that method. He'd had a sidearm.
"I wonder, Stephen. What are you doing for me?" His tone was still cordial, but the dull eyes began to sharpen -- a warning sign Trent was all too familiar with.
"I'm sorry, Excellency, I don't think I un
derstand."
"The rebels in the south are getting stronger, and your government is talking about cutting back its military aid to me. I wonder how this could be happening."
"I'm sure you know, Excellency, that our economy has taken a turn for the worse and a lot of our resources are going to the war on terror --"
"What about my war on terror?" Mtiti said, his deep voice reverberating in the small room. Out of the corner of his eye, Trent could see the two prisoners stiffen at the sound. Mtiti's smile was still broad but now seemed empty.
"Sir, we --"
"Is that what America wants, Stephen? For this country to fall into a civil war?
Maybe I should get rid of the American companies and replace them with Europeans and Asians. You know I'm courted by them every day."
"Excellency, we don't really have control over --"
"Excuses! When we began our relationship, I expected more than this. Now I wonder why I continue it."
It was becoming harder and harder for Trent to remain calm, and he wiped at his forehead again. Business relationships didn't just end in this part of the world. One of the parties ended up begging uselessly for their lives.
"Sir, we're working hard to maintain your image. Our charity sends consistently favorable reports to both USAID and the UN, and we do everything we can to highlight what you're up against. And on the ground we've helped you take care of problems in ways that otherwise would have attracted the attention of the foreign press --"
"So I rule because of your help?" Mtiti shouted, the spit spraying from his mouth visible in the glare of the bulb overhead. "Is that what you're saying to me? That I'm powerless in my own country without you?"
"Of course not, Excellency. We're here to make your life easier. That's all."
"Well, you're not doing a very good job, are you? Because my life isn't easy. And it gets worse every day."
Trent pulled an eight-by-ten picture from the portfolio in his hand and held it out in an attempt to divert Mtiti from a subject that could only end badly. "This is the location of the photo shoot we've set up for you."
Mtiti's face darkened. "With the Yvimbo." "Yes, sir."
"I've decided not to do it."
Trent didn't let anything show in his expression. "Excellency, we've talked about this. It's critical to your image abroad. We have to show you reaching out to the other tribe -- to prove that you're trying to create an inclusive, peaceful government."
"And what about my people? How does this look to them? Me posing with these pigs? Me allowing your agency to feed them when my own family goes without?"
"Excellency, you know that we've already made provisions for controlling the distribution of the photos and for the project's longterm prospects. The photographs will only be available where they can benefit you."
"You tell me that and ask me to trust your words?" He pulled his pistol from the holster at his side, gesturing with it but not actually pointing it in Trent's direction. Yet.
"Sir, I --" He fell silent when Mtiti stopped gesturing and he found himself looking down the dark barrel of the gun.
"Shut up! Shut your mouth! Your stupidity put me and my country at risk."
"I don't understand," Trent said, careful to remain completely motionless. He saw the men at the back of the room straighten to the degree their bonds and wounds would allow. Their heads moved in bird-like jerks, first toward Mtiti, then to Trent, and back again.
"I spoke with Gideon," Mtiti said. "He tells me that your new man is no different. No different at all."
Trent nodded slowly, unsure how best to answer.
When he had discovered that Dan Ord-man was beginning to ask questions that were better left unanswered, he'd immediately called Aleksei with the recommendation that they shut down the terracing project and use the excuse of a lack of funding to lay Dan off.
How Mtiti had come to know of the situation, he still wasn't sure. Maybe it was the spies that he had on every street corner. Maybe Aleksei had told him. The bottom line, though, was that Dan was dead. And not only dead but dismembered as a pointless attempt to warn anyone who might be thinking of following in his footsteps.
"On the surface, I agree, Mr. President. Josh Hagarty doesn't seem much different. But that was our goal -- to find someone who would seem credible. I promise you, we won't have the same kinds of problems again."
Mtiti was clearly unconvinced. "I've told Gideon that at the first sign of a problem, he's to deal with your new man just like he did the old one. If that becomes necessary, and I'm the first one to find out that it's necessary, it will make me wonder if you're more of a danger to me than a help."
"Yes, sir," Trent said contritely. "I understand."
Mtiti turned toward his two prisoners and gestured with the gun. "These men worked for me. They were honest men -- they didn't steal or sympathize with the Yvimbo. But after a time, they came to believe that their own interests were more important than mine. They became lazy and . . ." He scratched his cheek with the barrel of his pistol, searching his moderate English vocabulary for the proper word. "They became . . . entitled."
The first bullet caught the man on the left in the forehead and exploded through the back of his skull, ricocheting off the concrete wall and causing Trent to dive to the floor. Mtiti didn't seem aware of the danger and fired at the second man, who had fallen to the floor and was wrenching futilely at his bonds. The side of his neck was torn away, but this time it was accompanied by a wet gurgling instead of the deafening ring of a ricochet.
Trent pushed himself to his knees, but the room had lost focus. He clenched his teeth together in an effort to stop what was coming, but a moment later the contents of his stomach were on the floor in front of him.
The killing of two helpless men who had never really sinned against him seemed to raise Mtiti's spirits, as did the fact that his point had obviously been made. He holstered his weapon and crouched next to Trent, helping him to his feet. "I'm sorry, Stephen. I wasn't aware you were ill. I'll take you to my personal doctor immediately."
Chapter 11.
Josh Hagarty pushed his way through the people moving urgently along the dirt street and tried to imagine what their lives were like. He'd hoped his visit to town would teach him something, but now he wondered if he wouldn't have been better off just downing a few of Luganda's brutal margaritas in the compound's pool. Everything here was so different that he was having a hard time even finding a context to place it in
The buildings on either side of him were colonial in design -- still imposing, but peeling paint and the occasional collapsed balcony hinted at inevitable disintegration. As did almost everything else.
He winced when one of the children swarming him grabbed his hand and squeezed the blisters raised by moving too quickly from pushing paper to swinging a pick.
"You give me money," the boy said cheerfully.
It seemed to be his only English, but if you only knew four words, Josh had to admit, those were good ones.
"I'm flat broke, kid. You're looking at a true American loser."
None of them understood, but all ten or so laughed, displaying spirits unbroken by their surroundings and dim prospects. He actually did have some change in his pocket but had been warned against passing it out. Something about turning African children into beggars and destroying their future. He understood the concept, but standing there staring at the reality was an entirely different thing. He thought he'd had a pretty good handle on poverty but was quickly realizing that he didn't know the first thing about it.
The kids lost interest when it became apparent he wasn't going to cave, leaving him to the mildly curious stares of the adults around him. The crowd became more dense as he approached an outdoor market operating under the watchful eye of Umboto Mtiti, staring down from a large wall mural. This depiction was a bit more modern than the ones he'd seen in the capital, and the caption was scrawled in the style of graffiti:
"Gates are doors to the future."
He had no idea what that meant, but it seemed to capture the competing waves of possibility and hopelessness that had been buffeting him since he'd arrived.
Gideon hadn't shown up that morning, so Josh had spent a frustrating day using his charades skills to try to get the people on his project digging in straight lines. Not that he was sure the terraces necessarily needed to be straight, but he didn't have anything else to do.
The main obstacle they were facing was drainage, and he'd waded back into the cornfield to see how its designers had dealt with the problem. He didn't find the elegant, ancient solution he'd expected, instead uncovering a sophisticated system of pipes and gas-powered pumps. Where they'd come from and where he could get more was a mystery.
Josh wandered past stalls selling the gravy-soaked dough that seemed to be the country's national dish, past fabric vendors hawking material polka-dotted with Umboto Mtiti's image, finally entering the sector dominated by meat vendors. He stopped short in front of a table containing what looked like a charred child, its swollen tongue still pink where it protruded from a lipless mouth. Josh held off his revulsion and inched closer as the woman behind the table waved away the flies. He let out the breath he'd been holding when he realized it was a monkey.
She chattered at him unintelligibly, but he held out his hands and backed away. "Looks tasty, ma'am, but no thanks."
The heat, smoke, and sweat-soaked people sliding past started to close in on him, and he ducked down an alley, happy for a little shade and urine-scented solitude. The thick, colonial-era walls deadened the sound of the plaza, and the increasing quiet created an illusion of serenity as he penetrated deeper. He was going to be all right. He'd just gotten there. Had he thought it was going to be easy? That he was going to roll in there and turn an entire continent around overnight?
He was too lost in thought to hear the footsteps coming up behind him until someone grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. He managed to get an arm up and deflect the club before it connected with his head, but the force of the blow still knocked him back against the wall of the narrow alley.
