Dark Heart

by Peter Tonkin

  The sight of the delta always had that effect on him, he thought. The simple, bone-deep disgust he always felt when coming close to it. The way the cancerous outgrowth of dark green jungle and mangrove bellied into the bay and spread like a dark stain back far beyond the horizon inland. The bulbous, almost brain-like swelling of it reaching into an inner delta, then giving way to a riverine plain reaching deeper into the impenetrable jungle of the volcanic hinterland a thousand miles away.

  Three quarters of a million square kilometres of mangrove and marsh – more than twice the area of Belgium – veined with a maze of rivulets, the wetland scrub lifting to secondary forest, where the earth rose into hills and ruined villages told of failed farming communities, and into timeless rainforest away back along the tap-root of the main stream, the River Gir. A wasteland that had once been home to millions, now deserted and destroyed – a mess of polluted swamps and abandoned towns. Ruined enterprises and broken dreams.

  Full, still, of untold potential and fabulous fortunes for those with the confidence, the assurance, the simple blind courage, to go eastwards up the rivers and into the dark heart of the place, Richard admitted ruefully to himself. That was why, in the final analysis, the only living people you were likely to find in the delta were the marauding armies that had been chased out of Somalia, Uganda, Rwanda, Sierra Leone and the Congo. For there was much for them to try and get control of – if they could come up with the equipment and expertise to extract it in any meaningful quantities. And, of course, it wasn’t only the Rwanda’s genocidal Interahamwe or Uganda’s Lord’s Resistance Army, or Moses Nlong’s newcomers the Army of Christ the Infant who were greedy for the potential riches. There were companies, corporations, national and international financial organizations and NGOs from Bretton Woods to Beijing who were drooling for a piece of the action too. That, after all, was why he was here himself.

  There was oil along the coast and in the delta itself. Oil in such abundance it came flooding out of the ground, so that the disgruntled locals in their vast shanty towns at the southern edge of the capital city of Granville Harbour hardly needed to bother tapping the pipes for illegal fuel – or to ignite explosive protests. There were diamonds in the south, there was gold in the rivers; tin, coal and copper in the mines. And the new precious metals too – plutonium, uranium and, of course, tantalum in the most sought-after form of all: the incredibly precious, ruthlessly harvested conflict mineral – jet-black coltan.

  As Richard’s narrow gaze swept over the matted wilderness, all dead darkness except for a momentary flash of gold where the setting sun caught the broader flow of a major artery, Richard’s perspective was changed, and he found himself looking along the coast to the south. Down to where the delta’s outer edges were fringed with an unsettling intensity of flames as the hundreds of oil wells there continued to flare off millions of cubic kilometres of gas, in spite of international attempts to stop the dangerous, environmentally damaging practice.

  But it was more than the sight of the oil-dark, deadly jungle framed with the unsettlingly vivid fires that had his breath coming short and his belly feeling tense. More than his memories of the danger that he, his wife Robin and two young women in the hands of ruthless kidnappers had faced there on his last visit. More than the fact that Robin was there again already, waiting for him alone in their suite at the Granville Royal Lodge Hotel. More than the fact that the two young women they had risked so much to rescue – Celine Chaka, the president’s estranged daughter, and Anastasia Asov, disowned and disinherited daughter of his Russian business associate Max Asov – were somewhere upriver running a rescue station and mission school for orphans in the heart of the delta itself. More than the patently dangerous wall of thunderheads massing in black battlements out over the Atlantic, racing eastwards in over the airport as they were racing west to slip beneath them – turbulence or no.

  It was not what lay below him or behind. It was what lay ahead.

  When General Dr Julius Chaka, President of Benin la Bas, had asked Richard and Robin as representatives of Heritage Mariner to attend the conference with their Africa financial team, Richard’s first instinct had been to go to Jim Bourne, head of the massive shipping company’s intelligence section, London Centre. It was the better part of four years since Julius Chaka had assumed control of the country – with the Mariners’ almost accidental connivance. Richard tried to remain distanced from the country and his company’s involvement in transporting the oil from its wells to the refineries in Europe, but like someone worrying a loose tooth or rubbing an old wound, he found himself incapable of leaving it utterly alone. He ordered London Centre to keep an eye on developments in Benin la Bas; had found his own attention drawn to news reports, political discussions and financial commentaries about the place.

  Robin shared neither his unease nor his distaste – and she felt a positive friendship for Celine and Anastasia – which was only strengthened, of course, by their disinheritance. Her only hesitation about accepting Julius Chaka’s invitation was that, as a friend and champion of the daughters, she might find it hard to take the required positive attitude to the fathers – even though they represented so much political and financial power. ‘Max Asov will be there?’ she asked in confirmation, looking down at the old-fashioned, gold-embossed invitation on the morning it first arrived at Heritage Mariner.

  ‘Max, several other big Russian players, all the usual international teams . . .’ he answered.

  Robin interrupted with a cynical laugh. ‘Chaka’s after money. This is a loan and investment hunt.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ he admitted. ‘But in the right hands it could be a sweet deal.’

  ‘Are we interested?’ she asked quizzically.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered slowly. ‘But I know who I can ask.’

  ‘Jim,’ she had said at once. ‘Jim Bourne at London Centre.’

  ‘Under the late President Liye Banda, the place was a kleptocracy,’ Richard said to Jim Bourne in the main office at London Centre later that same day. ‘Like the Congo under Mobutu in the nineties. Like Zimbabwe under Mugabe. The country was going down the drain in every way and nothing got done except by bribery and corruption. Everyone skimmed their cut off every deal from the president on down. It was the only way to survive for most of the country, and anyone who didn’t have a position of power just went to the wall. Or rather, to the shanties and the slums where they simply starved to death.

  ‘President Chaka’s had four years since Banda died and he assumed power, and now he’s after international funding – from Heritage Mariner amongst other possible sources. From every possible source, as far as I can see, in fact. But has he managed to pull things round? Has all the graft and corruption stopped? Is Benin la Bas a good risk nowadays?’

  Jim Bourne looked at Richard with a lopsided grin, pulling his pencil-thin Rhett Butler moustache awry. ‘Best way to find that out, Boss, is to take a look-see for yourself. Let Robin take the company jet and go in first class like they expect. Let her follow the red carpet route with all the other big wheels. Keep her feet clean and her eyes blinkered by the wonderful welcome . . .’

  ‘While I go in like a tourist. Commercial flight. Keeping out of first or business class. No fuss or fanfare. See how far I get down and dirty on the ground. Find out how much it really costs to get anywhere in Benin la Bas nowadays.’

  ‘It’ll set you back about five hundred dollars one-way for the airfare,’ said Jim wryly. ‘Rumour has it that’s about the amount it used to take to get you safely through the airport immediately after you landed . . .’

  ‘Do tell. I wonder if it still does? Perhaps I had better take a close look for myself. If I can convince Robin to go in with the team and leave me to my own devices . . .’

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  But now, as the Boeing’s wheels thumped on to the runway and the sky above was shattered with lightning and split with instant thunder, Richard found his breath shor
t, his heart racing, his scrotum and sphincter clenched – like a scuba-diver spotting a shark.

  Out over the dull green canopy, a single bird soared, its movement almost unique in that dead place, and the phrase ‘Chil the Kite’ slipped unbidden into his mind. It took a moment for him to track its relevance down to his reading of Kipling’s Jungle Book as a child.

  Ere Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey People cry,

  Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,

  Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh –

  He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!

  And at last Richard’s mouth lifted into a wry smile as he began to laugh at himself – not to mention at his childish fears. ‘Get a grip, Mariner,’ he growled.

  During the moments of inevitable confusion following the landing, Richard checked the most vital things, like a soldier going into combat. He slipped the green cardboard security card he had filled in prior to landing into his passport at the first vacant visa page and put the passport in the breast pocket of his jacket. He checked the carefully folded US dollar bills in his left jacket pocket. His BlackBerry in his left trouser pocket with his handkerchief. The local network Benincom cellphone that Jim had given him slipped safely in his right jacket pocket, pre-programmed with a local number that would summon immediate help if the going got too tough after all . . .

  He pulled his hand luggage out of the overhead cabinet and slid an Apple Mac laptop into place. A 17” MacBook Pro worth £2000 and counting when he had bought it. If that went missing, he thought with a grim chuckle, the cost of getting through the airport was likely to go on to a whole new level. But then the same would be true for either of his suitcases, though his most expensive – most vital and formal – kit had come on the company jet with Robin and the financial team Heritage Mariner habitually sent to functions such as this. He squared his shoulders, stooped a little to keep the top of his head clear of the cabin ceiling, and joined the queue of passengers shuffling towards the exit.

  It was the heat that hit him first, then, on the first breath, the stench. An overpowering, humid sultriness, packed with the scents of avgas, rubber, concrete, metal, bodies and garbage all heated far too hot for comfort. Immediately aware of the perspiration prickling on every fold and wrinkle from his scalp to the soles of his feet, he stepped down the disembarkation stairs and strode across the apron to the waiting bus.

  The air conditioning in the long vehicle was nullified in an instant by the number of sweating bodies close-packed all around him. The vehicle lurched into motion even as he tried to ease his laptop case out of the small of his nearest neighbour’s back. An action he felt he should attempt at once as the neighbour in question was a young woman in a formal business outfit. An action also cancelled out by the lurching movement of the bus which sent everyone staggering and slammed the corner of the bag into her spine once again.

  ‘Hey . . .’ she began, trying to swing round and face her assailant. She got far enough for him to see black curls and a cinnamon-brown cheek. But she, like him, was wedged in place. Her skin was a different colour to most of the passengers – no matter what their ethnic background. But her accent, dripping over that one syllable like molasses, sounded American to him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he answered, fatuously, sounding painfully English.

  The coach drew up outside the arrivals terminal and the doors hissed open. People fell out rather than stepped out. The young woman shrugged and strode off ahead of Richard, who followed, frowning. The path up to the tall glass doors was just long enough to let him check his passport, money and Benincom cellphone once again. Only as an afterthought, as the glass portals hissed wide in front of him, did he think to check his BlackBerry.

  Then he was in. The girl with cinnamon skin walked immediately in front of him, directed by white-uniformed security guards to the visa section. Still behind her, he joined a short queue. Taking a moment to look around and try to orientate himself as the air conditioning began to cool things down in all sorts of ways. After the visa section there was a security portal by the looks of things, then a passport and security check. Then baggage reclaim in the distance. And what looked like another security check before the customs hall. Further inside the huge building, the white-uniformed security men were joined by others in camos and fatigues. The ubiquitous sidearms were joined by submachine guns with skeleton butts, stubby barrels and short, square magazines. Richard recognized the uniforms from the last time he had been here – and had a less than satisfactory brush with Major Laurent Kebila, the man who had apparently risen to the rank of colonel and the position of head of army security under General Chaka. Kebila had clearly taken the opportunity to rearm his men – replacing the questionably efficient British SA80s with American Ruger MP-9s by the look of things – and to spread his tentacles a little wider into the bargain. Airport security and army security. Not a nice combination. Nor, Richard suspected, a cheap one. Unconsciously he slipped his hand into his pocket and ran his thumbnail over the edges of the carefully folded dollars.

  ‘What visa do you want?’ demanded the man in the visa booth in French.

  Richard looked down. The official was talking to the girl.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ she responded, also in French. ‘I’m here for the finance meeting . . .’

  New Orleans? wondered Richard inconsequentially. Did they let folks from Dixie into the hallowed halls of Bretton Woods, New Hampshire, where the IMF and the World Bank had their headquarters? But who else would send their employees tourist class to the conference?

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The hotel . . . the meeting . . .’ She sounded less sure of herself now, in the face of the official’s abruptness.

  ‘Show me your disembarkation form! Quick!’

  ‘My . . .’ she quavered.

  ‘Green form! Green form you filled in on the plane. I will tell you what visa and how much!’

  The young woman passed her green form through the opening in the security glass. The official glanced at it. ‘Town visa,’ he decided. ‘Ten dollars US.’

  She passed over the money. He stamped the form. As he passed it back, Richard looked at the ‘EMPLOYMENT’ section – ‘World Bank’ it said. And her name was just above it: ‘Dr Bonnie Holliday’. He smiled.

  Richard stepped forward, acting before the man could even speak. He passed in his green form and the ten dollar bill. Dark eyes glanced up, then down. The stamp fell like a guillotine blade.

  Richard knew the security portal was going to present problems. They always did for him. Still behind the increasingly nervous-looking young woman, he put his laptop case in a plastic tray and dumped his phones, keys and steel-buckled belt on top of it. Even so, as he followed her through the gate itself, the alarm went off. She was waved to one side and subjected to a body scan. He was directed to the other side and searched. ‘It’s my knees,’ he explained in English – and then, in the face of an uncomprehending stare, he explained again in French. ‘The joints of my knees are metal. My legs were damaged in an accident . . .’

  He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting his memory. Once, in the early days after the operation, he had been strip-searched at Belfast airport before the security team there had believed him. But things were easier here. The security wand that had just passed over the woman from the World Bank passed over him as well and the man studying the screen clicked his lips in surprise as the picture indeed showed titanium knee-joints. Another twenty dollars smoothed the passage. But when he got to the tray of possessions he saw that his keys, belt and both phones seemed safe enough. So did the Apple. He re-threaded his belt and headed for passport control.

  Once again he found himself behind the World Bank woman, and he began to wonder if something in his subconscious was causing him to follow her. Latent stalker or Galahad complex? Either one was possible, he thought cynically – both fitted well enough with the James Bond mode he was trying for, at any rate.<
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  ‘This passport is out of date!’ spat the man in passport control.

  ‘I assure you it is not . . .’ answered the woman, frowning. ‘It will not expire for—’

  ‘Five months! It must be at least six months from expiry! This is serious!’

  She turned around at last, her eyes wide with shock. ‘I had no idea! They called me in at the last moment! I only had twelve hours to get my stuff together and catch the flight from Boston to Paris!’ She was explaining to Richard, in English.

  Without a second thought he was at her side. ‘How serious?’ he demanded in his brutal French. ‘This serious?’ Richard produced twenty-five dollars.

  The man frowned.

  ‘This serious?’ Richard added another twenty-five dollars. Fifty dollars now lay beside the passport.

  The stamp came down. ‘Remember in future,’ the passport controller said. He handed up the passport. Richard took it and handed it to her. ‘See you in baggage claim, Dr Holliday,’ he said. She walked away hurriedly without looking back at him. He slid his own passport into the booth. There was already ten dollars in it. He was getting the hang of this, he thought.

  The baggage hall was busy. There were people everywhere, many more than had just come off the KLM Boeing. A good number of them looked local. And not just the taxi-touts, the hotel drummers, or the ubiquitous men in white and camouflage with their sidearms and their submachine guns.

  The cinnamon-skinned World Bank woman was nowhere to be seen, so Richard contented himself with looking for his bags. When they arrived, they were so battered that he only recognized them because he had cinched distinctive personalized straps around them. Narrow-eyed, he heaved them off the carousel and carried them through to the next security section which stood between baggage claim and customs. This time the pallets were bigger. Cases went through X-ray searches, as did his laptop, keys, belt, BlackBerry and cellphone once again. And as did his knees once more when the alarm sounded.