by Rachel Grant
“And this one?” Freya asked, pointing to the hash sign. “What does it mean?”
“That is an old sign. Here forever. I don’t know who made it or if they are here anymore.”
Did the symbols represent different factions? DRC had plenty of factions, some aligned, some not. Fighting these days happened mostly near the border, close to Uganda and Rwanda, and there were dozens of factions. The map of what territory belonged to whom changed weekly.
It wasn’t too surprising that this area—which was pretty much the only region in DRC that held fond memories of Mobutu—could be a hive of hidden antigovernment groups.
Which faction supported Lubanga’s bid for power? Spiral or diamond cross?
Did the people of Kawele and Gbadolite support Lubanga, or did they only see the façade he presented, that of the president’s puppet? Lubanga had fooled the president into believing he was loyal. Did that mantle extend to the unstable region to the east?
The passages under the palace were a vast network of tunnels broken up by rooms—some must have been storage chambers that were now devoid of anything valuable. She and Cal would come back and explore tonight, without Amelie as their guide. The hash symbol became more prominent, the vertical bars consistently longer than the horizontal ones.
Freya was curious where Amelie was taking them, as she had a definite goal in mind as she led them down the mazelike passages. Freya memorized the route. The symbols made it easy.
As they turned into a new passageway, Freya noticed the hash sign had a third horizontal bar. She paused to look at it and in a flash it hit her. Not hash signs…tracks.
Could “subway” have been literal? “Amelie, are there trains down here? Could this symbol mean train tracks?”
The girl frowned. “Mama has never told me about trains. My brother and I have explored everywhere, and we’ve never seen a train.”
So maybe it wasn’t literal. Or maybe the train tracks had been removed when the palace was looted.
“Come. This way,” Amelie said. “We’re almost there.”
Was “there” the nuclear bunker? Was that what excited the girl? But in the end, Amelie led them to a locked steel door. “I don’t know what is behind this door. My big brother and I have tried for months to pick the lock. He thinks there is a throne made of diamonds behind the door. I think it is made of gold. Who would want to sit on diamonds? He said I’m stupid and the diamonds would be embedded in metal. I said that proves I’m right. Gold is metal. Mama says there are no riches left, and it just leads to the bunker. Mama doesn’t understand this door.”
Freya smiled, flooded with joy to know that the magic of childhood and secret doors survived deep in the heart of the jungle. Of course, this little girl lived next to an overgrown palace, the kind of place that was ripe to fuel a child’s imagination. Elsewhere in Congo, children didn’t have this luxury. Children in the east were conscripted to fight, or they battled famine and disease as they fled from the various factions.
But here, even in the midst of an underground maze that might have been claimed by two different factions, this little girl got to be a child.
She wanted to hug her and tell her to stay gold. But she didn’t because she also didn’t want to scare her with an unwelcome touch from a stranger.
“Perhaps there is a menagerie beyond the door?” Freya said. “Maybe this leads to a zoo above ground, hidden by the jungle. Lost to humans once they lost the key.”
“You understand the door,” Amelie said solemnly. She pursed her lips. “The lions and elephants would have to learn to get along if they’re in a jungle enclosure, or they’d have eaten or stomped on each other years ago.”
“Maybe the chimpanzees brokered a peace agreement. They are natural diplomats. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn one of them was named king.”
“President,” Cal said. “It’s a democracy, after all.”
Amelie smiled. “I like this idea.” She glanced back down the passageway. “We should go back. Mama will be looking for me.”
They followed the little sprite down the corridors, retracing their path. Like Amelie, Freya too wondered what was beyond the metal door. Odds were Amelie’s mother was right and it merely led to the nuclear bunker that Mobutu had been so proud of, but she’d noticed three things as they stood by the door: the brass of the hinges and lock didn’t match the rest of the hardware, indicating they were relatively new; wiring mounted to the ceiling suggested that whatever was behind the door had electricity; and a very small kite symbol had been etched into the upper left corner of the door right next to a hash—or train track—symbol.
19
Gbadolite didn’t exactly have rental car companies, but similar to the way Motel Nzekele still rented rooms to the determined traveler, they were able to rent a car from a hotel employee. The vehicle was necessary because they could hardly pay a driver to take them back to the palace at midnight. Way too many questions would be asked.
They spent the afternoon prepping for their nighttime raid. Freya searched for anything and everything she could find on the diamond-cross symbol, drawing Cal’s attention when she crowed with excitement, having found the symbol drawn in dirt that coated a vehicle parked behind the Reverend Abel Fitzsimmons in a televised interview. He was in Kinshasa at the time, raising money for his Mission School.
Official or unofficial, this was the link they’d been looking for. They were on the right track.
Cal left Freya to her searching and hung out in the lobby to work the locals. His cover story was the local cuisine hadn’t agreed with Freya—or rather Sandy—and he was letting her sleep in peace while her stomach settled.
He returned to their room after two hours with news that a flight from Dar es Salaam had just landed. Today was the date in the document. Did the incoming flight have something to do with that? Coming from Dar es Salaam, it almost had to. Was Lubanga here?
Without any answers, all they could do was move forward with their plan to explore the tunnel under the palace in the dead of night.
They prepped carefully for the night op, with their backpacks fully loaded. They planned to return to Motel Nzekele if they could, but they were going on a midnight reconnaissance mission without a clue as to what they’d find. Returning to the shabby, former five-star hotel might not be possible.
They set out just an hour after nightfall with a basket laden with food they’d purchased in town. Cal had spoken to the concierge in Lingala, telling him of their intention to visit the hydroelectric dam on the Ubangi River and enjoy a picnic with stargazing.
The concierge had warned of the insects being attracted to light and food, which might make the meal less romantic and more malaria inducing, but Cal waved off his concerns. He heard the man say something under his breath about stupid Americans, and Cal held back his smile as he took Freya’s hand and exited the hotel.
They drove to the dam as stated and climbed out of the car to view the river and scout out a spot where they could picnic. They strolled hand in hand, which felt more natural than it probably should.
He was reminded of the hotel room in Kenya, where they’d practiced touching each other. How far they’d come since then. She was falling in love with him and he…he cared about her. More than he wanted to.
She triggered his protective nature. He’d rage at witnessing any woman being assaulted, but at Gorev’s party, when Anton had gone after her, his fury had been deep and primal.
He hadn’t even felt the blows he’d taken from the security guard. His focus had been on Freya and protecting her from Anton. A similar dark rage and protectiveness had risen up when he’d found her sitting beside Harrison Evers’s body. He’d been too late to help her, and his body was still wound with the tension of ramping up for a battle that never happened.
They chose a spot as far from the lights of the dam as possible and laid out their blanket and picnic dinner. Insects found them, but it wasn’t as bad as if they were in the direct light. They both
took daily antimalarial drugs along with a host of other pills to stave off illness while on an op.
With time to kill, Cal shared stories of his mother’s childhood. She’d grown up in a small village, moving to Kinshasa at thirteen with her mother and siblings when the hard rock diamond mine her father had worked in suffered a collapse that killed him and twenty other miners. He’d visited his mother’s village a few years ago, meeting for the first time aunts and uncles who had returned to the village when the mining operation resumed after the Second Congo War ended. An uncle—his aunt’s husband—was the overseer for what was now a small open-pit diamond mining operation. It was one of the few regulated and official diamond mines in Congo, established before Lubanga got his hooks into the mining sector.
Finished eating, they packed up their meal and lay down on the blanket, gazing up at the sky, Freya using Cal as a pillow. Clouds were rolling in, which was perfect for their night op, as the moon was waxing gibbous—more than fifty percent illuminated. They could use every cloud to darken their path. Even though they appeared relaxed, Cal could feel the tension in her body, the coiled energy, as she lay beside him.
He knew she was running scenarios in her mind, planning how they would enter the palace grounds. Freya was a planner, right down to the last detail. Just like she lined up extra cars and bank accounts. Embarking on this journey without safety nets set up had to be terrifying for her, and yet she faced each task with unwavering determination. But then, their lives depended on it.
He still hadn’t told her about the money she’d been accused of stealing. His original reason for not telling her was moot now. He believed in her innocence like he believed the Earth was a sphere. He would tell her now, except he needed her focus on the task at hand. He’d tell her later, when they were safely back at the hotel, when she could process it without further shattering her faith in the organization she’d devoted her life to.
He gazed up at the stars that peeked between clouds. This mission was unlike anything he’d done before. He’d always preferred training locals over combat, enjoyed honing the skills of young men eager to protect their communities. But he’d never shied away from the necessary violence of ops. His team had been sent to Djibouti to train Djiboutian soldiers, but they’d been pulled in to several ops during his months in-country—ops that saved women and children from being sold into slavery, and he was damn proud of the work he’d done for Uncle Sam these last few months.
But this, going after intel on a man who’d pillaged his mother’s country, who’d made victims of the people of Congo, felt like the mission he’d been born for. If he could save boys from being conscripted like his lost cousins, or girls like Amelie from being raped or starved or forced to work in mines, then he could face his mother with pride.
He hadn’t realized how he would feel, being in Congo on a covert mission. How satisfying it would be. Maybe he should have considered Delta Force instead of Special Forces, but he’d disdained covert operations before now.
Just like he’d disdained Freya.
“You haven’t told me what happened to your parents,” he said softly.
She was silent for a moment. Finally, she said, “They were in Greece for an academic conference. My mother was presenting a paper on”—she paused and took a deep breath—“Zagreus.”
He took her hand in his and squeezed.
“I never should have made this mission personal that way. That’ll teach me.” Her fingers curled around his, holding on. “My older brother was an undergrad in Paris at the time. He went to Athens to see them. I was a senior in high school, a month away from taking AP tests. I wanted to go to Greece but opted to stay home and study. I was in the running to be salutatorian of my class and didn’t want to mess it up.
“It was a sunny spring day. They were in a market, playing hooky from the conference, enjoying being tourists. A suicide bomber stood just two feet from my brother when he detonated the bomb. My brother died instantly, my father a few hours later. My mother lived in a coma for several weeks. She was likely brain-dead, but I couldn’t… I didn’t know what to do. I turned eighteen on my graduation day. We’d planned a big graduation and birthday party, but instead, I was in Greece at my mom’s bedside. It was going to be my decision if and when life support would be stopped, but she died at five twenty-two a.m. on my birthday, saving me from having to make that decision.”
He slipped an arm around her and pulled her snug against his side. “I’m so sorry.” He’d heard the hitch in her voice. The cool, always-in-control operator couldn’t tell this story without tears, and he was glad she hadn’t learned to cut off or hide those emotions. He’d judged her harshly for her line of work, and now he felt like an ass. “You got into intelligence work because of how they died.”
He felt her nod against his chest. “The bomber…he was a known threat. The Greek intelligence agency had him on a watch list, but they weren’t actually watching him. There’s probably nothing more that could have been done, but still. I have to try. To prevent others from losing their family like I did.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Your birthday is in June? What date?”
“I hate my birthday.”
“Understandable. But when is it?” If they were back at Camp Citron for her birthday, he’d take her to dinner. Do something, anything, to show her she wasn’t so alone.
“It’s June third,” she said softly.
He closed his eyes against the wave of horror. Two days ago. “Harry tried to rape you again on your birthday.”
“Yes. And I killed him.” She was silent for a moment, then added. “I really hate my birthday.”
He’d made love to her on her birthday. He could take solace knowing they’d shared something special that day. But they’d also fought, and he’d left her crying in the bathroom. Not that it hadn’t been justified. But Jesus.
“When we get back to Camp Citron, I’m going to take you out. We’ll celebrate properly.” As if a night at Barely North could ease the horror, but it was all he had to offer.
“I probably won’t be going back to Camp Citron, but thanks anyway.”
“You made me a promise. You’re going to try to clear your name. We’ll prove Harry showed up in Dar to kill you. I can vouch for you.”
“But you weren’t there. You didn’t see. And the fact that we’ve become lovers changes things.”
“You promised me you’d fight.”
“I will. I’m going to bring these bastards down. But I’m also a realist. I’ve learned something in my thirty-four years.”
He lifted her chin, bringing her mouth level with his. “And I’ve learned something in my thirty-one years.”
“What’s that?”
“That Freya Lange has a spine of steel. And while she wants everyone to believe her heart is made of ice, it’s really blue fire. It burns bright and hot and sparkles like a diamond.”
She shook her head. “It’s just an organ.”
“We’re all only human.”
“I don’t want to be. I don’t want to hurt. I don’t want to love. I don’t want to care.”
He ran his thumb over that full bottom lip. A physical feature that had caught his eye the first time they’d met. He’d seen the mouth but not the person. Then he’d learned the person was a spook, and he’d resisted the attraction, stopped trying to see her. He never gave her a chance.
There was no holding back his emotions now. Hadn’t been since before he’d made love to her. “But I’m glad you care. I’m glad for your human heart of fire. You matter. To me.” He wanted to kiss her. Hell, he wanted to make love to her. But that would open a door he’d just spent the last two days barricading closed.
“Thank you,” she said. The pain was gone from her eyes, replaced with a warmth she used to hide. The blue glow of lightning.
How did he ever think she was cold personified?
Light flashed in the distance, followed by the rumble of thunder. The storm would be up
on them soon. She let out a sigh. “It’s dark enough now. We should head to the palace before the storm hits.”
He nodded, appreciating how quickly she could change gears. She was an operator through and through. They had a mission to complete, then he could sort out his conflicting feelings.
20
They hid the car off the road about a mile from the palace gate. They both changed into skintight, solid-black clothes. Freya admired Cal in his catsuit. The fabric clung to his muscles in a way that made him look like a superhero. Black Panther in the flesh, and every bit as hot as the actor who played him.
“You got paint for your face?” he asked.
She nodded. She’d wear a mask, but it would be too hot in the tunnels, which were already humid with rank air. She pulled a hood over her head to hide her brown hair. She quickly put on the black grease, making sure it covered all exposed skin. Cal touched up a spot she’d missed, then leaned down and kissed her, his lips lingering on hers a heartbeat longer than a casual kiss.
“I know this is dangerous, but this is way better than preparing for Gorev’s party. I hated watching you use your body as currency with those fuckers.”
She gave him a wry smile. “And I’m more comfortable with that kind of op than this one. I might’ve been unarmed, but I knew what we were walking into. This…” She let her voice trail off, then cleared her throat. She didn’t need to prove herself and her training to Cal anymore. She could be honest with him. “This unknown terrifies the hell out of me.”
“And I’m more comfortable with this than the suits and negotiation bullshit.”
She pulled a small pistol from her pack and slid it into a pocket in her waistband made just for that purpose. Cal did the same with his gun. “You’re great at both,” she said. “If you want to do more covert work, Delta could probably use you on some missions. Especially down here, with your language skills.”
