Elements of Risk: A Noah Stark Thriller

by Ridgway, Brady

  It took me a few seconds to work it all out. At first I was shocked that the number was so small. He wanted fifteen thousand dollars per ton. The Iranians were prepared to pay forty. I couldn’t believe my luck. But slowly I realised that the fifteen thousand was his cut, the grease for the wheels: nothing more. Greedy bastard. If my mental arithmetic hadn’t failed me, he wanted seven and a half million dollars for the first five hundred tons.

  I answered carefully. ‘It’s a very fair price of course sir, but my client has given me a firm limit per ton and I am not sure what price I will be able to negotiate from the mine owners.’

  ‘Yes of course. I understand.’ He looked disappointed. ‘Please come and see me on your return from Shinkolobwe and we can discuss this further.’

  That terminated the meeting. I slipped the governor’s paper into my pocket and we all stood.

  Caprice was waiting outside with the governor’s wife when we emerged into the heat again. We said our goodbyes and climbed into the Land Cruiser. Once we were out of the gates I asked Piet, ‘How long is the drive to the mine?’

  ‘Drive? Are youmal? We can’t drive there, it would take days.’

  ‘Days. How far is it?’

  ‘About a hundred and fifty klicks.’

  I looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  Piet laughed. ‘The roads in this country are completely buggered man. Nobody drives, except the trucks of course, but they have to. We’re flying.’

  Chapter 41

  After being waved through the military checkpoint at the airport we drove though a gate just next to the terminal building, passed behind some dilapidated hangars before emerging on an apron littered with a variety of aircraft, most of them with essential bits missing. We weaved carefully between the wrecks and arrived at a small hangar. The hangar was different from the others in that it appeared to be well maintained; the small apron in front of it was swept and weed-free.

  In front of the hangar stood an Antonov An-28 twin-engine turboprop. Its rear cargo doors were open. Sweating men, stripped to the waist, seemingly impervious to the sun, loaded boxes from a green truck into the back of the airplane.

  Piet parked the Land Cruiser behind the hangar and we all climbed out. Caprice hadn’t said a word since our meeting outside the hotel that morning so I gave her a big smile as I was unloading our suitcases from the back of the vehicle. She blanked me completely. Bitch.

  Piet and I carried the luggage to the aircraft; she followed.

  ‘It’s the weekly milk run,’ Piet explained. ‘Once a week we fly in fresh fruit and vegetables together with anything else we need.’

  The cabin looked big enough for twenty seats, but there were only four behind the cockpit. There was no sign of the pilots.

  It didn’t take long for the rear to fill up. Our luggage was loaded last, after the freight had been secured and the back doors closed. Only then did the pilots appear. It didn’t take genius to work out that they were Russian. Although they were both wearing what passed for a pilot’s uniform, they might as well have been wrapped in their flag. It was the sandals that gave the first clue. Only Slavs wear socks with sandals. The other clues were more subtle: string vests under their greying shirts, perpetual cigarette dangling from the corner of the mouth. And they just looked Russian, round faces, prominent jaws, beer bellies, hairy: two big bears.

  We settled into our seats. Piet and Caprice sat together on the left; I took the window seat on the right. The pilots didn’t fill me with confidence. I’m used to seeing pilots doing a whole range of pre-flight checks, kicking the tyres, shaking the controls, making a show of it. Those two spent less time preparing than I do when I get into my car. They both clambered up to their seats, strapped themselves in and before the doors were closed the engine next to me began to whine as it accelerated. Soon both engines were howling and the airplane lurched forward.

  We took off in the direction of the town and turned right towards our destination. It was morning, but the day’s thunderstorms were already building. Puffy white clouds grew hard edges, soared to the stratosphere. I watched one grow; before long I had to crane my neck to see all the way to the top. Then the edges softened and a diaphanous column of rain reached down to the ground.

  Our pilots weaved between the rain squalls. Despite their efforts, the turbulence was sometimes so violent I thought that my teeth might come out. I was thrown against my seatbelt again and again, began to feel queasy. I watched with a certain amount of sadistic satisfaction as Caprice first developed a tinge of green then turned deathly white. Piet handed her a sick bag just in time. She blew an impressive collection of chunks into it, vomiting again and again until she was spent and only a thin sliver of bile ran from her mouth every time she convulsed.

  She spent the rest of the flight with her face buried in Piet’s lap. It was probably the first time in her life that she had been in such close proximity to a dick without thinking of sex.

  After what seemed like an eternity but in fact was little more than thirty minutes, the aircraft began its descent. It wasn’t a moment too soon – the smell of puke permeated the plane and I came close to barfing myself.

  From the air there was little sign of life on the ground: the occasional village had small subsistence plots surrounding it, a few footpaths scarred the landscape.

  Then, without warning, a grey gash appeared between the trees. A large area - stripped of vegetation, filled with hundreds of men: all digging. An ugly yellow run-off pooled at the edge of the forest.

  I was about to ask Piet what was going on there, when I saw what looked like a refinery or chemical plant slap in the middle of the jungle. A single gravel road led away from it, to the northeast.

  Piet saw my surprise. ‘You don’t expect to see something like that out here hey?’

  ‘No. What is it?’

  ‘It’s the mine.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like a mine.’ I replied. ‘It looks more like a refinery.’

  ‘Ja. Well. I’ll show you everything when we get on the ground.’ He went back to gently stroking Caprice’s hair while she dribbled and groaned in his groin.

  We landed a few minutes later, bumped down a rough strip. The aircraft stopped halfway down and turned into a small parking area. The pilot cut the motors. Caprice looked up miserably, as if she couldn’t believe that her nightmare was finally over. Five minutes longer and I might have started my own technicolour yawn; but I didn’t let it show, I needed one small triumph.

  A waiting Land Cruiser took us to the mine. I sat in the front, leaving the rear for Piet and Caprice. It was a short drive to the compound. On the way we passed the clearing that I had seen from the plane. It was littered with men bent over spades and pick axes, filling wheelbarrows with soil and rock. It looked like something out of the American Gold Rush except all the men were black and there was no sign of a town or village, just hundreds of men slogging away under the merciless African sun.

  Piet didn’t wait for the question. ‘They’re digging for cobalt,’ he said. ‘Cobalt, coltan and even gold.’

  ‘Is it part of your mine?’

  Piet laughed, ‘No. No way.’

  ‘Who owns the mine then?’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘The workers own it?’

  Piet smiled at my naivety. ‘No. I’m kidding. Nobody owns it. Well I suppose the government does. The mine is officially closed, but these guys are here every day digging for whatever they can find.’

  ‘And the government doesn’t do anything?’

  ‘Not officially.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  Piet leaned forward in his seat. ‘The mine is supposed to be closed. The area is patrolled by the Congolese Army to keep the artisanal miners out. But what happens is the army allows the miners in and takes half their haul.’

  ‘They make much?’

  ‘The miners make bugger all; about a dollar a day.’

  ‘And the military?’

  ‘They
do all right. But it’s their only income. The government doesn’t pay them, so they have to organise their own pay.’

  ‘That’s crazy.’

  ‘That’s the way it works here.’

  The Land Cruiser stopped in front of a tall wire gate, set into an electric fence surrounding Piet’s mine. There were high poles at regular intervals in the fence, each with cameras trained in opposite directions.

  Two soldiers in black fatigues and maroon berets stood guard. They looked a lot more competent than the disorganised rabble that was the regular Congolese Army.

  Despite their professional appearance, they were little more than decoration. Most people would have seen them and not much else; but I knew what to look for. About fifty metres back from the gate were two well-camouflaged bunkers. I had no doubt that they housed heavy machine guns set to fire on fixed lines. Behind them was a high berm. I nearly missed it as it was completely overgrown, but nature had not managed to completely obliterate its shape.

  I turned to look at Piet, ‘You’re really serious about keeping people out.’

  ‘Ja. You won’t believe the nonsense we have to put up with here. Everybody can smell money and wants to come and look. All those miners back there want to dig on our property. There’s bugger all for them here because we mine differently. But they won’t believe it; they keep cutting the fence, tunnelling underneath it. So far none have made it all the way through.’ He rapped his knuckles on the side of his head. ‘Touch wood. The guards shot two of them yesterday.’

  We drove through the gate and then on between the bunkers. As we passed them I could see that each housed what looked like a .50 calibre Browning machine-gun.

  There was a gap in the berm just wide enough for a vehicle to pass through. Behind the opening was another wall, forcing our driver to negotiate the narrow passage. Any unwanted vehicle would be a sitting duck in that narrow space.

  The area inside the berm was huge; I couldn’t even see the far wall. It had been cleared of all vegetation.

  ‘How big is this place?’ I asked Piet.

  ‘About a hundred hectares. The plant and houses are all on this side and the mine is over there.’ He pointed out the features as he spoke.

  ‘Why all the defences? Isn’t it overkill just to keep out some desperate locals?’

  ‘No. The Mayi-Mayi has recently moved down from Kivu Province. They are attacking villages in the area and it’s only a matter of time before they get interested in us.’

  ‘Who the hell are they?’ I asked.

  ‘The Congolese version of a street gang. They don’t seem to have any agenda except looting and raping. They’re supposed to be led by an oke called Gedeon who nobody has ever seen. You know the Kamajors in Sierra Leone? They’re a bit like them.’

  I’d heard of the Kamajors all right. They were a rag tag bunch of ex-hunters that relied on a combination of black magic and silly hats to ward off enemy bullets. They were also not too particular about the age of their recruits.

  ‘You need heavy machine guns for them?’

  ‘Ja, okay, not really. This is a funny country and Katanga is even stranger. Let’s just say that everything is not what it seems and one day the army might be protecting you and the next…’

  I knew what he meant. Africa was a milieu of shifting allegiances, unpaid armies and sudden revolutions. You had to look after your own security, sometimes even against the government.

  Piet continued, ‘The trouble is that because of the situation here we are not allowed to patrol outside the fence. Kabila’s Republican Guard officially protects us, the two gooks you saw outside. They’re supposed to report to us what’s going on out there, but I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them.’

  While we had been talking the Land Cruiser had pulled up outside the first in a row of Spanish-style houses. Caprice had already got out and disappeared inside.

  Piet and I pulled the suitcases from the car and followed her.

  ‘This is my place,’ he said. ‘You can have the spare room if that’s all right?’

  ‘Yeah fine, thanks.’ I wasn’t sure about sleeping under the same roof as Caprice, but I guessed that I was safe while Piet was there.

  ‘Is there cell phone coverage here?’

  Piet snorted. ‘What have you been smoking? There’s bugger all here; we might as well be on the moon. We bring in everything, even water. You can’t drink the stuff here or you’ll start glowing in the dark.’

  I didn’t like the sound of that. ‘And the tap water?’

  ‘Rain water. There’s enough of that this time of the year, so don’t worry about that. Don’t drink it though; there’s enough dust in the air to make that a little radioactive too.’

  Piet obviously saw the concern written on my face.

  ‘Don’t worry man. We sweep the whole place every morning with Geiger Counters to check. The radioactivity is not coming from this plant, we’re clean here; it’s coming from the artisan miners on the other side of the fence. They stir up the uranium with all their digging. All the rubbish gets blown up and ends up in the water table. Fortunately the prevailing wind blows towards them. But now and then it shifts and we have to get indoors.’

  I didn’t say anything. I was trying to digest the fact that we were living in a kind of African Chernobyl.

  ‘What does that help?’

  Piet laughed and then showed me the front door. It looked normal at first, but on closer inspection I saw that all the joints were sealed and when it was closed it was airtight.

  ‘The house is built to keep out low level radiation. The air conditioning system recycles the air inside. We can stay inside for two days if we need to. Of course it won’t stop the radiation from a nuclear bomb, but then it won’t stop the blast either. Ha ha.’

  I wasn’t comforted and resolved to get away from that galactic picnic spot as soon as possible.

  ‘Drop your stuff in your room and I’ll show you around.’ Piet ushered me to the room. I put the suitcase on the bed and followed him out again. When we emerged from the house, back into the sunlight nothing had changed, but I couldn’t look at things the same way. I kept looking around, half expecting to see the spectre of radiation lurking somewhere, ready to shoot particles through my body and riddle me with cancer.

  Chapter 42

  It was only a short walk from the house to the refinery where Piet began the guided tour. The whole facility covered about two acres. At one end were three largish buildings. There was the unmistakable growl of a big diesel generator from one of them; black smoke belched from an exhaust sticking out the side. Beyond were a number of tall silver cylindrical tanks all interconnected by a network of pipes.

  ‘The building with the smoke coming out is our power station.’ Piet pointed it out just in case I’d missed the bleeding obvious. ‘It provides all the power we need for the mining and manufacture. It also powers the houses and the fence. The building next to it is the workshop and control room and the furthest one is where the yellowcake is made.’

  ‘What are the cylinders?’

  ‘They are the uranium extraction and recovery columns.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Listen, I’m just repeating what they told me. I’m not a bloody rocket scientist.’

  ‘Where’s the mine?’

  ‘That’s the funny thing; there isn’t one.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A mine. There isn’t one; not the way you and I think about a mine anyway. The whole thing is bloody clever. Come, I’ll show you.’ We walked toward an open field with pipes sticking out of the ground at regular intervals, like saplings in a plantation. Each pipe led to a small pump and motor, not much bigger than the one used for a small swimming pool.

  ‘Half the pumps are pushing a mixture of sulphuric acid and hydrogen peroxide into the ground and the others pump the uranium out; or something like that.’

  ‘No mine then?’

  ‘Bugger all. There was one nearby, but th
e Belgians filled the shafts with concrete when they pulled out in 1960. There’s been a lot of mining since then, locals digging the stuff up by themselves, but we have been given this area now. The only miners left are the okes you saw digging for cobalt on the way in.’

  ‘Who’s ‘we?’’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘’We.’ You said ‘we’ had been given the area.’

  Piet smiled. ‘I think it’s time you met the boss.’ Without another word he turned and marched back towards the houses. I followed. We went past his house, down the row, to the one at the end. Piet rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a fit looking man in his forties. He was wearing a white shirt buttoned to the top - no tie - shiny suit pants and what looked like crocodile skin boots. It was as if he didn’t know how to wear anything else, anything casual. ‘Hello Piet.’ The accent was definitely Russian. I stiffened.

  ‘Vladimir, I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine…’

  The Russian didn’t let him finish. ‘Yes, yes, please come in. I know all about your Mister Noah Stark.’ He turned his back on us and went inside.

  I was left standing there with my mouth hanging open: gob smacked. Who was this guy and how did he know my name? I turned to Piet, but he was looking stunned too. ‘Did you tell him…?’

  ‘No.’

  I gave him a look.

  ‘Serious!’ Then he smiled. ‘Are you in thekak? Where does this oke know you from?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Let’s go in and find out.’ Piet led the way into the house. Vladimir was in the lounge and had just finished pouring three generous glasses of vodka.

  He beamed when he saw us. ‘Come! Please. Sit.’

  We sat down and he handed us each a glass of greasy vodka. He sat opposite us, looked at me. ‘You are surprised I know you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But Mister Stark we are business partners.’ He was clearly enjoying drawing out the agony.

  ‘Have we met?’ Weak, I know, but what else could I say?

  ‘No. But I want you to tell me what happened to my cocaine and my money.’