Chapter 5

 

Bwana reached Moscow a day later. During which time, Meghan had cracked the code Gorshkin had used for his computer files. ‘All his transactions,’ she briefed him in excitement. ‘Dates. Who he sold drugs to. Who he handed the girls to. They are all there. We have shared them with Europol and they are making arrests. And rescuing women.’

‘Anything about Luvungi?’

‘Nada. Zilch on the USB files you sent. I’ll sift through the laptop once I get it.’

‘Didn’t Europol ask how we got the intel?’

‘Nah. They know better than to ask,’ she smirked. ‘Bwana?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Take care. And come back safe.’

 

 

The Gulfstream was waiting at Moscow in the VIP area when he arrived at Sheremetyevo International Airport. It was piloted by two experienced ex-Airforce men. They turned around quickly and were airborne in less than an hour.

Moscow to Kinshasa International Airport in the DRC was a ten-hour flight. Bwana spent the first half of that studying all the material Meghan had sent his way. Reports on the country. Reports on Luvungi. Information recovered from Gorshkin’s laptop. Nothing much there to help him.

Twenty-five. That could mean girls. If so, why from the Congo?

‘You’ll be surprised. There are some scum who pay a premium for African girls,’ Meghan told him when he called her from the aircraft. ‘What’s your plan?’

‘Did you find anything on a likely shipper from Matadi?’ he countered.

‘Still searching. What’s your plan?’

‘I was thinking of going to Luvungi first. Ask some questions. However, it’s on the opposite side of the country. Matadi is on the west coast, while Luvungi is on east, close to the Rwandan border.’

‘Uh huh,’ Meghan agreed. ‘You’ll lose time. So you’ll go to Matadi directly?’

‘Yeah. I’ll ask questions. Be a nuisance. Someone will notice. They will come after me.’

‘Just as I thought,’ she exclaimed triumphantly, ‘and to make it easier for you, here’s something. Ask for Dennis Kabongo.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He is a local crime lord. He knows everything that happens in Matadi. It is rumored he controls the port. Nothing gets loaded or unloaded without his getting a commission. He will either be involved in transporting Gorshkin’s girls. Or he will know of those involved.’

Bwana thanked her, studied Kabongo’s photo she sent a few minutes later, and then leaned back and closed his eyes.

 

 

Luvungi. The village of his birth had once witnessed a horrific crime committed by rebel soldiers from the FDLR, the Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda, and a few rogue American mercenaries. Over two hundred women, several of them young girls, had been raped. Some children and infants had been killed.

This was long after the Kayembes had left the country. It was while Bwana had been on another Agency mission. Zeb had been in the DRC then, tracking the mercenaries, and had arrived at the village just after the FDLR soldiers had left.

He had hunted the mercenaries down and had executed them. Bwana came to know of Zeb’s vengeance mission only after the last killer had been dispatched to the other world.

I feel as if I owe Luvungi, Bwana thought just before he faded into sleep.

 

 

Bwana woke as the aircraft was touching down at Kinshasa. It was just past midnight, but the airport was busy. Bwana’s papers got him through without any hassle at customs or immigration and, at the exit, a man waited, holding a placard with his name on it.

‘I’ve got something for you,' the black man who identified himself only as John, drawled in an American accent.

He smiled when he noticed Bwana’s surprise. ‘I’m a Montana boy. Intelligence liaison at our embassy, here. That’s all you need to know.’

His humor turned to curiosity as he assessed Bwana. ‘You’re CIA? FBI? I got a call from my boss. He asked me to collect a package for you from a safe house, hotfoot it to the airport and deliver it to you. Just who are you, Mr. Kayembe?’

It was Bwana’s turn to grin. ‘All you need to know is I’m with the United Nations.’

John acknowledged with a chuckle, led Bwana to a SUV, and drove him to a mid-range hotel in the city. ‘I was told you’d stay here for the night. Tomorrow onwards, you are on your own.’

‘That’s right.’ Bwana could have driven all night. However, sleep was important. Better decisions were made after a good night’s sleep. Reactions were faster. In Bwana’s world, good decisions and lightning fast reactions made the difference between living and dying.

John tossed the vehicle’s keys to Bwana, who caught them deftly. ‘Those are for you. Drop the vehicle off here when you’re done. I’ll know when its back. I’ll catch a cab.’

He strode away, stopping suddenly on remembering. He whirled back, ‘Your package is in the back,’ he called out and disappeared with a wave.

 

 

The package was a large backpack and held an armored vest, a G28, a couple of Glocks, all the gear that he would need.

Zeb. Zeb and Meghan, making calls all day and night, making arrangements.

He checked into his room and tried the vest. It fit. He cleaned the rifle and the handguns, stowed them away carefully, and hit the bed.

Sunlight was streaming through the window when he awoke. He rubbed his eyes and watched Kinshasa rise to life, a city of eleven million people, the third largest city on the continent.

A quick shower, a hasty breakfast, and an hour later, Bwana was heading out of the city, on National Road One, one of the two highways in the country. It joined the country’s Atlantic seaports to its capital, and was an important road for the country because of its mines. Ore was transported on the road.

Highways in most countries were paved. In the DRC, roads, even highways, were usually unpaved, and very often dirt tracks. Bwana soon found himself on rutted track, and he had to frequently stop and ask truckers and foot traffic to confirm that he was going in the right direction.

The going was slow, muddy, and only the rugged build of the SUV saved it from being stuck in slush and deep potholes. Eight hours later, Bwana crossed Matadi Bridge, climbed out of his vehicle and checked into a hotel that was ten minutes away from the port.

He showered once more, and after an early dinner, he drove past tiled homes and street markets, steered into a parking lot and walked to the port.

 

 

Matadi Port wasn’t big by Western standards. It, however was the largest port in the DRC. In theory, mineral ore, coffee and timber was shipped out from it and grain, automobiles and other necessities and luxuries came into the country through the port.

In reality, the port didn’t have a deep enough draft for the really large container ships to come in. Its equipment was old. Corruption was rife, and that made it one of the most expensive ports to operate in the world.

Only small freighters came into Matadi, whereas bulk cargo went to Pointe Noire, which was two hundred and fifty miles away, in Congo-Brazzaville. There, the cargo got reloaded into smaller vessels which then made their way to Matadi.

Ideal setup for Gorshkin’s operations. Small port, therefore not much surveillance. High corruption makes it easy for officials to look the other way.

There were three container ships docked at quays when Bwana showed his UN identification and walked deeper inside the port. Cranes were busy even in the night, under the glare of floodlights, and loaded metal containers inside the vessels. Port officials walked around, a few of them eyeing Bwana curiously, but none of them stopped him.

Bwana leaned against a crane, waited for a port official to come close. ‘Where can I find Kabongo?’ He asked in French, the official language of the DRC.

The official slowed, ‘Kabongo? Who’s he?’

‘I was told he was well known in the port. Dennis Kabongo.’

‘Dennis?’ The official’s face cleared. ‘Yes. Everyone knows him as Dennis. He was at the first quay earlier today. He might still be there. His people were unloading a ship.’

‘His people?’

‘Don’t you know? Dennis provides all the labor in this port. The crane operators, the truck drivers, the forklift operators, they are all his men.’

He probably pays you as well. Bwana bit his tongue, thanked the man and hurried to the first quay.

 

 

After more asking around, he found Dennis Kabongo sitting on a deck chair, sipping coconut juice, as he watched his men work.

Kabongo was bald, rotund and fleshy rolls thrust against his Tee, but Bwana could make out the powerful shoulders and muscled legs. Kabongo looked like a gang boss who had fought hard to make his way to the top. And on reaching it, found no competition, and had let himself go.

Insects buzzed around Kabongo’s head, attracted by the lights on the dock and the coconut in his hand. A man stood close by in attendance, who waved his hands occasionally to shoo away the flies around his boss’s head. The heavy wore a loose shirt and at his waist, Bwana could make out the shape of something angular.

A gun.

‘Mr. Kabongo?’

The gang boss turned lazy eyes at Bwana. He sipped his drink and said nothing.

‘Mr. Kabongo?’

‘Yes, it’s him,’ the heavy replied impatiently. ‘Boss is working. Who are you? What do you want?’

Kabongo sucked noisily through a straw as if to confirm it was hard work. His eyes were amused as he watched Bwana expectantly. Waiting to see how his visitor would respond.

‘I want to talk to Mr. Kabongo. It is a private matter.’

‘Boss doesn’t talk to strangers in private,’ the heavy replied brusquely.

‘Can boss speak for himself?’ Bwana challenged the heavy.

‘Yes,’ the bodyguard grinned, revealing broken teeth. ‘But not to strangers. You talk to me and if it is important, I will pass it to boss.’

Boss was sitting right there, enjoying the show. He didn’t make any move to intervene.

Bwana had enough. ‘Tell him it’s about Gorshkin.’

‘Who?’

‘Gorshkin. He knows. He is shipping twenty-five girls for Gorshkin.’ Bwana didn’t know that, but he figured throwing it out wouldn’t hurt. It was all about dangling bait and seeing which fish bit.

The heavy lost his sneer. He looked at Kabongo, who had stopped slurping and was staring at Bwana. He threw the coconut away, flailed in his deck chair for a moment before his man hauled him up.

‘Boss is tired,’ the heavy snapped. ‘Don’t trouble us.’

‘What about Gorshkin?’ Bwana blocked their way.

The heavy shoved him away with a meaty paw. Bwana made a show of stumbling, figuring it was too early in the game to reveal his strength.

‘Boss doesn’t know any Gorshkin. Next time you come near boss, you will get hurt.’

 

 

Bwana hung around the port for some more time, but no inspiration struck him. He searched the quays for Kabongo, however he seemed to have disappeared. Time was ticking. He stifled the rising sense of panic and jogged down all the quays, asking for Kabongo. He wasn’t to be found. It looked like he had left.

It was ten pm by the time he left the port, joining a line of workers who were searched by the security detail at the gates. One of the guards asked why a UN official was in the port so late.

‘Inspection,’ Bwana replied and that seemed to satisfy the guard. He stopped at a restaurant that was open, dined on cassava, salt fish, and rice. He downed the savory meal with a glass of palm wine, and well-fortified, headed back to his hotel.

Maybe it was the wine. Or the travel across different time zones. Maybe it the jetlag. Whatever the reason, he didn’t spot the SUV in the hotel’s parking lot. He didn’t notice the heavies in the reception area.

He opened his room and stopped short when he saw the three men lounging in his room. Kabongo was sprawled on his bed, flicking through TV channels.

‘Boss wants to talk,’ the heavy announced gleefully.