25

‘What do you think the colonel meant by maybe neither the Hutus nor the Tutsis killed the Rwandan president?’ Liesl asked. She took a big gulp of her wine. They sat around a table by the pool at the Hôtel des Mille Collines.

Carmel stirred her Coke with her straw, trying to make it last. The way she felt after the business at the prison, she could have killed for the numbing buzz of a double gin and tonic or two. ‘A third force, a foreign power, perhaps?’

‘The stuff of conspiracy theories,’ Henri ventured. Carmel noticed he was sticking with sparkling water tonight. She doubted he was doing it out of politeness to her, but she was pleased he was staying sober while they tried to work this thing out.

‘I’m not so sure,’ Carmel said. ‘There were several international powers with an interest in the outcome of the Arusha Peace Accords in Rwanda.’

‘Like who?’ Liesl asked.

‘Belgium, as the former colonial power in Rwanda, had always had an influence in who was in power. The Belgians still have a strong business presence here. They supported the Tutsis initially, then switched that support to the Hutus after the country gained its independence, in a ham-fisted attempt to atone for some colonial guilt. That resulted in the rise of Hutu Power. Then there’s the French, of course.’

‘Who like to assert their power just because they can, I suppose you’re going to say?’ Henri said, tossing his nose in the air.

‘Don’t take it personally, Henri,’ Liesl said.

‘I don’t.’

‘But the French did supply the Rwandan government with arms before the genocide, and their Operation Turquoise, in the immediate aftermath of the genocide, did proclaim safe zones that allowed hundreds of thousands of Hutus, including many génocidaires, to escape to Zaire and avoid prosecution,’ Carmel said.

Henri waved a hand as though swatting an imaginary fly. ‘To say the French government would protect mass murderers is insulting.’

‘Well, they did,’ Carmel pointed out, ‘even if it was unintentional.’

‘And what good would it do France to foment genocide by shooting down President Habyarimana’s aircraft? Carmel, that jet was a Dassault Falcon 50, French-made and a gift to the Rwandan government from President Jacques Chirac.’

‘Yes,’ Carmel continued, playing devil’s advocate, ‘but Habyarimana had agreed to implement the Arusha Accords, which would have allowed Paul Kagame and the RPA back into Rwanda, along with the return of a million English-speaking Tutsis. Rwanda would be at risk of becoming an Anglophile country instead of a Francophile one, and the return of the Tutsis would have paved the way for more American involvement in Rwanda.’

‘America?’ Liesl said. ‘Why would America have been interested in a little country like Rwanda back in 1994?’ Liesl beckoned the waiter over and ordered another glass of wine.

‘It mightn’t have seemed likely at the time, but the history of the region since the genocide has given some weight to this theory.’

Henri shook his head. ‘I’m not convinced.’

‘Let her talk, Henri,’ Liesl said. ‘I’m interested in this.’

Carmel continued: ‘Paul Kagame, who went on to become president, received his military training in the Ugandan Army. He was studying as an exchange officer at the US Army’s Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, in Kansas, in 1990 when the RPA first invaded Rwanda. When the invasion began, Kagame returned home immediately, resigned his commission and went to fight with the RPA. He had close links with the Americans, and after the RPA took over Rwanda and Kagame became president and head of the Rwandan Patriotic Front, the American presence in Rwanda increased.’

‘Why?’ Liesl asked.

‘As it turned out, after stabilising his own country, Kagame turned his eyes on Zaire, where ethnic Tutsis were being persecuted by the Zairean military and by Hutus who’d escaped from Rwanda. The Americans had previously supported the Zairean president, Mobutu Sese Seko, but he’d become a madman by this stage, and an embarrassment to the Americans. There were vast mineral resources there that America and the west was worried about losing. Mobutu had outlived his usefulness and the Rwandans were arming and supporting a viable opposition army led by Laurent Kabila. The Americans decided to help Kabila through Kagame. I was back here in Rwanda in 1996 when the civil war in Zaire was hotting up. The American Club – the Indian restaurant where we ate the other night – was full of CIA people and US special forces soldiers who were using Rwanda as a jumping-off point for Zaire. In the end, Kabila’s forces were victorious over Mobutu and the country became the Democratic Republic of Congo, largely thanks to Rwanda’s help.’

‘So,’ Liesl said, nodding, ‘it’s possible the Americans were secretly backing Kagame so that he could eventually help bring about a regime change in Zaire.’

‘Yes.’

Liesl frowned. ‘But killing Habyarimana sparked the genocide. Do you think the Americans would have been cynical or foolish enough to back an assassination if they thought that might happen?’

Carmel just looked at her.

*

Aston sat at the bar of the Hôtel des Mille Collines nursing a dewy half-litre glass of Primus beer. He looked at the knot of white people, the man and the two women, sitting at a circular table on the far side. The other patrons, high-heeled prostitutes fluttering about Belgian and French businessmen, were drinking and laughing, but the trio sat away from the Thursday-night happy-hour merriment.

Aston took another sip of beer, got off his seat and walked around. ‘Aha, we meet again,’ he said to Liesl Nel.

‘Oh, howzit,’ she said after a short pause.

That was good, Aston thought, that she had not automatically recognised him. He had been tailing them at a distance, but it had been made impossible when the two women had gone their separate ways. He had stayed with the Nel woman and waited outside the prison to see what happened. He hadn’t been surprised to see Carmel Shang and the Frenchman arrive a short time later.

It had been logical that they would find their way to the colonel. He’d heard the prison siren and seen the commotion among the warders as they turned away the queue of inmates’ relatives and shut the gates. He’d seen the riot-squad officers arrive and toss their smoke grenades, and heard the crackle of muted gunfire from deep inside the prison, and he’d dared to hope that this muddled situation had sorted itself out within the prison walls.

‘I am fine, and you?’

Liesl shrugged.

‘Hello, my name is Henri Bousson,’ the white man said, sliding off his bar stool and offering a hand.

‘Aston Mutale.’

‘Can I help you with something? The ladies have had rather a trying day, I’m afraid.’

‘No, nothing in particular. I met Liesl at the airport in Johannesburg. I am a fan of her photographic work.’

‘I see,’ Bousson said, staring at him. Clearly Bousson did not want him hanging around. Aston knew that to push further to join them in their drinks might arouse suspicion. Aston had heard on the local radio that Colonel Jean Baptiste Menahe had been shot during an escape attempt from Kigali Central Prison. What Aston didn’t know, but needed to know, was if the colonel had provided the women with any salient information before he died. Somehow, Aston doubted it. ‘Well, nice to see you again, and enjoy your drinks.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Liesl said as he turned to leave. ‘You said you had a wide network of business contacts in Rwanda in the import-export business.’

‘I did, and I do,’ Aston said.

‘Does that extend to arms deals?’ Shang interrupted.

Aston pursed his lips. ‘I can assure you, madam, that I am involved in nothing illegal. I deal in legitimate business only.’

‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ Carmel said.

‘No offence taken. However, while I operate above the law, my visits to Rwanda have, occasionally – how shall I put this – brought me into contact with certain people who are not so scrupulous. Why, if I may ask, are you interested in illegal arms deals?’

‘No reason,’ Liesl said. She looked at the other two, asking some unspoken question.

‘I don’t know if it is a good idea to involve more people in this business, given how much trouble the photograph has caused,’ Bousson said.

‘We’re getting desperate,’ the lawyer said to Bousson and Liesl. ‘No one need know his name and I’m running out of leads.’

Aston knew exactly what they were discussing. The woman was tough, and he reluctantly admired the way she was potentially endangering an ‘innocent’ bystander in her quest.

‘Would you take a look at this picture for us, please?’ the Australian asked Aston.

Liesl slid the picture across the table and Aston picked it up and pretended to study it.

‘What is it?’ Liesl asked. ‘Do you recognise any of those men?’

Aston rubbed his chin. ‘When was this taken?’

‘Sometime around 1994, we think,’ Carmel said.

‘A terrible time. I know; I was here not long after the genocide.’

‘You were?’ asked Carmel. ‘You’re not Rwandan, are you?’

‘No, Zambian. I served here with the Zambian infantry peacekeeping battalion. I was a corporal at the time. I have never seen such horror before or since.’

‘UNAMIR II?’ Carmel asked.

‘Yes. You know of it?’

‘Amazing.’ Carmel reached across the table, offering her hand. ‘I’m Carmel Shang. I was here with the Australian contingent. I was the legal officer to AUSMED and, as it happened, to all the other UN contingents as none of them brought their own legal officer. I handled a couple of investigations you guys did.’

‘This is all fascinating,’ Liesl interjected, ‘but we can save the army buddies’ reunion for later. What do you see in this picture, hey?’

Aston pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and made a show of studying the photograph again. ‘This white man, he looks familiar to me. I’m trying to imagine what he looks like now. You say he is an arms trader?’

‘To be honest,’ Carmel said, ‘we don’t know. It’s all just an assumption at this stage. The two other men in the picture are dead.’

‘What makes you think this man still lives in Rwanda?’ Aston asked.

Liesl shrugged. ‘We had to start looking for him somewhere, and as a result of what happened to us today, we think the white man is close.’

‘What happened today?’ Aston asked.

‘We’d rather not say, if that’s OK. It’s the subject of a police investigation. Who is this man?’

Aston rubbed his chin again. ‘I have met him, though his name escapes me.’

‘Really?’ Liesl asked.

‘Yes. I’ve seen him somewhere, maybe here, maybe elsewhere in the country. I think he owns a lodge or a safari business. I’m not aware of him being involved in anything illegal, though, if that was what you were inferring before.’

‘That’s incredible! We don’t know if he’s involved in wrongdoing now or in the past,’ Carmel said. ‘But we’d like to talk to him.’

‘Maybe we should just hand this over to the Rwandan police,’ Liesl suggested.

‘And tell them what?’ Henri interjected. ‘That we’re looking for a man who we think was in a photograph taken seventeen years ago and may have been behind at least one murder and several attempted murders?’

‘It is a bit flimsy,’ Carmel said.

‘But this oke tried to kill us,’ Liesl said.

Carmel nodded. ‘We can’t be a hundred per cent sure, Liesl. Also I’m worried that if it turns out that it was the RPA that shot down President Habyarimana’s jet, and that the current ruling party was involved, then this will all just be covered up anyway.’

‘Hang on,’ Liesl said. ‘You think the Rwandan government might be behind all this, trying to keep us quiet?’

‘I just don’t know, I don’t think we can rule it out.’

‘There is nothing to stop you making some discreet enquiries and perhaps then going to the police if you know for sure that this man has done something wrong, although I must confess I am concerned by all of this talk of murder and attempted murder. Perhaps I should just leave you in peace now and get back to my business here.’ Aston picked up his beer and made to leave. ‘Ladies, I am glad if I have been of assistance, but –’

‘No, wait,’ Liesl said.

‘Yes, please. Stay and have a drink with us,’ Carmel said.

Aston noticed that Bousson had retreated into silence again and was sitting with his arms folded and his lips pursed. He was clearly not happy that Aston had insinuated himself into their conversation. Aston didn’t care. He would deal with the Frenchman as and when necessary. If he wanted to act as these women’s bodyguard, he would find himself with a bullet in the back of his head. ‘Very well,’ he said, dragging over a chair from a neighbouring table. ‘But please allow me to get the next round of drinks.’

Over the next hour Carmel Shang explained that she was an investigator with the ICTR, which Aston already knew, and that she had investigative powers under the tribunal’s auspices and that she agreed it would be better to conduct a low-key investigation at first. Aston was pleased she had played so easily into his hands. He knew well of the animosity between the Rwandan government and the ICTR. Carmel was on the trail of a major scalp and she would not want the man she was looking for to end up in a Rwandan prison.

‘Are you sure you can’t remember this guy’s name?’ Liesl said.

Aston looked at the picture again, squinting at it. ‘I hope it will come to me. It was as if it was on the tip of my tongue. Most of the white people I meet seem to have some connection to tourism or aid. I travel to Ruhengeri often, so I am thinking that could be where I met him. He does not look like the NGO type, though I suppose people do change their colours.’

‘I’ve got to go to Ruhengeri and the Volcanoes National Park anyway,’ Liesl said. ‘We’ve got a cover for being in the area – we can say we’re all going to see the mountain gorillas.’

‘Good,’ Aston nodded. ‘There are always many western tourists in Ruhengeri, so you won’t stick out. I just wish I could remember this man’s name.’

‘Please try, Aston. It’s very important.’

‘I understand, particularly if, as you say, this man was responsible for supplying the weapon that sparked the Rwandan genocide. I will do my best to find him for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Carmel said.

He called the waitress over. ‘My pleasure.’ In fact, it would, he knew, be a pleasure for the man they were seeking, when Aston delivered them to him. He almost pitied them; instead of taking an assassin’s quick, clean bullet, their ends would be slow and painful, and Aston would reap a bountiful harvest of organs and parts from their bodies.

*

Rain pattered on Jan Venter’s green poncho. His fatigues were soaked and he wiped the condensation from the eyepieces of the binoculars and refocused on the Nel family farmhouse below. Another man might have complained, but Venter still considered himself a soldier.

It had been the wettest summer since 2000, and while the floodwaters had not been as high as they were then, they had caused disruptions. The helicopter they had planned to use for their criminal purposes had been called up to rescue people stranded around Hoedspruit by a flash flood, and then the aircraft had been grounded by an electrical storm.

Ironically, the crooked vet who was supposed to have been here by now to dart the wild dogs was busy saving stranded wildlife on game farms around the Lowveld, according to the rushed call Jan had received from the man. Their plan had been pushed back by at least a day, maybe more.

But delays in military operations were like the rain, inevitable and unavoidable. Venter would wait as long as he had to. The money was worth it.

*

Richard finished securing the fresh bandage on his wounded leg in the toilet of the Qantas 747 as the captain announced that the aircraft was beginning its descent. As he walked down the aisle he saw Collette jump up, a broad smile on her face.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I remembered.’

He was tired. They were into the eighth hour of the flight and he’d been too wired and in too much pain to sleep. He’d taken some paracetamol to take the edge off, but he had no intention of arriving back in South Africa too drugged out to deal with any potential threat. ‘Remembered what?’

‘That man’s name.’ Collette stayed standing and Richard paused in the aisle. The other passengers around them were snoozing or engrossed in in-flight movies. ‘I was just watching a documentary about the Second World War. They showed some footage of Hitler and it triggered something in my memory.’

‘How so?’

‘I was studying the war, in history, at the private school I went to in Rwanda around the time that the men started coming to my parents’ place for meetings – the ones in the pictures. And I remembered reading something about one of Hitler’s deputies, and his name was the same as one of the men my father had been talking about to my mother – without me knowing – and when I saw that man, the one who had such an interest in my brother, I asked my father if he was German, because he had the same name as a famous Nazi.’

‘What was his name?’ Richard asked.

‘Hess, as in Rudolf.’

‘What was his first name?’

‘Karl.’

*

Carmel, Henri, Liesl and Aston ended up eating at the hotel bar. Carmel toyed with the fish on her plate. Her stomach was turning and she had little appetite.

It was, she imagined, mostly due to the trauma of her day that she found it so hard to relax. She’d replayed the day’s events over and over in her mind, and if she put herself in the position of an investigator or lawyer cross-examining her testimony, then she found it hard to find any fault in her actions. It was, she realised, not only the fallout of killing the colonel, and possibly the other man that had her on edge, it was also the very close presence of Henri.

He sat next to her, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body through his jeans and her cargo pants. His leg, she reckoned, was no more than a few millimetres from hers. When he’d reached across the table to get to the salt, her leg had actually touched his and she’d felt a frisson of excitement jolt up her body. He was telling a story now, of his childhood in Rwanda, and in doing so he was leaning close to her and putting his hand lightly on her arm, as if to emphasise a point to her.

Carmel sucked in a deep breath. She could smell the raw, slightly acrid odour of his long day, but it aroused as much as offended her. He had been there for her when she had emerged from the horror of the prison siege and she knew enough about psychology to understand that the attraction she was feeling for him now was probably the same kind of base animal lust that had caused Richard to sleep with Liesl back when they’d all been in Rwanda the first time. ‘Survivor sex’ it was called – a primal need to fornicate and procreate after exposure to danger. When she’d first read about this phenomenon she’d wondered if that was what had gone on between Richard and Liesl, after they’d both been through the horrors of the Kibeho massacre. But Carmel, too, had seen horrors in Rwanda, and hadn’t felt compelled to fuck the first man she’d seen. Perhaps that was indeed what she was feeling now, but if she was honest with herself, she had to admit that her attraction to Henri had been growing steadily since she’d first met him.

She looked at Liesl, to see if she was taking an unusual interest in Henri. Liesl smiled back at her, as if somehow reading her mind.

Liesl raised a hand to her mouth, tilted back her head and yawned. ‘I’m tired, and we’ve got to get up early tomorrow to get our gorilla permits and get on the road.’

‘Yes,’ Henri agreed. He had called for the bill earlier and now started counting out Rwandan francs.

‘Let me,’ Carmel tried.

He looked at her, and as Liesl gathered her daypack and jacket, Henri said quietly, ‘You can get breakfast.’

Carmel felt heat rush through her body to her extremities as she looked into his eyes and saw what she hadn’t seen for a very long time.

‘Well, if you will excuse me, I’m going to bed,’ Liesl said.

They both wished her goodnight and Aston, too, announced that it was time for him to turn in. Then they were alone. ‘I would offer you one more drink . . .’ Henri said.

‘But I don’t drink alcohol and if I have another Coke I’ll be up all night,’ she said.

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ he said.

She kept her smile in check. He was definitely flirting with her now and she had to evaluate how she felt about that. On the plus side, he was tall and handsome and she had felt marvellously warm and safe in his arms when she’d emerged from the frightening chaos of Kigali Central Prison. He was passionate about wildlife conservation, as was she, and she had the skills and, yes, even the money, to help him continue to realise his dream of rehabilitating wild animals into the wild. He was, in short, almost the perfect match for her, except that he lived in Zambia and she lived in Australia, and there was no time for romance in her life while there was someone still out there trying to kill her.

‘Shall we go?’ he asked.

They left the poolside restaurant and walked up the stairs to the lobby. Carmel felt a warm flush spreading up through her body, to her chest, neck and face as they waited for the lift to descend. Henri was behind her, close enough for her to hear his breathing. The chime pinged and the door opened.

It was a small lift and when Carmel walked in and turned around, she saw that he was looking down at her. She swallowed. She saw the small smile on his lips. He reached out with his hand and gently laid the back of his fingers on her cheek. It felt as though he’d scorched her.

‘I was worried about you today.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said.

‘I know. You are strong. But all the same, maybe you’d like me to come in and sit with you for a while.’

She knew what he meant, but he’d couched it as though she needed babysitting, like a helpless little girl. She didn’t want his faux concern. Carmel stood on her toes and placed a hand behind his neck and kissed him. Henri dropped his daypack, which fell with a heavy clank on the floor of the elevator, and kissed her back, passionately. She felt his tongue in her mouth and she drew it in. God, she wanted this. He put his hand under her arse and backed her against the wall. She could feel his erection, hard through his jeans, and she lowered a hand between them to caress it.

The door pinged open again.

Henri took a breath and stepped out into the hallway. Mercifully, there were no other guests standing there waiting for the lift. ‘My room or yours?’ he asked.

‘Fuck it,’ she said. ‘Who cares?’

Henri’s was closer. He quickly inserted the key card and they were embracing again before he’d even kicked the door closed. He began unbuttoning her shirt and Carmel undid his belt and the top button of his jeans. She reached a hand inside and gloried at the weight and feel of him.

‘Let’s go to bed,’ she whispered into his ear.