AOZOU STRIP
“How much longer?”
Marcel Hurtubise was a past master at controlling his emotions, let alone his voice, but he also heeded his instincts. The mining seemed to be progressing well, but he sensed a need for greater urgency.
The site manager was an elderly French engineer—a piece of colonial driftwood remaining above the high tide mark when the colonial surf had receded. His name was Adolphe something or other, and he had tried returning to metropolitan France two or three times since the 1960s. It never lasted long; Africa kept fetching him back.
Adolphe gave a Gallic shrug—an eloquent gesture communicating infinite wisdom if not immediate knowledge. Four decades in l’Afrique could not exorcize his parents’ chromosomes. “A few days. Maybe less. The equipment, it is … vintage. Vous savez?”
Hurtubise knew. He had to admit that Adolphe knew his business, both technical and managerial. How he kept the black laggards working on anything resembling a schedule was the next thing to miraculous. “Well, mon vieux, once the ore is processed and the yellow cake packaged, your work will be done. Then you can…” His voice trailed off. For a shred of an instant, Hurtubise was almost embarrassed. He realized that he could not finish the sentence. Adolphe can … what? Probably return to a desultory life of cheap booze and cheaper accommodations.
“You can … rest.” He even managed a smile for the old man.
Adolphe seemed not to hear. He glared at a machinery operator and began cursing him with equal fluency in French and Arabic, not managing to raise his mask over his face.
Hurtubise turned away, seeking Etienne. He found the Belgian supervising the guard change at the top of the hour. Four on, six off, seemed optimum for the limited crew of mercenaries available.
“How goes it?” Hurtubise asked. It was a rhetorical question. Etienne was as reliable as gravity—always there, whether needed or not.
“Well enough,” the husky man replied. Marcel noticed that the Belgian had his sleeves rolled down, either from concern over sunburn or the less likely risk of contamination through a cut or abrasion. But since the guards seldom went near the machinery, and the open-air mine had ample ventilation, there was little cause for concern. Briefly Hurtubise wondered if his colleague—not quite a friend—actually had plans for longevity.
“All right,” Hurtubise replied. “I’m flying back to N’Djamena tonight to put in an appearance at the embassy.”
“So soon?” Etienne realized that his boss had been back and forth twice in the past week—more travel than usual.
“I need to make sure the ministry is coordinating the arrangements here and with the shippers. There’s too much at stake to rely on … a couple of Africans. I’ll be back in two or three days. If you need me…”
Etienne raised a pudgy hand, then tapped the cell phone on his belt. It was there all the time, opposite his Browning Hi-Power. “Say hello to Gabby for me.” He gave a crooked grin; he knew how much she disliked that name—and him.
“I’ll give her more than that,” Hurtubise replied. For a change, he was smiling when he walked away.