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Alex spots a man holding a sign saying ‘Mr Jones’ in the line of people crowding along the rail awaiting the Sabena flight from Brussels and heads over towards him. He is a gloomy, dutiful-looking Rwandan in his mid-thirties, wearing casual trousers with a white shirt neatly belted in.
‘Good morning, Mr Devereux,’ he says in English and offers a soft handshake. He has a quiet voice with a heavy Rwandan accent and keeps his face still as he speaks. His eyes watch everyone very carefully as he shakes hands with the group.
‘I am Major Zacheus Bizimani of the Directorate of Military Intelligence; I will be your liaison officer for your visit. Please come this way.’
Like Congo, Rwanda is a former Belgian colony and French used to be the language of its educated classes. However, because of French support for the Hutus during the genocide, President Kagame cut diplomatic links with France, joined the Commonwealth and made English the alternative national language. All the signs in the airport are pointedly in English.
They push their luggage trolleys through and load into two unmarked minivans waiting outside with plain-clothes drivers. Any observer would say that they look like a group of businessmen arriving for a meeting.
As they drive into Kigali, the team scan around with interest trying to get a feel of the country that they will be working for. It is mid-morning and the sun is already high in the bright blue sky, the fierce light washing out the colour in the red soil of the hills around them, each one capped with a little white cloud. As with the whole Rift Valley, the area is at five thousand feet so the temperature is in the mid-twenties with a pleasantly fresh feel to the air.
‘All looks very neat, don’t it?’ Col says to Alex.
Major Bizimani is keen to reassure them that Rwanda is an organised country that will be able to cope with a complex military logistical operation and leans back from the front passenger seat. ‘Plastic bags are banned in Rwanda and every citizen has to do compulsory community work each week. President Kagame is following the Singapore model of development. It is all part of our Vision 2020 development plan for the country.’
‘Right ho,’ Col nods, looking impressed.
The road weaves between the crowded hills of the city and they arrive at the Top Tower Hotel with its ultra-modern entrance foyer and efficient red-suited staff. Yamba nods at a sign as they walk into the foyer and chuckles. ‘Five star. Better than we usually get in Africa, eh?’
They check into their five rooms, all on the top floor with views out over the golf course on the hill opposite, before getting out their laptops and briefcases and heading up to the Ministry of Defence building on a hill on the other side of the hotel.
Zacheus checks the vans through the heavily fortified gatehouse at the bottom of the hill and points to a soldier on guard with his rifle held rigidly in front of him. He indicates the soldier’s rifle.
‘You see the stencilled number there?’ Alex looks at the yellow lettering. ‘We know the number and location of every rifle in Rwanda. In Congo they don’t even know how many soldiers they have in the army. The government estimates between one hundred and one hundred and sixty thousand.’
The vans park in two reserved places in the car park at the top of the hill and the major then leads them through the manicured gardens and into the large complex of low-rise offices. Everything has an understated air of quiet efficiency and smartly dressed officers and suited civil servants move about purposefully.
Zacheus continues his propaganda. ‘President Kagame is the only African leader to have a Diploma of Management from the Open University in Britain. He is very opposed to corruption and it is punished very severely. All government employees must be at their desks ready to start work by seven o’clock in the morning.’
He shows them into a large meeting room and directs them to one side of a table; they settle in and get their laptops out. A minute later and seven Rwandan staff officers walk into the room; they are all middle-aged, reserved and wear crisply ironed dress uniforms.
Their leader, an austere man in his late forties, introduces himself in perfect English. ‘My name is Colonel Rutaremara and this is my Directorate of Logistics planning team.’
Colonel Rutaremara and his men take their time opening their briefcases on the table, carefully setting out laptops and piles of notes and aligning them squarely. Team Devereux sit and watch this slow process with interest.
The colonel eventually moves to stand in front of the large screen at the head of the table and fusses about with his laptop getting the PowerPoint slides correct. Finally he looks up and clears his throat.
‘My team and I began logistics work in the DRC during our first invasion of Congo in 1997 when we marched an army through fourteen hundred miles of bush, right the way across the continent and took Kinshasa, ending Mobutu’s twenty-seven years of rule. We believe we are practised in supplying armies in the field in Congo.’
Alex and his men nod appreciatively: it was one of the greatest feats of arms ever achieved in African history.
‘We then occupied Kivu for six years from 1997 to 2003 and have been engaged in military operations there since then. Our Directorate of Military Intelligence have maintained an excellent secret intelligence network in the province. A lot of this is using agents that are part of the charcoal trading network that crosses the forests along the border.’
Chapter Eleven
Eve is lying on her back on a gynaecological examination bench with her legs up in the air in stirrups.
Dr Bangana is sitting on a stool between her legs doing a preliminary examination. There is a cloth screen between him and her but she can see the top of his head over it. His short curly hair is speckled with pepper and salt. He trained as a gynaecologist in Paris, building up a healthy practice there and learning a lot. But he had to come back to his homeland because he also learned that he had a conscience. Now his voice is grave from years of dealing with terrible damage like that inflicted on Eve.
‘So, I know this is difficult but did they use an object?’
Eve can’t bring herself to reply and just sniffs but Miriam, her new friend who is holding her hand, whispers, ‘A gun.’
Dr Bangana nods and sighs, he wishes he could get the yobs that do this and make them come and see the results of their ‘fun’. But he knows he has no power to do so and that no one else in Kivu does either so he just forces himself to focus on repairing some of the consequences of the problem. He can do nothing to affect its causes. He continues examining her and Eve flinches as she feels the cold instruments poking around inside her.
Eventually he sits back and looks up at her. ‘OK, your wounds are stable for the moment; I will put you on the waiting list for a procedure. I’m afraid it could take weeks – we have a lot of casualties coming in every day from all over South Kivu and some of them require emergency treatment. The wall of the bladder is a very thin membrane and after the operation it will take a couple of weeks to see if the sutures hold and the tissue is able to heal.’
Eve and Miriam go out into the courtyard between some of the low hospital blocks and sit on the grass in the sun. Miriam gets out her knitting – they sit around a lot killing time – and they talk quietly.
‘So have you heard from Gabriel?’
‘Hmm, he passed a message through the watermelon seller at the gate.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He says he is leaving soon for the mines and hopes to make good money and that he will come and see me when he has paid off his family.’
‘Do you think he loves you?’
Eve pauses. Panzi is a wonderful peaceful environment to live in and she loves all the Mamas and Miriam but her other experiences have taught her to be circumspect about anything positive.
She shrugs. ‘He says he does. I don’t know if he will come, I’ll just have to see.’
A week after the meeting in Kigali, two Land Cruisers pull up in a meadow and Alex and the others get out. The jeep doors slam shut in quick succession and he is conscious that there is then absolutely no noise.
The group wander away from the cars stretching their legs and getting the feeling of carsickness out of their heads. It’s been a long drive up here from Goma – six hours to cover thirty miles as the crow flies.
Everyone stands still staring at their surroundings. They are in a sea of grass with an almost luminous green glow in the sunshine and everywhere they look beyond that are lines of rugged hills stretching away into the distance, each one more muted than the previous, all under a perfect blue sky, polka-dotted with white clouds.
Col wanders over to him. ‘It’s beautiful, reminds me of the Lakes in the summer,’ he says wistfully.
Zacheus says, ‘I’ll go and check they are ready for us,’ and walks off through the thick wet grass towards a hut by the stream.
They are in phase two of their reconnaissance mission in Kivu, and about to meet the local politician they will be working with in setting up the new state, although Fang has stayed in Kigali for more meetings. They have had a week of intense discussions. The Rwandans really do start work at 7am and seem to think it was normal that their partners should as well. They have made a lot of progress planning weapons, ammunition, supply bases next to the border, recruitment and training and getting the latest Rwandan intelligence on the distribution of the FDLR forces and the best way to tackle them. Evenings have been spent in team meetings in their hotel rooms preparing for the next day’s schedule and emailing contacts to get plans rolling around the world.
So it came as a relief when they could pack a rucksack and drive three hours west to the border with Kivu. The roads were all brand new and smooth; Zacheus pointed out the British Department for International Development signs on the roadside with his usual pride.
They went over the border into the Democratic Republic of Congo on tourist visas with Zacheus posing as their local Congolese guide. He dealt very efficiently in Swahili with the border police, bribing them only a part of what they were asking and quietly talking his way through the rest of their obstreperousness.
Going into the DRC was certainly a big change; from the land of dour but efficient Rwandans to the lively freewheeling chaos of Goma. ‘There is a lot of money in Goma but not much law and order,’ was Zacheus’s disdainful comment. ‘I was actually born in Kivu, I am Banyamulenge – that’s a Tutsi living in Kivu – but I think I prefer Rwanda,’ he said, with the first inkling of a smile they had seen all week.
The centre of Goma was scruffy and packed with rubbish and traffic, mainly motorbike taxis and flashy SUVs belonging to comptoirs, the middlemen who process and export the minerals. They threaded their way through the town and out along the shore of Lake Kivu, gleaming a glorious blue in the afternoon sunshine. They drove past many comptoir villas along the lake, swanky places with swimming pools and satellite TV dishes, shut away behind high security gates, until they came to the total tranquillity of Hotel Bruxelles, a large, elegant colonial era building newly renovated and with grounds overlooking the lake.
It was late afternoon when they checked in and only then did Zacheus finally tell them the name of the politician they would be seeing the following day. An intelligence agent by nature, he was under strict orders from Fang not to reveal the information until the last minute. ‘Dieudonné Rukuba.’ He said the name quietly. None of them had heard of the man.
In a quick meeting after dinner Alex issued a terse order. ‘Have a look on the net, make any calls you can tonight to contacts, get anything you can on his background. If we are going to build a country with this guy we have got to find out if he’s trustworthy. The British government thought Idi Amin was just the sort of chap they needed to sort out Uganda when they put him in power and we don’t want to repeat that cockup.’
In the morning, they left early and headed down the N2 main road, south along the western shore of Lake Kivu. That was the easy bit. It started getting tricky when they turned west off the road and headed up a track into the steep hills. After that it was up hill and down dale. Their two drivers, both Directorate of Military Intelligence agents living in Kivu, threaded their way expertly along the narrow muddy lane twisting through upland meadows and woods.
Having gone up over six thousand feet, they came down into a valley with a fast-flowing stream and drove through the village of Mukungu, a primitive and rustic place with wooden huts and cowsheds. The residents stared at the jeeps and white men as they passed; none had ever been seen before in such a remote rural location.
After the village they turned up another small valley into a plateau area of lush meadows where brown cattle grazed quietly.
Now, standing in the meadow, Alex knows they haven’t got long before Zacheus returns. ‘Anybody find out anything last night?’ he asks.
Yamba shrugs. ‘Only that he is a local Kivuan and runs a political party called the Kivu People’s Party.’
‘Ah well, I’m one up on you there,’ says Col knowingly. ‘While you were all tapping away on t’internet, I were in the bar and had a beer with this South African bloke. He were a Parabat and saw me tatt when I were leaning on the bar, see? Crap tatts, can’t beat ’em.’ He holds up his forearm with his Parachute Regiment tattoo to Yamba, who rolls his eyes. Parabat is the South African army’s Parachute Battalion, originally founded from the British army Parachute Regiment.
‘He’s been doing security work for a comptoir in Goma for the last few years, so we gets chatting and I says who’s this Rukuba bloke then? Turns out he’s quite a well-known figure in the province but no real power. Runs a sorta non-militia-based mutual aid society or summat. Does a lot a music with church groups. This bloke says he’s a good politician and seems to get on with most people, which sounds like an achievement in Kivu. Although he said he thinks he’s a slimy bastard and he doesn’t trust ’im. Apparently there’s some rumour that he was involved with something called the Kudu Noir when he started out in politics.’
Alex looks at him askance. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘Don’t know, some sorta bush cult, animist whatever, to do with the spirit of the land in Kivu. You know, all that usual bollocks.’
Zacheus was heading back towards them, taking long steps over the grass. Alex looks round his men guardedly. ‘Well, let’s see what’s he like.’
Gabriel squats down next to the broken moped at the side of the road. He’s on his way to the mines and met its owner while he was walking along.
‘Have you tried the fuel line?’
‘No, where’s that?’
‘It’s here, look.’ Gabriel pulls the clear plastic tube off the engine of the battered blue 49cc Peugeot Mobylette and sucks the petrol out of it; he’s always been good at fixing things.
He spits out the fuel and tastes some grit in his mouth. He tinkers with the carburettor and then says, ‘It’s just grit in the fuel, should be OK now. Give it another go.’
‘It needs a push.’
‘OK.’
The man gets on the bike and Gabriel puts his hands on the back of his denim jacket and pushes him down the road. The moped splutters and then coughs into life.
The man brakes and revs the engine. He twists around in the saddle and flashes a warm smile. He’s in his early twenties and has a kind, open face. ‘You want a lift? Where are you going?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’ Gabriel jumps onto the seat behind him. ‘I’m going to Lugushwa, to the gold mines.’ An uncle of his recommended it as the best place to earn good money. Gabriel has never thought much of the man’s opinion but he hasn’t got any better information.
‘No, don’t go there. Come to Mabala, it’s coltan and you get better rates because it’s underground not opencast. My cousin Vernon runs a tunnel and needs guys. Come on.’
That sounds like sense and Gabriel doesn’t need much persuading.
‘OK. I’m Gabriel.’
‘I’m Marcel.’
They shake hands over Marcel’s shoulder and then he revs up and the moped putters away slowly.
‘Why are you going to the mines?’ Gabriel shouts into his ear over the whine of the engine.
‘I’m a teacher but I haven’t been paid in six months.’ He shrugs. ‘You’ve got to eat and what other jobs are there? What about you?’
Gabriel is reluctant to talk about Eve and what happened to her. ‘Oh, I just need the money; like you say, what other jobs are there? Where’s Mabala?’
‘It’s in the mountains above Shabunda. It’s run by the FDLR.’
‘Is that OK?’
‘Yeah, it’s fine. They’re all the same, they all take pretty much the same cut.’
Chapter Twelve
Alex and his men walk up the hill towards their meeting with the politician who will lead their new country.
They cross a small stream at the foot of the hill and nod at an old man with a machete who stands guard outside a hut. He smiles uncertainly back at them.
They follow a muddy track as it curves up a large grassy hill. After winding around it comes out at the top into a farmyard of two large wooden barns and two cowsheds. A few farm workers stare at them, resting on their pitchforks. They cross over the muddy ground in the middle and walk towards the farmstead, a single-storey plank building with a wide veranda and lawn overlooking the valley they drove up. A hammock is slung between two trees on the lawn.
As they near the house Alex suddenly stops and listens. It is completely silent on the hilltop but he can hear the faint sound of a piano from inside; delicate, sparing notes that form a haunting tune.
‘That’s a Chopin nocturne?’ He looks at Arkady quizzically.
‘I don’t know, I’m Russian not Polish.’
Col shrugs. ‘I’ll take yer word for it.’
As they walk on towards the house, the music cuts off abruptly and a group of ten young children, scruffily-clad boys and girls, come scampering out of a door and run away, giggling and shouting ‘Muzungu!’ at them.
The men smile and Col calls back in Swahili, ‘Habari za mchana.’ They all know a little of the East African lingua franca and are used to having ‘Whiteman’ shouted at them in remote locations.
A tall, slim man in his mid-thirties comes out onto the veranda wearing traditional dress – a long white gown and white pointed leather slippers. He is smiling broadly and has a sensitive, fine-boned face.
‘I am sorry about the kids,’ he says in accented English. ‘I was just entertaining them a bit as we were waiting for you to arrive.’
He walks towards Alex with a dazzling white smile and shakes his hand firmly. Alex notes how his sharp facial features contrast with a shaved head and high forehead. He has long, fine fingers and his movements are neat and quick.
He shakes everyone’s hand warmly and says laughing, ‘Welcome to my humble abode. As you can see, I am just a simple farmer. Please come in.’
He shows them into a large low room with plank flooring and an old upright piano in one corner. They settle down around a white plastic garden table with white plastic chairs.
Rukuba sits at the head of the table and looks around at them, beaming. ‘Gentlemen, it is so exciting for me to meet you here today, I am so glad that you have come.’ There is an earnest pleasure in his voice and he sweeps his hand around as if he is speaking on behalf of the whole of Kivu.
‘Let me tell you about myself. Well, in the beginning I am a Kivuan, I am one of the people of Kivu. I am half Tutsi and half Nande, so I feel I represent both the Banyamulenge and the originaires.’ He presses his long-fingered hands to his chest and pauses for a moment.
His hands sweep outwards again and he continues with enthusiasm, ‘Our political organisation is the Kivu People’s Party. Unlike the militias and their political fronts we are deliberately non-ethnically aligned. We are a broad-based political group with a programme of pragmatic community activities, like building bridges or digging village fishponds, and we focus on raising awareness of issues such as sexual violence against women and livestock improvement. In so many ways we struggle to make the lives of the people of Kivu better.
‘But I am not judgemental; I talk to the leaders of all the main militias, I know the commanders of the FDLR very well. They are always giving me shopping tips for the best tailors in Paris – they tell me I should stop wearing these.’ He holds up his traditional robes and smiles at Alex’s surprised look. ‘The top commanders are very wealthy from their mines and they come and go to Europe a lot.
‘So, when I am not talking to them, I publicise our work through my radio broadcasts on UN Radio Okapi and through my music. I am so blessed by God to have a good voice and I love to play for the people in the churches – Catholic, Pentecostal, the bush cults, I don’t mind who. I play to bring the people of Kivu together, to try to heal our wounds and to bring peace at last to this land of such great beauty and yet such great pain.’
