The Orphan Uprising (The Orphan Trilogy, #3) (24 page)

Congolese youths sat drinking bottles of beer in the gutter outside while other patrons came and went from the premises. The youths directed wolf whistles at two promiscuous and scantily clad teenage girls who emerged from the bar. Clearly intoxicated, the girls held onto each other for support as they staggered along the pavement in their high-heel shoes.

Elvis studied his fare in the rear vision mirror as he parked the car near the youths. “You sure you want to stop here, boss?”

“I’m sure,” Nine grinned as he paid the cabbie and tipped him generously for good measure. “Buy your beautiful wife some nice perfume.”

Elvis beamed at Nine and pocketed the cash. “You want me to wait, boss?”

“No need, thanks.” Nine disembarked from the cab and watched as the cab drove off. Conscious the youths were observing him, he entered the bar. It took a minute or two for his eyes to adjust to its gloomy interior. The only illumination was from natural light that came from small windows along the far wall.

As his eyes adjusted, he could see the bar was half full. The patrons were all black males who appeared to have been drinking for some time. Prostitutes circulated among them, touting for business. A rowdy card game was in progress at one table. The hum of conversation could just be heard above the African harmonies that played over a radio. Conversation ceased as the patrons became aware of the new arrival.

Nine approached the bar. A surly barman looked him up and down and reluctantly acknowledged him. As the barman moved closer, Nine could see he had a wicked scar that ran from his forehead to his jaw – a legacy of a knife fight no doubt.

“What you want, man?” the barman asked.

“Give me a beer,” Nine said.

The barman poured a tall glass of beer and placed it on the counter in front of the first white customer the bar had seen in more than a year.

Nine paid him then indicated he wanted a word. “I want to speak to someone connected with Lusambo’s Mai Mai Militia,” he said quietly. “Can you help me?”

The barman blinked once then stared hard at Nine. After what seemed an age he asked, “Who wants to know?”

“Someone who is prepared to pay a lot of money.”

The barman looked thoughtfully at Nine then motioned to him to sit down at the nearest unoccupied table. Nine did as he was asked. The barman served another patron then disappeared into a room at the rear of the premises. He returned a minute later and advised Nine that he had sent for someone who may be able to help him. The barman warned him he may have a wait.

Nine was resigned to waiting. This was Africa after all. He proceeded to drink his beer, all the while aware the surly barman was observing him even as he served other patrons.

The barman’s interest in him was understandable. After all, Nine had enquired after one of the most feared of the Congolese rebel groups operating in the eastern Congo.

Lusambo’s Mai Mai Militia was named after its infamous leader, Captain Undu Lusambo, a former decorated officer in the Congolese Army. Nine had learned that much from the old janitor who had advised him that the militia’s rebels may be the kind of people he was looking for.

Like the six other Mai Mai militias operating in the region, Lusambo’s group was largely comprised of disenchanted combatants of the country’s armed forces. Unlike the other militias and independent armed groups, Lusambo’s rebels didn’t attack villages or kill, rape and plunder innocent citizens. Their target was the Congolese Army whose soldiers had a deserved reputation for terrorizing the very people they were supposed to protect.

Nine’s research had revealed that conflict minerals – gold, tin, cobalt and coltan included – were behind much of the violence that gripped the region. So it had come as no surprise to him that Carmel Corporation’s coltan refinery was located in the middle of the area controlled by Lusambo’s militia.
That would explain the heavy presence of armed personnel at the refinery
. Nine downed his beer and ordered lemonade on ice. He wanted to keep a clear head.

49

Forty-five minutes and two iced lemonades later, a one-armed Rwandan entered the Taj Mahal via the back door. He looked at the barman who nodded in Nine’s direction.

The Rwandan approached Nine. “My name is Christian,” he said in halting English. “Come with me.”

Nine drained the remains of his glass and followed Christian outside into the bright sunlight. An old van was waiting for them, its engine throbbing. Two of its side windows were cracked and small, round holes in the glass and in one of the door panels looked suspiciously like bullet holes.

Two big Congolese men sitting in the van’s back seat jumped out as soon as they saw they had company. They marched up to Nine and, without introduction, began frisking him. As they did, he observed they were armed with dated, military-issue revolvers. He guessed the men were former soldiers.

In anticipation of being frisked, Nine had left his own weapon – a Luger pistol he’d purchased soon after arriving in the DRC – back in his hotel room. He had also left behind the black makeup kit he usually wore strapped to his chest.

Jules, the taller of the two men, removed Nine’s wallet and the bulging money belt he wore around his waist. Opening the belt’s zip, Jules found wads of US dollars inside. “What’s this?” he asked.

“That’s ten thousand American dollars,” Nine said. “It’s for Captain Lusambo. Call it a token.”

“A token?” Oudry, the shorter of the two men, asked.

“A down-payment.”

Jules threw the money belt and wallet onto the van’s front seat then he and Oudry bundled their guest into the rear of the van. Nine ended up wedged between them on the back seat. Oudry produced a scarf and began to blind-fold him. Before the blindfold was securely in place, Nine saw Christian was behind the wheel. He hoped the one-armed Rwandan had his driver’s license.

The van took off and backfired as it accelerated jerkily along the street.

Twenty minutes later, the vehicle stopped in a screech of brakes somewhere in a relatively quiet part of the city. Two pairs of strong hands hauled Nine from the van and frog-marched him into a building.

When his blindfold was finally removed, he found he was sitting in a small, windowless room. Furnishings were sparse and there was no clue as to whether the room was inside a house or in commercial premises.

Facing him were the two Congolese men who had frisked him and a third man whom they addressed as
Prince
and who was obviously their leader. Shorter than the others, but built like a tank, Prince had a cruel face and a menacing presence.

The three men spoke Swahili amongst themselves. While Nine couldn’t speak Swahili, he did speak the closely related Bantu language of Duruma – a result of time spent in Kenya on a mission – so he got the gist of what was being said. The men were speculating on who he was and were obviously afraid he could be working for the Government’s security forces or the Police.

Nine wondered if Prince was in fact Captain Lusambo. That question was answered when the man addressed him.

“What business do you have with Captain Lusambo?” Prince asked in French.

“That is for his ears only,” Nine responded.

Without warning, Prince slapped Nine’s face hard with his open hand. The force of the blow drew blood and nearly felled the former operative.

“I asked what business you have with the captain!” Prince shouted.

“You already have my answer.” Nine stood his ground and braced himself for the next onslaught.

Prince looked like he was about to explode. His right hand twitched above the handle of the large hunting knife he carried in a sheath on his hip.

“There’s a lot more of that where it came from,” Nine said hurriedly, looking at the money belt one of his escorts was holding. “And I’m sure the captain wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t get to hear what I have to offer.”

Nine’s words had the desired effect. Prince conferred with his companions in Swahili. Opening Nine’s wallet, he pulled out a business card and looked at the visitor. “Ted Williamson,” he said reading the name on the card aloud. He looked at Nine. “Is that your real name?”

“It will do for now.”

“And what do you do for a living, Mister Williamson?”

“I make people rich.”

Again, this gave Prince something to think about. He reached a decision. “It will take a little time to reach Captain Lusambo.”

“My offer has a twenty four-hour time limit.”

Prince stared hard at Nine. “Where are you staying?”

“The Masonic Hotel.”

Prince fired orders in Swahili to the others then turned back to Nine. “My men will take you back to the Masonic. You should wait there until someone comes to you with the captain’s answer.”

“Twenty-four hours, remember,” Nine said.

Prince glared at him then nodded to his men who immediately blind-folded their visitor and marched him back outside to the waiting van.

Nine tried not to show his relief as he was bundled into the van. He’d taken a huge risk and he knew it. But it had been necessary. Now he could look forward to finding and rescuing Francis – he hoped.

50

While Nine was being chauffeured back to his hotel, one of his best friends going right back to his orphanage days was checking on security at Omega’s medical lab at the coltan refinery downriver. Number Thirteen, a muscular Polynesian, had been the first of the orphan-operatives to arrive at the lab in anticipation of Nine showing up.

Naylor had chosen Thirteen to oversee the mission in the DRC. He’d also assigned four of his best male operatives to assist him, and Marcia Wilson had pulled in half a dozen of her CIA agents from Nairobi and Cape Town to provide backup. The firm’s agents had been assigned to watch out for Nine in nearby Kindu while Thirteen and his fellow orphan-operatives remained at the lab as that was where the expected fireworks would happen.

Having just finished a briefing, Thirteen was starting his daily inspection of the grounds around the lab and the nearby refinery. He was accompanied by Twenty Two, one of the Pedemont graduates Naylor had sent to help him.

Both men were sweating profusely. A storm was brewing and the humidity levels rising. The pair were discussing Nine and the havoc he’d caused at Thule Air Base.

“He was the best of the best,” Thirteen said, “and judging by recent events, he hasn’t lost his touch.”

“That’s for sure,” Twenty Two said. “I still can’t believe it has come to this, can you?”

“No, but ours is not to reason why.”

“I know. It’s to do or die.”

The operatives continued their rounds in silence.

It was a typically hot day and the sun beat down on them mercilessly. Behind them, white-coated scientists and medical personnel walked between the lab building and an apartment complex behind it, while ahead of them, executive types came and went from Carmel Corporation’s administration building.

Beyond the admin building, the coltan refinery was its usual industrious self. Congolese workers scurried to and fro under the watchful eye of armed guards. Trucks laden with ore arrived at the refinery every few minutes to empty their loads. Above them, the refinery’s twin chimney stacks discharged smoke into an otherwise blue sky.

As the operatives continued their rounds, Thirteen felt confident he had the necessary manpower and resources to prevent any repetition of the events at Thule. Naylor had sent some of Omega’s best male operatives to assist him. Each of them had unique skills and collectively they represented quite a force.

Twenty Two was an excellent example of the caliber of operatives Naylor had chosen. He was probably the toughest and most aggressive of the operatives, and arguably the most accomplished martial arts exponent now that Three was dead.

The others were no slouches either. Four, a chess grandmaster who played in major tournaments when time permitted, applied his chess strategies to everyday life. He was a formidable operative who had never known failure in all his years with Omega. Eighteen, an operative of Asian heritage, was an explosives expert who had lost count of the number of people he’d terminated using explosive devices. And Twelve was a crack marksman who knew everything there was to know about weapons and armaments, and who, officially at least, had more kills to his name than any of Omega’s operatives.

  As for Thirteen, he was an all-rounder in every sense of the word, which was why Naylor had put him in charge of the DRC mission. While all the orphan-operatives were true polymaths, Thirteen was an expert in so many different fields even he had lost count. His golden-brown skin and easygoing Polynesian manner meant he was often underestimated, and that was something he didn’t hesitate to use to his advantage when necessary.

Thirteen and Twenty Two completed their rounds. Everything seemed in order. Before retreating indoors, Thirteen asked, “Have we overlooked anything?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“I can’t think of anything either, so let’s get out of this heat.”

The pair re-entered the lab building where they caught up with the other operatives. They all adjourned to a private meeting room to compare notes and discuss their security arrangements.

Compared to meetings involving executive types in the corporate sector, any meetings between Omega’s orphan-operatives were decidedly casual affairs. There was never a shortage of humor, everyone had a say and no-one actually chaired the meetings. Despite this, the operatives were professional and on the rare occasions they did meet, the business at hand was covered in double-quick time.

Today’s spur-of-the-moment meeting was no different except the operatives were more subdued than usual. They couldn’t help but wonder what had brought their lives to the point where they were planning to kill one of their own. Even though Nine had turned his back on them and the agency, he was still one of them – an Omegan, a Pedemont orphan, a brother.

They also wondered, when the time came, if they could kill one of their own.

What they didn’t know was they were all under the influence of the insidious MK-Ultra mind-control program – just as their deceased colleagues at Thule had been – and when it came time to kill Nine, they wouldn’t hesitate.