Warlord. James Steel

the airport look disparate, they are very at ease with each other and switched on, eyes scanning around the crowded arrivals area as they claim their luggage and move through the doorway into the large entrance hall in the 1970s airport.

      It’s early May, a month after Alex’s initial meeting with Fang, and Team Devereux have spent the last two weeks holed up in Akerley brainstorming, planning the operation and writing their logistics wish list. They are here to see Rwandan staff officers to discuss this before heading over the border into Kivu to meet the local politician who will front the whole operation.

      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