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‘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.