Warlord. James Steel

the boy to his feet.

      ‘What is the charge against the prisoner?’ asks the lieutenant.

      ‘Sir, we found him hiding in the woods, spying on our soldiers. He was armed with this axe.’

      ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

      The boy sniffles and mutters, ‘I was chopping wood.’

      ‘You were chopping wood! You think I am a fucking idiot! You are a spy!’

      ‘No! Not spy!’

      ‘You were spying on my men!’

      ‘No, not …’

      ‘Shut up!’

      ‘No spy …’

      ‘Shut up! You are a spy! You work for Rwanda! Look at his feet, he is a Rwandan!’

      The crowd pushes forward and looks at the boy’s feet; none of the younger soldiers has ever been to Rwanda so they accept the older génocidaire’s word.

      ‘Not Rwandan!’ the boy screams in a high-pitched shriek.

      ‘You will admit it! Beat him!’ The lieutenant gestures to the crowd of men who push the boy to the ground and start kicking him. Others run off and pull supple branches off trees, then run back in, push through the crowd and start whipping the boy.

      He curls up in a ball but his hands are behind his back and the blows rain down all over him.

      ‘You are a Rwandan spy! Confess!’

      He cannot speak under the torrent of blows; raw red and pink gashes open up all over his dark skin from the slashing branches.

      A soldier pushes the others back and jumps on him, his Wellington boots landing on his hip with a heavy thud. The man springs off laughing and others take running jumps onto the boy.

      ‘OK, OK!’ Lieutenant Karuta waves his hand: laughing, the men back off.

      The boy lies still, covered with dust, his pants wet with urine.

      ‘OK, come on.’ Karuta shakes his head, grinning at the enthusiasm of his men. ‘On your feet, boy.’

      The boy doesn’t move.

      ‘Get him on his feet.’ He gestures to Corporal Habiyakare, who gets hold of the belt holding his elbows together and yanks him up. The boy stirs and sways on his feet.

      ‘Over here, heh.’ Karuta points casually to the ground at the edge of the cleared area between two huts.

      The boy senses something bad and starts struggling. Habiyakare tries to drag him backwards by the belt but the boy becomes desperate so the corporal kicks his legs out from under him and pulls him along by the belt. The boy shrieks with pain and fear in a high-pitched cracked voice.

      Lieutenant Karuta walks ahead with his Kalashnikov and the crowd of men follow, grinning in anticipation.

      ‘Here!’ Karuta points to a spot on the ground and the corporal throws the boy forward and jumps out of the way.

      In one smooth action the lieutenant hefts his assault rifle by its pistol grip so that the weapon is held upright in his right hand. He cocks it with a flourish with his left and then fires a long burst at point-blank range into the boy. His body bounces on the ground and a red mist appears over it briefly.

      The men give a huge roar of approval and Karuta turns and brandishes his weapon with a broad grin.

      He starts call and response, shouting, ‘Hutu power!’

      ‘Hutu power!’ the men respond, raising their guns in the air and punching out the words with their fists.

      ‘Free Rwanda!’

      ‘Free Rwanda!’

      Chapter Four

      ‘Come on, we’ve got to hurry up.’

      Sophie can hear the tetchiness in her voice. Nicolas, as ever, takes it in his stride, nods obediently and pushes the Land Cruiser on faster.

      It’s four o’clock and the vaccines in the back are getting warmer by the minute. Their medical technician recommended that they get them to the clinic by late afternoon or else they would be ruined and the whole inoculation event would have to be reorganised. It will be a big waste of money and effort and a loss of face for the charity in the local community if they can’t deliver on their promises. Sophie hates not getting things right. At least the tension is making her forget her carsickness; she sits forward and swigs nervously from her water bottle.

      They’re pretty sure they are on the right road. It is winding down the hill into the Bilati valley and they can now see the river far away in the bottom, a fast-flowing upland torrent.

      They come down onto a flat saddle of land where another road joins theirs before dipping down into the valley. All around is lush green grassland but up ahead Nicolas spots a checkpoint, a striped pole across the road next to a dilapidated single-storey building.

      ‘Hmm,’ says Natalie in annoyance. ‘That’s not on the map.’

      ‘Bugger,’ mutters Sophie.

      Yet more hassle. She has spent a lot of time getting the paperwork in place for the journey. Government officials demand documents for everything: they are rarely paid and make their living from bribes. She pulls her document wallet out of the glove box and flicks through it again. The key document, their blue permit à voyager issued by the Chief of Traffic Police in Goma, is on the top, pristine and triple-stamped.

      Sophie is keyed up now. One last barrier and they can get there just in time. Several hundred kids live healthier lives – how can you argue with that?

      As they drive up towards the barrier they can see government FARDC soldiers standing inside sandbagged positions on either side of it. This is the last outpost of their control before the militia-dominated land beyond and they are very nervy, assault rifles held across their chests and fingers on triggers. They are questioning the driver of a battered Daihatsu minivan, ordering his passengers out and poking around in their woven plastic sacks stuffed with vegetables and bananas.

      As they wait in line Sophie asks Nicolas in French, ‘What brigade are they?’

      Nicolas peers at their shoulder flashes.

      ‘Orange is 17th Brigade.’

      ‘Is that good or bad?’ She knows that the different units have different temperaments depending on which militia they come from and which colonel runs them.

      Nicolas replies quietly, ‘Well, they used to be CNDP. They were a good army – Tutsi like me, and they defeated the FARDC whenever they fought them. But then they did a deal with the government and became the 17th Brigade with Congolese officers. After six months they shot up a UN base in protest because their officers had stolen their wages,’ he pauses and then finishes with a shrug and, ‘c’est la magie du Congo.’

      Sophie frowns. ‘Great.’

      ‘Just take it easy, remember the training,’ Natalie says cautiously from the backseat. ‘Don’t make eye contact, keep your voice down, just be sweet. Maybe we’ll have to pay a bribe to get through.’

      ‘OK, all right!’ Sophie holds up a hand to cut her off. Natalie is really getting on her nerves. ‘We don’t pay for access, it’s our policy.’

      Natalie falls silent, the soldiers wave the minivan through and they drive up to the barrier.

      Gabriel makes his way past the soldiers and heads down the hillside to Pangi market.

      He is torn between turning round and getting out of there immediately and his belief that he can make a killing and return to Eve with a stack of cash. He could use it to try and fix up her hut or buy her something for the baby or maybe get her that sewing machine she wants.

      Pangi is a typical Kivu village,