Legacy. James Steel

of the more entertaining guys — Emperor Bokassa — saw himself as an African Napoleon — spent twenty-two million dollars on his coronation, including twenty-four thousand bottles of champagne.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Some party.

      ‘Eventually, even the French got pissed with him and pulled their troops out, so he turned to Colonel Gaddafi for money and military training — the Libyans themselves were after his uranium deposits.

      ‘After Bokassa was overthrown there was a long civil war with heavy fighting, diseases and banditry spreading across the country. Troops from Libya, Chad and rebel groups from the Congo all got involved. Ended up with General Bozize toppling Ange Patassé and declaring himself President,’ he shut his notebook decisively, ‘of what was left.’

      Alex leaned back in his chair and looked at Kalil. ‘So, what you’re saying is it’s a bloody mess?’

      Kalil was suddenly ashamed of his flippancy. He nodded. ‘Ya … it’s a mess. OK, that’s enough to start planning the campaign on. Let’s take a break there.’

      The other two nodded. Col needed a cigarette and Kalil had declared the office no smoking. Alex didn’t smoke but wanted a chat with him so they went out into the narrow mews.

      ‘Col, can I just have a quick word?’ Alex asked as they moved away from the office to confer. ‘There’s something Kalil said that’s bothering me.’ He looked at the short sergeant quizzically. ‘If he’s running diamonds out of Africa for his job, how come he’s never been there?’

       17 NOVEMBER, MBOMOU PROVINCE, CENTRAL AFRICAN REPUBLIC

      There is no more mournful scene than the aftermath of a fire.

      The morning air was still. Wisps of smoke twisted up into it from the ashes of the torched village. Everything was burned black and white: the stumps of the hut walls, the kapok tree in the centre, the men and women who had resisted the attack the night before.

      Colonel Ninja looked at the burned-out village but was no longer capable of feeling anything for it. He took a slow drag on his cigarette; the sound of a child crying was coming from somewhere nearby; there was a burst of machine-gun fire and it stopped.

      His real name was André Kakodamba but that belonged to a person who was no longer alive. He was eighteen now but André had died aged ten when his home village in Congo had been raided by MLC militia. They took away all the children and brutalised them into soldiers; forced to mutilate and murder; each action a blow falling on his soul until it was numbed and his eyes frozen into blocks of ice.

      He had killed his own soul. Now all he knew was how to force others to do the same. He had learned that fear was the key to life: fear of being hungry, beaten or shot. Gradually he had learned that it was best to be feared — fear gave you first pick of the food, the drink, the drugs and the girls. Fear was now his friend — the more the better.

      He cultivated it in the gang he led: the Muti Boys.

      Muti: La Science Africaine, Black Magic. His child soldiers were captured on raids like this and forced to murder their relatives to make them complicit in the gang. They dreamed that in their sleep they would travel to a demi-world to kill and eat human flesh. Awake they were not much better.

      He shouted in Sango at a boy dawdling under a tree smoking a joint. ‘Hey, hurry up! Get in the ute!’ and pointed him over to the Toyota that was waiting to drive out of the village ahead of the truck with the prisoners.

      The boy was sixteen and dressed in combat trousers, dirty white singlet, round mirror shades and a woman’s curly blonde wig. Muti charms and amulets hung around his neck — Colonel Ninja had told him that the bullets of their enemies would flow off them like water. Ammunition belts for his light machine gun were wrapped around him. He hefted the gun on its sling and stumped over to join his eight friends in the back of the truck. Its windscreen was shattered by three bullet holes and the bonnet had a collection of filthy teddy bears strapped to it as charms.

      The boys sat in the back with their legs sticking out over the side, displaying a collection of bare feet and flip-flops; they bristled with RPGs and AK-47s. Tired after their night of destruction and slaughter, they slumped against each other and passed round a plastic bottle of home brew.

      Colonel Ninja was tall and heavily muscled; he deliberately fought stripped to the waist to show off his physique to the younger boys. As he slung his PKM machine gun over his shoulder the veins stood out on his biceps. He flicked his cigarette away, scratched his head and walked over to the blue truck behind the Toyota.

      It was a battered container lorry specially adapted for its new job with the addition of airholes shot through the sides. They didn’t want anyone suffocating on the way back home. The Boss had said that they needed more labourers; for some reason they kept dying in the mine; coughing up blood and wasting away.

      ‘They all in?’ he asked the boy standing at the open rear doors, pointing his rifle at the prisoners inside; the terrified faces of the men and women stared at him out of the dark.

      The boy nodded.

      ‘Bon, allez!’ Colonel Ninja swung the heavy door shut in their faces and locked it.

       SATURDAY 22 NOVEMBER

      Here we go again, Alex thought as the plane swept in over the rusty iron roofs and palm trees of the shantytown around the Aéroport de Bangui-M’poko in the capital of Central African Republic.

      It was midday and as soon as the door opened, hot African air swept into the cabin like a slick of warm oil. By the time their Air France flight from Paris had disembarked and they had walked over the burning tarmac to the arrivals shed, Alex’s shirt was plastered to him with sweat.

      The 1960s terminal was dilapidated and filthy. Windows were broken and chewed sugarcanes, nut husks and litter were piled in corners. The noise from the press of people battered him. The air was thick with the strong smell of body odour.

      When he got to the customs desk the uniformed officer looked at him with the quiet stare of a hyena eyeing a gazelle on the savannah.

      He tapped the table in front of him with the end of his large truncheon and Alex dutifully dumped his rucksack down. He glanced across to where Col was getting the same treatment at another desk.

      Welcome to Africa, he thought, as his baggage was unpacked and items of interest removed. The new MP3 player and bottle of whisky that he had deliberately placed at the top disappeared behind the desk; then Alex accidentally dropped a fifty-dollar bill out of his breast pocket and was through.

      ‘How’d ya get on?’ said Col as they met up on the other side of customs.

      ‘Didn’t get anything we need.’ The important kit for the mission was buried at the bottom of their bags.

      They scanned the brightly dressed scrum of Africans milling around them.

       ‘Bienvenue à Bangui, Monsieur Devereux.’

      A large black face with three tribal scars cut down each cheek emerged out of the throng. A gigantic hand extended and gave him a soft handshake. ‘Je m’appelle Patrice Bagaza.’

      A huge man with an understated manner, as if he was embarrassed by his size, he averted his eyes as he shook Alex’s hand. He was wearing a long red and green print shirt, jeans and flip-flops.

      ‘Bonjour,’ said Alex carefully.

      ‘Monsieur ‘Waites.’ Patrice didn’t attempt to pronounce the ‘Th’ at the start of his name and shook Col’s hand as well. He then turned and shouted in Sango to make a path through the crowd.

      Patrice’s bulk forced a way and the two