Blood Memory (Mongol Moon), page 10
Drumson leaned in, on the alert. “Jan, this talk, this… You know we are not… the National Army,” he muttered. He was an ambitious man, but this talk had been tried before, and many of his people had died as a result.
“You mean, this National Army?” John said, handing Drumson a yellow folder that he had pulled from his backpack.
Opening it, Drumson’s eyes widened, and he summoned Mwamba to lean in closer. Both men stared at the folder and its contents in disbelief. “Is… this…”
“Yes. It is,” John said, locking gazes with the young man.
“Guard shifts of the National Palace, alarm codes, locations of loyal National Army units, and…” John pulled a second folder out, but instead of handing it to the Zambians, he held it with a wave.
“The ZSIS’s, and our, informant list.”
Drumson and Mwamba both froze and stared at the tall American for what felt like an eternity. This document that John was holding was the most coveted document in the country. For years, decades even, the Zambian State Intelligence Service had infiltrated Bemba political organizations and resistance groups alike, spreading dissent and targeting loyal Bemba. Many of Drumson’s school friends and Mwamba’s veterans had disappeared into ZSIS custody, and John was holding in his hand a list of the people who had sent them there.
Mwamba whispered hurriedly into Drumson’s ear, looking up at John and Enoch the entire time.
Drumson raised his hand, silencing his advisor. “I see why you brought him, Jan.” His thin lips pulled into a smile. “We both know a coup can only be successful with a successor, and with my father gone, I need to consolidate power here.” Drumson paused, and the fire of ambition blazed in the young man’s eyes. John waited.
“But the son of the former president—a popular president, a man trained and well versed in the ways of the West, but… beholden to us—a man like that could be put in power, under our control.”
Both Mwamba and Drumson stared at Enoch as if he were the finest piece of meat to ever be sold in a butcher shop.
“Yes,” John said, careful not to lead the young king. It was important he got there on his own.
“And all we would have to do is stop and inspect some trucks for a few hours, and the copper fields that my people have worked generations to control would be ours.”
“If you help me, Your Royal Highness, the United States of America will help you,” John said formally. “The folder you have is yours. This folder,” he held up the coveted list of names, “is mine until tomorrow at noon. If the Russians are delayed that long, I will tell you where it is, my friend.”
John wasn’t sure whose smile was bigger—Mwamba’s, who had spent a lifetime working towards this very goal; the young king’s, with a lifetime’s accomplishment in view before he turned thirty; or Enoch’s, the son of the former president, who finally realized that John had not brought him here to be executed.
“Deal,” the young king said, reaching out his hand and gripping the American’s firmly.
“You know, Jan, you could stay here, and so could your men. Look, the tall one is even one of us.” Drumson smiled euphorically, pointing to the black Sergeant Patrick. “You could be our starting Lock on the new Zambian National Rugby Team,” he said, taking the American by the arm and coming to his feet.
“I know, my friend,” John said with just a hint of disappointment, “but I have my own war to fight.”
Drumson smiled again. It was a friendly smile, but John could see a plot behind it. The young man was friendly, and honestly wanted to do the right thing for his people. Even this giant house where they sat doubled as a place for his people to gather and meet. As far as African dictators went, Zambia could do much worse than Drumson. But that did not mean Drumson was selfless.
The young man took John’s hand again, and switched back to Bemba.
“I mean it. My generals are…” the young king was looking for the right word even in his own language, “they are my father’s generals. They are good, but they will always be loyal to him first, and as long as he is out there, somewhere, there will always be that question.”
Watching from behind his king, Mwamba scowled. He had advised against this course of action earlier, but was overruled by the eager young man. Mwamba was a man who had fought the Rhodesians with ZIPRA during the Bush War, and the South Africans with SWAPO during the Border War. He was as old of a soldier as they came, and the thought of asking a white man to lead anything in the war to come rankled.
John could see the look on the old man’s face, and knew what was coming next.
“I want you to stay with us, to… advise us.” Drumson’s gaze had gone from jovial to serious, but his eyes flickered with optimism. “We can make you rich, beyond whatever what is left of America can offer you. You would have complete control, in my name. You would be free of even Mwamba’s scolding.”
This last comment riled the old advisor further. John waited to see how Mwamba handled it, to see if this line of questioning could ruin this entire plan. Drumson was in charge, but like so many people in charge, he did not move the machinery of his empire. Men like Mwamba did that, and John knew he needed both Drumson to give the order and Mwamba to carry it out.
“If I am to make this plan work,” the young king continued, “I need to start right away. I want you with me. We can keep these two with us if you want,” he said, gesturing at Sergeant Patrick and Lance Corporal Jackson who had stopped paying attention with the conversation in a language neither spoke.
“We can pay them as well. I think, perhaps, maybe a starting payment of a million dollars, followed by a share in the mines?” Drumson offered, grinning again, knowing this was more money than the three Americans sitting in front of him could put together in their lifetimes. It pleased him, this young man from a small African country, to be able to offer it. “As they say, beter bang Jan as dooie Jan.”
Drumson’s sudden switch to an Afrikaans idiom was not only a friendly flex of his linguistic skills, it was also a subtle jab at Mwamba. The old man’s hatred of all things White in Africa was legendary, and before the other Bemba chiefs respected Drumson’s power as a leader, he needed his chief advisor to respect it.
John could see the drama unfolding, and knew he had to tread carefully. The linguistic dance Drumson had started them on was fraught with dangers on all sides, and time was short.
“Your highness,” John replied, looking up at Mwamba, whose old eyes glared at him with a combination of anticipation and hate. “I am deeply, deeply touched by your offer and your confidence in me.”
“Fantastic, we will begin today.” The young king nearly leapt from his seat, almost spilling the coffee on the table.
“However, I could not lead your men, or offer advice, until my current mission is completed. Until…” John hesitated; this next part was delicate. He needed both the king and his advisor to feel like they’d won, like they were both getting what they wanted. His brain scrolled through his collection of Afrikaans idioms. Drumson would expect that he would also show his lack of fear of Mwamba. “Until our responsibilities to our own country are, die koeël is deur die kerk.” Afrikaans was a language of metaphors, and this one, literally translated as “the bullet is through the church” meant a thing is as over as can be, also happened to be his favorite.“Also,” he continued, “if you were to replace your old generals, and I were to be there when it happened, it would take the glory and focus from you. I know this is wrong; it would have been your plan, and your leadership, but that is how the men would perceive it. The same as it has always been perceived.”
A quick look of puzzlement flashed across Drumson’s face, and John knew he had to tread carefully.
“If I may, your instinct to replace some generals is a good one. If they do not perform as you wish, they can retire, be paid, and live a happy life. But you need men who will not only be loyal to you but can ensure the loyalty of those beneath them.”
He looked at Mwamba as he spoke. This was the warning, the stick. To men like Mwamba there was no retirement, there was only the fight. To be retired by a young pup in this way would be a fate worse than death. Mwamba nodded at the hidden message. If his ruse with the Russians was not successful, the king would view it as the failure that John had warned him about and Mwamba’s position, no matter how deeply rooted, would become shaky.
“But, we are friends, and… after we have finished our mission and gotten our women and children to safety, I will still be indebted to you for this. And that is a debt I would work hard to repay, under your leadership, and the advice of your counselors. Furthermore, if I may, I caution against having me appear too close. I am sure we do not want a repeat of President Scott.”
“Interim President Scott,” Mwamba spoke up, correcting the record. “He was never elected by the people.”
“Of course,” John replied, faking repentance. A decade before, Guy Scott had been the Vice President of Zambia when the President, Michael Sata, had died suddenly while abroad in London. Acting President Scott had been white, making Zambia the first African nation in nearly three decades with a white head of state. An insult, even an unintentional one which lasted little less than a year, that still chapped Mwamba.
This, John knew, was the carrot. As much of an outsider as he was, everyone in the room knew a man of his skills would be invaluable to the new regime—if it could survive. John’s offer was also an unneeded reminder to Mwamba that if his attempts to mislead the Russians were anything less than a maximum effort, that John could come back.
He paused, and waited for the men to think. Mwamba stood behind his king in silence, then placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
With a nod, Drumson turned steady eyes to John. “I was raised to never trust anything a European said. That their interests would always come first.”
John waited, looking into both men’s eyes for any sign of decision.
“But I believe we are of the same mind, my friend,” Drumson said, switching to English. “And I think we will have a long friendship.”
Standing, the king stretched out his hand to John who likewise rose quickly
John and Drumson shook hands and parted ways. Drumson, still holding the yellow folder, walked into a back office followed by his security detail. Turning to Enoch, John shook his hand. “Don’t mess this up,” he told the man.
Lifting an eyebrow, Enoch whispered, “The deal was you would take me out of this country.”
“Yes, it was,” John replied, looking into the man’s eyes. Searching for any hint of betrayal. “But this is your one shot—not just for you, but for your country.”
“You are using me,” Enoch replied. “If the Bemba take control, there will be reprisals.”
“Like you used me to get that job at the embassy, to prevent your father’s rivals from hunting you.”
Enoch’s father had been popular among some, but like most African leaders, he had also been brutal, and his rule had not continued without making many, many enemies.
“You want to be safe? Do what they tell you, and always watch your back,” John said, watching Enoch’s face start to accept the reality of his situation, before turning to follow Mwamba to the door.
“I have one more request, a small favor,” he said, taking the old Mwamba by the elbow. “I need you to borrow back something I lent you,” he told the old Zambian before leaning in and whispering in his ear.
Jackson and Patrick followed, unsure what they had just witnessed, but if the few weeks they had known John had taught them anything, it was to live with confusion.
As they walked out of the house, a pair of servants handed the two men bottles of water and bowed. Mwamba gave John an appraising look.
“You know, Mr. Fynn, I wonder what your grandfather would say, if he could see you now. You are, after all, a long way from Mukumbura.”
Covering his confusion, John asked, “What do you mean?”
The old line, Let them tell you who you are, flashed through his mind.
“We can be honest with one another now, can’t we?” Mwamba said. “I fought your grandfather and his people for decades, and we won.” He opened the door for John as the other men began to hurriedly prepare the vehicle to leave. A group of servants carrying two large crates scurried up. Opening the HMMWV’s rear hatch, they loaded them inside.
“We invaded his homeland and threw the colonizers out. For decades they tried and failed to do what you just did… to destabilize Zambia to save themselves. And here you are, doing it in one afternoon.”
“How long have you known?” John asked.
“Since you first arrived here.” Mwamba smiled and took John’s hand as the men departed. “Your Bemba has always had a Zulu accent, one you can only get from a childhood in South Africa, or like your grandfather, Rhodesia. That is impossible to hide from those of us who grew up hating the Zulu. We may not have your budget, but we know when the grandsons of some of our oldest enemies are in our country.”
John nodded and shrugged slightly as a confession of guilt. There was no point in denying it. He was leaving this part of Africa and perhaps never coming back.
Mwamba saw the admission on John’s face and smiled the crooked and wry smile of an old warrior who had bested his opponent. “When you were sent here by your government, it could have been merely a coincidence. You are, after all, more qualified than most Americans.”
“Meaning I can find Africa on a map,” John interjected. It was honest, but he was playing it off, hoping to end the conversation there. But he sensed Mwamba was continuing for a reason.
“One of you here, back in Africa after all this time, is a coincidence. Africa is large, and your family has always found a way to be successful in it. Remarkably, your family still has a farm in South Africa, smaller than it once was, but still quite large. But two? No, no, no. Two, my friend, this is something to be concerned about.” Mwamba’s eyes bore into John’s. It was an old interrogation trick, to see what could be shaken loose from a rattled mind. “And now, after all this time, you are both leaving without trying to… how do they say it in the West? To make Zimbabwe Rhodesia again? I must admit, it is not what I had anticipated when you arrived here.”
John lived with the current need to be on his toes, to cover his tracks, but in some cases the best strategy was to admit when something wasn’t working.
“Well, we are both out of your way now. Good luck with your war, Mr. Mwamba,” John said, truly meaning it as he shook the man’s hand once more.
“And you with yours, Mr. Frey,” Mwamba said with a panther’s grin.
The colonel stood amidst the burning wreckage of the Tanzanian border checkpoint and swore.
How could they not have come this way? he wondered, momentarily panicking. Was it possible he could fail and his vengeance would slip away from him?
“Look again,” he ordered one of his men who was sitting at a desk in the control room of the border crossing. The man was looking at the CCTV footage from that day in the hopes of spotting the Americans.
“Sir, we would not miss an entire American convoy, this is pointless,” the man replied, his blood up after the brief battle with the Tanzanian border guards.
The Tanzanian guards had not told the colonel what he had wanted to hear, and had refused to let him access their CCTV system. Now a dozen of their bodies were strewn across the street and buildings. A handful of Russian bodies lay in the street too, but the colonel had plenty more. There were some dead and wounded civilians too. People caught in the crossfire while trying to cross the border. Their mistake.
He turned his back on the man working the screens and walked towards his vehicle. He stopped at the hood, pondering, as his fingers ran through the gouge the American fifty caliber had made there the day before.
His lieutenant was there, waiting patiently. The colonel wasn’t sure how this trembling drunk had been promoted to lieutenant. He thought he had left that kind of nepotism behind when he left the Russian Army.
“They didn’t come this way. Where did they go?” he said to the lieutenant, not really expecting an answer, even if the man could muster one. “We spent hours with those idiotic Africans and their stupid inspections,” he continued, knowing that holdup could only have been orchestrated by the Americans. “Why would they do that, if they weren’t coming this way?”
The colonel pulled a map and spread it on the vehicle’s hood. The lieutenant, somewhat wisely, stood in silence.
“It is either this way, or… east to Dar es Salaam,” he said. “Could they have gone to ground? Hidden, waited for us to leave. But then they would need to come this way.” He stared off into the distance as if an answer would appear.
“Sir,” the lieutenant said nervously, looking at his boss who had just attacked a second neutral country in as many days. “There is another option.”
The colonel looked up at the glassy-eyed lieutenant. “Yes?”
“They didn’t come this way, we know that,” the lieutenant started, speaking quickly, hoping to get it all out before his nerves failed him or the colonel stopped him. “If they went east, they are no better off than they are now. We would run them down quickly, and I don’t think they went to ground. Americans aren’t cut out to live in Africa.”
“Well, they didn’t just fucking vanish, Lieutenant,” the colonel snapped.
“No, sir, but what if you are correct—they did go to ground, but only until we passed, and then,” the lieutenant hesitated, knowing this idea was stupid, “and what if then they retraced our steps and went through the Congo? What if they just wanted us to think they were going this way?”
The lieutenant exhaled, finally done, as the colonel stared right at him.
The colonel’s icy glare was piercing. The men’s nickname for him was mílyj, or sweet, which was a joke about the ferocity of his stare.
