Blood Memory (Mongol Moon), page 16
But in the light green of her eyes flickered a spark he remembered. As if their journey through the world had not ended, it had just been paused and was now resuming. Like the intervening years had not happened; it had simply gone from Nairobi to Pweto. For a moment he thought he saw something, a flicker of hope in the eyes perched above two patrician cheekbones, but it was a mere moment and it vanished. Her eyes lowered to glance at his left hand, and then returned to meet his.
“We need your help,” he said.
She shook her head at his request, and her lips curled in the beginnings of a laugh. It was interrupted by the captain walking up, holding a small group of fish on a metal line.
“Emmène-les à l’hôtel,” she told him politely, and he dutifully scurried off towards his moped, and back towards the hotel as if there was nothing in the world that interested him less than the reunion of these two white people.
“Cooking dinner?” John smiled. She had been the living embodiment of the proverb that a way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.
“For you, no.”
“I need your help, Maria,” he repeated his request. That she had not walked past him down the long dock was at least something.
“Why? Because it is World War III and the entire world is on fire? This seemed like the perfect time for you to come find me again? Because, it couldn’t be worse than that?”
He couldn’t contain the laugh. She was slightly over average height, which was the only average thing about her. Looking down at her, he wondered if she were considering stabbing him with the fishing knife he knew she had. Even though they stood apart, he could feel the electricity that always ran through her body like a lightning bolt.
“How did you even find me?”
“There is only one hotel like the Katumba Mwanke in the country, and I heard you were in the area.”
“What do you want, Jordan?”
“I need two rooms for the night, just the night, and we will be gone.”
“You leaving is hardly the surprising part.”
“I told you I would see you again.” He could feel the rawness of his heart, of the wound that he had opened again, but for the first time since that day at the airport, he could feel hers too. He could feel the two pieces of their damaged hearts and wondered if the mere proximity of the two might repair the damage that was done.
“You have money?” she asked. “Who am I kidding, of course Jordan has money. When have you not had money, with all of that South African mining or farming money that your family gave you to go run around Africa.”
Her eyes, still locked unflinchingly on his like only a woman who knew she was standing on the moral high ground could, had begun to soften ever so imperceptibly.
“It was never the right time. It was never going to be forever. You knew that, Maria.” He did not want to get into it here, or now, or even ever or anywhere, but he knew without an answer she would never help. “You had your life, and you had to get back to him.”
“I would have left it all.” But they both knew it was a lie. She couldn’t have left that life until it left her, and had they run together, it would have been just another temporary salve on a wound that would never heal. “Either way, he’s gone now.”
A shadow of regret passed over her face. He felt it too, and as much as she knew so very little of the real him, he knew very little of the real her. She had always been one of those apparitions, a specter that had floated into his life with no past and no future other than the ones they imagined. She had rarely ever pressed him for his story, and he had never pressed her either. They had existed together in nothing more than a momentary reality, flanked both past and future by lies and dreams.
“Will you help me?” his voice had softened, and he allowed a bit of a plea to come into it. He had never asked her for anything before, and his sudden vulnerability caught her off guard.
“Who is we?” she asked defiantly, eliciting the faintest smile from his lips. He knew he had her. This tell of jealousy was all he needed to know the plan would work.
“A coworker of mine. He’s new to the Congo and I don’t want him to get fleas at one of the hotels in Pweto.”
She hesitated, as if considering his request. But both of them knew her mind was already made up.
“Come up at five tonight. We have the rooms.”
“Thank you, Maria,” he replied, smiling down at her.
“But don’t think I’m cooking for you, Jordan.”
“I would never dream of it, tesoro.”
Her hand flew up like a missile, but he was ready this time and caught her wrist inches from his face. They stared into each other’s eyes for what felt like an eternity. If she had thought he was vulnerable before, there was no doubt now that he was still the same man she had known. She did not move her arm back, but let him grip her wrist so close to his face. They were standing in front of one another, but this contact, this feeling of one another’s skin, made it real.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he whispered.
“Be there this time,” she replied before stepping back and getting onto her own motorbike, and driving down the pier.
***
Sergeant Patrick awoke as the first rays of sun started to bleed through the curtains of the room. The light was a particular affront to his throbbing head and dry mouth, which were symptoms of the worst hangover he had had since his early 20s. He rolled away from the light, trying to find his clothes in a heap on the giant king-sized bed.
His hand hit a wine bottle first, then a second, before locating the pants John had given him. His head throbbed again, just touching the empty bottles.
He rolled further towards his clothes and pulled them on. He noticed, for the first time in nearly a week, that he didn’t stink. The smell of diesel and sweat and dirt had been washed away in the shower of his room. It was a luxury he had not had in some time. Even before they had left the embassy, water had been rationed and showers were more infrequent than he would have liked. A younger version of himself would have hated that he had enjoyed the amenities of the Katumba Mwanke while everyone else in the convoy stank and slept on the ground, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that whatever John—or Jordan, as Maria called him—was up to in Pweto would likely get them killed.
The three of them drank for hours outside on the patio overlooking the lake. There weren’t any other guests, just a handful of staff, so they weren’t bothered at all. He had trouble keeping up at first, but he had learned a lot about the man who, despite having ridden with him for days on end and watching him execute someone, he knew almost nothing about. John had slipped into a South African accent while Maria was there, and had never bothered to explain why. As far as Maria was concerned, they barely knew one another, and were in Pweto for work.
The two had met at some five-star hotel in Nairobi that she managed, and whatever it was that separated them still hung over the couple like a pall. She had worked in hotels all over the world, from here in Pweto, to Kyiv, to Cairo. She was perhaps the most well-traveled and most mysterious person he had ever met besides John. She was beautiful and personable and everything a man could want in a woman. And every fiber of his being told him not to trust her. Despite knowing that everything about the man John was around Maria was a lie, and for a few moments in the night, he had seemed more normal than Patrick had ever known him.
Oddly, the conversation had never been inquisitive. There were no questions asked about childhood, or families, or anything really. They shared stories and drank, and all tried to feel normal. Even when she told them both about the presidential candidate that had died in her hotel shortly before John left, there were no probing questions from either man.
But beyond what he had learned of John’s past, or at least what had been said in front of Maria, it was what this woman knew about the war that surprised them. An EMP had destroyed much of the technology in Europe and North America. Several cities had been hit by nuclear or chemical weapons, and a land invasion of the United States was underway. He thought about his wife and kids back home. His oldest was a junior at Montana State and his youngest had started a vocational school that fall. He tried to remind himself that there was nothing worth nuking where his family was at, but still the worry gnawed at him. That he might never know worried him even more.
All of that, while he laid here in bed on the shores of an African lake.
He put his feet over the side of the bed and gingerly made contact with the floor. The stone tile was cool, and he tested his legs and slowly stood up. Stifling the need to vomit, he reached for the tabletop and steadied himself. Taking a step towards the curtain and its oppressive beams of light, he braced himself and pushed the blinds open.
What greeted him was maybe the most beautiful view he had ever seen. They were perched several hundred feet up, and out of the floor-to-ceiling window, the wide expanse of Lake Mweru glistened. He could see the beginnings of the river, and the ferry, and knew that young Jackson was down there somewhere sweating in the heat. He gathered himself and walked out of the room, stopping by the door to pull his boots on. It was only a few feet to John’s room.
He knocked once.
“Come on in,” came a South African voice from behind the door. For a moment Patrick was worried he had the wrong room. In his time with John, he had heard him speak at least three languages, but hearing him speak an accented English just didn’t process.
Patrick reached for the metal handle and turned it. As modern as the Katumba Mwanke was, it had still been built like a house, which meant the doors did not automatically lock like hotels would. Each room had a key. John’s door was unlocked, he hadn’t even bothered.
As his eyes adjusted to the light-filled room, he saw John standing by the window, completely naked, except for the cup of coffee in his hand.
“You ever want to just say ‘fuck it’ and do something else, Patrick?”
Patrick was taken aback by the question, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a leg peeking out from the covers in John’s bed. It was long and smooth. The white skin was flawless. He recognized the shape of it before his eyes made it to her exposed hip.
It was Maria. Who else could it be? The rest of her was mercifully hidden under the white blankets, and Patrick looked back at an equally naked John standing by the window, staring out over the water.
“That isn’t really my style,” Patrick replied, and it was true. He usually found his lane and stayed in it, and that made him happy.
“Yeah, me neither. Let’s go.”
John turned from the window, appearing to not be bothered in the slightest by his state of undress, and Patrick once again saw the giant scars on the man’s torso. The massive, jagged puncture wounds on one side and the precise cut on the other. He said nothing as John dressed, giving one last look at the sleeping Maria before walking out the door with Patrick in tow.
They walked out the front of the hotel, through the empty lobby and onto the grass. John pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He knew Patrick didn’t smoke, but nevertheless he offered one. Africa did strange things to people.
“We are going back downtown today. The Russians will be here in an hour or so, and they will walk around and make some noise. But if you keep your head down, you will be just another African to them.” John spoke so plainly, so matter-of-factly, that it startled Patrick. Nearly as much as the disappearance of his South African accent.
”I don’t speak any of the languages here,” Patrick protested.
John laughed, taking another drag of his cigarette. “And you think the Russians do? Just keep drinking tea and eating and playing cards where I tell you, and you’ll be fine.”
The pair started the short walk into town together, down the dirt road leading away from the Katumba Mwanke and into Pweto.
“When we get back to that bar, sit outside, but back towards the opening, under the awning. Sit where you can see the building across the street. If you need me, text me. Otherwise, we don’t know each other.”
Patrick’s brain tried to process all of this. The fear of the Russians arriving had sobered him faster than coffee ever could, and he walked a bit faster, as if that would help him against the people who had attacked his home.
They walked down the dirt road towards Pweto, passing all sorts of locals on their way, from fishermen to mechanics—many of the old trades one found use for in this remote part of the world. They also passed a group of schoolgirls walking to school together. Dressed in long blue plaid skirts with lighter blue button-down blouses, they looked like they could have been walking towards any Catholic school in the US. They sang as they walked, free of the worry and trouble that weighed heavily on the two Americans. Their world was not collapsing any more than it had already collapsed, and that was long before they were born.
“If anything happens, try and make it back to the Katumba Mwanke, and if you can’t, loop through the woods, make sure you aren’t followed, and get to Jackson. If anything happens to me, just go. I’ll be fine,” John told him when they found a moment no one was in earshot on the road.
As they approached the first row of tin-roofed buildings, John reached into his waist band and pulled out a pistol.
“Here, take this, give me mine back.”
He handed the new pistol to Patrick, and took his own back without another word. Where the man had found another gun, Patrick could only guess, but this being the Congo, it didn’t seem like it would be that hard.
They took their seats at the bar’s outdoor patio. Patrick got another of the fruity teas, which had really started to grow on him, and he saw that despite it being 8 a.m., John had gotten a beer.
They sat and minded their own business. John read a book and Patrick watched a soccer game on the bar’s TV. The reception was questionable at best, but it gave him something to ease his nerves. A few locals sat there too, either eating breakfast or drinking it. Dressed in a mix of button-down shirts that looked exactly like the ones John had given him, and soccer jerseys from all over the world, the locals paid him no mind.
He was pouring his second cup of tea from the steaming metal pot when he heard the unmistakable growl of diesel engines. They weren’t the local cars, with their small engines trying to generate a bare minimum of power. These engines roared with power, the way large trucks and military engines did. He had hoped John would be wrong, but he had been correct. The Russians had arrived.
Despite the resilience the town or Pweto had shown through decades of war, the arrival of the Russian mercenaries upended their lives like few things had. The roaring vehicles had barely come to a creaking halt when Russian soldiers began jumping out and quickly dispersing through the town. A large, bearded man climbed out of the first vehicle. The large armored tactical vehicle, a Russian version of an American MRAP was painted a sinister black. The vehicle featured an instantly recognizable hole in the windshield, from which extended long cracks like a spider’s web.
The man wielded authority and directed the men scattering though the Congolese town like locusts. They marched into the older and rundown African hotel across the street, and started securing rooms, while others moved to set up checkpoints. Nothing would get by without them knowing.
The bearded commander pointed to the bar where John and Patrick sat, and with a few men, walked towards them.
Patrick’s heart beat faster, knowing this could be it. If they discovered him here, they would likely torture him for any information he had. He didn’t know much, but it was enough. He resolved then and there that he wouldn’t let the Russians take him alive, and then it dawned on him. This must be why John had given him the pistol in the first place. What was he going to do against a hundred Russians with a handgun?
The bearded colonel stood at a table and surveyed the bar. One of his companions walked towards the bartender. Reaching behind the bar, he helped himself to a bottle of clear liquid. The bartender, either too shocked or too wise, did nothing, and the bottle joined a group of three Russians at the table. Each man wore a pistol and carried a shortened AK47, which they laid haphazardly around the table.
The dark man loomed over them and checked his watch. Saying something in Russian to his companions, he stared directly at John. The man’s eyes focused and bore down on the seated man.
John, who had until now appeared impressively indifferent to the arrival of the enemy, finally looked up at the bearded Russian.
“Howzit?” he asked, a fairly common and ubiquitous South African greeting.
“Afrikaans?” the bearded man responded.
John said something Patrick did not understand and could barely hear. It sounded a bit like German, but whatever the language, it had its intended effect. The colonel turned back towards the road in frustration.
“No Afrikaans. English?” he asked the blond man sitting in the chair in front of him.
“Ja. What can I do for you?” John replied.
“Have Americans come?” the man asked, his accent thick, his tone sinister.
“What Americans?” John gave a disinterested shrug. “Not many Americans round here, bru.”
The man asked nothing further. He walked out of the bar and down the street to oversee the men’s deployments. His three companions remained and opened the bottle.
Meanwhile John sat and read, listening to the Russians talk, laugh, and drink. The morning crawled by, and the three men at the table didn’t so much as stretch their legs until the first bottle was empty.
He had forgotten about the phone until it vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, he found the messages icon and opened it.
Jordan.
I’ll see you back at the hotel. Go ahead now, I’ll catch up. Go out back, you should take a look at the river from the hotel, the view is great.
He tried to recall the code from earlier. A vowel. Yes, this message started with a vowel; everything was okay. The implied task was also clear. John wanted him to make sure that the Russians didn’t cross the river on the ferry, and the hotel was the best place for that.
