DISPLACED
By Jeremiah Fastin
Smashwords Edition


Copyright © 2011 by Jeremiah A. Fastin
All rights reserved by the author


Acknowledgments
The author wishes to acknowledge the reporting of Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International, the reports of which were referenced in the production of this book.


Chapter 1

It hadn’t rained in several days and the road was cracked with rivulets and channels cut from the last downpour, a dried wash of rocks and clay that created a fine cloud of silt as the land rover drove over top.  The road led to a home and Jonas Negusse sat up as he heard the first sounds of the vehicle approach and then got up from his chair and stood at the door peering out.  An unannounced visitor was always some cause for concern and this surprise visit caused him a particular sense of unease.  As the truck crested the rise and came out of the shadow of the gulley of the road, his fear was realized.  He counted four to five men in the white land rover dressed in green military fatigues.  It was already too late to tell his wife and daughter to run and he would stand at the door and play it straight.  What could they know, he asked himself and convinced himself of the answer, nothing.
The vehicle stopped in front of the house and Jonas went onto the front porch to meet it.  A smallish man with dark skin and an officer’s insignia exited the passenger side of the truck while the soldiers in irregular uniforms filed out of the back and reunited with their leader and stood slouching against the truck with their guns at their side or held by the barrel with the stock on the ground waiting.  Jonas took the initiative and spoke first doing his best to sound natural, he introduced himself.  “Hello,” he said, “I’m Jonas Negusse, what can I do for you gentlemen?”
He received no response from the four soldiers that had gotten down from the truck and looked at him narrowly.  The officer approached him as if to make his acquaintance and then struck him in the jaw with his closed fist.  This was the sign the others were waiting for and they filed past the man pushing Jonas forward into the house and onto the couch in the main room.
“Jonas Negusse?” the man who had hit him asked.
“Yes, I just said as much.”  He said now sitting on the sofa, holding his jaw.  “Please,” he said, “take whatever you want, just leave my family.”
“We’ll search your home,” the soldier said.
His daughter, Nicole, had been watching seated in a chair as her father was pushed through the door not knowing what to think or do, and one of the soldiers grabbed her by the arm and raised her from her seat.  She protested and was slapped and then the soldier removed his bayonet and cut her blouse.  Jonas shouted, “No!” and he was punched and kicked, and brutalized with a rifle butt.  “Watch,” the soldier with Jonas’ arm in his hand and his foot on his head said as he twisted the arm backwards nearly out of the socket.  But he did not watch, he closed his eyes shut and through his shock, such was the intensity of his feeling, he experienced a profound sense of regret.  He did not blame the soldiers, at least not directly, they were part of the environment, but he blamed himself as all that he loved was being destroyed around him.
The soldier ripped Nicole’s sarong and forced himself on her.  At the same time, her mother came in from the kitchen and entered the maelstrom, like a blind woman in a storm, and one of the soldiers hit her in the face knocking her into a wall.  He threw her to the ground and rolled her dress up over her midsection.  When he couldn’t get an erection, he beat her to death with the butt of his rifle causing the insides of her head to spill out on the floor. 
Nicole flailed in panic and was struck again by the soldier.  When he was done she remained sobbing on the floor and the others had their way in turn.  Jonas could do nothing and lay on the floor asking his daughter for forgiveness.
“We’ve come for you Mr. Negusse, where do you keep your records?” the small dark man asked him.
Jonas, having been hit repeatedly and bleeding from his head, found some voice and sobbed for mercy.  “Please take whatever you want.”
“We’ll take what we want.  We like your daughter, she is very pretty.  What we really want are your records, financial accounts, those things from the previous government.”
He gestured and they took him to the other room.  They rifled through cabinets and desk drawers, and they came back out with several binders and loose papers.
“You’ve got what you want now please leave.”
“Sorry Negusse but you are too much trouble for us.”
Jonas felt certain that he would be killed and summoned his last bit of composure to make a bargain.  “But leave the child, she doesn’t know anything, she’s not a threat to anyone.  Take me and I’ll tell you everything.”
They were all together in the main room, all of them standing but Nicole.  One of them was on either side of her father.
The soldier standing closest to Nicole pulled a pistol.  “What of it?” he said and gestured to the leader.
“Go ahead leave her,” the man said.  “She is ruined.  Good for nobody- not to worry about.”
They marched Jonas holding his head out the door.  Nicole heard the tin sound of the doors of the Rover Defender slam shut.  The engine started and drove off, but she did not remove herself from the floor.  Afraid to let go as her world spun out of control, she pressed her face into the cool tile.  She could feel blood from between her legs.  Her mother lay dead a short distance away, her head and face pulverized.  She was lost.  She had no family.  She was ruined, spoiled, damaged goods.  She began sobbing unable to move.
****
Omar had seen the soldiers heading out past the roundabout.  A group of them armed, in a white Rover Defender passed as he worked at his aunt’s kiosk on the edge of town, on the road connecting the town of Bunia with the eastern suburb of Uhuru.  The kiosk was one of three stalls in a low brick building with a sloped tin roof and front doors of iron for each of the three shops.  A formica counter and metal gate to one side separated the front and rear of the store.  Sandwiched between Harriet’s Hair Salon and a furniture business, the store was secure and the interior could only be accessed through the metal gate at the front.  Omar passed his time at the front counter selling to the workers who commuted back and forth between their homes in the Bunia slums and Uhuru.  Maids, cooks, gardeners and gate men all bought from him.  Soda pop, matoki, chapattis, toothpaste and the occasional tube of skin lightener.  His aunt did a brisk business catering to the daily commuters.
Omar had just begun closing up shop when he first saw the soldiers.  Later,  walking along the Windsor crescent, to take the cut through across the narrow stretch of vacant property separating Uhuru from the slum and other less affluent neighborhoods, he saw them again in the distance.  The white truck came onto the roadway going the other direction from a drive connecting four houses to the main road, among them the Negusse’s home.  Jonas Negusse was his other employer and Omar walked up the long drive to the home to begin his evening duties working on the grounds and watching the gate.
When he arrived at the home, Nicole was still on the floor.  Omar came to the threshold of the house and hesitated in disbelief.  “Oh God, Oh God,” he murmured.  His first instinct was to flee and he went back and forth across the front porch undecided about whether to get help or assist those inside.  Finally he went in and knelt down by Nicole, “I’ll be right back, I’ll get your Uncle, he’ll know what to do,” he told her.  Omar had known the family for a little over a year.  He liked the Negusses, Mr. Negusse treated him well and gave him books to read.  Now he ran to get Mr. Negusse’s brother.
****
Jonas Negusse’s brother, Tshindundu Mukadi, or Uncle Mukadi as he was known by his extended family, had fallen out of favor in Congolese politics in 1996 when Mobutu fell from power.  Accused as a loyalist, he was stripped of his government post.  His position went to a minister loyal to Kinshasa, who was later killed while trying to enforce his writ.  Mukadi managed to hold onto his seat in the Parliament for some time, but eventually that too was taken away.
Then in the wake of the assassination of the first president Kabila, he was rounded up with the usual suspects after security services visited his home.  He spent four fitful nights in a camp outside of Bunia.  Separated from the outside world by two rows of metal fencing and a wind of concertina wire, he tried to speak to his wife, Beatrice, some ten feet away in a manner not to draw attention.  He spoke in proper French, hoping to elude the guards who spoke either pidgin or the local dialect.  Cash is what he needed, he told her, and much of it, and give it to the commander in charge.  Dutifully she had pressed the relatives and upon raising a sufficient amount, she visited the camp commander, a large dark man with a creased face that resembled a closed fist.  “Please sir, here are the necessary fines for my husband,” she said.  The commander accepted payment with a salutary grope of her buttocks.
It turned out that Mukadi was not the man they were looking for after all.  Before his release, he had only to spend four days sleeping on the ground and defecating in a bucket.  There was the obligatory interrogation, consisting of statements in the form of questions.  “When did you join the opposition?” he was asked.  “Who did you conspire with to oppose the new government?”  If there was any conspiring to be done, it would be done by them.  To make the point clear, he was spread on his stomach across a table top, and two guards took turns hitting the soles of his feet with a baton and alternately cinching the rope that held his head down to the hardwood table.  This went on for an hour or so while being questioned and then taunted about his support for the previous government under Mobutu.  When it was over, he could only crawl and had to be carried from the room only too grateful that his rectum had been spared.  Later, when he was released, the commander sent him off with a stern warning against the danger of opposition party politics.
He had been detained another time, after Mukadi had apparently ignored the commander’s warning and taken up with another political party in Ituri.  But Beatrice had had enough.  Another relative would have to raise bail.  She knew it was only a matter of time before they came for her, and she was raped or worse. A woman from a well to do family, she preferred France or Belgium, or some other European country of which he had lost track, to Bunia.  So she left.  She secured transport overland and then by river to Kinshasa and from there to France, Belgium, Europe.  He didn’t blame her.
Mukadi was a Mobutuist and had come of age politically during President Mobutu’s regime, shortly after independence.  He still clung to his belief that the movement under Mobutu was the right and necessary course for holding the country together.  Even if his countrymen did not appreciate it now, he was convinced that his generation had assured the legacy of a free Congo.  He compared that legacy with the current state of the country overrun by Ugandans and Rwandans.  The Congolese had lost control of their own franchise, which had reverted to shifting acronyms of groups of Tutsis, Hutus, Hemas, and Lendus.  Mukadi nurtured a particular contempt for the Rwandans, and his spite was ironic considering that he was often told, if not accused, that his features, tall, thin, and with a thin nose, resembled those of a Tutsi.  Nevertheless, he considered the Rwandans rapacious in their quest for resources and resented the way they used the Congo as their personal fief for settling political scores.  The Rwandans had thrown the Mobutuists out and it was the Rwandans now that raped the land.  What kleptocracy? he thought.  Now only Kigali and Kampala saw the profits from the Congo.
He had resolved himself to a fate of political obscurity and was making the best of his forced retirement, not ungrateful for having survived.  He lived on a ridge overlooking a grove of banana trees that had been neglected and were slowly being overtaken by the bush.  His house was a simple one story block house that retained its ceramic shingles.  From his porch on the side of the house, he could make out the expanse of Lake Albert in the distance.  The government and the political forces that controlled Ituri pretty much left him alone.  He had been mostly forgotten and was no longer of other use or a threat to anyone.  He sat on the porch on the side of his house sipping beer and reading a ten day old copy of the East African News.
“Wa Mukadi, Wa Mukadi” Omar was running down the unpaved track to the house, his flip flops clapping against his heels.  “The soldiers came and they took Mr. Negusse.”
****
When Mukadi entered the house, Nicole had made it to the couch.  She was curled up in the fetal position with her back to the room.  On the floor among the broken furniture and smears of blood lay her mother, her face unrecognizable in concave having been collapsed inside of itself by a rifle butt.
“I’m so sorry darling, I’m sorry for all of this” he tried to console Nicole and she convulsed with sobs.  “I’ll take care of you now, we’ll get you away from here. I promise.”  He promised and not for the first time, for he had made similar promises to others before.  His wife hadn’t waited for fulfillment but had taken matters into her own hands.
****
Jonathan LeClerc’s job normally shielded him from the worst banality of overseas development work.  As a freight forwarder for the World Food Program, his role was straight forward, he made sure shipments of aid transited the airport in Entebbe, on their way to Goma and Eastern Congo.  He hadn’t managed to exclude himself from this particular seminar, however, and he sat with other aid workers at a long conference table in the World Bank offices in Kampala, Uganda, looking at his watch under the table as a participant described a rights based approach to development that used synergies between stakeholders and local governments to promote the economic security of persons in rural communities.  He didn’t wince or roll his eyes when two volunteers acted out the approach with one person petitioning his local official for funds to build a well.  By outside appearances, he appeared alert and engaged despite the deep skepticism he harbored for the usual development rhetoric.  Attendance was mandatory, and at such gatherings topical pieties are observed and he was unwilling to play the apostate.
By his reckoning, corruption hadn’t abated from any World Bank program.  Most noticeable to him were the new Mercedes outside the government ministries when the World Bank checks came through.  Corruption and poverty were healthy in east Africa and no poverty eradication white paper would change that.  And yet, with his skepticism firmly in place, change was happening.  Incomes were rising as was the Kampala skyline whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not.
Jonathan was glad to be outside and heading across the rutted parking lot to his used Toyota pickup.  The previous owner, an officer with the Swedish Embassy, had let it go for one million Ugandan shillings or about $1,800.00 US.  The car suited him, slightly worn, not remarkable but dependable.  In his early thirties with average looks, Jonathan’s most notable feature was the mass of straight dark black hair affixed to his head.
“Hey Jonathan, let me guess back to Entebbe.”  The voice came over his shoulder and was immediately recognizable.  Kampala was a small town for expatriates and Karen worked for DANIDA, the Danish aid agency.  Thin with brown hair, she smiled at him as he turned to face her.
“That’s right, back to the airport.”
“So how’s work,” she asked.
“The freight comes in and freight goes out” he said in reply.  “You know how it is.”
“Right, okay, well I’ll let you get back to that.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it”
“We’ll see you this evening at Ougadougou?”
“I wouldn’t miss it” he said as she smiled and turned to go.  He waived and turned and opened the door to the Toyota which creaked with rust before placing his key in the ignition and turning over the engine which whirred under the hood.  In first gear, the transmission gave a short high pitched squeal, or was it the wheel joints, as the car became animate and moved off across the parking lot, through the congestion of Kampala, and finally the road out of town toward Entebbe.
When Jonathan arrived at the airport, Ronald Kasozi was standing in the shade to one side of the freight office.  Chubby and expressive with a round face in constant motion, Ronald was the counterpart to his partner’s reserve.  His white teeth flashed across the smooth brownness of his face when he talked, which he did often.
“I do not know why they let them fly that plane in here?” he said gesturing toward a small Antonov turboprop plane with Butemba Airline markings that taxied toward the main strip in the opposite direction.
“Maybe it’s a special flight, you know, special clearance,” Jonathan replied obliquely.
“I know it’s a special flight, they’re all special flights, that’s the problem,” Ronald protested.  
Jonathan looked off over the taxiway and didn’t question the legitimacy of the Antonov 26 that labored for takeoff overloaded and bound for Goma.  A Butemba airlines flight not recorded with the Civil Aviation Authority of Uganda, and registered with the aircraft registry of the Democratic Republic of the Congo with a duplicate registration number assigned to multiple aircraft.  The Antonov, with a crew wet leased out of Khartoum and invalid certificate of air worthiness, gained speed and then took off into the bright blue sky.  Jonathan watched and then turned and looked at Ronald with a shrug of his shoulders.  
“That’s all you have to say” Ronald said in response.  “Most enlightening, as always a great source of information – I can’t tell you how comforted I am.”
Jonathan grinned at Ronald’s theatrics.
It was near impossible to be involved in air transport to Eastern Congo and not be touched by smuggling and bribery in some form.  Jonathan considered it part of the territory.  It was a cost of doing business and he was willing to make allowances.  He looked the other way when the Pakistani logistician for the UN peacekeeping mission asked to include a pallet of material for Mongbwale or Goma.  They were, after all, on the same side and the food aid he was responsible for still got through.  He never questioned the occasional favor or gift that found its way to him.  Ronald knew that Jonathan did business under the table but tolerated his indiscretions provided they weren’t overt and he was left out of it.
Jonathan mostly traded in the currency of favors.  When he needed flight or loading priority, he usually got it.  Space in the customs warehouse or no problems with customs clearance, he could get that as well.  This was the grease that made the operation run and he prided himself on his ability to get things done.  Over time, however, he had become more enmeshed and breaking the rules had become routine.  Others had become dependent on his willingness to cut corners and he had received payments in return for his flexibility.  Not directly, but sometimes in the form of visas that he could sell to a Ugandan national in Kampala who ran a foreign exchange.  Sometimes in the form of small stones that were presented to him like souvenirs, tokens for his consideration.  He didn’t really need the money but it became a way of doing business.  A way of doing business that made him increasingly uncomfortable.  Now that he was in it, he didn’t know how to get out, but knew that he had to.
Jonathan walked from the office at the end of the terminal across the back of the terminal and onto the tarmac.  The day was cloudless and warm and the black top was heating up in the afternoon sun.  He waved at a short Pakistani man dressed in a khaki uniform.
“Mr. Singh how are you today?’
“Good Jonathan good, it is good to see you.”
“Likewise, good to see you.”
“I’m glad I ran into you.  I need to talk to you.”
“What can I do for you?”  He asked Gurpatwant Singh, a Major in the Pakistani Army, who could have appeared in a Rudyard Kipling novel with a moustache and red beret that he kept folded and tucked under his left epaulet.
When they first met, Major Singh had also asked Jonathan for a favor. “It is a small thing,” he’d explained originally.  “You are still doing your job” and “we are on the same side.”  So Jonathan acquiesced when Singh had asked to put some additional supplies on a flight to Goma because the UN peacekeeping mission needed additional foodstuffs.  Over time the relationship deepened and the Major offered to pay him for the trouble.  “Go ahead Jonathan, its paper money, money saved out of the budget for transport,” as if this somehow distinguished it from other money.  Always a rationale, always the façade of legitimacy and Major Singh’s soothing calm, reassuring that it was proper, part of the mandate.
And what of the bullet proof vests by way of Kigali and then Arusha?  The ones with the misspelled designation “Rwandan Defence Force.”  They weren’t UN issue.  “Not to worry we work for the UN, we take what we can get.  But for your trouble, I know this is not part of your regular job.”  His regular job was delivering food to the displaced people outside of Goma and in North Kivu, not delivering supplies to combatants.  But not combatants, UN peacekeepers, and don’t mind the additional crates with the mishandled bills of lading and Chinese markings.
And again today, the Major asked for transport.  “Jonathan, I’m wondering if you have any room on your flight this evening, the one to Mongbwalu.”
“I think we might have a bit of space, let me check my manifest and get back to you.”
“Thank you Jonathan – just a little space – just some supplies – a big help.”
“Not a problem, I’ll get back to you.”
Jonathan continued across the edge of the tarmac toward a pair of two ton trucks and the staging area at one end of the hangar.  Later that same afternoon, he found some space in the Illuyshin bound for Ituri.  He watched as the loadmaster loaded two crates, with bills of lading checked for various office supplies with port of origin in the United Arab Emirates but not entered through Ugandan customs, into the belly of the plane among the boxes of formula.
In the early evening, Jonathan drove alone on the road back to Kampala.  He drove fast, the way everyone in Uganda did.  Weaving around minivans filled with passengers as they picked up and dropped off commuters at the end of the day.  The roadside contained stalls, beauty salons and small markets, many with names in broken English appropriated from western franchises.  The road was mostly smooth with occasional patches of potholes filled with red clay and it was open for most of the journey.  It jammed as he approached the roundabout at the southern end of Kampala.  A mass of humans headed to the taxi park, private cars, white Toyotas, with mopeds for hire weaving in and out.  He forced his way through, relying on his horn, to the drive bordered by the golf course that bounded downtown Kampala to the west and the suburbs on the east.  He turned right and drove up Acacia drive through Kilolo, an upscale neighborhood, home to the better restaurants, diplomatic residences, and many expatriates.  He drove up the hill and arrived at a strip mall in the shape of an L with a rectangular parking lot in its angle known as Kismenti.
He parked and walked across the street to a high posted wooden structure.  The main entrance was only partially enclosed and provided the option of an art gallery on the first floor and stairs leading up.  Jonathan took the stairs that opened up to the second floor, a large room with a sloped thatched roof that also served as a ceiling.  On the opposite side from the stairway was the bar which lined one of the three walls that made Ougadougou, the fourth opened to the outside and incorporated a large deck.  The bar was an expatriate hangout in Kisementi with a mixed crowd.  Jonathan recognized many of the faces and he sat down at a table next to Anne, a brown young woman who greeted him with a sarcastic smile.
“Hello Mr. Jonathan”
“Ms. Anne, so nice to see you.”
“You know Jonathan…,” she started.
“No” he interrupted shaking his head, “I don’t know, I’m hoping you’re going to tell me”
“You know” she started again with a wider smile “I think you can afford to get your laundry done”
“Hmm, I get it, you’re suggesting there is something wrong with the way I’m dressed.”
“Uh well, your shirt is wrinkled, and what’s this?” she asked pointing to a black grease stain on his pants.
Gaddy an Ethiopian American, and one of the three Americans in the group the others being a Jewish American and a Wisconsin American, interrupted.  “You’d think he’d have more class,” he offered to Anne.  “Really man, you got a good job, you can hire someone to do your laundry.”
“Well first of all thank you for addressing me as a ‘man’ okay ‘man’” Jonathan responded affecting a superior air, clothing be damned.  “And secondly, my laundry is fine.”
Chris, the Wisconsin American, bought a bottle of Waragi for the table, which he mixed in glasses with bottles of Krest ordered from the bar.
“I saw some UN guys in town yesterday,” he said, “they had some nice shirts and jackets with the UN insignia.  You should get yourself some UN apparel.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s for official use only” Jonathan responded.  “I love these Americans” he said to Anne “they treat everything like it’s a gift shop.”
“Speaking of Americans where’s Mike?”
“I don’t know, he almost didn’t make it home last weekend” explained Gaddy. 
“We went to Kigali and he didn’t have a return visa for getting back into Uganda.”
“Well, then how did he get back in.”
“They let him back in.”
“I figured that much.”
“They made him get off the bus and the guy there at the border, the border patrol officer or whatever he was just gave him a talking to and then they let him back on the bus.  But seriously man, you can’t go out to the clubs in that outfit, look at your boots, you look like you’ve been walking through a tar pit”
Jonathan looked at his boots which had suffered from recent asphalt work at the airport.  “Again I want to thank you for addressing me as man” he said “and no I’m not going out to clubs tonight, I need some sleep.  Hey Addie” he said wanting to change the subject and tiring of talking about his clothes, “I’ve got a question for you.”
“You’ve got a question, you always have a question, there’s a lot you don’t know.”
“No, seriously Addie, when do you think they’ll catch Osama Bin Laden.”
“You’re like a broken record with that shit”
“Gaddy, really, we’re friends, I just can’t understand why the United States hasn’t caught him yet.”
“You can’t understand is right, there’s a lot you can’t understand.”
“You know, Jonathan,” Anne restarted.
“I know?  What do I know? Please tell me.”
“Okay,” she laughed.
“You know,” Chris said picking up the thread.  “I think I’ll buy another bottle of Waragi,” he said and got up and went to the bar.
Lynnette a young dark skinned Ugandan with extravagant curly hair and a sing song way of talking, walked in and pulled up a chair and immediately joined in the conversation.  She had a habit of asking questions in her speech just so that she could answer them.  “I was late because of what?” she would ask and then immediately answer, “the traffic.”  When Jonathan found himself talking with her he felt like a kid in school unable to answer her questions before she did.  Andy and Robert and three English girls joined the group smoking cigarettes and talking about fags and quids and Andy’s familiarity with the prostitutes at the Rock Garden.  A woman named Sarah asked Andy if he thought she was an easy shag, but Jonathan didn’t hear the response.  He sat back in his chair and listened to the conversation and looked out over the treetops toward the city to the south.
****
When Tshindundu Mukadi and Omar picked up Nicole and moved her to the car, she was firmly cocooned in despair.
“We have to move you dear,” he told her.
They took her to Mukadi’s home and he laid her on the bed in the guest room where she curled up in a ball.  Later when the doctor came to examine her, she did not resist allowing herself to be manipulated, reacting mechanically and impassively to instruction.  Mukadi left her alone that evening and she cried herself to sleep.
The next morning when he brought her food, she was sitting up in one corner of the bed with the covers clutched to her face and her chin buried in her neck.
“Here dear having something to eat.”
“What happened to Father?”
“He is gone.  They took him dear.”
“I am ruined and alone uncle.”
“You are not ruined.”
“I am spoiled and no one will have me,” she cried.
“They will be lucky to have you.  Listen Nicole, you are still the same, you are still the same you.”
“Why uncle?  Father is not in the government anymore.”
“The past has a way of catching up with us.  Your father … made enemies, your father knew too much, what he knew was a threat to others.  You’re his daughter – maybe you’re also a threat.  I think they may have made a mistake.  I think we need to get you out of the country.”
****
The Democratic Republic of Congo national road no. 2 was a wide dirt track that flooded with the seasons and had fallen into disrepair.  Nicole’s Uncle decided that north was the only route available and the only route out.  There was violence to the south and west to Kinshasa was neither practical nor safe.  They started out early in the morning and drove north, the farther they got from Bunia, the greener the landscape, until they came to patches of ashen countryside denuded for charcoal and lumber.  The green and brown alternated for a time until the road returned to verdant jungle.  The white Toyota would just get up to speed only to be forced to slow at a series of deep ruts and potholes in the packed clay road.  Mukadi maneuvered the car carefully amongst the fissures in the road.  Unavoidably the car would go into a sink at slow speed and dip down as if submerging into the road just before bottoming out.  The wheels would emerge from the other side with the body of the car rising and falling with the topography of the road.  Nicole in the passenger seat rose and fell with the car as she looked out the window into the early morning while her Uncle navigated obstacles intent on throwing a tire, wheel or axle.  At his side and beneath his seat a carton of cigarettes and some bottles of beer, a possible offering in the event of a road block.  In this way, they made progress toward her Aunt Philomene’s house.
They arrived in Mongbwalu in the early afternoon.  Mukadi greeted his sister and reassured Nicole that she would be fine and that Philomene would see her the rest of the way to the border.  He gave her the contact information for a friend in Kampala, and Nicole assented that she wouldn’t lose faith and stick with Philomene and everything would be okay.  He was anxious to get back on the road and return before dark and made his farewells before climbing back in his Toyota for the trip home.  He left Nicole with her duffle bag of possessions in Philomene’s care and her Aunt busied herself with Nicole showing her where to put her bag and her bed for the night.  
Philomene lived in a single story house with whitewashed walls and tiled floors north of the middle part of the town of Mongbwalu.  A central common room bisected the home and was surrounded by four bedrooms.  The next morning when Nicole awoke the sun was shining and there was movement outside in the street.  She walked into the main room in her flip flops and night clothes.  Philomene was busy wrapping food in wax paper and cloth, and packing it in a cloth bag.  During the night two UN peacekeepers had gone missing from their post and now they had been found dead, one shot through the head, the other through the stomach, their bodies dumped in a small ravine and covered with brush.
Stability a precarious notion in Mongbwalu under the best circumstances had been shattered.  As a result, lines were shifting and established norms of control were upended.  The UN peacekeepers were repositioning and moved from their most exposed posts in town and consolidated their forces at their base to the south.  They were expected to retreat further toward their strength in Bunia.  The local militias were positioning themselves to take advantage of the vacuum.
“Nicole get yourself dressed and pack your clothes, we need to be ready to leave.”
Nicole, unnerved by the uncertainty, began shaking but did as she was told.  She put her bag by the door and sat down folding her arms and putting her head on the table, she felt tired again.  The rumors had reached her Aunt that morning that it was the Lendu militia that had killed the two peacekeepers and dumped their bodies by the side of a road.  To distance themselves from the murder, they had pulled back from the eastern edge of town.  Retreating west, gangs of militia had burnt the homes of suspected Hema.  Other antagonists had used the opportunity to better their position and fill the space left by the retreating UN forces and the Lendu.  A Hema militia lead by a Commander Jerome moved east toward town, squeezing the civilian population in the middle.
The front door swung open and Moses, Philomene’s next door neighbor, said it was time to go.  They gathered their things and walked the dirt drive connecting the home to the road.  As they approached the main road, they heard the sound of movement a dull rumble and saw a procession of people moving east.  They joined the crowd adding their bodies and possessions to the greater mass that walked with the few things they could carry, many with only some clothes in a bag.  They moved quietly slowly marching out of town.  They were mostly Lendu, or so Nicole guessed, the line between Lendu and Hema was not always easily decipherable by appearance.
Nicole and Philomene had walked only a short distance, maybe half a mile from their home, when suddenly there was a surge from the rear as if those in back were out of step and needed their cadence checked.  The sudden push caused those in the front to move forward and then to stop and look back.  Everyone then stopped and remained standing in quiet.  They watched as three young men with no belongings came into view and just as quickly sprinted past using the side of the road and the shallow ravine that bordered the road on the other side.  Then in subsequent order they heard a scream, a shot, and another scream.
A brief murmur went through the crowd and it began moving with urgency.  Those at the front began to run and those to weak to run far cried and called out in desperation.  Many in the crowd abandoned the road altogether and sought hiding places or ran through the warren of streets that formed one end of the town bordering on slums.  The road once full quickly emptied and all that remained was the litter of cast off articles as people dropped their possessions and ran.
Philomene grabbed Nicole by the top of her sleeve near the shoulder and practically dragged her through the ravine on the side of the road and up the other side through the overgrowth to a bordering field.  They ran through the field to another and over a wire fence now angled almost parallel to the ground having been trampled by a group running ahead of them.  At one end of the field they approached a row of mud and brick huts with metal roofing and Philomene pulled Nicole down in the grass beside her.  They hid in the tall elephant grass on one side and the back of a hut and partially finished or collapsed cinder block wall on the other.
Nicole was breathing hard and she buried her head in the mud and brick in front of her and dared not look out.  Philomene raised her head over one portion of the wall and viewed the central road through Mongbwalu.  A rearguard of three boys still in their teens with machetes approached the center of town.  Another one, older, had an elderly man by the arm and dragged him toward the middle of the street.  The man twisted around the radius of his wrist as he tried to free himself.  The boy hit him on the head with the flat part of his machete in response.  “You are my enemy,” he shouted at the man.  “We are going to exterminate you – the government can’t help you now.”  He kicked the man and pushed him with the sole of his foot, knocking him face forward to the ground.  He raised his arm and swung the machete into the back of the man’s neck.  It briefly caught as the boy yanked and then freed itself giving way to a spray of blood.  The boy swung again and Philomene could see the flash of scarlet when he raised his machete.  Another joined and hacked at the now lifeless body completely separating the head from the torso.
Behind the small group of boys appeared men with guns, some in uniforms or irregular uniforms, others had spears and one had a rocket propelled grenade.  They went from house to house, checking the premises and pulling out anyone remaining and questioning them.  Philomene watched as they took one of her neighbors, Kasore, a Lendu man in his thirties.  They took him out of his family home and he was crying and begging for his life.  They led him into the street and attacked him with knives and a hammer.  The son was being held by two soldiers and made to watch and his eyes were big and white like eggs.  A third soldier approached and without warning cut the boy’s throat.  Philomene could not see his eyes glaze over and roll into the back of his head but watched from a distance as he dropped to the ground and bled out.  It wasn’t enough to simply kill their enemy but to render him in a ritualistic orgy of the grotesque.  The men, like experienced butchers, cut the tendons on his heels and smashed his head, and Philomene gagged and turned away when they cut open his abdomen and removed his intestines.  At the end of their vivisection, her neighbor was reduced to his parts and his guts lay strewn on the dirt roadway in a gray viscous heap.
More soldiers entered town and increased the house to house search.  It was clear to Philomene that this was the Hema militia, and although Hema herself, she felt no kinship and was unwilling to risk revealing herself.  She watched as those suspected of being Lendu were taken aside to be dealt with later.  As the militia set themselves up in the center of town, gunshots could be heard in the distance directed at the fleeing Lendu militia.  The shouts of noncombatants, as well, could be heard fleeing into the bush as soldiers pursued civilians, who sought refuge in the surrounding countryside.  In one house an incendiary grenade exploded with a thump.  Philomene saw the muffled flash through a window frame of shattering glass and watched as flames engulfed the house from inside out until the roof caught fire and collapsed in on itself.
She got down on all fours and began pulling at debris to surround them on the one exposed side.  “We can’t leave now Nicole, we’ll stay here until night” she said to reassure her niece.  What would happen at night she didn’t say or know.  She gathered a piece of corrugated metal and leaned it against the fallen down wall.  Over the tin she draped a sheet of once translucent plastic now stained by mud and clay. Surrounded by trash and overgrown grass, they appeared as a debris pile against the back wall of the deserted hut.
****
Father Ignatius Boniface was living in a state of in between leaving his old life and adapting permanently to a new one.  Large and black with a barrel chest, broad puffy face and coke bottle glasses, he appeared as caricature, somewhere between Uncle Remus and little black Sambo.  A refugee in Kampala, the Dioceses had ordered him reassigned from Bunia after repeated death threats.  Now out of place, he had struggled to find a role for himself and had taken up duties at the local Church, saying Mass during the week and once on Sunday.
In addition, he had taken to ministering to the diaspora in Kampala.  Initially it was a single parishioner asking for intervention with the immigration ministry, then another needed a small loan to hold him over.  Now a resource for the local Congolese community, he was torn by his memories from home and the connections he was making to his new residence.  He tried to take it in stride and ascribe his situation to providence, but it stuck in his craw, there was someplace else he was supposed to be and his life in Kampala felt a betrayal to his past.
He had been at home when Mukadi called and the connections from his past reached out to gather him again.  When he heard Mukadi’s voice on the line, he did not immediately associate the voice with a name, but with a face and a place.  He remembered his childhood friend and the time he spent in school in Bunia in the small compound run by Father Andreas.  He had become friends with Tshindundu Mukadi, a child as different from himself as possible save for their shared African heritage.  Tshindundu and Ignatius came from different tribes when their tribal distinctions seemed to matter less.  As the children of civil servants, they were among those lucky enough to attend school.  Thin and lean and athletic to Ignatius Boniface’s youthful robustness, Tshindundu excelled in school and this was their commonality.
He remembered fondly the schoolhouse with cement walls, thatched roof and open spaced windows.  Father Andreas, the tall severe Franciscan, correcting his diction.  “One doesn’t know it, Mr. Boniface, one knows of it.”  It was Father Andreas, who had encouraged his education and Father Andreas, who had written the letter of recommendation for school in Lyon when his parents emigrated.
Having in that instant placed the name with the voice, Father Boniface responded warmly.  “Hello Tshindundu, what a nice surprise.  So good to hear a voice from an old friend.”  The two men exchanged greetings before Tshindundu explained the purpose for his call.
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Father Boniface said on his end of the conversation.
“Yes, yes, of course I remember Nicole.”
“I see … to Kampala, right.”
“You say overland? … right of course.”
“Anything I can do Tshindundu, anything at all.  I will get on it right away, We can take care of her here.”
“No, no, not to worry, I am fine.”
“It’s not necessary, your family has always been good to me, it’s the least I can do.”
“Okay, okay”
“Be safe friend”
“Okay, au revoir.”
Father Boniface hung up the phone.  When Father Boniface’s parents emigrated, Tshindundu’s family had remained in the Congo.  Under the Mobutu regime, Tshindundu had prospered.  His father had been a minister in Kinshasa then provincial governor with authority for awarding the regional mineral concessions.  This he did to a Belgian company for a kickback payable by deposit in a numbered Swiss account.  The only divergence had been the Father’s marriage to a member of the Luba Kasai, which raised eyebrows in Kinshasa.  Father Boniface remembered Tshindundu’s mother, an elegant woman, who disdained politics at home and remained quiet whenever Mobutu’s name entered the conversation.  Tshindundu was named for her father, his maternal grandfather, which created its own problems, nominally identifying him as Luba Kasai.  Tshindundu the first had died in one of the fits of ethnic cleansing under Mobutu and the Luba Kasai had fared no better under either of the Kabilas, whom resented their elitism and craved control of their land.  Tshindundu bore this legacy in secondary school when the other students accused him of being “too Rwandan.”  He had stood his ground then and Father Boniface had admired his toughness.  They had become friends and their families and their education had shielded them from the worst of tribalism.  Tshindundu’s father’s connections had allowed the son to get ahead despite his name.
Father Boniface was loyal too.  He had not known Jonas, the younger brother, as well.  He remembered in school Jonas enjoyed the protection of the older tougher Tshindundu.  Over time the younger brother also entered the family business and was made chief of the government mineral concession in Ituri.  The position had meant something when Mobutu was in power but had lost its authority after the Rwandan and Ugandan invasions.  Thus the brother nominally in charge of the mineral concession became something less than a figure head.  An obstacle that either had to be bought or overcome.  Father Boniface had met Jonas’ daughter Nicole at Church, and remembered her as mousey and quiet, with coco skin.  “She is smart,” Tshindundu had said, “she helps keep the books.”
Later that day, Father Boniface was thinking of Nicole as he left the lobby of the Kampala Marriot and stepped into the sun.  As he waited for a taxi, he saw Jonathan exit a taxi that had just pulled up and was now last in line.  He waved off the doorman, who was opening the side door of the next car for him.
“How are you Jonathan – haven’t seen you around lately.”
“I’m fine father, good to see you again,” Jonathan said.  He was taken a bit by surprise, his thoughts had been elsewhere and he hadn’t seen Father Boniface coming.  The Priest, whom he considered a friend, nevertheless put him on edge.
“We were hoping to have seen you at Church, or maybe afterwards, or really at any time.  You are always welcome.”
“I know, I apologize, I haven’t been around lately.”
“It’s not just that – we would have liked to have seen you.”
“I’ll try and make a point to come around.”
“Okay, Okay, I don’t mean to put you on the spot.  I just wanted to say hello, it’s good to see you.  Also, I may have a favor to ask you.”
“Anything Father, name it.”  Jonathan said with enthusiasm to change the subject from Church attendance.
“Well, I’m expecting someone, someone from my home district.”
“Your home in the Congo?”
“Yes, my home in the Congo.  I’m not sure when she is going to arrive or even how.  The thing is I promised to help.  This woman is the niece of a good friend and I may need your help.”
“Okay, I’m not sure what I can do.”
“Well, I’m not sure either.  I know that you know people and there is the matter of immigration.  My friend has relatives in the United States and I was thinking you might know someone who can help.”
“Unh huh, I see.”
“Look, I don’t want to ask too much.  She isn’t even in Kamapala yet, if you could just keep an open mind, maybe meet with her when she gets here.”
“Well sure Father, I’ll meet with her, but I can’t promise anything.  I’m not sure what you’re asking, I’m not sure what I can do.”  In the past, in return for cargo space, Jonathan had been able to secure preferential treatment in the UN resettlement program.  He leveraged this preferential treatment to individuals allowing them to jump the line and secure resettlement in the United States.  Was Father Boniface referring to this or just talking generally?
“I know, I’m sorry if I’m a bit evasive, I’m just not sure how things are going to play out.”
“Okay, well just let me know.”
“Okay and thank you Jon, I really appreciate it, I knew I could count on you.”
“Okay, not a problem.”
They shook hands.  Father Boniface looked him in the face and gripped his shoulder. “God bless you.”
“Okay, see you Father.”  The Priest’s forthrightness made him feel awkward.  His own ambivalence felt apparent in the face of the other man’s conviction.
Jonathan watched as Father Boniface got into the white Toyota taxi.  He as much put the car on as he entered it, his large frame almost overwhelming the vehicle before it drove off.  Jonathan went inside through the lobby to the pub, he looked around and then took a seat at the bar.  The day had been eventful.  A shipment of crates manifested as medical supplies from Boston destined for Bunia had arrived at the airport the evening before.  That morning, a forklift operator was moving the crates to the staging area to be loaded on a plane when they fell off the palate and broke open revealing their contents of military uniforms from the Rwandan army.  Ugandan security services seized the shipment and proceeded to arrest the importer, Peter Nsegiyuma, in connection with the shipment.  Ronald had thrown a fit and made not too subtle hints, that if he wasn’t careful, Jonathan would end up the same way.  Jonathan sipped his beer and waited for a friend.

Chapter 2

By appearance, Jean Pierre Bembe was a large expansive man.  His globe like head sat on his shoulders like a pumpkin.  A small brown pumpkin with full cheeks.  When he smiled, he showed a full set of white teeth, and when he laughed, really laughed, you could see a pink flash of tongue.  A natural politician, one might mistake him for jolly, but his eyes were keen and behind them was a kind of craftiness.  More recently, however, he was given to fits of self pity as he had yet to resolve himself fully to his situation, which was detention at the International Criminal Court in the Hague.
“The only difference between me and Kabila is that he won and I lost,” he complained to the lawyer in the room.  “They say my men killed in Ituri, Kabila’s men killed everywhere,” he continued.  “Yes civilians died, but this was a political struggle,” he argued to nobody but the young lawyer, who sat at one end of the table.  The lawyer did not take notes.  He waited and he nodded in ascent at his client’s ruminations.
Bembe sat with his face in his hands fingering the scar that creased one side of his face.  The detention center’s visiting room was clean and large enough, and had a narrow window that let in outside light.
“War crimes, no not war crimes,” he went on.  “My crime was to challenge Kabila, my crime was to challenge Kabila and lose.  That was my crime,” he concluded.
The young lawyer nodded his agreement and looked at his watch under the table, while Bembe massaged his head. One of a team of lawyers arranged and paid for by parties unknown for which in return Bembe maintained omissions in his testimony.  He acknowledged his relationship with the mining companies, he had had to.  But only insofar as it was a legitimate commercial transaction between the government and an outside contractor.  Commissions, protections fees, militia taxes, and bribes were not acknowledged.  These could create problems as foreign corrupt practices and Bembe was insistent that the business had been legitimate and for the benefit of the people.
The two men waited sitting for a time without talking.
“Please excuse us Paul,” said a tall well dressed man as he held the door open for the young lawyer.  “I’ll talk to you later when I get back to the office and thanks for everything.”
“Sure, not a problem, we’ll talk later,” responded the younger man as he gathered his case file and walked through the open door.
Simone Matanda sat down at the table opposite his long time business partner.  “Listen Jean Pierre, I’m afraid I have bad news, they are not going to let you go on parole.  The prosecutor’s office has appealed the decision of the judge and they’re going to detain you during the appeal.  You’re considered a flight risk and no country is willing to take responsibility.”
“Of course, of course, I am the great danger,” he grumbled. “I am the war criminal.  I never raped anyone, I never killed anyone.  Kabila, he rapes, he and the Zimbabweans, they rape the whole country.”
“Okay, well let’s not go back over that again.”
“Let’s. Why not?  I have time.”
“We’re moving backwards.  It’s called command control, your troops raped and killed and the prosecution is alleging that you’re responsible, but you already knew that.”
“I should have never left Kinshasa.”
“You’d be dead,” said Matanda, relieving him of any illusion.  He knew the man too long and too well to indulge him.
Matanda and Bembe had known each other from childhood in Ituri.  Bembe’s father had been a successful businessman and Mobutu supporter, from whom Bembe inherited his considerable wealth.  Bembe followed his father’s legacy as a supporter of Mobutu.  When Mobutu was forced out, Bembe took his support into the bush leading a militia against the government in Kinshasa.  An eventual peace agreement allowed him to leverage his political opposition into becoming vice president in the transitional government under a power sharing arrangement.  While Bembe was in the bush it had fallen to Matanda to manage what remained of his commercial affairs.  This he did while keeping his hands clean and maintaining his distance from Bembe’s adventures as a warlord.  Tall lean and dignified, he was the self contained erudite compliment to Bembe’s effusive and capacious brashness,
“They still have to make their case,” Matanda said.  “The torture charge has been dropped and there has been a new development one of their witnesses has gone missing.  The rumor is that Negusse can’t be found.”
Bembe picked up his head at the mention of the name of the former mining official, an individual he knew well from Ituri.  He looked across the table at Matanda with squinting eyes.
“He was going to testify, and no I had nothing to do with it, but others did,” responded Matanda cryptically.  “However it happened, it’s good for us.  They’re having trouble putting together their case.  This helps our defense.  The attack on Bogoro was a legitimate military engagement.  Civilian deaths were an unintended consequence and so on,” he said with manufactured enthusiasm.
“It’s all Kabila’s doing,” said Bembe having lost interest in the details of his case and lapsed into a familiar refrain.  “Do they know Kabila was behind this?’
“Yes, we’ll tell the press.”
“It’s all political.”
“I know.”
“I’m isolated here.  Sometimes, I think I’d rather be in jail in Kinshasa,” he paused and rubbed his eyes.  “At least there I’d have someone to talk to.  There is another fellow on my wing and he doesn’t speak French.  We have to speak in mime, it’s pathetic.  And the food is terrible.  I can’t eat it, no African food.”
“I’ll bring food next time I come.  They might let you cook for yourself.”
“I should have gone to London and applied to be a refugee like you.”
“The UK is a member of the Court.”
“The United States then.”
“The US has its own laws, besides they wouldn’t give you a visa.”
Matanda leaned forward, shifting his weight so that his legs folded under and around the base of his chair and his long arms extended on the table in front of him.
“Look,” he said again.  It seemed he was always telling Bembe to “look” or “listen.”  Speaking in the voice of an old friend, he continued, “let’s focus on the good okay? They dropped one of the charges, the legal bills are being paid, Negusse is out and the gold mines are not an issue, okay?”
“Okay, and you’ll bring food the next time you come, right?”
“Yes, yes of course, the food.  Do you want a lawyer or a caterer?”
“Ho, ho – that’s one of the funniest things you’ve said,” responded Bembe taking delight in goading a friend.
“I’m glad there’s something I could do to make you happy,” he responded.
Matanda was the lawyer Bembe trusted.  He would not argue Bembe’s case nor would he say a word in court on his behalf.  A lawyer in London, a former prosecutor, with a specialty firm had been hired to do that.  Matanda, nevertheless, was responsible for hiring the lawyers, managing the case and managing affairs generally.  He lived in London and maintained the DPC offices, the political party in exile, and the trip from London to the Hague had become his routine commute.
****
Horst Wagner, deputy investigator and protection officer for the International Criminal Court did not look the part.  Lanky with close cropped hair, he seemed mostly elbows and knees.  But he was tough in a sinewy kind of way and after three years in the German police force, felt proved and ready for a new challenge.  His current position required less physicalness and more ability at working phones.  A desk job was new to him but he was adept.  In his office on the third floor of the Court’s administrative building, with the one long rectangular window, he cradled the phone between his chin and shoulder waiting word on his last witness gone missing.  The Belgian officer on the other end of the phone was describing the scene of the last known residence and it did not appear good.  The house was vacated, the door left open, furniture turned over, personal papers ransacked, and most telling a thick smear of blood from the living area out the front door.
“No, no, I get it Jean,” he said into the receiver of the phone, “thanks for trying. You can try and go back out there if you want, if it’s not too dangerous.”
“Okay, just stay available and keep me posted if you hear anything.
Thanks again for everything.”
He hung up the phone. “Damn it, Damn, Damn, Damn.”  He hated to disappoint the prosecutors he worked for and this was disappointing news.  Jonas Negusse was more than twenty four hours overdue and based on most recent reports not likely to post alive.  The timing was too close to be coincidence, disappeared two days before being scheduled for transport to Arusha, Tanzania to appear to be deposed.  Word had got out.
Negusse, the former administrator of mines for the Ituri district had arranged to provide testimony in the case of Jean Pierre Bembe.  Mr. Negusse, perpetuating his former role under Mobutu, had continued in his government position after Mobutu’s demise supported by Bembe and by Bembe’s militia, and later acquiesced to in fact by the government in Kinshasa.  As administrator of mines, Negusse effectively served as Bembe’s government proxy in the region.  When Bembe moved to Kinshasa, as a vice president in the transitional government, Negusse served as his agent in Ituri managing, as much as possible, an area of 8,191 square kilometers centered around the town of Mongbwalu, known as concession 40.  Bembe’s militia exerted de facto control over the region.  On their behalf, Negusse negotiated with outside interests for rights to restart mining in an organized way.  This passed as good governance in Eastern Congo.
Negusse’s eventual problems had little to do with mining, but with staying on the right side of the shifting alliances in the region.  Not surprisingly his position had become untenable.  When Bembe was arrested, Negusse lost a powerful sponsor.  In turn, Bembe’s militia lost a leader presenting an opportunity for others to fill the void.  Confronted with the inevitable, Negusse was making plans to depart and the arrest of his old boss provided an opportunity.  He initially approached the UN peacekeeping force commander in Bunia, making general inquiries about the case in the Hague.  Over time he identified a contact and made his bargain.
Negusse was expected to testify how Bembe, and his militia, used their control of the concession to enrich themselves and to perpetuate his armed resistance and the ongoing conflict.  A conflict which served as justification for the militia’s existence and continued control of the mining concession.  Negusse’s testimony was to be the motive in the case against Bembe and his maintenance of violence.  It would also provide detail about the arrangements between Bembe and outside mining companies.  The case would still go forward.  There was plenty of physical evidence and eyewitness testimony.  What Negusse brought to the table was motive and a refutation to the defense of military justification.  Horst had other avenues to pursue, other leads to follow.  With the disappearance of a key witness, he would have to pursue those connections.
****
Jennifer Gruning watched the TV set as the senior Senator from Iowa yielded to a question.  “Would the senator from Iowa yield to a question?”  “I would gladly yield to a question from my colleague from Kansas.”  And why not, Jennifer thought.  The Senator from Kansas then asked a few easy questions about the pending agriculture bill.  “Does this bill differ from previous legislation by targeting subsidies at small farms?”  “And isn’t it true that this legislation conforms with WTO requirements designed to restrict subsidies over a period of years?”  The Senator responded yes to both questions, never mind that the bill, which had become something of a running joke on Capitol Hill for the extent of its largesse, actually increased farm subsidies.  Would the WTO ever get around to eliminating agriculture subsidies?  Maybe, but in the meantime it was more important to keep the peace.  So the United States, France and others would continue to subsidize their farmers at the expense of the third world, Jennifer thought and felt herself getting carried away, and calmed herself and regained her focus.  You’ve been reading too many talking points from Oxfam, she thought.  Just let it go, after all you work for the senior Senator from Iowa.  Be practical, she told herself, you can’t expect to limit farm subsidies as the foreign affairs legislative assistant to a senator whose constituency depends on corn production.
Jennifer knew better.  It had been three years since, when, with newly issued law degree in hand, she had gone to work in the Senator’s office.  She was practical.  Thin, plain and smart, she did her job well, covering the Senator’s issues for his seat on the Foreign Affairs Committee.  And there had been some successes, but success was incremental and it often came in the form of additional spending.  She had succeeded in persuading her boss to back provisions for looser patent restrictions and to allow production of more generic drugs, and the Senator was willing, despite the pharmaceutical lobby.  The Senator liked her and trusted her, and she actually had her own office with a door, a prize on Capitol Hill, even if it was only marginally larger than a closet and she had to share it with “her” intern.  Nevertheless, she was becoming distracted by the everyday compromise of politics.  She even bothered to meet with the legislative director about the farm bill.  He heard her with a show of understanding and concern before turning her down.
“But really Jennifer, what do you expect?”
“Even if we gave you the issue, what would you do with it?” he asked.  “Richard is a Senator from Iowa after all – you don’t expect him to commit political suicide?”
“C’mon now Jennifer, you’re not new to this, you know how it works.”
“Look, if you want you can write a memo on the subject from the foreign affairs perspective, you know how we subsidize cows ten dollars a day while the average African lives on less than two. You know the usual talking points.”
She had taken some offense to his cavalier attitude but knew he was right, she did know how it worked.  Why was she making such a fuss, this was not the first time she had seen passage of a farm bill.  Distracted and a little annoyed, she watched as her intern, Jay, clowned on the telephone.  Smug in an endearing naïve sort of way, when he first started he wanted to know the names of the “watering holes” where the old time journalists hung out.  He would probably do well in politics.  Now he was calling Chinese restaurants and patching them together on speaker phone.
“Hello Dragon take out, can I take your order please?” said a man in heavily accented English over the speaker.
“Hello Szechuan Gardens, how can I help you?” asked another.
“Yes, Dragon Takeout, what can I get you?”
“This is Szechuan Gardens, can I take your order?”
“Yes what would you like?”
“No you called me, can I take your order?”
“No you called me.”
“I didn’t call you, you called me.”
“Do you want an order?”
“Click”
“Click”
For some reason, Jay thought the idea of two people arguing in heavily accented English for no real reason was hysterical.  Jen was becoming impatient.  She frowned at him.
“Ah c’mon that was funny.”
“You have any work to do?”
“Yeah, I’ve got work to do.”
“Because if you don’t, I’m sure I can find something for you to do.”
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint.  I’ll go now, I have some important copying to do.”
Jennifer put on her jacket and sat down again.  She sorted through the papers on her desk until she found the background information on the Association of American Mining Interests.  Why was this a foreign affairs issue, she wondered, and why were they interested in meeting with her.  The Association of American Mining Interests represented a consortium of mining companies headquartered in the United States with interests in both the United States and overseas.  According to the brochure, the Association was represented by the Washington law firm of Jones, Case and Wadell.  
Jennifer crossed through reception and entered the office’s main conference room where she was greeted by three men, one of whom she recognized.  David, the legislative director, was talking to two men as if they were old friends.  She was surprised to see him, senior staff didn’t usually bother with routine meetings with lobbyists.  All three stood as she entered and David waved at her.
“Here she is, hey Jennifer,” as if they had just been speaking of her.
“Hello all, hope I’m not interrupting” she said smiling.
“We were just catching up, let me introduce you.”
Jennifer bristled a little but kept smiling, she preferred to make her own introductions.
“Jennifer Gruning – Edward Talbot”
Thin average height, glasses and grey thinning hair, he looked every bit the lawyer including the bow tie.
“Nice to meet you Jennifer”
“Nice to meet you as well”
Next to him stood another younger version of Edward.  With more hair cropped short and a hint of gel and also wearing a bow tie, it was Edward 2.0.
“And Jennifer this is Greg Block”
“Hi Jennifer it’s nice to meet you”
“It’s nice to meet you too”
They stumbled around for a moment everybody maneuvering around the crowded conference room to shake hands.
“Seems like you already started, I think I’m a bit behind.”  She glanced at Dave.
“No, no we were just catching up” said Edward.
“Well then what can I do for you gentlemen, or we, what can we do for you,” gesturing at David now sitting with one finger to his lips.
Edward started off, “well first of all, I want to thank you, both of you, for meeting with us.  I know it’s a busy time and I’ll try not to take too much of your time.”  Dispensing with the niceties, he launched into the heart of the matter.  “I’ll get right to the point, as you know our association represents a number of mining companies.  They do business all over the world and have interests and offices in a number of countries.  This of course creates a lot of opportunities, but also challenges and obstacles.”  He continued with what appeared to be a well rehearsed introduction.  Jennifer shifted in her seat waiting for the punch line.  She always hoped they would just tell her what they wanted and get on with it.  “Our members of course accept that they will be subject to the laws of the countries in which they do business.  We of course don’t object to that.  Our problem and what we do object to is restrictions by extranational organizations with contested jurisdiction.”
Extranational organizations with contested jurisdiction, sounds like a mouthful, she was tempted to interrupt just to hear him say it again.
“Our members want to be cooperative and like I said, fully expect to comply with all national laws, but would like some reasonableness…”
“I’m sorry, you said extranational organizations, are we talking about the UN?”  She was becoming impatient and wanted to move things along.
“Well yes, the UN would be one example among others.”
“And another would be?”
“Well, another example would be the International Criminal Court.”
“The ICC?  In the Hague?”
“Yes, the same”
“Okay, Okay” she responded looking at David now for some clue as to where this was heading.  He sat plaintively looking at his hands.
“Well our members would like certainty is all.  And we feel that some of the requests on our members are unreasonable.”
“Requests from the ICC?”
“Yes”
“What kind of requests?”
“Requests for information.  Again our members are not opposed to cooperating where they can.  It’s just with regard to sensitive information, our members want to be able to conduct their business without the threat that their internal communications and arrangements are going to be made public, when they themselves have done nothing wrong.”
“And we’re talking about criminal investigations right? After all it is the criminal court.”
“Right these are international criminal investigations, but ones that only tangentially involve our members and involve no actual wrongdoing on their part.”
“Can’t your members just ignore the requests for information, does the Court have any real enforcement against them?”
“Well perhaps they could, but that would raise a host of other issues doing business in some countries and the PR internationally would not be good for us.  Our members just want certainty, they want a uniform standard and don’t feel they should be subject to every extranational body, particularly one not recognized by the United States.”
“All right, but I’m just not sure what we can do for you.  The ICC is really not something we can legislate on, they’re out of our jurisdiction.  You might want to make a complaint with the State Department.”
“We think you can help.”
“Okay”
“You see there is the American Service-Members Protection Act.”
“The American Service-Members Protection Act?”  Jennifer raised her eyebrows and looked at David who refused to return her glance.  The American Service-Members Protection Act, derisively called the Hague Invasion Act, was designed to protect American military personnel serving in peacekeeping operations from being prosecuted by the ICC.  It authorizes the President to take all means to prevent such a prosecution.
“Yes,” now Greg began, “we believe the Act protects our members and actually prohibits their cooperation with the ICC.”
“Really, I wouldn’t have thought of that.”  Jen made little effort to mask the sarcasm in her words.  “Well great then, sounds like your problem is solved.  Under some interpretation of the law you’re covered, case closed.”
Now David caught Jennifer’s eye, he seemed to be asking or willing her to play it straight.
“Is that a copy of the Act?”  She was looking at the document with the title of the Act in front of Greg.  “Can I take a look?”
Greg slid the document over to her.
Holding up the document and pointing to the title, “most would think this is intended to protect service members in the Court’s custody, the cases you’re talking about don’t involve service members do they?” she said.
“No but….”
“And let’s see, it says ‘members of the armed forces of the United States should be free from the risk of prosecution by the International Criminal Court,’ it seems to me the Act is really intended for military personnel.”
“Yes but,” said Greg, who was in charge of the legal details, “sections of the Act, we believe, specifically prohibit our participation.”
“Okay, I’m looking at the Act, what sections are those?”
“Well,” now flipping through his own copy, “section 2004, ‘prohibition on cooperation with the International Criminal Court’ says and I quote ‘no agency or entity of any state or local government, including any court, may cooperate with the International Criminal Court in response to a request for cooperation submitted by the International Criminal Court’ and then again ‘no agency or entity of the Unites States Government or of any state or local government, including any court, may provide support to the International Criminal Court.’”
Did he actually have an argument?  Jennifer refused to believe it.
“We contend” continued Greg “that as companies incorporated under state laws our members are state entities and thus prohibited from cooperation.”
Greg finished and there was a short silence in the room.  Edward shifted in his seat and David gave a pained look at Jennifer.
“Wow” she said “that’s a, you gotta admit that’s a pretty broad interpretation of the statute.  I mean, I think what we’re talking about here are war criminals, or alleged war criminals, not military folks, so that might be your first problem.  As a practical matter what you want is to exclude any US corporation from cooperation with the Court.  In any case, I don’t think the statute was intended to go that far.  Regardless, what I think is largely beside the point, you have your interpretation, there is nothing stopping you from asserting it and refusing to cooperate.  Knock yourself out!”  The last part with a bit of flourish.  She was flush and felt herself becoming smug and caught herself.  She retreated.  “I’m just not sure what we can do for you.”
“Well,” said Edward after a pause, “we do have something in mind, something for you to consider,” he paused again, waiting for an interruption and when none came he continued.  “We’d like for you to consider some language in the Foreign Affairs Authorization Act, some language in the committee report.”
Jennifer took a breath and was about to object, she didn’t care what kind of language it was, this wasn’t in the Senator’s interest and this wasn’t their fight.  She was certain that using a law designed to defend the military serving overseas in order to protect commercial interests was a transparent act of cynicism.  But as she opened her mouth and the words formed in her throat, David interrupted her.
“We’ll consider it Ed, no promises but we’ll consider it.  Do you have some language?”
“Not with us, but we can get you some.”
“Okay, well you have Jennifer’s email, you can send it to her,” he said ready to put an end to the meeting.  Jennifer looked at him wide eyed and he did not return her gaze.  The others took their cue and began gathering their things, while David made small talk about the Senate calendar and Jennifer sat tight lipped.  She managed to smile and say goodbye.
“Thanks again” Edward was saying “and we appreciate your consideration and taking the time.”
There were thanks all around, they said their goodbyes and made their way out of the cramped room.  In the reception area after they had left, Jennifer looked at David, “really Dave? Seriously?  It’s the service member’s protection act, not the corporate CEO’s protection act.”
“Look do me a favor, just play it straight.  You can make your arguments against, but write it up in a memo and for the Senator okay.  They’re contributors.”
“I can’t believe we’re having to take this seriously, this is a joke.”
“I can give it to someone else, if you don’t want to handle it.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, “Oh no, I can handle it, I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” he said.  “Listen, wait until they get back to you before you do anything, maybe we’ll get lucky and they won’t follow up.”  But they both knew that was unlikely.

Chapter 3

Nicole and Philomene spent the daylight hours huddled under debris leaned against a shack.  From time to time, they heard sporadic automatic gunfire and other times the single crack of a gunshot.  Once they heard screaming that took the form of pleading but they couldn’t make out the words.  At one point, Philomene heard movement and peaked her head over the broken wall to see Ugandan soldiers in uniform with AK 47s slung over their shoulders directing Hema militia to pick up a dead body and move it away.  Philomene worried about Nicole.  She had barely spoken since her Uncle had dropped her off two days ago.  She sat withdrawn unwilling to engage her surroundings and completely dependent on her Aunt.  Philomene tried to encourage her and to steel her for the difficulties to come.
When the sun went down, Philomene waited an hour and then gathered Nicole.  The two of them picked themselves out of the debris and walked around to the front of the shack.  The alley facing them was empty and they made their way over the packed earth and around the rubble strewn by the recently departed.  At the end of the alley, Philomene turned the corner and then brought Nicole around behind her.  Nicole heard the flies first and then was hit by the smell.  To the side of the dirt track, she could make out the corpse sprawled in the weeds.  As she got closer, she saw a woman with a deep wound at the base of her skull, nearly decapitating her.  Her legs were bare and her thighs had been stripped of their flesh.  In the receding light, Nicole could see her thigh bones.  She pushed her head into Philomene’s back moving her forward.
It was a short distance back to Philomene’s house where they had started earlier that same day.  Philomene sat Nicole down by a post demarking a property line and went ahead.  She crossed by a neighbor’s house and approached her house from the back.  It was quiet and appeared empty.  She peered in the back window confirming no one was there before retrieving Nicole and leading her through the front door of the house.  Inside she told Nicole to got to bed, while she stayed awake sitting in an armchair against an interior wall with a view of the yard.  During the night, she heard a man calling to one of her neighbors, a Lendu, by name.  She heard no reply and hoped that her neighbor had left.  In the morning, she and Nicole would leave and make their way to the displaced persons camp in Djugu.  Philomene was Hema and could stay, but it was likely only a matter of time before the Lendu reprisal and she wanted to leave.  Philomene stayed up and only dozed off toward the early morning, after a few hours of sleep she woke with the sun.  Already packed, she reorganized their few things and woke Nicole.
“You must get up dear.”
“I’m awake.”
She wasn’t certain if Nicole had slept during the night.
“I need you to be brave dear.”
“Okay Auntie, I will.”
For breakfast they ate eggs and bananas that had been left over from the day before.  Then they got their things together and walked out the front door and headed west to the edge of town.  The town smelled of ash, and thin streams of smoke came from the remains of a burned house.  They walked past a corpse in repose on the side of the street under a tree with its arm under its head and its back turned to them as if napping in the shade.  Flies danced on the surface of the corpse’s skin and congregated in the deep red cuts to the body.  They were eyed by the militia, who glared at them and then ignored them, and watched by the Ugandans, who smiled and tried to catch their eye.  At the edge of town, they came to a roadblock.  Several young men armed with machetes stood around together with a Ugandan soldier in uniform.  Among them Philomene recognized her former neighbor, Yaphet.
“Hello Yaphet”
“Ms. Philomene, how are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Where are you going?”
“We’re going to Bunia,” she replied.  “I’m going to deposit this one with her Uncle.”
“You know you can stay here, no problems.  We’re taking care of the outsiders.”
“Oh we know, we know, but her Uncle is expecting us.”
As Philomene was talking, Nicole couldn’t help but look at the man standing at the side of the road.  Flanked by militia members, he was stripped to the waist.  His face seemed calm in a placid show of resignation but his eyes were full of fear and darted between Nicole and his minders.  Yaphet caught Nicole’s glance.
“Heh, you see this one?” he said to her.  “He says he is Hema.  We have a test to see for sure.  Watch this.”
Yaphet produced an egg from his pocket and bent down to smooth the ground in front of the prisoner, who began licking his lips and breathing deeply.  The two men on either side of the man had to hold him upright as his legs began to tremble underneath him.  “If he is a Lendu, the egg will roll towards him,” Yaphet said as he held the egg in his hand and then with a pendular motion of his arm rolled the egg on the ground in front of the man.  The egg rolled straight and then tailed away from the prisoner.
“Okay friend, you are telling the truth,” he said to the man almost disappointed, “you can go now.”  The militia released him and the man stumbled and affected a bow and murmured “thank you,” before hurriedly walking away trailing his sweat stained shirt before his captors changed their minds.
Turning back to Philomene, “ah mama, why do you want to go all the way to Bunia, that is a long way to walk.”
“I know but we have to go, we are expected.”
“Okay then, well be careful, safe journey.”
“Thank you and you be careful also.”
Philomene and Nicole picked up their small bundles and walked around the collection of logs and tires blocking the road.  After walking a short distance, Philomene looked back and waived.  She remembered Yaphet from French class in primary school.  He waived back.
****
Jonathan kept, so to speak, a hairdresser.  He met Debra over beer at the Rock Garden bar outside the Speke Hotel, when his next door neighbor, Mike, introduced them.  She was not a prostitute, although there were plenty of those at the Rock Garden.  Petite, dark and pretty, after a couple of dances, she had asked to see his apartment.  This was over a year ago.  Since then she had been both maid and girlfriend.  He didn’t pay her, except to clean the apartment and buy groceries, and during the week she cooked dinner for him.  They had an understanding of sorts and Debra didn’t ask much from the relationship, which suited him.  
When he woke in the morning, she was already up and sat on the couch paging through a magazine and looked up at him when he entered the room.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” he replied.
“Would you like breakfast? Coffee?  There is some in the pot.  I’ll make you some eggs.”
He didn’t object and yielded to her in the small space that made up his kitchen.  He sipped his coffee and listened to her recount the movie she had seen the night before.  On Saturdays, Jonathan would sleep in, often nursing a hangover.  He liked to go to the Grand Hotel, where he could swim in the pool and eat from the buffet.  Other times, he would take a public minivan, a matatu, to Entebbe and swim at the Lake Victoria Hotel.  Today he planned to go to the Lake Victoria and then stop by the airport, and he would need to drive himself.
“At the beginning,” she was saying, “they were all just young kids and they lived together in the same neighborhood.  And they grew up together and went to school together.  The one, the main character, had a girlfriend and he was very nice.”
“It sounds nice,” he said.  He drank his coffee and watched her cook the eggs as she talked.
“He had two friends, one was a sports star and the other was a gangster and they lived in Compton.  Where is Compton?”
“It’s in California.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
“Well at the end, his one friend was killed and then his other friend killed the people who murdered him.  Have you ever been to the United States?”
“Yes”
“Where?”
“I’ve been to Washington, DC, which is the capitol and New York and to Seattle and to Oregon.”
“But not to Compton.”
“No, I haven’t been to Compton.  It’s not exactly a tourist destination.”
“I’ve heard songs about Compton.”
“I don’t think it’s a very safe place.”
“I would like to visit Compton.”
“Okay, we’ll get you a flak jacket.”
“A flak jacket?”
“In case you get shot.”
She looked at him puzzled, then smiled and flipped the eggs onto a plate.  The apartment was located in the Bugalobi flats, west of town past the Shoprite in an area not usually favored by expatriates but by middle class Ugandans.  Jonathan was sensitive about the appearance of an expat with a local girl.  He couldn’t help feeling a bit cliché and when they went out together, he avoided the usual expat hangouts.  His Ugandan neighbors didn’t seem to particularly care if Debra was a maid or mistress.  And if they did, he would never hear about it.
He gave Debra some money and a ride, dropping her off at the market near the taxi park.  Mid morning he drove out the main road between Kampala and Entebbe alone.  Traffic was light and few people were on the road, either walking or driving, and he made good time.  Before going to the office, he stopped at the Lake Victoria Hotel, for an early lunch and a swim.  The day was not yet hot and after swimming he decided to walk the short distance to the shore of Lake Victoria.  He had the idea that it might be nice to walk along the beach there.  So he left the hotel and walked down the narrow paved road to the lake.  On one side of the road open field with knee high grass stretched to the tree line on the other bougainvillea bushes, green with bright red flowers bordered the road.  The sky was blue and clear and overhead kingfishers perched on a single utility line strung pole to pole.  He passed a small compound of low cinderblock structures, some with metal roofs, some without.  A goat tied to a bush picked at a trash pile and ignored him as he walked by.
He came to the lake and walked a short distance on the beach which was not at all pleasant.  It was fishy smelling and covered with snail shells washed up at one end of the beach.  Thinking the better of his idea, he decided to return and make his way to his office.  At the entrance to the beach three boda boda moped drivers waited for a fare.  For five hundred shillings one of them drove him the short distance back up the hill to the hotel.  Normally, he avoided these rides as too dangerous, but figured going up the hill the bike couldn’t gain much speed.  The small engine of the moped strained under the weight of the two riders as it made its way to the hotel.
In his office, Jonathan reviewed a manifest for a shipment of formula and mosquito nets.  He organized the certificate of origin and put together the customs form excepting the shipment from duties.  Flight 2499 from Frankfurt, Germany was scheduled for arrival in the morning for transit to Goma.  The shipment did not require customs clearance but the Uganda Customs Bureau could be unpredictable and it was better to be prepared for all possibilities.  The ease with which he could unload and divide the shipment for forward transport was often dependent on what customs officer was on duty rather than any governing rule or regulation.  He drafted a cover sheet and faxed it together with the certificate of origin to the customs office.  He checked his email from his computer and opened a message from Major Singh.
To Jonathan
From Gurpatwant Singh
Dear Jonathan:
Hope you are well. I have been on the road and have not seen you around the airport.  I am in Goma now and have been spending my time between Goma and Bunia.  As you know the situation here and particularly in Bunia is uncertain and changeable.
I have a favor to ask for Tuesday, I need transportation for fifty 100 pound bags of cement from Kampala to Bunia.  I know that it is asking a lot but these resources are important for UN mission to meet obligations in the region.  Your earliest response would be greatly appreciated.  Look forward to hearing from you soon.
G. Singh
Jonathan read the second paragraph twice, fifty 100 pound bags was a hell of a lot to ask.  If this were important to the UN mission, Singh would have made a proper request through the UN, he thought.  Today was Saturday, he was not required to be in the office, and he would respond on Monday.  He had no intention of shipping cement, not without a good reason.  He would politely put him off, too heavy, not enough room, he would come up with a reason, but he would do it on Monday.  Singh would be disappointed but Jonathan wasn’t obligated.
****
From time to time as they walked, one or the other would hear something or think that they heard something and Philomene would grab Nicole by the wrist and both of them would run and hide in the bush.  Philomene constantly scanned the road ahead, looking for and anticipating places where they could hide.  At some places the road would open into small savannahs or pass through areas where the trees had been burnt or stripped, offering little cover and Philomene would nervously pick up the pace.  Once in the distance they heard a truck engine and they exited the road across a shallow gully and hid in a thicket of jungle.  The truck, a large self contained cargo truck, roared past going fast over the decrepit road, seemingly as afraid of being caught in the open as they were.
Later they hid again upon hearing voices in the distance.  They watched from their hiding place in a bramble of fallen trees and vines as a group of young men walked in the opposite direction.  Six of them, three with machetes, two with spears, and one with a rifle slung over his shoulder.  They were unidentifiable to either Philomene or Nicole by appearance, dialect, or clothing.  Just one more group of armed men in an area overpopulated with armed men.
They were afraid to talk too much or make too much noise, but Philomene was keen on engaging Nicole in conversation.  They spoke in low tones and Philomene told her they would cross into Uganda, that her Uncle Mukadi had made arrangements for them there, it was simply a matter of days.  She questioned Nicole and Nicole talked about France and school and her cousin in Paris.  For long stretches, however, they walked in silence.  The only sounds being the sounds of the forest.  In spots where the trees had been cut and burned for charcoal, there was little sound at all.  They were startled by a family of baboons that emerged from the bush behind them without warning.  Indifferent to the possibility of danger, they languidly crossed the road paying scant attention to the travelers ahead of them.  One paused in the road and watched Nicole and Philomene walk away.  Seeing the animals reminded Nicole of picnics and her father, who would throw stones at the baboons trying to steal food.
At night they found a secluded hidden spot some distance from the road.  The area was sufficiently dry and Philomene cut branches and leaves to make a mat of sorts.  They unfolded the plastic sheeting they had brought from home and sat down.  Nicole removed her shoes and tended as best as possible to the large puffy blister under the bottom of her small toe.  Philomene gave her a piece of cloth to wrap around the toe and prevent it from rubbing against her shoe.  They each ate a boiled egg and some bread from Philomene’s bag and then lay down for the evening.  Through the canopy of trees, Nicole looked out at the night sky and the Milky Way before dozing off.  She dreamt of her father.  They were sitting together at home in the side room her father used as a study.  He was explaining to her the state of things, why it would be better for her to leave, to maybe try and return to France.  Then she saw him walking in the small garden he kept in the yard behind the house.  He was carrying a small garden shear and watering can and he was tending to his flowers.  And now he was explaining to her again.
“I’m sorry daughter, I tried my best, I let you down.”
“It’s okay father.”
“I was making plans, plans for all of us to get out together.  We should have left sooner.  I should have sent you away.”
“It’s okay father, I understand.”
She walked with her father and ran in the backyard where she played carelessly as a girl.  She kicked her legs underneath her as if playing now and woke herself up and she lay listening to the sounds of the forest through the tarpaulin before falling asleep again.
The birds and the sun woke them both at about the same time in the morning and they sat on the plastic rubbing the sleep from their faces.  They ate the biscuits they had brought with them before packing together their things and resuming their journey.  The road under their feet, an unbroken ribbon of red clay, continued where they left off from the day before.  They walked most of the morning and the bush was sparser, broken up by grassy openings and areas of clear cut.  The sun was approaching noon and the day was growing warm.  Philomene considered the wisdom of walking in the open during daylight.  She would suggest conserving their energy, hiding during the day and then walking at night.
At the same moment, they both heard voices.  Nicole and Philomene stopped for a second and then moved quickly across the road and into the forest.  They buried themselves in the bush.  Through the leaves, Philomene could just make out three figures in the distance across the bend in the road.  Three colors, white, scarlet and turquoise were slowly making their way towards them.  She felt Nicole shudder beside her.
“Shh Nicole, its okay, I think they’re refugees,” she said.  Nicole shifted in her place and moved trying to find a drier space.  The figures slowly made their way closer and Philomene wondered how they could have caught up to them from behind.  She must not have been paying attention to allow herself to be overtaken, she thought.  She could distinctly make out three figures not moving quickly, occasionally talking but their words were indiscernible.  She watched as two women, and a man who carried a sack over his shoulder came into view.  When they got close and she could make out that they appeared to be refugees and weren’t carrying guns, she called out to them without revealing herself.
“Hello!”
They stopped talking and froze as if their stillness would make them invisible in the middle of the road.  Startled they searched for the source of their fright.  “Who is it?” finally said the man looking toward the forest in the direction of the sound of the noise.
“Who are you?” Philomene called back.
“We are coming from Nyakunde, who are you?”
“Just two of us, we are walking toward Djugu.”
“Okay, where are you?”
Nicole at first resisted Philomene’s attempt to reveal themselves, but when Philomene stepped forward she saw little point in hiding and the two women walked out into the road to face the strangers.  They introduced themselves as Ibrahim, Rose and Therese, and said they were fleeing from Nyakunde after escaping an attack on the town.  Ibrahim explained the attack on the hospital where they worked while Rose looked at the ground shaking her head and Therese fidgeted with the edge of her blouse.
“We were at the hospital when a column of Ngiti militia came down the mountain,” he said.  “As soon as they came into town, they seemed to know right where they were going.  I heard the commander shout, ‘Do not touch the hospital,’ but they ignored him and made straight for the hospital.  I was afraid, I ran inside, I wanted to tell the doctors,” he said.
“Through the window of the hospital, I saw them kill a Bira woman, Louise.  They caught her out in the yard.  I saw another woman shot by arrows.  I saw them break through the fence and break into the building I was in and they started killing people.  We hid in the ceiling of the operating room.  At night, we snuck out and made it here.”
Philomene listened to this story and knew it was the story shared by many in that country, the actors varied but the narrative was essentially the same and always ended in violence.  Not knowing what else to say and not wanting to have to recount their own circumstances, she shifted the subject to the present.  “We don’t have much with us, we also left in a hurry, we have some water we can share.”  She produced a plastic water bottle which she handed to Rose unsolicited and Rose thanked her.
“We’re also heading toward Djugu,” said Therese.  “Do you know how far we are?”
“I think about another day away,” Philomene responded.  “We’re going to get off the road.  It’s too dangerous during the day.  We can rest when it’s hot and then walk again at night.”
“Okay, that is good, a good idea,” said Ibrahim.  The five of them traipsed into the forest, the bush was cooler.  They made a place for themselves in the shade and waited out the heat of the day.  In the evening the moon rose and lit their way and they walked closely together in silence, staying close to the road and listening intently for any sound in the darkness that would signal that they weren’t alone.  Near dawn as the sky began to lighten, it grew dark again and a cloudburst caught them in the open and soaked them.  Their progress was slowed as the rain turned the road muddy and they were made to walk through the muck with the additional weight of water in their clothes.  They got off the road to wait for the storm to pass and fashioned the plastic sheeting as a shelter from the rain.  Nicole dozed and when Philomene shook her awake, the sun was up and evaporating the moisture on the road in clouds of mist.  They began walking in irregular lines trying to avoid the puddles and mud which soon caked their shoes.  They walked most of the day and arrived at the displaced persons camp in Djugu in the afternoon.  There was no one to welcome them on their arrival and they walked toward what appeared to be the center of the camp until they were greeted by someone who appeared to be in charge.  He introduced himself as Joseph and carried the clipboard which seemed to confer authority and told them he would get them sorted out.  He directed Nicole and Philomene toward a hut with a packed dirt floor covered with mats in part and a blue plastic tarp.  Possessions were stacked against the walls in various arrangements.  In one corner was a ten gallon bucket next to which was a cardboard box with two pots stacked on top.  The interior was dark punctuated with sunlight from the door and light that came in from holes in the walls and a series of gaps where the roof met the tops of the walls supporting it.
Separated from their traveling partners, Philomene and Nicole were introduced to their new housemates.  Rebecca sat against the wall with her legs crossed supporting two young children, who lay across her legs, head to toe, like they were in a hammock.  One was her own and the other, the orphaned child of a friend who had succumbed to diarrhea.  Joseph introduced her and she waived at them offhand and then rested her head back against the wall.  Corine, their other housemate, was more enthusiastic and although her French was barely intelligible to Nicole, she drew them both in, grasping first Philomene’s hand with both of her hands and then the same with Nicole.  She was so grateful to see these two strangers as if they had come to rescue her.  They were also refugees, but Corine’s hope was not diminished.  She welcomed them and made room for them.  “Please, please” she signaled to the space where they could put their things.  Nicole sensed her relief in just having new people around.  Maybe it was just the potential for change,  relief from whatever dreariness came before.  Whether relieved or otherwise, Corine, a wisp of a woman with bony arms and a taut face received them with energy.
“We don’t have much but you are welcome.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind,” responded Philomene.
“We have some water and some rice, please help yourself.  Have you come far?”
“We were on the road for three days.”
“Ah, you must be tired, I’ll let you wash up and then you can rest.”
“Thank you again.”  Philomene said and she spread their belongings out against one end of the hut.  She produced cornmeal from a plastic container, which she split with Nicole before lying down and going to sleep.
****
Nicole woke early, when only a few people were awake and moving about, and even they were quiet, and in the grey light of the dawn just before the sun appeared, it was cool and it was possible to imagine the country as peaceful.  The camp slowly came to life and Nicole felt revived as she passed through the rows between the little thatched houses.  She must have been exhausted because she slept straight through the night despite the new surroundings.  She walked the camp, watching and listening, exploring the maze of paths formed by the spaces between the outside walls of the huts.  In another time, the ground under the camp served as a cornfield, and the ground was littered with stalks and husks beaten into the earth.  People gathered in small bunches in the entrances to huts, around small cooking fires, and under shade trees.  She watched a woman stoop over a fire with a flat metal disk supported on top by a cutout piece of aluminum that formed a stove of sorts in front of a hut formed by clay and branches.  She poured oil from a yellow plastic container with the top cut off and then ladled batter onto the disk that fried and blistered with the heat.  The batter cooked quickly and she peeled the finished chapatti from the surface of the disk and placed it to one side on a plate stacked with chapattis.  A man emerged from the hut behind her and enjoined the woman with a complaint before quickly retiring again after suffering her rebuke.  Nicole was hungry but did not ask the woman for something to eat or even if she had something to sell and she continued walking.
To one side across an open path on a small rise toward the edge of the camp sat a young man, little older than a boy, on a wooden box.  He was baby faced and long limbed with a short wedge of hair, and his feet were tucked up close to the base of the box in a position where his knees nearly touched his face.  His face wore a distant expression and his feet and hands seemed outsized almost as if he were wearing gloves.  He sat apart from the rest of the camp, and Nicole noticed him sitting alone and felt compelled to greet him.
“Hello” she said.
He looked at her without fully acknowledging her and mutely raised his eyebrows at her and nodded his head.
“How are you?” she tried again.
“I’m fine,” he said not wanting to be disturbed.  As if in response to the unasked question, she said, “I’m Nicole.”  She did not know what else to say, she wasn’t in the habit of striking up conversations with strangers. 
He recognized her introduction raising his eyes and nodding his head, but offered no introduction in return, just a pause and silence.
“Okay then,” she said after a minute.  “I’ll see you later.”
She walked away defeated, but in her retreat she heard another voice calling to her.
“Hello there,” she heard and looked over her shoulder to see a young man approaching her, separating himself from a group of other young men.
“I’m George,” he offered.  “I saw you talking to my cousin over there, Floribert.”
 “I just saw him over there, I was just saying hello.”
“Yeah, I know, Floribert has had a hard time, he doesn’t talk very much now.  He is no longer happy, he just sits by himself.”
“Oh, well I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, I’m glad you were talking with him, he needs someone to talk to.  Otherwise he just sits by himself and I’m worried about him.”
“Well, I tried to talk to him but he didn’t want to talk.”
“Yeah I know, that’s how he is.  The soldiers killed his family near Nyakunde and ever since then he hasn’t talked much to anyone.  The people here built him the wooden seat where he sits most of the day.  He is in depression whenever he is alone and thinks of his family.”
“I’m sorry,” Nicole said again.
“No, its okay,” responded George.  “I’m glad you talked with him, he needs someone to talk with.  You should talk with him.”
“Okay, well, I’m happy to talk with him, but I don’t think he wants to talk with me.”
“It’s not you, you are very nice,” said George.  “He doesn’t talk much with anyone, but it would be good if you talked with him.”
“Okay,” said Nicole.  George was determined and Nicole found it easier to agree with him.  “I have to go now, but I will see you later,” she promised.
“Okay, I’ll see you later,” George echoed back to her.
****
Nicole spent her time busying herself with helping Rebecca take care of the two children and talking with Corine.  Philomene contacted Uncle Mukadi through the use of a satellite phone for which she had traded for time.  Mukadi was making arrangements for them in Uganda.  In two days they would head to Mahogi.  From Mahogi, there were busses running into Uganda to the towns of Pakwach and Gulu.
Nicole had seen Floribert again later, when she went to fetch water.  He sat alone in his same spot with his same trancelike expression of remoteness.  Nicole felt a kindred attraction to him as if through a kinship of trauma.  They were both essentially adrift and their respective damages presented their own point of reference.  The next time, she approached him prepared for his unresponsiveness.
“Hello” she said not waiting for an answer.  “My Aunt made some rice porridge.  I was just going to get some,” she explained to his wide eyed confusion.  “Would you like some?” she asked rhetorically.  “Okay, I’ll be right back.”
She reappeared about ten minutes later with two bowls of the white milky substance.  He looked at her as if surprised that she would reappear and took one of the bowls.
“Thankyou,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she said as she sat down on the ground near him.
“I usually like sugar on my rice porridge,” she offered “but we don’t have any sugar.”
“It’s good,” he said and they ate for a few moments in silence.  A breeze picked up, rustled the palms and died, but not before inflating a white plastic bag that tumbled past them, part of the flotsam and jetsam of the camp.  Though effaced by a camp full of people, they sat alone eating their porridge.  He lost in his head and she searching for conversation.
“I met your cousin George,” she said finally.  “He seems very nice.”
“Yeah, George takes care of me,” he said matter of factly.  “Where are you from?” he asked.
“I’m from Bunia.”
“Is it nice there?”
“It used to be nice.  We had a house and a garden, and I had a goat that I kept as a pet.  It’s not so nice there any more,” she said quickly.
“Will you go back there?”
“No, we can’t go back.”
“Where will you go?” he asked.
“Uganda,” she replied.

Chapter 4

Peter Lipanda felt the perspiration break out simultaneously all over his body in waves as the two men held him by his arms next to the trunk of a tall tree.  In his fright, the capillaries in his nose felt as if they would burst from the pressure in his skull and tension in his body.  The militia men used a frayed rope, knotted in parts to maintain its length, and made him embrace the tree and then tied his hands together on the opposite side.   The order had been given, he was to be whipped.  Peter’s boss, Omar Orias, had charged, convicted and declared sentence.  He was guilty of treason or disloyalty or just generally being a cheat.  Mr. Orias, which is what Peter always called him, peered at him now, in his face, without sympathy.
“Since the first day, I said I would kill you if you fuck with me – I don’t joke.  Today is your lucky day, consider yourself lucky,” the man told him.
Peter tried to protest, his head lolled backwards, he gurgled in a delirium of terror.  “I didn’t cheat you,” he managed.
Mr. Orias was Peter’s putative boss.  He had staked Peter and Peter traded with the open pit miners in Durba with Orias’ money.  When his accounts came up short two thousand dollars and there wasn’t the corresponding amounts of mineral ore in the balance, Orias accused him.  The gold could have been lost or taken by another employee, but it hardly mattered.  Peter would be held responsible for his stake and his protests were in vain.  Peter nevertheless was opportunistic and he sought to divert his punishment.  “Negusse” he struggled to say loud enough so Orias could hear him.
“Negusse,” Orias repeated.  “What about Negusse?”
“I saw the daughter” replied Peter and caught his boss’ attention.
From his base in Aru, Omar Orias extended his control over Djugu, Durba and Mongbwalu, some of the most profitable gold producing area in Ituri.  Small and unremarkable, he was most recognizable for the suits he wore like a uniform.  Cheap suits, dark and made mostly of polyester and wholly unsuited for the tropical climate.  Ill fitting, too long in the pants and jacket, instead of conveying authority they diminished him.  An ill fitting man in an ill fitting suit, uncomfortable in his own skin and everything else.
Orias ruled over an industry of open pit mines controlled not by local or national government but by his militia.  For his effort, he collected taxes and fees and determined concessions.  The underground mines, left over from Belgian rule, had long since been ruined.  Miners, pressured to produce more, mined ore from supporting columns against their own self interest.  Holdover government mining officials could only watch as mines collapsed or flooded from abuse and neglect.
Not unlike his predecessor, Jean Pierre Bembe, Orias perceived himself as a businessman first.  His actions though ruthless and physically destructive, were more in line with running a corporation than with military conquest.  Through his militia, he controlled territory strategically to extract resources and not to govern.
When Bembe moved to Kinshasa as vice president, the Saxon Mineral company went to see Orias and he gave them permission to begin new operations in Mongbwalu.  Orias guaranteed their safety and extracted commissions in return.  At the same time he was negotiating with Saxon Mineral, his combatants were returning from Drodro, Nizi and Fataki, villages near Mongbwalu, where they had left the citizenry dead in the streets, some with their arms tied, sticks in their rectums and body parts cut off, as a warning to anyone who might oppose them.  As he explained to his “Commissioner of Defense,” Commander Jerome, “the government is never going to come to Mongbwalu.  I am the one who gave Saxon Mineral permission to come to Mongbwalu, I am the boss of Mongbwalu.  If I want to chase them away, I will.  It is not Bembe who controls there.  The contract with Saxon Mineral is with the government, but we control Mongbwalu so they need to see me if they want to work there.”
As the government official responsible for mining operations, it was Negusse who had signed off on Bembe’s and then Orias’ joint venture with Saxon Mineral to restart mining operations in the region.  Negusse had been bought and paid for, and Orias had inherited him from Bembe.  As a practical matter, the government mining administration’s approval wasn’t necessary.  The agency was ineffectual in maintaining any kind of control over mining operations in Ituri despite having legal authority over the concession.
Negusse was corrupt and his role was a pretext for Saxon Mineral’s claims to legitimacy, allowing them to maintain compliance with national laws.  Negusse became indebted to Orias when he borrowed money to build his home in Bunia.  When the UN took over Bunia, he went behind on his payments and the loan was past due.  It had been more than a year since the last payment, but Orias had not forgotten, nor was he willing to simply let it go.  “If that fuck Negusse thinks he can hide behind the UN, he is wrong,” he’d told his defense minister.  He sensed an opportunity and held up his hand and stopped one of his men, who was walking toward Peter with a rope.
“Negusse, Jonas Negusse?” he asked Peter.
“Yes.”
“You saw the daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the camp at Djugu.”
“What were you doing in Djugu?”
“I have a woman there, please I am telling the truth.”
“How do you know it was his daughter?”
“It was his daughter, Nicole Negusse.  I went to school with her in Bunia.  I recognized her.”
“Why would you tell me this?”
“Because, I remember that you said that if you got your hands on Negusse that you would kill him and that he stole money from you.”
Orias paused and contemplated Peter tied to the tree.
“You better not be lying to me.”
“Please Mr. Orias, I am telling the truth.  I’ll pay back for the ore.”
“Yes you will pay me back,” he said, “and then you will take us to the daughter and she better be there.”
He signaled to his men, “only give him half as much.”
“Oh no,” cried Peter.  “Please no Mr. Orias.”  Orias ignored him and walked away.
****
On the train ride to Amsterdam, to catch the late flight out of Schipel airport, Matanda peered out the window, at the lights from an industrial park, headlights from a roadway, then blackness as the train moved forward passing through the countryside at night.  Bembe was his last link to his home in the Congo, and looking out the train window he recollected the night in Kinshasa and saw the orange glow of flames reflected in the glass panes of his apartment.  When he came down to the street that night, the arsonists didn’t bother to run but lingered in the shadows in the distance.  One of them carried a petrol can and made no effort to discard it, and was not afraid of being caught with evidence.  Matanda stood and watched as they slowly walked away and the flames fanned by the night air lit up the dark, stripping his car to a charred metal skeleton.  He took the warning seriously.
After the cease fire agreements were signed and Bembe moved to Kinshasa and was made vice president in the name of power sharing, Matanda became his right hand man with an increased profile.  It was then that the representative from Saxon Mineral first contacted Matanda.  The company had previously bought a stake in a joint venture operation between United Mining International and the state controlled mining interest.  Matanda remembered the meeting with Saxon Mineral’s vice president Trevor Smith in Kinshasa.  He thought Bembe never really understood the company’s intentions.  In his usual blunt manner, Bembe told them to “go and talk to the little guy in Ituri,” referring to Orias.
Mr. Smith explained that he understood the realities of the situation, but nevertheless it was important for them to have an agreement with the government in Kinshasa.  It was left to Matanda to work out the details and an agreement was drafted for exploration of the Ituri concession.  Not in exchange but as a payment of costs, he was given an envelope containing $25,000 in US dollars.  Mr. Smith called it a signing fee.  A second envelope containing the same amount of money was produced as a campaign contribution.  Certainly corporations could contribute to political campaigns as in the west, he was asked.  He found their methods crude and preferred the custom of the anonymous envelope.  But despite his contempt for being patronized, Matanda accepted the money.
Bembe used his position as vice president to challenge Kabila in the next presidential election.  But by confronting Kabila directly, Bembe overestimated his strength and over played his hand.  He attacked Kabila personally and ran as the candidate, who was “one hundred percent Congolese.”  A not too subtle dig at Kabila, whose nationality had been questioned after spending much of his childhood in exile in Tanzania.  But Kabila gave as good as he got, if not more so.  One of Bembe’s radio stations in Kinshasa was burned to the ground under suspicious circumstances, and his television station, CCTV, was attacked by a mob and forced off the air.
When election day came, neither candidate was able to garner the necessary fifty percent of the vote.  The subsequent runoff between Kabila and Bembe was marred by violence and fatalities on both sides, but Kabila eventually emerged with a majority of the ballots cast.  Bembe at first contested the results and then accepted defeat, but not until after his supporters had set fire to the Supreme Court building.
It was during the post election realignment that new trouble began for Matanda.  Kabila began consolidating his position and focused on Bembe as a threat to state authority.  Bembe refused the order to register his personal guard and incorporate them into the army.  The army, in turn, laid siege to Bembe’s neighborhood and Bembe’s militia defended themselves in a sustained firefight.  Matanda received a number of threats advising him to leave the country or else.  When his car caught fire, he accepted it as not coincidence but a direct warning.  He had no intentions of becoming a martyr, a political prisoner or worse.  When he heard through channels that the government was preparing an arrest warrant, he took the opportunity to flee.  He used his overseas passport and traveled to London.
Bembe’s remaining militia on the streets of Kinshasa were outnumbered and forced to surrender, and Bembe took refuge in the South African embassy.  He called for a negotiated settlement, but the government, with victory in reach, was not inclined to negotiate.  Instead, it accused him of treason and threatened prosecution.  And when Bembe asserted his immunity as a senator, the attorney general responded that immunity did not extend to crimes against the state and that it could be stripped legally, with the concurrence of the courts.  It became clear that legal niceties would not carry the day.  Though he refused to admit as much, in the end Bembe was forced to flee.  He declared that he was traveling to Portugal to receive treatment for a broken leg.  Which was true to an extent, the fiction he maintained was that there would be a return journey.  The South African government negotiated safe passage to the airport and his departure from the country.
Not satisfied with Bembe’s exile, the Kabila government pursued charges against him with the International Criminal Court for crimes committed by his militia in Ituri.  Congo was a member of the Court, and the Court consistent with its mandate undertook an investigation.  Bembe himself did not deny the deaths of civilians but maintained that they were the collateral effects of legitimate military operations.  Matanda was key in protesting that the claim was politically based and that the Court should not insert itself in what was essentially an internal political dispute in the Congo.  “This is not about justice but about politics,” he told the newspapers.  “The Court should not sully its credibility by politicizing prosecutions,” he argued.  “This prosecution is support for every critic that the Court is incapable of acting objectively without imposing what is essentially victor’s justice.”
Despite his objections, the Court decided that the complaint had cause and issued a warrant for Bembe’s arrest.  It found that not only was there reason to believe that Bembe’s militia had committed crimes against civilians but that they had done so with his approval and on his orders.  Bembe was betrayed by his own self regard and made the mistake of traveling to Brussels where he was arrested while shopping for new suits.
Matanda thought of this time, their shared past a world away, as the train jostled through the Dutch countryside.  He recounted events and considered how things could have gone differently.  He did not feel sorry for himself, nor did he feel guilty.  Politics in the Congo was a contact sport and he was a practical man.  Despite the campaign, he knew Bembe was an opportunist and not an ideologue.  He took comfort in this fact, which gave Bembe a quantity of reliability.  Civilians had been killed, but he didn’t believe they were targeted.  Bembe had resisted the extreme wing of Hema nationalism.  Tribalism simply was not good for business.
****
Horst paged through the file on his desk in the Court’s offices.  He kept turning back to one document in the file, a response to a request for information, a letter interrogatory.  He was used to getting the brush off from parties not wanting to cooperate with the Court’s investigations, but something about the tone of this particular response struck him.  He couldn’t put a finger on it.  The response seemed either particularly defensive or maybe more strident.  Not merely declining to cooperate as a matter of privacy, like so many others, but asserting a legal prohibition.
He contemplated how to move forward in this particular investigation.  One of his main witnesses had disappeared and was presumed dead.  His liaison with the UN mission on the ground had returned to the family home but had found no additional sign of Jonas Negusse or his family.  The UN Officer contacted friends and neighbors trying to find some evidence of the family’s whereabouts.  He was a military man and not trained as an investigator, but ultimately he caught up with a local boy who minded the Negusse property.  After some persuasion, the boy described a discouraging scene.  He witnessed the soldiers driving toward the house earlier in the day.  He thought they were DRC army soldiers but couldn’t be sure, and believed there were about five of them.  When he arrived at the home, the soldiers were gone as was Jonas Negusse.  His wife was dead with a devastating wound to her head and the daughter was still alive.
Horst recounted the story again for Alex Moore one of the senior prosecutors on the case.  Alex was mercurial and hard to read, and Horst never knew exactly what to expect when they met.  At times he could be near ebullient and full of optimism but on the whole he was more likely to be taciturn and dissatisfied.  His dissatisfaction wasn’t personal nor directed at any individual but general in nature.  His lack of satisfaction was equal opportunity and likely why he drank, Horst suspected, or perhaps it was his drinking that made him so irritable.  Either way despite his mannerisms, Horst liked the man.  He was honest and Horst knew where he stood as a junior staffer.
“Do we know what happened to the daughter?” Alex asked.
“According to the kid who worked there, her Uncle came for her.  We are still trying to track him down.  We don’t have a number for him but Jean went to his house with a couple of blue helmets and he wasn’t at home.  We’re gonna keep trying, either get a number for him or make another visit.”
“Okay please do, maybe the Uncle can tell us something or maybe the daughter knew something about her father’s business, I want to follow all leads.”
“Right, will do, I’ll keep you up to date.”
“I think we also have to review our procedures,” Alex said with weariness and irritation.  “How the fuck can I pursue this case if we lose our witnesses?” he asked more to himself than to anyone else.  The only other person in the room was Julie, a paralegal, and Horst couldn’t help but feel that the comment was directed at him, but knew better than to respond.  “I mean what the fuck, you guys promise this guy you’ll protect him if he cooperates and then he goes and gets his skull bashed in.”  He confused Negusse with his wife but Horst wasn’t about to correct him.  “And I don’t mean you in particular but also the guys in Congo, we’re supposed to have protection services, they ought to protect for chrissakes.”  Alex took a deep breath, frowned and closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.  “Sometimes, I wish I had the courage to be a bum,” he muttered to himself.  He looked tired, like he had had a late night.  “I know the DRC is difficult terrain and the UN – well the UN can’t even guarantee the protection of their own.  But still I can’t help but believe if things had been done differently, maybe if we had taken the witness into custodial protection or something, well then he’d still be around.  We lost an important witness and this concerns me.”  
“It concerns me too.”  Horst had taken the opportunity to respond but this only made Alex frown more deeply at the obviousness of his statement.  “Negusse declined continual protection, we were scheduled to pick him up the next day and fly him and his family out.  Word must have leaked out that he was cooperating.”  Horst knew this wasn’t particularly helpful.  “Without the witness’ cooperation, there’s only so much we can do.”
“Still it fucking sucks.”
“You’re right, let me take it up with Charlie.”  Charlie was the head of protection services.  “I’ll raise your concerns and get back to you.”
“You’ll raise my concerns, I’m not even sure what my concerns are,” Alex mumbled to himself.  “Okay, okay,” he said, resolving himself to going forward, “is there anything else?”
“Well I suppose you saw the responses from Saxon Mineral to our requests for information.”
“Yeah, I did, not exactly eye opening.”
Horst flipped through the binder to the two letters from Saxon Mineral received about a month apart.  The first letter had been more responsive than the second, Saxon Mineral had at least taken the opportunity to respond to the question asked.  The letter read like a propaganda piece for the Eastern Congo.
“In response to your enquiries regarding meetings between Saxon Mineral and various officials of the DRC, we would report as follows:
“In the meeting with Mr. Negenye, SM outlined its plans to commence exploration activities and its concerns regarding the security of its personnel and assets in the region.  Mr. Negenye welcomed the news of SM’s proposed exploration program.  With respect to the security situation, he set out the UN’s plans for the deployment of its forces in the Bunia area and also referred to the government’s plans for the deployment of police in the province and the establishment of a judicial court.  He welcomed SM’s offer of logistical support in the area and requested the company’s representatives to maintain close contact with the UN mission.
“The meeting with Mr. Bembe also focused on the exploration program and SM’s security concerns.  Mr. Bembe assured the company that it was his view that the Ituri province was now safe and gave the assurance that the government would ensure that this continued and urged the company to continue with its exploration program in the region.
“At the meeting with Mr. Bembe, he expressed his view that SM’s decision to revive its activities in the area was positive news for the country and augured well for peace in the region.
“There were no written responses to any of the queries raised by the parties to these meetings.”
“Yours sincerely, John Clarke, Public Affairs, Saxon Mineral”
Contrasted to the second response, this letter was effusive in its response to the Court’s request for information.  It acknowledged meeting with Bembe in his official status as vice president.  By comparison, the company’s response to the Court’s second request was defensive and didactic.  Horst didn’t know what happened in the intervening six weeks between letters, but Saxon Mineral reconsidered its approach or reviewed its liability to require a more aggressive reply.
“I refer to your recent letter regarding Saxon Mineral’s business partners and business practices in the Democratic Republic of Congo.  Saxon Mineral is subject to the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act and the Precious Metal Control Act as well as national and international prohibitions.  We do not engage in business with criminal organizations or terrorist groups nor engage in transactions used to finance criminal or terrorist activities.
“We also have a duty to clarify specific situations, the duty to obtain documentation and to record all transactions and the obligation to declare suspicious transactions to the money laundering authorities.
“You have asked whether we could provide you with information on our business partners and suppliers.  I am sure that you will appreciate that disclosing information on our partners and certain transactions would be contrary to the confidentiality obligations imposed on us unless we seek and obtain prior approval from our principals.  As much as we want to cooperate with the work of the Court, that cooperation is proscribed by national law.”
“Yours sincerely, Chris Shedd, Public Affairs”
Maybe Mr. Clarke had since been replaced thought Horst and that accounted for the change in tone.  “I thought the second letter was more defensive, more legalistic,” he remarked to Alex.  “It’s over the top, they’re protesting too much.  In the first letter at least they admitted to talking with Bembe.”
“They’re nervous, they’re afraid that Bembe is going to become a liability for them.  They’re covering their asses.  I think they’re worried that something might come out that could cause problems under the foreign corrupt practices act,” Alex said.
“And what about the reference that they’re prohibited by law from cooperating, what’s that about?”
“It’s the usual legal bull shit.  They’re questioning our jurisdiction, it could be a veiled reference, they’re an American company and America is not a party to the treaty.  Who knows what they’re thinking, but that’d be my guess.”
“I thought the law was on our side.”
“The law is an ass my friend,” said Phil, a bit more relaxed after his earlier catharsis.
“Well, where do we go from here?  Do you want me to pursue the matter with Saxon Mineral?”
“Let’s continue to pressure them if we can.  I know of nothing that would prevent them from cooperating.  Maybe if were a big enough pain in the ass, they’ll change their minds and decide it’s easier to cooperate.  They’re covering their asses, their scared about something.  I think they’re dirty but it’s beside the point.  I don’t want to get bogged down in accusations about corruption, someone else can prosecute them for that.  Let’s stay focused on making our case.”
“Okay, so…..what’s the plan?”
“The plan, hmmm, you want a plan….,” he tapped his mouth with his fingers.  “Okay, here’s the plan.  I want you to pursue Saxon Mineral through other means.  I want you to make enquiries with people in Kinshasa, just general enquiries about Saxon Mineral’s business activities.  I want you to call people in the government, let them know we’re interested in Saxon Mineral, let them know if they didn’t already that Saxon Mineral is suspect.  Maybe it’ll threaten their bottom line.  Maybe if we’re enough of a nuisance they’ll decide that it would be easier to just cooperate with us and make us go away.”
“So you want me generally to cast suspicion on them?”
“Sure why not?  They’re not doing us any favors, throwing this legal bullshit at us, fuck em.”
“Right”
“I’ll also respond in writing.  I’ll reply to their legal arguments and let’s see where it gets us.”  Alex was already picking up his phone to make a call signaling that the meeting was over.  Horst and Julie both stood at the same time and Horst felt the need to make concluding remarks.  “Okay will do,” he said as a way to finalize their arrangement.  Alex looked at him sideways and waived them out the door.  He was back to being annoyed and directed his attention elsewhere.
****
The dedicated hearing room for the Senate Foreign Affairs Committee was small and dark with an art deco feel.  Paneled wood walls surrounded a dais shaped in the form of a “u” which was elevated and looked down on the witness table in front of it.  Jennifer sat to one side on the bench behind the dais where the Senators sat, that lined the walls at one end of the room and that was reserved for staff.  A representative from the State Department, the assistant secretary for overseas aid, together with an official from the U.S. Agency for International Aid were testifying in favor of reducing the amount of food and grain aid to poor countries in favor of direct money contributions.  Her Senator had asked a few questions and then left having fulfilled an obligation to which he devoted minimal interest.  Constituents paid little attention to foreign affairs that didn’t involve the troops, and the committee assignment presented few opportunities to send money to the state.  As far as he was concerned, the foreign affairs committee was the short straw of committee assignments.  The other senators, however, were taking greater interest and subjected the panelists to a number of questions.  The Senator from Kansas was particularly concerned about the issue at hand.  How, he wanted to know, could the government expect that financial contributions would be used responsibly by some of the most corrupt governments, and wouldn’t the people in these countries expect to benefit most from direct food aid.  The witnesses seated at the table responded with assurances of financial controls and pointed out that food aid was a commodity like any other that could be appropriated and used to divide populations.  But their arguments would ultimately be of no avail, in the competition between bureaucrats and vested interests the bureaucrats were severely outgunned.  Jennifer watched and took notes with the interest of someone who knew the outcome of the competition in advance.  The only spectacle remained in how the two sides would comport themselves on stage.  There was little chance of actual change that resulted in the reduced purchase of US grain for export.
After the hearing concluded, she stopped by the offices for the Foreign Affairs Committee to show her face.  She hadn’t seen Bill Douglas the Senator’s Committee staff person for a while and wanted to say “hello.”  Bill was familiar to her like an uncle with white hair and the unfortunate dandruff on the shoulders of his suit coat.  He was a part of the Senate, with at least twenty years in, and he wouldn’t be leaving without a pension.  Friendly and long winded, Jennifer relied on him for his institutional knowledge and for this she gladly endured long accounts of growing up in rural Maryland.  He would talk at length in detail and then catch himself for providing “more information than you probably wanted to know.”
He greeted her at the door to his office.  “Hi Jennifer come in, come in.”
“Hey Bill, how ya doin?”
“Good, good, how about yourself?”
“Good thanks.”
“The State Department really missed a chance out there.”
“Oh yeah, how so?”
“Senator Stevens, he was trying to get them to say that the new policy to North Korea might include the resumption of grain deliveries and more grain purchases.  But I don’t think they got it, that’s why he kept asking about food assistance to Korea.”
“Oh yeah”
“It was a missed opportunity, the issue is a minor point, but it could have firmed up support for the bill.”
“Wow, I missed that.”
“Well, it wasn’t a major point, but I don’t think Senator Stevens missed it.”  Bill had a knack for discerning ulterior motives and parsing testimony for hidden agendas.  He could tell where AIPAC would be on any vote and he understood the domestic interests of each senator in foreign affairs issues.
“So what can I do for you?”
“Oh not much, I just thought I’d stop by to say hello.”
“I ran the language for the Senator’s amendment by Tom in the office here, he doesn’t think it’ll be a problem.  In fact, he actually liked the idea.”
“Okay, good deal, well…” but before she could excuse herself, Bill had taken up his weekend plans.  He was going to his house in deep creek lake and was looking forward to doing some fishing and some repair work and this would go on for another fifteen minutes.  When Jennifer got back to her office it was after lunch and Jay the intern was instant messaging from her computer.
“Did I miss anything?” she asked standing in the doorway waiting for Jay to give her back her seat.
“Oh hey – I didn’t see you there.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.  I can see you’re hard at work.”
“Well yeah,” he said typing out his last message before logging out.  “Itchy and scratchy have been at it again, but otherwise I don’t think you missed much.”  Itchy and Scratchy, two interns also law students nicknamed by Jay for their general obnoxiousness.  As law students they seemed to feel entitled, and often engaged in intense ideological discussions in the office.  Watching them made Jennifer cringe and hope that she was never that annoying.
“Uh Jay – do you mind?”
“Okay, okay, I’m leaving.”
“Gee, I’m sorry to have to kick you out of my desk, but it is my desk.”
“You don’t seem too sorry.”
“See you later Jay.”
“Right, I get it, here’s you hat what’s your hurry.”
She watched Jay walk out, not sure if he had an assignment or was even interested in one.  She would have to become more disciplined in her dealings with the interns, she thought, and sat down and checked her voice mail and accessed her office email account.  Scrolling down she stopped herself.  Among the easily recognizable subject lines for meeting notices, draft reviews and office happy hour announcements, one title caught her attention.  At first she couldn’t place it.  “Subject: AAMI Draft Committee Report Language.”  Her memory kicked in and she recalled the meeting from a week ago and was filled with a feeling of dread.  Reluctantly, she opened the message and read.
“Dear Jennifer,” it began.
“Thank you again for taking the time to meet with me and my associate.  I enjoyed talking with you.  I am well aware that the Foreign Affairs Reform and Restructuring Act is currently proceeding through the committee process.  As we discussed, we have language for your consideration to be included in the committee report.  We believe this language is consistent with the principles of the American Service-Members Protection Act – to assert basic notions of sovereignty and afford some protection to United States individuals and organizations from the jurisdiction of an extraterritorial court unaccountable to and not formally recognized by the United States Government.  This language will provide some clarity about the status of our members relative to the court, while not prohibiting cooperation with the court.
“Thank you again for your kind consideration in this matter.  Please feel free to contact me with any questions.  We look forward to hearing back from you at your earliest convenience.”
“Sincerely, Edward Talbot”
Jennifer clicked on the attachment to the message containing the proposed language.
“Provisions of United States law precluding jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court are not exclusive to United States Government or Military personnel.  The United States does not recognize jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court over any state entity as recognized by the various states.  No such entity may be compelled to cooperate with the International Criminal Court.  Any such cooperation is circumscribed by obligations under controlling United States law.”
Talbot even suggested where in the committee report the language might be placed, right after the section outlining changes for the application of the Convention Against Torture to extradition cases.  Sufficiently buried in hundreds of pages of policy explanation where likely no one will ever read it.  And sufficiently innocuous, camouflaged in blandness, that they wouldn’t understand its significance if they did read it.
Damn, she thought.  Jennifer had willingly let the memory of the meeting escape her hoping that an unpleasant chore would just go away if she refused to acknowledge it.  But Talbot had not forgotten, and she was forced to face the reality of the base side of her job, catering to every repugnant in a suit with a claim.  These were not constituents in the normal sense in that they did not live and reside in the state, but they needed to be served just the same.  A constituency of money or more specifically moneyed interests, who purchased a special ticket for access, not like the Four H members, who waited in reception while staff used the side door to avoid them.  She considered Talbot in his bow tie and suspenders, a picture of gentility masking an underlying vulgarity.  
She didn’t reply to the message and would wait until Monday to acknowledge that she had received it.  Delay was different than avoidance, she told herself, and she would devote no urgency to the matter.  Instead she got up from behind her desk and walked across the office.  David was on the phone and she stood lingering in his doorway.  He waved at her to come in and take a seat.  Every inch of furniture space was covered with paper.  She picked up a pile of paper occupying a chair and stood holding it and looking for some place to put it.  She settled on another stack of paper and placed it cross wise and took a seat herself.
David was finishing up the conversation.  He was mostly saying yeah and uhunh and she could not decipher what he was talking about.  He looked at her and rolled his eyes and made a talking motion with his hands.  Finally he said good bye and put down the receiver.
“Sorry about that, what’s going on?”
“Oh not much, how are you anyway?  I hadn’t seen you today.”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
“Big plans this weekend?”
“Me and the wife are planning on going to the eastern shore.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Yeah, it should be.”
“So…”
“So…thanks for coming by to say hello.”
“Well there is this other thing.”
“Uh hunh”
“I got an email from the mining group we met with last week.”
“So you were just feigning interest in my family life is that it.”
“No, no,” she laughed, “I’m always interested in the family life and well being, of course, of my fellow coworkers.”
“Right, and what did this email say?”
“Well you remember the meeting, I mean of course you remember the meeting, it was such a ridiculous request how could you forget?  But now they’ve followed up and actually sent us some language they want us to put in the committee report.  And it’s such an absurd request, basically extending the American Service-Members Protection Act to corporations because they’ve got some beef with the ICC, I’m really embarrassed to even ask you about it.  So I’ll just email them back and tell them I’m real sorry but we can’t help them and they’ll just have to deal with the ICC themselves.  Were not here to do their dirty work and pervert a law intended to protect the troops.  So there it is – well phew, I’m glad we got that all sorted out,” she said gesturing like she was wiping her brow and the conversation was over.  David looked at her and crooked his mouth to hide a smile.
“You know Jennifer, I appreciate sarcasm as much as the next guy but even for me that was a bit much.”
“Tell me we’re not going to take this seriously,” she said.
“We’re going to take this seriously.  They’re contributors, 25 from the association and 25 from individual members, don’t ask me how I know this, I know it.  The Senator is going to hear about this and its better that he hear it from us.  I’m not saying we’re going to agree to do this, but we have to take it seriously.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Yeah, I’ve gotten that sense.”
“It’s bullshit.”
“Yeah, look we have to deal with it.”
“It’s rotten, they’re rotten.  They’re afraid of something and they want us to provide them with cover.”
“Okay,” he sighed, “you can make the case to the Senator.”
“It’s bad politics too,” she was ignoring him.  “Whatever this business is it will come out and we’re not going to want to be associated with this group, not even for fifty thousand dollars.  This is one of those cases waiting to happen, where the senator’s office issues a denial of any knowledge of wrongdoing and then pays back the money contributed.  This is actually worse because it’s a crass use of a law designed to protect soldiers.  It looks like opportunism at the expense of the military.”
“I get it Jen,” he said rubbing his forehead.  “I don’t particularly like the idea, but I’m saying we need to be realistic.  Look, don’t get too hopped up on this, you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment.”
She was no longer smiling and felt herself getting flush.  “I’m not getting hopped up, I just think it stinks,” she said turning red.
“Okay and you’re probably right but we need to take it seriously so let’s think about how we want to go from here.  You’re gonna need to draft a memo to the Senator including the proposed language and outlining the pros and cons of the language and the decision to submit it.  I suggest you martial all your arguments against, but keep it matter of fact.  I’d avoid any hyperbole.  In the alternative, we may want to think of our own changes to the language.”
“I don’t want to think about changes to the language, that would mean we’re submitting it, I want to nip this thing in the bud.”
“Fine Jennifer,” he said resigned to her opposition, “you do that but put it in a memo, run it by me and we’ll take it to the Senator with a recommendation.”
“Okay, I’ll work on it next week.”
“Early next week is good.”
“Great, I’ll talk to you later then.”
“Okay, thanks Jennifer,” but he said it to her back as she was out of her seat and through the door heading out into the hall.
In her office, Jennifer put her head in her hands on her desk.  She was upset.  Why is this bothering me, she thought.  I’ve had to compromise before, I’ve been involved in unsavory deals before.  How about the gaming lobby?  You can’t get much more unsavory than that.  But she couldn’t shake the feeling that what they were doing was wrong, not just compromised but wrong on a fundamental level.  As if any other person not constrained by the structure of Congress would simply refuse when faced with the choice.  Don’t be naïve, she thought, you’re not in a position to refuse.  Still she had trouble rationalizing her position.  And even if she could rationalize the result, she knew it was being done for all the wrong reasons.
You went to law school for this, she thought.  Had she become some kind of bag man relegated to subverting the criminal court?  Did this put her on the side of war criminals?  She knew lobbyists that worked for corrupt foreign governments, slimy was the word that came to mind.  This was not why she went to law school.  She rubbed her face, it was Friday afternoon, she felt like getting drunk, maybe she would go to happy hour.  In the meantime, she was determined to procrastinate.  She didn’t have to respond until Monday.  She could think about it over the weekend.

Chapter 5

Jonathan sat on the bumper of his truck parked at the far end of the car park in the shade.  The sun was still in the sky but the shadows were elongating and the day was turning cooler.  A breeze blew.  He got up and paced a bit on the broken asphalt and cinder.  He stood at the edge of the lot bordered by a low slung chain link fence that was partly toppled over.  With his shoe, he liberated a white plastic bag caught between the wind and a piece of fencing, and watched as it tumbled over into the adjacent brown sand lot caught another gust and sailed high in the air.  Fifty yards further, a Maribu stork watched him and then turned back to the dumpster where it was picking trash.  Its bill punctured a green plastic bag and pulled out the contents like entrails from a carcass.
Over his shoulder, he could hear the sound of children being released from school.  He turned and walked back to the truck and saw Ronald walking toward him with determination followed by his young daughter of ten with berets and backpack, still concentrating on an art project.  Behind them stood a modern warehouse type schoolhouse with children in uniform spilling from its doors.
“I’m sorry about this Jonathan,” Ronald was saying.  “It’s just that her mother couldn’t pick her up today.”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s not a problem.”
Ronald turned to his daughter, “Naima, come on now, we are waiting for you.”
Naima picked up her head and skipped towards them with her knapsack and braids bouncing.
“Say hello to Mr. Jonathan.”
“Hello Mr. Jonathan.”
“Hi Naima, how are you?”
“I am good,” Naima responded shyly.
“How was school?”
“Good,” she responded, still not warm to conversation with adults.
“Thanks again Jonathan, I really appreciate it.  Her mother will be able to get her tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s on the way.  Where to Naima?” he said addressing Ronald’s daughter.
“Home,” she smiled.
They got in the truck and Jonathan navigated the parking lot of children to the roadway.  Naima warmed up on the ride home and maintained a continuous discourse on the events of her day.  Detailing her teacher and her teacher’s habits and dress, and that Ms. Balfour said that Nairobi was the end of the train line from the coast and lions killed many workers and that Lake Victoria was first discovered by a Ugandan.  From there she moved on to her classmates and someone named Penelope said something about someone.
Ronald lived with his family outside of Kampala to the west of town.  Jonathan made their way through the streets not badly paved but lacking any curbing and suffering from the occasional wash where portions of someone’s front yard extended into the roadway.  He stopped in front of the small neat brick house that he had driven to before for birthday parties and other occasions, which belonged to Ronald.  Ronald thanked him for the fourth or fifth time and again he told him not to worry about it.  He exaggeratedly thanked Naima for the pleasure of her company and complimented her on her abilities as a conversationalist.  She waived goodbye, pleased with herself.
Back on the secondary access road, Jonathan shifted the truck into third gear.  The sun was just setting as he picked up speed taking the back road to Kisementi.  The best time of the day, he thought.  And though he usually felt some sense of anticipation whenever he met with Father Boniface, this evening he felt particularly at ease.  Unencumbered as he drove through the sparse traffic, his only obligations to his work and a girl who doubled as his cook.
Dark was beginning to fall as he pulled into the parking lot at Kisementi.  When he stepped up to the entrance at Number 34 Cooper Street, Father Boniface had yet to arrive and he took a seat at the bar.  He felt calm sitting alone with his beer and almost regretted the inevitable interruption of his guest.  Number 34 was open to the outside separated only when closed by a pull down steel door.  Father Boniface was unmistakable and impossible to miss when he entered the bar.  Dressed in black, he stood in the front opening, a priest looking for his party.  He saw Jonathan and waived hello.  The bar was not uncrowded and the guests did not pay special attention to the large distinct black man with a roman collar.
“Hallo Jonathan,” he said effusively, greeting Jonathan with a handshake and grip of his shoulder, his face broadening with a smile.
“Good to see you.”
“Good to see you Father, what can I get you?”
“The beer looks good, I like the lager, is that a lager beer?  That’s what I’d like.”
“One lager beer, coming up, my treat.”
They exchanged news and greetings.  Jonathan expressed interest in the work at Church and talked about his own work in turn.
“You know Jonathan, I wanted to see you – it’s good to see you, you know just to catch up.”
“It’s good to see you too Father.”
“And you know before, I asked you about the daughter of a friend, a young lady coming from the Congo, the last I heard she is still coming, but I don’t want to bother you about that now.  I know that you will help when the time comes.”
“Well don’t get your hopes up Father, I can’t promise anything.”
“That’s okay, I won’t make you promise.”
“Thanks I appreciate that.”
“I know that would be too much to ask.”
“Okay,” he sensed the Priest was trying to guilt him and wanted to put a point on the subject.
“Can I ask you something,” Father Boniface continued without waiting for an answer.  “Are you happy here in Africa?”  He looked him in the eye and Jonathan refused an immediate response.  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.  For myself, I often feel a bit doubtful about being in Uganda.  Maybe I’m just feeling out of place or sentimental, I probably ought to be grateful.”
“That’s okay, I’m happy here.  I’m certainly not unhappy,” Jonathan replied.
“I notice you don’t ask questions about other people, is that because you don’t want them asking about you?”
Jonathan looked at his glass that he turned in his hand and then narrowed his eyes, frowned and looked Father Boniface in the face.  The large amiable pie face smiled back at him.
“You got me Father, you’re right, I can’t get away with anything with you.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrogate.”
“A new policy?”
“Ho ho,” Father Boniface laughed.  “I’ll stop asking questions so you can stop not answering them.  You don’t fool me though, I know your heart is not as hard as your shell,” he said and paused.  “I suppose I’m hardly one to talk, or to judge.  I wonder what the Church would say if it knew what I was doing.”
“You’ll never be a Bishop, Father,” Jonathan said to him.
The Priest looked at him, “yes – well, I suppose that’s true.”
“It’s a compliment, Father,” Jonathan assured him.  “Orwell said the highest praise one could pay to a member of the clergy is to tell him, he’ll never be a Bishop.”
“Okay, well then thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Orwell, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re quite the man of letters.”
“I can read and I can write.”
“That’s just your characteristic modesty.”
The conversation turned, the bar filled mostly with expatriates.  Brightly lit, its light shone from the inside and spilled out into the parking lot and the street beyond.  Any opportunity for contentiousness between them had passed, what was unsaid would remain that way.  Jonathan looked at the crowd and then looked out into the dark at the shadowy figures of young boys selling mangoes in the parking lot.  He sipped his beer and listened to the Priest sitting next to him reminisce about his home in the Congo.
****
He awoke early the next morning before his alarm clock.  The dawn came suddenly near the equator, no transition, just dark and then light.  Debra wasn’t there when he got up and he washed and ate quickly. He arrived early at the access road leading to the airport and stopped his car outside the gate and watched as a large Antonov picked up speed and lifted off into the air.
When he arrived at his office, Mr. Singh was already waiting for him.  He sat pensively on a plastic chair in the common area.
“Mr. Singh, how are you sir?  What can I do for you?”  Jonathan was in a good mood.
“Yes Jonathan good to see you,” Mr. Singh responded anxiously.  And then curtly without the pretense of courtesy, “I never heard back from you.”
Jonathan knew what he was talking about but only half anticipated that Singh would follow up on the mattter.  “I’m sorry Mr. Singh, I just got in.  You’re going to have to remind me what we’re talking about.”  He was facing away from the man looking through the mail on the reception desk.
“The cement, I never heard – you never got back to me about the cement,” he accused, standing now closely to Jonathan.
“I said I’d see what I could do.  I never promised I could deliver,” he responded firmly.
“We had an arrangement people were expecting…”
“I can find room from time to time, but there is no agreement where I have to ship cargo.  Fifty 100 pound bags of cement, you’re asking for a lot.  I suggest you make your own arrangements.”
“We had an arrangement and you benefited as much as anybody.  Don’t act like you haven’t.  You’re job could be very difficult if you don’t help out.”
“I’m not acting,” Jonathan felt his face grow warm but controlled his tone.  “As for the rest, I don’t know what you’re talking about, I work for the World Food Program, that’s my job.  I’m sorry for any misunderstanding.”
“Can you find room on your flight this afternoon?”
“No I’m sorry, I can’t,” he said definitively.
“You need to learn to be more flexible, Jonathan, that’s the problem with people from the West, you’re too rigid.  If you want to keep your job here you’re going to have to be more flexible.  I can be your friend, but…”  He didn’t finish the sentence.  But what?  You have to share in our corruption?  How else can we trust you?  “You know, you may need a friend sometime,” he concluded.  He turned and walked out of the room with his veiled threat still hanging in the air.  Ronald stepped out of the side office, looked at Jonathan and shook his head.
****
Nicole sat outside her hut on the ground, she finished eating her corn meal and set aside the empty cup.  A breeze blew full of humidity in anticipation of a storm, she thought.  The sun was set against a screen of palm trees that rippled in the breeze.  They would be leaving soon, just her and Philomene trying to make the distance to the Ugandan border.  She had conspired with George in an attempt to have George and Floribert come with them, but Philomene had said “no.”  Her Uncle Mukadi had made plans for transport for part of the distance, a driver he knew who transported charcoal across the border.  The arrangements were for two and Philomene said that Nicole was her first responsibility.  She had assured her that George could look out for Floribert and that they would make their own way.  Nicole had made George promise to take his cousin across the border into Uganda and George said he would try to follow.
Philomene was encouraged that her niece was showing interest in events and other people again.  “I’m sorry about George and Floribert, Nicole,” she said.  “I’m sure they will be okay.”
“It’s not your fault, I understand,” Nicole smiled at her Aunt. “Are we leaving tomorrow?”
“No not tomorrow, the next day, but we’ll leave early in the morning, I want to walk while it’s still dark.  Our ride will meet us near Aru.  All the plans are arranged, why don’t you see if Rose needs help putting the little ones to sleep?”
When she went inside, David was already asleep in his mother’s lap.  She took Kenan by the hand and lead him outside.  They walked hand in hand in the dusk to the metal rain catch, a metal barrel cut in half lengthwise and filled with water, where he could rinse his head.  After he poured water on his face, they began walking back and Nicole steered him from the path on which they’d arrived with a nudge of her hip.
“Hey this isn’t the way we came,” he protested.
“This is a different way,” she said naturally and they took an outside track walking around one end of the rows of huts.
Floribert was sitting at his same spot on his crate with an empty tin of what used to be beans at his feet.  When Nicole came into his line of sight, he picked up his eyes and waived at her.
“Hi Floribert,” she said.  “This is Kenan - say hello to Mr. Floribert.”
“Hello Mr. Floribert.”
“Hello,” he responded.  “Are you leaving tomorrow?” he asked Nicole anxiously.
“No” she said, “the next day.”
“I’m sorry we can’t come with you.”
“So am I,” she said.  Kenan looked up at her questioningly, his hand still in hers, but he didn’t say anything.
“George says that we can try and follow.”
“That would be good,” she said.  “I’ll be around tomorrow and we can talk about it then.”  She stooped down next to him and touched his hand.  “There’s no point in worrying, I know it will work out for the best,” she said reassuringly.  “I’ll see you tomorrow and I’ll give you all the contact information so that we can see you in Kampala.”
“I’ve never been to Kampala,” he replied.
“It’s nice, you’ll see,” she said.  “I have to take the little one back and put him to bed.  Good night Floribert.”
“Good night Nicole.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“See you,” he said.
He watched her walk away until she and the child turned a corner into one of the passage ways between huts and disappeared.
That night, before falling asleep, Nicole lay on her mat listening to the sounds of the camp settling in for the evening.  Rain had threatened but never materialized.  She could hear women calling children, and she heard the clattering of tin and the dull thud of a plastic ten gallon container in the distance.  The camp seemed peaceful and at that moment she almost regretted having to leave as she lay with one arm behind her head and then she drifted off.
****
They didn’t break down the door in as much as they simply pulled it off the frame.  It was flimsy and never offered any real protection from the outside.  Nicole awoke at the first shout, was it Rose or Helen, she couldn’t tell.  Her first reaction was to freeze.  She didn’t know what was happening and could only see beams of light that swung wildly cutting through the dark without disclosing the persons behind them.  There was a voice, it sounded like Philomene, saying “no, no” followed by a “shutup” from a man’s voice in response, followed in turn by a clattering of pots and pans and exertion of effort.  She could just make out Philomene in the strobe of flashlights swinging a metal pan like a dervish.  They were all awake now and the children were crying and the women screaming.
“You stupid woman,” one of the invaders said as Philomene hit something square that absorbed the blow with a thud.  In a beam of light, black muscled legs countered Philomene’s position and caught the pan in their hands.  The sound of a slap and Philomene crying “no” represented the end of her stand and she was pushed hard to the ground.  Nicole tried to crawl toward the corner and maybe the door, but the intruders had gained control and blocked any escape.  They were talking amongst themselves, “this one? No not that one.”  And then the beams were upon her.  “That’s her,” one of them clearly said.  She felt a hand on her and turned to run, she ran into another body in the small space that grabbed at her shirt.  She swung wildly with a closed fist and hit the hard surface of a cheekbone or temple.
“Stupid bitch.”  She felt a hard pressure from the inside of her head pushing out, as if all of her blood had moved from her arteries to her capillaries, and her head was concussed against the ball of a man’s palm.  She remained conscious, but dazed and lost her balance and hearing.  She was pulled in different directions for Philomene had regained her orientation and was grasping and managing to hold Nicole’s arm.  But the other hands that had hold of her were stronger and there were more of them and they held her more tightly, until one of the bodies stepped around her and she felt Philomene let go as her Aunt was grabbed by the wrist and slung into the wall of the hut.  Hands were carrying her now and she was being taken out of the hut.  The noise was directly behind her and she could still recognize the sound of Philomene calling “no.”
Don’t come Philomene, she thought, they’re too strong.
“Shut up,” someone said followed by the sound of a body screaming as it was pushed to the ground.  The light changed and the night sky gave her bearing but no control as she was carried through camp, lifted by individuals on each side of her.  A gun shot in the air broke the tension of the camp into overt panic.  Some remained huddled in their huts as if the darkness provided its own protection.  Others instinctively fled letting out screams of fright and cries to loved ones as they ran from the sound of the shot.  Nicole’s feet were not even touching the ground as she moved toward the edge of camp, the calamity receding behind her giving way to the sound of her captors, breathing and grunting.
She decided to protest, “please let me go,” she said futilely, “please.”  She screamed for her Aunt.  “Philomene,” she yelled, but got no response.
“Be quiet,” a voice responded, “you’re coming with us, don’t make it more difficult for yourself.  If you cause a problem, we’ll cover your head.”
I don’t want to be raped, Nicole thought, not again.  She looked for an opportunity to run but the hands on either side gripped her tightly.  She resisted being led down a narrow path into the bush.  This is where they’re going to do it, she thought.  She tried to plant her feet in the earth and was punched hard in the small of her back just above her buttocks, her feet gave way as the pain radiated through her lower back.  They did not stop moving and traveled through the bush until coming to a clearing where the sky was once again visible.  In the partial moonlight the outline of a 4 by 4 could be made out parked unevenly on sloped ground.
“Put her in the back,” one of them said.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“We’re taking you,” the voice responded.  “Someone wants to see you, if you cause any trouble we will shoot you.”
The 4 by 4 had a door that opened out in the back which was opened.  The men on either side held her arms that were then bound with rope at the wrist.
“Get in,” one man said and shone his light onto the floor of the cargo space of the truck.  She sat on the bumper and rolled her body onto the floor.  The doors were closed behind her and locked from the outside.
“Let’s go,” one of them said followed by closing doors as the passengers embarked and the truck started forward.  Nicole lay on the floor not daring to look over the back seat at her captors.  Now what? she thought, what new degradation?  She pulled her knees to her chest and tried to steady herself as the truck lurched forward.
The truck drove slowly through the rutted dirt track, the driver cursing at the gear box as the engine revved then strained against the resistance of the roadway.  The road continued this way for some distance requiring the vehicle to pick its way slowly through pockmarked terrain and over a steep ridge.  The road flattened out and the truck gained speed causing the windows to vibrate noisily as the wheels shimmied through potholes and over the loose surface of the roadway.  Guided only by the beam of light over the dirt road ahead, they traveled through the dark countryside.  They had been traveling, it felt like for hours when the truck slowed and came to a stop.  It was not dawn yet but the sky had lightened.  The doors opened with the squeaking noise of rust and passengers got out, a key turned in the lock and the back door opened.
“We have to walk some,” said a man in a white t-shirt and blue jeans.  There were three of them she could see now, two of them were medium sized and the third was taller and carried an AK-47 slung over his shoulder.
“I have to go,” she said.
They let her squat behind the truck and urinate and they did not molest her.  In the early light she could see the results of a nose bleed down the front of her blouse.
“This way,” one of them said.  A Fourth man wearing a baseball cap had materialized she was not sure from where.  The man in the white t-shirt spoke to him in a language she could not understand and gave him the keys to the car.  They left him behind and walked down into a ditch where the road had ended in a washout.  She looked back to see the man get into the 4 by 4 at the terminus of the road that had been turned into a turn around.  The path ahead was steep and narrow and leveled out into what appeared to be the bottom of a large sinkhole that opened up into small valley.  After about twenty five yards, they began climbing upwards until they reached the edge of what must have been the other side of the hole.  She could see where the road began again and they walked a short distance down the road away from the hole.  Parked in the bush on the side of the road, she could make out a white range rover.  One of the men opened the back door for her and she climbed in.  The door shut behind her, all present took their place and they resumed their journey in the new vehicle.
They traveled throughout the day.  The road improved and then they would slow quickly to navigate a series of potholes or drive over loose gravel.  They stopped twice for breaks, but otherwise drove continuously.  In the afternoon, the truck slowed and came to a stop as it arrived at their destination.  The door of the truck was opened from the outside and she knew to get out and she did.  She was lead from the back of the truck, and found herself in a small compound.  They were parked at the edge of a turnabout at the end of a red clay track with three other vehicles.  Directly in front of her were two utilitarian warehouse type structures, both white with corrugated metal roofs.  One looked as if it served as a dormitory of sorts and the other appeared to be a large garage.  Beyond the buildings, a grass field extended to the tree line in the distance.  To the right and thirty yards from the turnabout was a large white cement home with palms in front, surrounded by a well kept lawn.  A vehicle was parked in front of it but there appeared no road connecting the turnaround to the house, which must have had its own access to the roadway.  
The man in the white shirt and jeans grabbed her by the knot of rope between her wrists and began leading her toward the large garage.
“This way,” he said.
They walked toward the building then around the front and along its side.  Behind the building, out of sight, she saw the orange cargo container and realized she was being led there.
“Please,” she said, pleading, “why am I being taken here?  Why are you keeping me?”
“The boss wants you, I don’t know why.”
“Please don’t put me in there.”
“I have to do what I’m told.  You’ll be better off doing what you’re told.  Don’t cause any trouble and maybe things won’t be so difficult for you.”
When he opened the door to the container, her first impression was the smell, then she noticed the figures shuffling in the background, shabby figures that feared the open door and recoiled at the daylight.
“Use the bucket it’s in the back,” he said as he pushed her forward.  “Someone will come later with some food and water.”
The door closed behind her and she heard it being bolted from the outside.  Afraid to move, she stood in place just inside the entrance to the container.  Pitch black to her except for a few rays of light, the air was stagnant and warm.  She turned to feel her way along the wall of the container and walked into someone sitting on the floor.
“Hey, I am sitting down here.”
“Sorry,” she said and maneuvered herself farther down the edge of the container.  She found an open spot that seemed to be dry and sat down with her head in her hands.  She ignored the voices around her.  “Who is that?” they asked.  “Why are you here?”  She was afraid and distraught and did not respond.
After a time, one of her fellow inmates approached, she could hear the shuffling and see in the weak light through adjusted eyes the figure of a man as he reached out to touch the metal wall.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she responded.  “I don’t even know where I am.”
“You are near Arua, this is Mr. Orias’ farm.”
“I don’t know Mr. Orias,” she said.  “I was in Djugu and they took me.  I’m supposed to be going to Uganda with my sister.”
“I think she’s a Hema” a woman’s voice called from the other side of the container.  “I saw her when they opened the door.  You are a Hema aren’t you?  Let’s get this Hema bitch.”
“Shut up,” the man next to her yelled.  “You damn stupid woman.  What does it matter what she is?  We are all of us locked up.”
“Do not worry about her,” he said now talking to Nicole, “she won’t bother you.  I am Samuel,” he said “I owe Mr. Orias money that’s why I’m here,” he said as if making a confession.
“I’m Nicole.”
“Also here is Gideon and Winthrop, they are soldiers that were captured and Margaret, you heard Margaret before.”
“I don’t want anything to do with that bitch,” Margaret called out from the darkness.
“Be quiet,” he yelled back at her.  “Maybe things won’t be so bad for you,” he said.  “Maybe they made a mistake and will let you go in the morning.”
“Maybe they’ll let you go – maybe they’ll kill you,” Margaret called out again.
“Shut up or I will beat you,” Samuel yelled back at her.
“Anyway, you’ll probably see Mr. Orias tomorrow, maybe it won’t be so bad,” he said in a way that was trying to be hopeful.
When the men came with food the next day, Nicole was filthy.  She had not had enough water to wash and had been defecating and urinating in a ten gallon bucket.  Her pants were stained with dirt and her shirt was dyed with the dried blood from her nose.  Grime and stench surrounded her and she had not yet become as inured to the condition as her cell mates.  Nevertheless, she ate her bread giving little notice to the flies that buzzed around her as if she were part of the ecology of the shipping container.  
The men came back a second time and they summoned her to follow them outside.  She walked out of the container onto the grass near the side of the building.  “God almighty,” one of the men said in response to the odor.  She was made to strip and was just able to brace herself as one of the men turned the hose on her without warning.  Standing naked in the open with the sun shining on her wet skin, she tried to cover herself with her arms and hands but remained exposed and vulnerable.  One of the men, younger than the man who had brought her the day before, called Ochiolo, approached her and kissed her and fondled her breasts as she whimpered and tried to push away his hands.
“Oh c’mon now young mama,” he whispered to her as he rubbed himself against her.  She was fighting away his hands as they moved further down her body when they were both hit with another stream of water from the hose.
“Hey, what the fuck,” protested Ochiolo.
“That is for Orias to decide, now get away from there,” said the older man.  Ochiolo looked at him with resentment, but did as he was told.  A towel and dress were thrown at her and she dried and dressed.  After putting it on, she held the pale blue dress away from her body to prevent it from clinging to her damp skin.
“You wait here,” the older man said to Ochiolo, who stood in the sun to dry himself while wringing out his shirt.
“Yeah sure,” he acknowledged.
“You, let’s go,” the man said to Nicole and gestured for her to follow.  They walked across the grass away from the cargo container and the large garage to a gravel path that lead past the turnaround through a hedge bordering a yard and the house she had seen when she first arrived.  She followed her jailer around to the back of the house to a terrace shaded by palm trees and framed on two sides by bougainvillea.  Sitting on the terrace in a plastic white chair was a smallish man in a tie and shirt sleeves speaking on a mobile phone.  She was shown a chair and made to wait.
“What you are asking me is impossible,” he was saying.
“How about we stick to the original plan?  I will give you thirty as discussed, then in October, I will give you again the same amount and the last amount in November.  I will be back around the twentieth of September.  Call me then so I can make arrangements.  I might also be able to bring that device because I will be going through Dubai.  As for the shingles, I can’t do it right now.”  He paused and the person on the other end of the line must have spoken and the man was shaking his head in agreement.  “Okay, I will talk with you then, may God protect you Gahizi.  Goodbye,” he concluded.
Nicole was not impressed by the invocation of God and knew from experience that she could little expect God to be represented in the determination of her fate.  The man put down the phone and turned toward her.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No,” replied Nicole trembling from the wet and fear.
“I know your father, we used to work together, we did business together.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”
“You were younger at the time, I came by your house in Bunia.  How is your father?”
“My father is dead,” Nicole said surprised at herself.  She felt guilty for giving up her father’s life so quickly.
“Your father is living in Bunia.”
“No, the soldiers took him, they killed my mother.”
This was news to Orias.  “Your father double crossed me,” he spat, “he agreed to give me an Ituri concession and then he went against his word.  There is also the matter of a loan.”
“I’m sorry for that, but my father is gone and this business really has nothing to do with me,” she said stone faced.
“For your sake, I hope your father is not gone.  You’re only any good to me if your father is still alive.”  He paused, “what were you doing in Djugu?” he asked.
She looked at her interrogator shifting in his seat as if he suffered from some constant irritant, yellow eyed and sweaty.  “I was on my way to Uganda.  After my father was killed, I fled from Bunia.”
“Well we have a problem,” Orias said contemplating the girl.  “Your father owes me and you’re the only collateral I have.”
“Please let me go,” Nicole begged.
“I’m going to check your story, you better not be lying to me.”
“I’m telling the truth, my father is dead, I know it,” she said crying.

Chapter 6

If Jennifer could have marked a time or place where her resolve formed, that evening at the Monocle was the beginning of the end for her.  In her case, there was no eureka moment identifiable as a conscious decision.  But an idea had begun germinating in her subconscious, one that she could not shake that threatened to form into a conviction.  A conviction to do something, something more than accept the conventional compromise of principle.  There was no particular reason why it should be at this place or at this time.  Sipping a glass of wine listening to office gossip, Jennifer was happy.  The Monocle, the bar and restaurant at the end of the block from the Senate Office buildings, remained as a throwback, a temple to backroom deals and paid influence.  A place that stood at the confluence of public and private, where the conversations of legislators and lobbyists enjoyed the privilege of penitent and priest.
A slightly tipsy Mark, her colleague from the junior Senator’s office, was regaling her or at least attempting to regale her with stories from a recent trip.  Something about a congressional staff trip to the everglades and visiting a sugar farm.  “The Fanjul brothers,” he was saying overly enthusiastically, “captured an alligator and they roasted it for us.  It tasted a bit like fish.”
“How delightful,” she smiled.  He had long had a thing for her and like a school boy, he was over desperate for her approval.
“I’d think that’d be against the law, but sounds like a great trip.”  She caught Kim, one of the junior staffers in her office as she walked by.  Kim was young and bubbly and would talk without inhibition provided she had an audience.
“Hey Kim,” she said gently grabbing her at the elbow.  “I’d like you to meet someone, this is Mark, he handles foreign affairs for Senator Gordon.”
“Hey Mark, nice to meet you,” she said always keen to promote herself while he tried hard not to stare at her breasts.
“Nice to meet you too, so you work with Jennifer?”
“Excuse me one second guys,” said Jennifer sensing her opportunity.  “I’m just going to the bar,” she said, touching Mark’s arm and smiling.  Kim had begun a history of her employment in the Senator’s office starting from her recent graduation from college and had Mark’s full attention.
The bar was fully stocked and Jennifer got a second glass of wine, which would be her last.  She stood at the edge of a group sipping at her glass not wanting to engage but not wanting to be seen standing alone either.  The Senator was standing at one end of the room chiding his colleague, the junior Senator from the state.  He jokingly accused the man of being drunk on one glass of wine.  Those around him laughed enthusiastically beyond what the joke deserved.  Attendant and the host of the fundraiser, the lobbyist from Pharma, Nick somebody, was appropriately oiled.  Dressed the part in a broad pinstripe suit, perhaps Armani, a handkerchief decorated his jacket.  Gold cuff links and a bright green tie rounded out the costume.  Tanned with hair combed straight back, a made man, he smiled broadly, gangster lobbyist, a hired gun.
Staffers milled about and interns took advantage of the free drink and food.  After the Senators left, they would get loud and drunk.  She saw Jay to one side trying to chat up a young woman, she thought she remembered from the mail room.  No doubt inflating his importance in shaping the office foreign policy decisions, and not a copier of the morning news clips.  Thankfully she only had a bit part in the proceedings.  Brenda, her coworker and the office expert on health care issues, hovered close to the Senator’s elbow and smiled and chatted with the different representatives from the drug firms.
“Can I please have your attention ladies and gentlemen,” the junior Senator was speaking, a tall, telegenic man.  Shushes went out among the crowd and the din of conversation halted.  “I am pleased this evening to be able to support my colleague and friend, Senator Bryant.  And even though my support may put me at risk of six more years of being the butt of his jokes, I’m glad to do it,” he said smiling to the knowing laughter in the audience.  “We all know of the Senator’s commitment to viable health care and ensuring that the means of research and development are available in the future for the innovation of better, safer and cheaper medicine and care,” said the Senator deftly hitting on the key themes of the drug industry.  “I’m sure you also know of the Senator’s role in making anti retroviral medicines available for those in lesser developed countries,” he said.  Left unsaid was the pharmaceutical industry’s opposition to the initiative, which was only smoothed over by the Senator’s support for an expanded prescription drug benefit.  “So together with you, I’d like to express my thanks to the Senator for his great leadership in modernizing and improving health care.”  All in the room applauded and the two men shook hands.
Senator Bryant, the older distinguished graying patron, thanked his younger colleague for his kind words and thanked those in attendance.  He made some general forgettable remarks about the importance of fostering safe reliable health care, echoing the remarks of his junior partner, remarks he had made a hundred times before and did now with little effort.  He concluded his remarks by encouraging everyone to enjoy themselves.  At this point in the evening, Jennnifer’s thoughts turned to her cat and her apartment and the walk home.
“Hey Jennifer,” David approached her from the side, “have you met Nick Catan?”
“Hi Nick, how are you?”
“Hi Jennifer, great to meet you,” he said shaking her hand.
“Jennifer is our foreign affairs expert.”
“Wow that’s terrific, what a great job that must be.”
“Thanks, and thanks for this great party.”
“Sure thing, we’re glad you could make it,” he responded.  “You know the drug industry has a number of programs for providing cheap drugs to the third world, we ought to talk about it sometime,” he said looking over her shoulder at the same time.  “I’d really like to sit down with you at some point and discuss it,” he continued with enthusiasm.
“Okay, of course that’d be great,” she said, “let me give you my card,” which she fished from her pocket.
“Great, I look forward to it, I’ll be in touch, thanks again.  I have to excuse myself, it was nice meeting you.”
“It was nice meeting you too, Nick,” Jennifer responded.
“See you Nick,” David said as the man waived and moved on to the Senator as he was getting ready to leave.  They both watched as the Senator clamped his hand on Nick’s shoulder like he was a long lost friend.
“I think I can comfortably say that I’m not in much danger of hearing from him again,” Jennifer said to Dave.
“Be careful, he might surprise you,” he paused and then with a straight face, “you’re so cynical Jennifer, anyone can see the man’s an altruist.”
“Uh huh, you’re right, how could I have missed it.”
David nodded his head as if to say that’s right.  “Okay,” he said with finality, “I wanna get home.  I’m taking off, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay, see you,” she said and watched him make his way to the door.
****
Two bells meant a vote was being called and one bell and one light signaled a quorum call on the floor of the Senate.  Jennifer looked at the clock on the wall outside her office unconcerned.  One light was lit, a quorum call, the Senate was in a temporary holding pattern.  A number of procedural votes were scheduled for the morning, but none for the afternoon when the Senator was scheduled to fly back to the state.
Jennifer had drafted and submitted her memorandum on the mining industry’s request and the American Service-Member’s Protection Act.  The memo had survived Dave’s edit largely intact.  Her arguments and prose had been unemotional appealing instead to the intent of the law and political common sense.  She highlighted the political risk of being seen as obstructing the prosecution of war criminals.  She argued that it was a proposition that could blow up in their faces down the road, which she thought would gain traction with her politically risk adverse boss.
Although the memo was complete and well supported, she wasn’t satisfied.  She felt she was missing something.  Why would the mining industry feel threatened by the ICC, she thought.  It was no great leap that members of the industry did business with countries with questionable human rights records and even dictators who may be wanted by the Court.  Sudan came to mind.  A direct link between the industry and the Court would prove the case, she thought.  The Senator would think twice before being associated with a company linked to war crimes.
She flipped through the papers on her desk in search of the Association’s brochure.  One of the advantages of being disorganized was that it was less likely that something would be thrown out.  She identified the folder by its glossy blue cover with a futuristic abstract above the inscription, “Mining for America’s Future.”  She pulled out the insert listing a dozen mining companies and a number of subsidiary companies.  Over twenty in all, researching each of them would take too long.  She had a better idea, she’d start with the lawyers and work backwards.  She had the card right here, Mr. Edward Talbot of Jones, Case, and Wadell.  In the meantime, she had the perfect intern assignment.
“Hey Jay,” she mouthed and waived through the glass separator at Jay standing in the mail room with a stupid grin on his face.  She caught his attention and waived at him to come into her office.
“Hey Jay,” she said as he walked through the open door, “how ya doin?”
“Fine,” he said wary of her friendliness.
“Did you have fun last night?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Did you get really wasted?” she said in a joking patronizing way.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact I did.”
“I’d say the evening was a grand success then,” she said.  “Hey Jay, listen friend, I’ve got an assignment for you, a real assignment, not photocopying.”  She hoped a sufficient build up would create some enthusiasm.  “I need some research.  I have a list of companies, mining companies, and I need you to research them.  I’ve got the list here, I’ll make you a copy,” she said interrupting herself.  “What I’m looking for is articles about these companies doing business in foreign countries and any problems they’ve had.”
“What kind of problems,” he asked before she had the chance to finish.
“I’ll tell you,” she continued, “problems like corruption, corruption in dealing with government officials, I think that should be your main focus.  Allegations that a company engaged in corrupt practices, maybe bribed someone or engaged in fraud or maybe was linked to unsavory characters.  I’m thinking like warlords or maybe criminal guerilla groups, something like that.  Does that make sense?” she asked.  She had only limited hopes for Jay’s success, but he needed something to do and she was responsible for his internship.  If it turned into a waste of time well no great loss, she thought.
“Yeah, I think I get it,” he said, “give me the folder and I’ll make a copy.”
“Oh and Jay, only use reliable sources, I’m not interested in conspiracy theories from blogs.”
“Sure, I got it, no problem.”
That should keep him busy, she thought, and while he was doing that she would start with the lawyers and try and trace backwards.  She typed “Edward Talbot” into the Martindale Hubble search query and came up with a listing identifying him as a partner in his firm with a specialization in land use law that had broadened into representing the mineral extraction industry.  He was an active lobbyist on behalf of the industry and had experience in the application of the foreign corrupt practices act.  She read his bio that described an east coast pedigree with degrees from U Penn and Yale which he used to become an expert in the mining industry.
A Lexis/Nexis search revealed numerous mentions in articles in which he was quoted for his expertise in association with mining and corruption issues.  One in particular caught her attention, a report from the BBC regarding a protection services company that contracted with the United Nations.  Armor Group Inc., was listed on the AAMI brochure as providing logistical and other services to industrial mining companies.  According to the report, the director of Armor Group was paying bribes to a UN procurement officer for inside information and preferred access to contracts for servicing the UN’s peacekeeping missions.  The director was also accused of selling information from his UN contact to other companies doing business with Armor Group.  “When the dust settles and all the facts come to light, it will be shown that no improper payments were made,” Edward Talbot was quoted as saying.  The article did not report the resolution of the case, but another related report stated that Armor Group and the United States Government had come to a settlement worth seventy million dollars.  Armor Group was linked to a number of mining companies operating in different parts of Africa.
After about forty minutes, Jennifer had uncovered a lot of smoke but no fire.  She decided to change tactics once again, starting with the ICC and see if any of its cases would lead back to a particular company.  The most compelling cases or most hopeful for her purposes were fixed in Africa.  A review of the ICC docket identified cases involving warlords in the Democratic Republic of Congo, Sudan and Uganda.  Some of the cases involved outstanding arrest warrants.  Any number of companies, she knew, were involved in mineral extraction and export from the Congo, perhaps also Sudan, but she associated Sudan with oil.  She narrowed her search to companies doing business in the Congo, but this was far from conclusive.  She would need something more definite to make her case, not just inference based on circumstantial evidence.
She received a call from Bill in the Committee office wanting to speak with her about the Senator’s position for funding of public diplomacy for Iran.  Bill needed an answer by the end of the day and she was forced to put aside her research materials to track down the Senator.  She was able to catch him before he left to return to the state and he confirmed his support for funding.  By the time, she got back to her desk and passed the message along to Bill, the morning was over and she had little to show for her efforts.
Loathe to waste anymore time on a wild goose chase, she decided to cut the process short and call the Court directly.  The Court’s webpage provided a contact number for government liaisons, which she thought sounded hopeful.  She considered a pretext, not wanting to simply call the Court and ask if they had any cases involving mining companies.  A legal question, she thought, ought to help her get connected to someone who might actually help her.  
She dialed the number and heard the pickup on the other end.  “Communications office, how may I help?” a woman’s voice said in accented English.
“Uhm hello, my name is Jennifer Gruning, legislative counsel for U.S. Senator Bryant,” using her most professional title.  “I was hoping, I could speak with an attorney on staff in your office about some information about the Court,” she stumbled.
“Well perhaps I can help you, what is your question?” came the curt response.  I don’t want to speak to someone in public relations, Jennifer didn’t say.
“Well my questions are procedural ones,” Jennifer said trying to be as complicated as possible.  “We are in the process of marking up the Foreign Affairs Reauthorization Bill in the Senate and some questions have come up as to the jurisdiction of the Court over US entities and the obligations of signatory countries under treaty law.”
There was a pause on the line, “well the United States is not a member to the Rome Convention, so the Court does not have jurisdiction over the United States,” came the reply.
“Well yes of course, I know that,” now it was Jennifer’s turn to be curt.  “But the United States has been a signatory and I believe even if you rescind that status, there are still certain obligations under treaty law.”
Another pause, “well I think most of our lawyers are in a meeting right now,” sounding annoyed.
“If you could check, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Can you hold for a moment please?”
“Sure,” and the phone clicked to holding.  Jennifer held the phone to her ear and drew geometrical figures on scratch paper as she waited.
“Alex Moore, how can I help you?” brusque and confident in what she took to be a Scottish accent.
“Uh hello Alex, I’m Jennifer Gruning,” and she provided a replay of the question that she contrived for the woman who answered the phone.
“Well it’s an interesting question,” Alex said launching into a loquacious response in contrast to the woman who picked up the call.  “You’re right,” he said, “even a country that signs and rescinds its signature could have an obligation under treaty law; however, it’s a pretty attenuated and not well defined obligation.  Nevertheless,” he continued, “a state that rescinds its signature may have an obligation to not oppose or do anything that would interfere with the implementation or enforcement of the treaty in question.  However, if that state clearly asserts its intent not to ratify the treaty, then no, the state has no obligation regarding the treaty.”
“I see,” she said feigning interest, and then asked a follow up question about the Court’s jurisdiction over parties from non-treaty countries located in a treaty member country.
“Well in that case, the Court likely could assert jurisdiction,” he said.  “But you ought to know that right?  That’s why you passed the Hague invasion act,” he laughed.
“Right, right of course,” she said.  “Here is the thing Alex, I have a more specific question I’d like to ask,” she said preparing him.
“Okay.”
“Well it’s about a specific case, one that involves mining interests,” she continued.
“Beating around the bush,” he said.
“What? I’m sorry.”
“Beating around the bush, isn’t that what you call it?”
“Well I….” but he cut her off sparing her the trouble of thinking up a response.
“The thing of it is Jennifer, I’m not allowed to discuss ongoing investigations.  That’s a matter for our communications office, something you seem to have avoided.”
“Right, right, I know,” she stuttered, thinking she didn’t want to scare him off.  “What if I just ask some general questions?” she said, “nothing specific.”
“General questions, like what?”
“Well I have some questions about a company’s possible involvement with the Court and you can just answer yes or no, or better yet you can just answer no and I’ll read between the lines.”
“Hmmm, sounds a bit sinister,” he said.  “Wait I’ve seen this in the movies, All the President’s Men right?”
“Well…” she didn’t know what to answer.
“I don’t even know you and you want me to be your deep throat is that it?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“I think this phone call has taken an obscene turn,” which caused her to laugh.  “Okay Ms. Gruning, you don’t seem like a bad sort, let’s give it a try, fire away.”
“Okay, okay, here is the situation, I have a group, or there is a group of mining companies and they seem to have an interest in the Court and I want to know if there are any cases in the Court where mining interests play a particular role.”
“Uhm, yes,” he responded.
“Well that really wasn’t the question.”
“My answer is still yes,” he deadpanned.
“Okay, okay, fine,” she said.  “Okay so, American Mineral Group.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Hillston?”
“Don’t know em.”
“Afri Min?”
“Not familiar.”
“Satow Mining?”
“Nope, how many do you have on your list?”
“Just a few more, Saxon Mineral?”
Silence.
“Saxon Mineral?”
Silence.
“Okay, got it, now let me read a few cases to you.”
“Okay.”
“Lubanga?”
“Nope, interesting case but not relevant.”
“Okay, Katanga?”
“Same.”
“Churi?”
“Nope.”
“Bembe?”
Silence.
“Bembe,” she repeated.
“Okay, got it.  Thanks so much, I can’t tell you what a big help it is to me.”
“Hey Jennifer, no problem, and if there is ever anything else I can do for you, anything at all, please don’t call me, okay?”
“No, I won’t, thanks again.”
“Okay, you’re welcome, good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“Good bye.”
“Bye.”
Alex hung up the phone, silly Americans playing cloak and dagger, he thought.  It was late, he looked out his window at the gray sky, the wind was kicking up and the first large drops of rain were hitting the glass of his office window with exaggerated splashes.  The storm was moving in from the sea and the rain increased in intensity as the clouds closed out the last reflected light of the sun.  He had more work to do, but it would wait, tomorrow was Saturday and he would be in the office regardless of how late he stayed tonight.  He was finished for the day, for now what he wanted was a meal and above all a drink.
****
Alex managed to make it in to the office by ten o’clock the next morning.  It had rained for most of the evening, but now the late morning sun shone around and through the blinds to his office window.  Dinner with a fellow prosecutor was followed by several rounds of scotch followed by a clouded morning.  He went to the kitchen to pour a second cup of coffee from the pot he was forced to brew himself, before returning to his office and the task at hand.  Alex was methodical in his case preparation but his hangover was hurting his concentration.  
The hearing was scheduled for Monday morning in the Appeals Chambers of the Court.  The pretrial chamber had approved the interim conditional release of Jean Pierre Bembe, pending the resolution of his case, over the opposition from the office of the prosecutor.  On behalf of the prosecutor’s office, Alex had appealed the order.  The pretrial chamber’s order was conditioned on a member state agreeing to the release of Bembe in their jurisdiction.  None had agreed to do so and Bembe remained confined.
Alex hoped the pre trial chamber’s willingness to approve Bembe’s release before locating a country that would take him would be the weakness in the decision leading to its reversal.  His briefing papers to the Court emphasized the statutory requirement that a detainee secure a country willing to accept release before an individual qualified for pretrial release.  The decision was of one piece, he argued in his brief, and the chambers had no authority to grant release prior to identifying a country that would accept custody.  Now he would have the opportunity to make the argument in person and respond directly to the questions raised by the appellate panel.
He reread the briefs presented and wrote out questions that he thought the judges would likely ask.  In turn, he considered his own questions and tried to formulate an understandable response to them.  He had arranged to be mooted on the case that afternoon and wanted to have a clear understanding of the issues.  As he paged through the record, Horst appeared in his doorway.
“Hey Alex, how are you doing?”
“Hey yourself,” he responded.
Alex considered Horst entirely too young to be so completely earnest.  Nevertheless, he was diligent and the two got along despite having little in common.  He’ll probably go to law school and become a lawyer, Alex thought, I’ll have to be certain to talk to him about that.
“Sorry to see you in on a Saturday,” Horst said.
“Yeah, well the law is a jealous mistress and last night I got fucked,” Alex said.  Horst looked at him not sure what to say.  He liked Alex for his irreverence but sometimes it caught him off guard.
“Uhm okay.”
“So what do we hear from the Congo?  Tell me some good news.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.  Jonas Negusse is officially disappeared, the best information is that it was DRC troops, but that’s unclear and I think unlikely.  At this point, good news would be recovering a body,” he said, then regretted he’d said it.
“No great surprise there.”
“But I’ll keep in touch with Jean with the UN mission and let you know if anything comes up.  They did talk to the brother and a daughter did escape or she was sent out of the country, we don’t know where she is now, possibly in Uganda.”
“Okay, well that’s interesting, keep me up to date.”
“Sure, what brings you to the office on Saturday?”
“I’m trying to keep Mr. Bembe behind bars.”
Alex looked haggard, Horst thought.  “Okay, well I’ll leave you to it,” he said.  He never new what to expect from Alex, they were more than colleagues, but not exactly friends.  Horst was introduced to Alex shortly after he started working for the Court at the annual Holiday party.  As the evening wore on, Alex consumed more alcohol and at one point Horst observed him on the floor on all fours inviting a co-worker to kick him in the ass.  When he went to leave and get his car out of the car park, he found Alex passed out in his car, keys in the ignition.  Not wanting anyone from the Court to find him, he pushed Alex into the passenger seat and drove him home or at least to the apartment block where he lived and left him asleep in the car.
He’d remembered that night and the dry cold air as he walked with the collar of his wool coat turned up against the chill.  He’d ended up walking about a mile and a half until he was able to catch a cab back to his car, but he hadn’t minded.  It had been a Friday night and he had nowhere in particular he had to be.  He’d remembered that night but was sure that Alex hadn’t.  He was asleep for most of the ride and when he did exhibit consciousness, he was delirious.  Before leaving him, Horst had put the keys in his shirt pocket and buttoned his coat.  He smiled now at the thought of Alex waking up in the passenger seat of his car thinking where the hell am I and how did I get here?
But the Christmas party was a ways off, and Horst was determined to make one more effort to locate the daughter of Jonas Negusse.  He had lost the father but would retrieve the daughter, he thought.  What she had to contribute to the case as a witness was unknown and largely beside the point, it had become a matter of pride for him.  At his desk, he pulled up twelve new emails and the only one he was interested in was addressed from Jean, UN peacekeeper turned investigator in the Congo.
Horst:
Per our last conversation, I was able to make contact with the uncle named Mukadi.  He is very fearful, does not want his niece involved in the matter.  Stated that niece new little of the Negusse’s business but inadvertently admitted that daughter had strong advanced language skills and often served as an interpreter for the father.  The daughter was likely party to English language conversations and documents.
He said the daughter had fled the DRC.  He was general but stated that aunt took her to Uganda for safety.  Said she had already suffered enough and wanted the girl to be left in peace.  Expressed his opposition to involvement in case that got the parents killed.  I pressed, but he refused cooperation – was nervous about speaking with me, said UN could not protect him.
Wish that I had more to offer, please advise as to how to proceed.
Regards – Jean
“Dear Jean,” he typed.
Thank you for all the good work.  Do we have a picture of the daughter?  I think you mentioned personal effects from the family home.  A picture would be helpful.  You said she studied in France, the name of the school would be helpful.  I’ll check with French immigration on this end.
If she is going to Uganda, do you think she is probably going to Kampala?  Would it be worthwhile to talk to the uncle again and tell him if she is in Kampala, we can offer protection?  I understand that he is reluctant and not trusting of the UN.  You spoke with him, I’ll rely on your judgment.
Please let me know in the meantime if you find a picture.  I may need to arrange travel to Kampala, perhaps I’ll be able to meet you there.  Thanks again for your help and please keep me up to date.
Best – Horst.
He copied Alex and pressed the send button.  “Best – Horst,” he thought – best what?  Outside his window, the sun was shining brightly in contrast to the office which seemed bleak and dreary without people in it.  He decided against stopping by to see Alex on the way out.  It could wait until next week.  He shut off his computer and walked out.
****
The decision came quickly.  Matanda received his copy courtesy of the solicitor’s office in London.  It took the form of a summary opinion, twelve pages in length, and he read the end first.  “For reasons provided the appeal is sustained.”  The Court did not regret to inform him and with those words the lower court’s decision granting Bembe parole was reversed.  For Matanda the reasons why mattered little beyond the conclusion itself.  Looking at the decision his sense of injury returned.  Didn’t the Court understand what an imposition this was on him personally?  What after all was their original sin, the commission of civil war and all that went along with it?  And hadn’t they paid the price of being on the losing side, detention and exile? And what of the Court’s own culpability?  The purveyors of selective justice that allowed them to sit on their hands while Kigali extracted retribution and Kabila et al committed serial kleptocracy in Kinshasa.  Victor’s justice.
Call it even, Matanda thought.  Bembe suffered exile and on conditional release could flee to Zimbabwe or maybe Uganda.  The Court would suffer its embarrassment, but it would be deserved, a small price to pay in the interest of fairness. But the Court wasn’t keen to the bargain.  It persisted and was intent on seeing Bembe in jail, and Matanda would be saddled with flights and train rides to the Hague for the foreseeable future.
“The pretrial chamber misappreciated and disregarded relevant facts in concluding that substantial changes in Mr. Bembe’s circumstances justified conditional interim release,” he read from the decision.  “Interim release must be a single unseverable decision that fully states the specific conditions for release,” the opinion continued.  “Interim release requires the identification of a host country willing to take responsibility for the defendant before interim release is granted.”  The pretrial chamber had acted prematurely or so the appeals chamber had held.  Because no country had stated its willingness to take responsibility for Bembe, no interim release was available.  Matanda would be on a flight to the Hague the next day.
****
On the plane ride from London, he had prepared himself for an unpleasant meeting, but the Bembe in front of him was nearly jovial in his resignation.  Matanda knew this attitude was only temporary and remained prepared for the shifting moods of his mercurial friend.
“I have come to realize,” he said looking at Matanda with a bemused smile, “that I don’t think it matters what arguments we make, they intend to hold me for as long as they can, indefinitely.”
“Maybe you’re right, nevertheless, you’ll have your chance to make your arguments at trial,” Matanda responded not wanting to indulge him.
“You know they tried to kill me three times,” he said ignoring Matanda’s response.  “They couldn’t kill me with a gun, but this Court is more effective, they surround you with lawyers and ensnare you in a maze from which there is no escape,” he said playing the victim.  He may have been one of the richest men in the Congo, but here he was a victim of judicial conspiracy.  Matanda was wary of being drawn into his self pity and sidestepped the issue.
“The Court is no match for you,” he said encouragingly.  “You survived assassination attempts, you can weather this.”
He looked at Matanda and laughed.  “Say that once again with feeling friend, like you believe it.”  Matanda smiled back at him.
“I understand that Negusse is still gone missing,” Bembe said.  “That might make their case difficult.”
“See, things are looking up,” Matanda said, “for someone in prison you are well informed.”
“I like to stay on top of things, I can’t rely on my lawyers for everything,” he said.  Matanda looked at him with a pained expression.  “I understand there is a daughter who managed to flee.  It seems she has left the country gone to Uganda or elsewhere.  She may still turn up.”
“Maybe it’s up to the gods,” Matanda shrugged.
“Maybe the gods could use some help.”
“It’s not my job, not what I do.”
Bembe looked at him silently.
“You’re considering me,” Matanda said.  “We’ve been together for a long time,” he continued, “but you’re thinking what good am I.  You forget, you’ve got a legal case, good lawyers, they’ve dropped two counts against you.”
“My friend the lawyer,” Bembe chuckled.  “He says to put your faith in the law.  You have considerably more faith in the law than I do.”
Matanda didn’t respond immediately and kept a straight face.
“You don’t need to do anything, you have a guardian angel,” Matanda said flatly.  “He’ll see you through this the same way he saw you through those other times.”
“Who is this guardian angel?”
“It doesn’t matter, your interests coincide.  I brought some Matoki,” he offered wanting to change the subject.  “They made me leave it at the front gate, but said they would bring it to you later.”
“Terrific, finally some food I can digest,” Bembe responded.  “Maybe I can share it with my fairy godmother.”
“Not your fairy godmother, it’s your guardian angel,” Matanda said unable to stop himself from correcting the man.
“I know what it is,” Bembe said laughing at his own joke.

Chapter 7

No longer able, Nicole had stopped sweating as the late morning sun approached the highest point of midday.  Dizzy, she fell forward over her shovel, twisted and landed sitting in the dirt.  At this point Nicole cared little if she lived or died, exhaustion was her only point of reference any end to it would be a form of relief.  She was meant to be killed that much was clear, but first she had to dig her own grave.  She watched Ochiolo yell at her as if she was having an out of body experience, his voice barely registered in her ears.
“Get up before I beat you,” she could make out through the haze of her exhaustion.  Ochiolo started towards her baton in hand.  She attempted to get up and fell over sideways leaning against the lip of the hole she had excavated almost two feet in depth.
“You over there,” she heard his voice directed at her former cell mate, one of the soldiers.  He was crying now and swatted flies attracted to the wound on his thigh made with a panga.
“No please boss,” he was crying near incoherent with pain and fear.
“You get in there and dig for her.”
Whimpering, he managed to make it out of his own trench and stumbled into her hole.
“Okay boss,” he gurgled, sweating with snot running from his nose.  An impressive display of hydration, Nicole thought, after three hours of digging.  After two days in the hotbox of the cargo container, Nicole had begun defecating blood.  So diminished, the sun was like a desiccate that sucked the last bit of moisture from her body.  The soldier began digging haphazardly, barely able to maintain his balance and lacking the strength to fully heft the shovel allowing dirt to run back into the grave.  Less than half of each shovelful made it past the edge of the hole.
Sensing futility, Ochiolo ordered a stop, “that’s enough,” he barked.  “Get out,” he ordered and the soldier crying for help from God, stepped out of the hole and into his own shallow grave in line with the other graves.
“Lie down,” Ochiolo commanded, “face down.”
“Oh Jesus God,” the soldier cried, “please no,” but did what he was told and lay trembling in the dirt at the bottom of the hole.
Ochiolo stood over him and produced a pistol which he placed at the base of the man’s neck and pulled the trigger.  The gun clicked and then misfired.  The soldier was near hysterical crying out and twisting in the moist dirt.  Ochiolo again pointed the gun at the base of the man’s neck and pulled the trigger.  Again the gun misfired.  Nicole and the other two prisoners in their own holes on the other side of the soldier watched immobile in dazed horror.
Ochiolo examined the barrel of the gun and pulled back the hammer which then sprung forward on its own momentum firing the pistol with a loud crack.  Ochiolo was dazed and nearly knocked over, throwing the gun to the ground.  The soldier screamed out in pain holding his right wrist, he had been shot through the hand.
“Goddammit,” Ochiolo cursed. “Son of a bitch.”  Holding his ear, “watch them,” he yelled at the other two men nearby and walked off in the direction of the compound leaving the digging party to sit in the sun.  Among them, the soldier with the gunshot wound showed the most signs of life writhing in agony and calling out for help.  The others sat in near stupor.  After more than three hours, the wounded soldier contented himself with holding his hand close to his body and rocking back and forth.  Nicole wished for the early onset of night, anything to provide relief from the unrelenting daylight.
In the late afternoon, three men approached the edge of the field where the four prisoners sat covered in grime.  Nicole saw them coming from a distance but did not react.  As they got closer, the wounded soldier saw them over the lip of his trench and began rocking faster and mumbling to himself.  The three men walked abreast, Ochiolo, Orias and another man in a Ugandan military uniform.
“No, no,” she heard him say as they drew near.  “You cannot be doing this.  This will only cause us trouble.”
Orias shook his head.  “Hey what,” he stumbled.  “Why not?”
“We’ll just catch hell and then there will be enquiries in Kampala and then more hassles.  You just do business and leave the prisoners to me.”
“But they are my prisoners.”
“They are soldiers, they are my prisoners, I will take care of them,” the officer said.  “What about this one?” he asked pointing to Nicole.
“That’s a private matter, a business matter,” Orias responded.
“She’s a civilian,” the officer observed.  “No sorry, I’m under strict orders, no civilians, casualties are to be avoided.”
“But it’s a business matter,” Orias insisted, “a private dispute.”
“Does she owe you money?”
“Her father does.”
“She’s a child,” the officer stated.  “No sorry, my orders are clear.  Kampala doesn’t want unnecessary casualties, you can’t just go about doing as you please.”
“I’m trying to conduct business.”
“And you can keep on conducting business, just try not to muck things up too much.”
****
Nicole found herself being taken by the tide.  The same fate that delivered her into the hands of her father’s enemies found her in the back of a Ugandan Army rover heading west on the roadway toward the Ugandan border.  Beside her in the back seat, were two of the captured soldiers, one on each side.  They lolled their heads against her, touching shoulders and occasionally jostling themselves awake as the Rover shivered over the bumpy roadway.  In the back lay the wounded soldier, drained and asleep, his hand wrapped in an old t-shirt.  A Ugandan soldier grasping an AK-47 rode on the bench opposite him.  The Major, the name by which the other Ugandan soldiers referred to the officer, road in the front passenger seat and gave instructions to his driver in an accented Lugandan that Nicole had difficulty understanding.
They rode for long stretches of time without anyone saying anything, the interior of the car filled with the rattle and squeak of the doors and window panes as they moved with speed over the rough road.  She knew that they were heading toward the border and that after they reached the border instructions had been given for the custody of the soldiers.  They traveled for hours through a countryside of tall elephant grass and forested areas that encroached on the roadway and seemed to narrow the passage.  Mostly the landscape was open and the fields of green and yellow were scarred in places by tracks of dull orange where a path had been cut or the rain had eroded the topsoil.  The road widened and low slung cement buildings appeared on both sides and they were in a town with stores and shops.  Men stood about in doorways and on stoops and watched them pass as the vehicle slowed.  Storefronts decorated in oversized pictures of United States currency advertised “maison de change.”  The signs for gold and money exchange were interspersed with signs for boutiques and phone service.
They traveled through to the other end of the town where they fell in line with other vehicles heading east.  A matatu was unloading passengers and men in uniforms were inspecting the cargo of a stopped truck.  The driver drove around to the head of the line where they were fronted by a barricade manned by two soldiers wearing uniforms of undesignated origin.  One of the men approached, a sullen youth, he recognized the Major and the two exchanged waives.  In turn, he waived to his mate, who set the barricade to one side and allowed the vehicle to pass.
To Nicole it appeared they hade entered a sort of no man’s land posted with signs forbidding the use of cameras.  Passengers from less privileged vehicles were made to walk the three hundred yard distance to the other border post for inspection.  She watched them reboard busses idling near the crossing point on the other side.  This crossing was more orderly, apportioned with a working gate manned by members of the Ugandan Defense Force in uniforms with insignia identifying them.
“Welcome back Major,” one of the soldiers addressed him and leaned into the window as the car came to a stop.  “You picked up some passengers,” the soldier said gesturing to the back seat.
“I had to take custody of these individuals.  I’m taking them to the base, I’ll let command sort it out from there.  But they’re in my custody for now,” the Major said in a short tone.
“Okay sir, I’ll waive you through.”
The fence opened and the car was allowed to pass.  Across the border, they passed a line of trucks heading west.  The road was narrow and even and the border town receded behind them as the Rover picked up speed.  Nicole’s fellow passengers were all awake and knew they were in Uganda but didn’t ask where they were being taken.  Grateful for being removed from her previous circumstance, the uncertainty of what would happen next nevertheless kept Nicole unsettled.  She watched out the window, the early evening sun hung low in the sky and the road was well shaded.  It would be dark soon.
“Sir,” Nicole managed, “where are you taking us?”
The Major turned in his seat and looked at Nicole considering her face.  He looked younger than she had originally thought, and had smooth skin with a single crease of a scar over his right cheek that served only to highlight his otherwise unbroken complexion.
“These ones,” he pointed to the soldiers, “we are taking to the army base for sorting,” he said ambiguously.  “But you, you are a civilian.  I can’t take you to the army base.  There is a displaced persons camp not far from here.  That is where we are taking you.  The Red Cross is there, they will take care of you, don’t worry,” he said with finality.
Her question answered, Nicole had to be satisfied that all would be “sorted.”  She sat back with only a little clearer idea of her future.  She needed to speak with her family.  Where was Philomene?  Could she talk with Uncle Mukadi, what would he advise her?
****
That morning Major Singh had meant to apologize to Jonathan when he encountered him at the customs office in the main terminal.  He said he was sorry for raising his voice at Jonathan.  While the conversation was cordial, Major Singh made it clear that all was not forgotten.  It was business, not personal Jonathan thought.
“Don’t be stubborn,” Major Singh told him.  “It’s for your own good,” he said professing to have Jonathan’s best interests at heart.  “This is the way we’ve always conducted business around here, you know that, no need to rock the boat,” he said genially.  “So next time I need space on one of the flights, I’ll let you know – no problem.”
“Don’t count on it,” Jonathan replied.
“Oh now, Mr. Jonathan, that’s not necessary.  I’d hate for your bosses at the UN to think there was any problem with your work,” he said.
“Rumor and innuendo.”
“Rumors can stick, they’re hard to shake especially with the problems surrounding this airport.”
“You don’t think you’re a bit exposed to be making threats,” Jonathan said.  “There’s plenty of material for rumor about yourself.”
“I don’t work for the UN.  I work for the Pakistani government, I’m civil service protected so to speak,” Singh responded.  “Jonathan, I’m your friend, we can help each other, there’s no reason you shouldn’t get something out of this.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.  “I’m lucky to have such a good friend.”  The conversation had ended without conclusion but Jonathan knew he was exposed as he made his way from the terminal to the small building that he shared with Ronald and that served as an office.  
The Nissan hut where Jonathan and Ronald worked was roughly divided into offices with plywood walls that supported doors but did not reach all the way to the ceiling.  The corrugated steel ceiling was exposed on its underside as it was on the outside and lacked any insulation.  On the hottest days, Jonathan or Ronald would spray the roof with the hose from the outside spicket to cool the building.  The office was quiet with the exception of Ronald whistling at his desk.  Even the airport seemed quiet, only an occasional landing interrupted the peace.  Ronald was already in the office when Jonathan arrived that morning.  He was always on time and although he never said anything, Jonathan knew he was disapproving when he showed up late.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jonathan felt compelled to say to him.  “I got held up at the terminal.”
“That’s fine, I didn’t ask,” Ronald responded.
“How is it you’re always on time, don’t you ever get stuck in traffic?”
“I plan ahead.”
“Uh huh, you’re something of an aberration, Ronald.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You’re the only uptight Ugandan, I know.”
“A joke, very funny,” Ronald said dryly.
He looked out the window to his office at a glorious bright day and cloudless blue sky that was like an ocean of light.  From his position, he could make out the trees on the hilltop surrounding Lake Victoria.  He called out, “Hey Ronald, I’m off this afternoon to meet with Claude at the Lake Victoria Hotel,” he said.  “I just wanted to remind you.”
The whistling in the adjacent office stopped and Ronald answered back, “I know you told me yesterday, I hadn’t forgotten already.”
“Okay, well I just wanted to remind you is all.”
“You don’t need to remind me every day,” Ronald responded over the office wall.  “My memory is fine and please remember to say hello to Claude for me.”
“Will do, I’ll try not to forget.”
Claude was their supervisor, the regional director of the World Food Program for East Africa.  Based in Nairobi, he was visiting Uganda for a seminar at the Lake Victoria Hotel in Entebbe.  Jonathan had agreed to meet him in the afternoon to discuss business.
Jonathan arrived early at the Lake Victoria Hotel and feeling restless decided to walk the grounds instead of waiting in the lobby.  He walked outside the front door and then turned around and walked back in through the lobby and past the meeting room where he could hear the seminar proceeding behind closed doors and out onto the pool area.  He found a seat in the shade and sat down behind a glass table looking at an empty pool and hoping for a breeze.  With the exception of two women sunning themselves in bikinis, flight stewardesses he thought, the pool area was empty.  He thought to introduce himself, but either didn’t have the nerve or wasn’t interested in making conversation, and feeling uncomfortable sitting alone, got up and went back inside. 
Inside, the seminar was finishing up and he saw Claude in the lobby in conversation with one of the participants.  Small trim, well groomed with close cropped gray hair and neatly dressed, Claude appeared to be in his fifties.  Jonathan thought him to be high strung, although he didn’t always show it, and he watched him gesture with his hands.  Hands normally occupied with a cigarette in one or the other, but presently empty.  Jonathan sat in the couch in the center of the room near the front desk and waited while Claude finished talking.  Eventually, he started making his goodbyes and looked around the room and caught Jonathan’s eye and waived in recognition.
“Jonathan, how are you, good to see you,” Claude said coming over to him and then clasped one hand on his arm and shook his hand with the other as he rose from his seat.
“Thanks, it’s good to see you too Claude.”
Let’s go out this way,” Claude said gesturing to the patio outside the dining room.  “Some place we can talk.”
“Sounds good.”
They made their way outside, Claude leading the way and settled around a patio table overlooking the pool.
“It’s good to be outside,” Claude said fingering a cigarette from its package, lighting it and exhaling, “after being cooped up in that conference room.”
“How is the seminar?”
“Fine, fine, I think they mean to put us out of business,” Claude responded.
“Oh yeah, how so?”
“Apparently we’re undermining the economy,” he said.  “Driving all the local farmers out of business, it’s cheaper for folks to rely on us for food than to grow their own.”
“Not to worry,” said Jonathan, “there’ll always be hunger somewhere.  I think we’ve got good job security.”
“Well yes there is that.  Anyway I don’t think we’ll be rendered useless anytime soon,” Claude said.
The two men sat in silence for a moment, Claude squinting and looking out past the pool to Lake Victoria in the distance, gathering his thoughts.
“I do like it here,” he began again, “Nairobi can be so dry and dusty.  I’m glad we have this opportunity to talk,” he said.
“Me too,” Jonathan felt the need to say something.  “It’s been a while.”
“It has and I want you to know how appreciative I am for the work you and Ronald do.  You two have been reliable – on the job,” he said.
“Thanks,” Jonathan said, expecting more.
Claude looked at his cigarette and then at Jonathan, “I also need to warn you a bit,” he said.  “There’s been a lot of talk about the situation in the Congo, talk about fraud and mismanagement.  It appears that elements of the peacekeeping force have been using the assignment as a personal opportunity to enrich themselves.  They’ve become involved with some of the local militia in eastern Congo and even some local criminal organizations in Kampala and Nairobi.  What I’ve heard is that most of it involves smuggling – prohibited items and material that sort of thing and some people smuggling as well.  The peacekeepers are shielded by their national governments, but word is there is going to be an accounting,” he said.
“I trust you Jonathan, but I just wanted to let you know, after all you are responsible for shipping to the Congo and I just wanted to put you on notice.  If you have any relationship with the peacekeepers, you may want to reconsider,” he said and paused.  “I’m not accusing,” he said, “just wouldn’t want you to find yourself in a bad spot.”
“No - thanks,” Jonathan responded.”  “I’ll be careful, by the book all the way.”
“Good, great, glad to have that piece of business out of the way.  How about a drink?” he asked.
“A drink would be great.”
Claude waived to the waiter and waited for him to come over from the pool.
“Beer okay?”
“Beer would be great.”
“Two cold Bells please,” he asked the waiter.
The conversation became easier as the two men relaxed and the sun began to approach the tree line.  Claude spoke of events in Nairobi and Dar Es Salaam and the poor growing conditions in Tanzania and Sudan.  Jonathan listened as he vented on the politics in New York and Geneva, and the use of contractors with political or familial connections.  Jonathan told him about developments in Entebbe, but left out any discussion of his relationship with Mr. Singh.  He said he suspected that transport was being used for the delivery of building supplies and that customs had discovered a shipment of Rwandan uniforms.
On the car ride home, Jonathan considered Claude’s words of warning and his own deception.  He thought about Mr. Singh’s words as well, empty threats he convinced himself.  Father Boniface’s words came back to him, but he did not feel like a good person, he felt guilty.  When he arrived home, Debra was in the kitchen preparing dinner, chicken with potatoes.  The kitchen was limited and she fried the chicken and boiled the potatoes on the stove top.
“Hello Jonathan,” she sang out as the door opened, “how are you? How was your day?”
“Good,” he called back unburdening himself in the living room throwing his bag on the floor by the door.  “I went for drinks at the Lake Victoria Hotel.”
“Oh, the Lake Victoria Hotel, it is very nice there.  It is beautiful to sit outside and watch the lake.”
“Yes it is.”
She set the table and they ate quietly, Jonathan preoccupied by the day’s events.  Debra tried tentatively to draw conversation with questions about work, but was met with ambivalent single syllable responses.  She was nervous and unsettled by Jonathan’s remoteness, but did not want to press the issue.  When they were finished, she cleared the dishes and put them in the sink.  She sliced a mango and returned to the table with the fruit and clean dishes.  When she sat down again, the sound they exchanged was the clinking of silverware against ceramic as if they were communicating through a sort of morse code.  But the clinking of silverware had no meaning and could not be translated into words and phrases and sentences.
Impatient from the absence of language, she asked, “is everything alright?”
“Sure, everything’s okay,” he responded.
Considering the “practicality” of their situation, she had felt unentitled to ask the next question.  “Are we okay?” she asked.
“Yeah sure, we’re fine,” he responded flatly.
The question surprised him and he knew that the answer was a problem.  He thought or at least wanted to believe that they had an understanding.  She was paid to cook the rest was a matter of comfort, nobody got hurt.  He stopped eating and looked up to see her eyes fill but no tears shed, her cheerfulness replaced by an expression of stoicism.  The response confirmed what she had suspected that their relationship remained a matter of convenience.  Her hope that over time it had become changeable was set aside by this curt response.  She had been foolish to expect more she told herself.
“Debra, I’m sorry,” he said.  And he was sorry, sorry to be responsible for the happiness of another.  Sorry for the growing sense of worry mixed with fondness.  Could obligation be the basis for love?  But this was his conceit.  In truth he didn’t know what love was, didn’t properly understand it.  He was careless and his carelessness could only lead to his inevitable regret. 
“Don’t be sorry,” he heard her say.  “I understand, you don’t have to worry about me,” she managed to say.  But I do worry about you, he thought, that’s the problem.
She got up from the table, straightened her blouse and walked into the other room and sat on the far end of the couch where she was not visible from the dining room.  She sat and breathed deeply and wiped the tears from her eyes.  He waited a moment and then got up from his seat and followed her.  He sat down close to her and took her hand in his.  She sat turned away from him to hide her face.
“I’ll sort this out Debra, somehow,” he said, “but I can’t do it tonight.  I promise, I won’t leave you in the lurch.”
“I don’t understand,” she cried, “what is the lurch?  Talk so I can understand you.”
“I won’t abandon you,” he said with emphasis.  “I’ll take care of things.”
“This isn’t about money, if that’s what you think,” she said.  “You think you can just solve all you problems with money.  If I wanted money there are any other people I could work for in houses better than this apartment.  I didn’t stay here for the money,” she said.  “I stayed here because of my feelings,” she paused and there was silence between them.  “My feelings have tricked me,” she said more quietly.  “It’s my own fault, I knew you would be leaving eventually, back to Canada, I was fooling myself.  I expected too much from you,” she said and the last words stung.  Momentarily she built her courage but couldn’t maintain it and began crying to herself with her face in her hands.  He held her and tried to comfort her.  This was the particular scene he’d hoped to avoid.
“I’m not going anywhere tomorrow or the next day,” he said trying to reassure her.  “I’ll be around for awhile,” he said and although he felt affection, at that moment, he thought he mostly wanted a clean departure.  She was not reassured, he knew, but was too exhausted from her emotions to argue.

Chapter 8

It was 9:45 before Jennifer was finally able to get out of the office and now she relished the walk home in the night air.  A full moon lit the sidewalk as she walked past the row houses in her Capitol Hill neighborhood.  Summer was ending and there was a note of cool in the air anticipating the change in seasons.  She enjoyed this time when she could take satisfaction from the end of the day before having to think about what lay ahead of her tomorrow.
Not only was it the end of the legislative session in Congress, but it was an election year, which meant an increased urgency to finish work so that Members of Congress could get home as soon as possible to campaign.  As usual, the hardest decisions had been left to the end and legislators rushed to complete appropriation bills to keep the government funded.  The requisite horse trading to reach agreement had begun in earnest.  The Foreign Affairs Reform and Reauthorization Act had been passed out of the Senate Foreign Affairs Committee without a committee report.  The House had approved a different version of the Act by a large majority.  The Senate was expected to do the same with its version of the bill.  The differences between the two pieces of legislation would be worked out in a conference committee made up of a small number of House and Senate members.  It was agreed that Senators on the Foreign Affairs Committee would have an opportunity to include language in the conference committee report reflecting the final agreement on the legislation between the Senate and the House.
She and David had been scheduled to meet with the Senator that day to discuss the inclusion of the language from the mining association in the committee report.  Jen had done her homework and prepared her arguments but the press of business had intervened.  The Senator was called away, a meeting went long and the schedule had to be rearranged.  The lobbyist for the mining association had contacted her with increased frequency over the last several days.  He understood that the session was coming to an end and this would be the last chance to secure a benefit for his client.  Jennifer resented the intrusions, she had better things to do and didn’t like having to field and respond to calls from lobbyists generally, and this lobbyist in particular.  He was always so glad to hear from her as if her call was spontaneous and not a response to his multiple messages.  “Jennifer, how are you it’s so nice to hear from you,” he would say.  She wondered if it was just out of habit or the patronage of a man of a certain age to young women.
The Senator had not responded to her memo, but she assured Edward that the issue was before the Senator and his point would be heard.  She would get back to them with a final answer, which would come soon she promised.  She also knew that the issue was being pressed with the Senator directly and that money was part of the conversation.  The association was persistent in pushing its argument and taking advantage of timing.  She hated to think that the decision had already been made between the Senator and the Chief of Staff, and that the meeting scheduled for tomorrow was simply for appearances, to make her think she had been part of the process.
She sighed in annoyance at the thought of having to make this compromise.  What could she do? What was she prepared to do?  She didn’t know if it was the thought of a political hack getting his way or the manipulation of the law that bothered her more.  In the end what bothered her was her own involvement.  She determined to think of other things.
She stepped over a hump and cracked cement where the sidewalk had been upended, leveraged by the root of a tree growing underneath.  At Third Street she crossed against the light there being little traffic on Tuesday night.  Her shoes made a hollow sound on the brick sidewalk that lined the street leading to her apartment.  The lights were on in the row houses and the windows were open to the cool evening air, through one came the electrical garble of a television sounding onto the street.  Her house was halfway down the block and she opened the latch to the low wrought iron gate that surrounded the front yard.  A large oak tree fronted the three story brick town home and helped hide its worn paint.  Inside, she walked up the two flights of stairs to her apartment, which ran the length of the third floor from front to back.  Her cat was waiting for her as she opened the door meowing in neglect.  She shooed him aside which made him hyper and dart across the room and attack the drapes before settling under an ottoman.  Jennifer sat down on her couch for just a moment and then dozed before getting up and going to bed.
****
Jennifer looked at her watch as she listened to David address the agenda items for the legislative staff meeting.  The staff sat together in the upstairs conference room, the large one surrounded by glass they called the bullpen because it looked out on the rest of the second floor office.  Steve, a legislative aide, attempted to describe the end of session procedure.  A procedure so clouded that it was understood by only a handful of people.  
“They’re anticipating,” Steve was saying, “that the House members will already be out of town by the time the omnibus bill is passed by the Senate and reaches the House floor.  The House has already passed an omnibus bill which is essentially an empty vessel,” he continued.  “When the Senate finishes its work and finishes voting, the House will in effect, fill up the vessel and pass it on the House floor by unanimous consent after everyone has already gone home.  It’s basically a handshake agreement,” he concluded.
Having waited until the very end of the session, Congress had combined the constituent appropriation bills into one giant piece of legislation.  Hardly an ideal of democratic function, passage of the bill presented legislators with a one time take it or leave it choice.  Rejecting the legislation would essentially mean shutting down the government.  Although omnibus bills themselves were not extraordinary, no one could remember another time when the House had agreed to pass a bill in advance before knowing what was in it.
“To be honest,” Steve was still talking.  “I don’t exactly understand how this procedure works and for that matter, I think only a few people do.  I think there is an agreement in place and it ought to work,” he paused to finish but all eyes were still on him.  “And that’s pretty much it,” he said by way of conclusion.
“Thanks Steve,” David said in response.  “There is one last issue and then I’ll let you go and that is correspondence.”
“Oh God,” Karen muttered and there was a muted groan.
“Can’t this wait till recess?” Steve protested.
“I just want to remind each of you that the correspondence has been backing up and its up to you to get drafts back as soon as possible.  The mail is important.”  He paused and, anxious to leave, nobody interrupted or encouraged him to keep talking.
After a moment, Karen ventured a remark, “is that it?” she said with characteristic candor.
“Yes that’s it,” David sighed.
“Okay ready,” said Karen.  “One, two, three break,” they said together and then clapped hands to end the meeting in an office tradition.
“Hey Jen, could you hang on a minute,” David said, “I need to talk with you.”
“Should’ve done your letters Jen,” Karen said in parting.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“The Senator wants to meet with us now.”
“Okay, okay, just let me get my stuff together,” she said.
****
David and Jennifer sat in the two leather chairs to one side of the Senator’s desk.  The office was large with high ceilings and three tall windows along the wall, the center one opened to a rarely used balcony.  A blue carpet covered the floor and behind the Senator’s desk a door opened into his private bathroom.  At the other end of the room sat a couch and two arm chairs.  Like all political offices, the walls were adorned with pictures of the Senator together with powerful and famous people.  On one credenza were green and red combines, symbolizing the state’s main industry and a statuette from the 4-H club recognizing the Senator’s support.  Similar tokens littered the rest of the office.
They had been interrupted before they had begun.  The Senator sat not facing them, leaning back in his chair talking on the phone.  He was gregarious and familiar with whomever was on the other end of the line in a slap you on the back kind of way.  A few more moments and he hung up the phone.
“Okay, where were we,” he said, then remembering himself, “I read your memo Jennifer, you don’t think we ought to do this, I take it.”
“No Senator, I think it’s a mistake,” she said resolutely.  She had steeled herself in advance and was determined to remain calm no matter what happened.  “It’s bad politics and it’s bad policy.”
Chris Daniels, the Senator’s Chief of Staff, came into the office and took up a position along the side wall leaning against a bookcase.  Since the Senator had been picked to head up the party’s senatorial campaign committee, Chris had left much of the day to day running of the office to Dave.  He spent the bulk of his time outside of the office, working the phones, encouraging donors and trying to persuade potential candidates to run for the Senate.
“Well now Jennifer, what’s the harm?” the Senator was saying.  “I read the language the mining association wants included in the report and it seems pretty harmless to me.”
“The point of that language is to expand the interpretation of the Act beyond its original intent and beyond recognition.  The law was intended to protect military folks, not corporations.”
“Well, it would still be protecting soldiers, but American corporations would receive some protection as well against a court whose jurisdiction our government has never fully recognized.”
“Well,” Jennifer paused concerned “it would provide corporations with protection, protection against embarrassment.  It would really protect war criminals whom corporations do business with.  That’s what this is really about.  Companies, like Saxon Mineral, have been doing business with bad people in the Congo.  One of these bad people, a guy named Bembe, is now being prosecuted by the ICC.  Saxon doesn’t want to provide information, doesn’t want to be involved in the case, it would be an embarrassment, or maybe worse, maybe prosecution under the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act.  They’re exposed, they want the whole case to just go away and they want us to provide the cover,” Jennifer said trying to remain calm but having to remind herself to breathe.
“Sounds pretty extraordinary, sounds a bit conspiratorial,” said the Senator looking up at her.
“What’s extraordinary,” responded Jennifer too quickly, “is the mining association’s sudden interest in the ICC.  The Interior Department, I can understand, the EPA sure, or any number of other agencies.  But the International Criminal Court?  That’s a new one altogether.”  She told herself to slow down and caught her breath.
“All this about Saxon mineral,” Chris asking the question, “how do we know about this? – sounds like guess work.”
“I spoke with someone at the ICC, a lawyer, he told me that Saxon mineral is involved in a case before the court,” she said.
“Your confidential source on the inside no doubt,” Chris said.  “Doing a bit of sleuthing, eah, Jennifer?”
“I’d call it research,” she said flat and quickly.
“Even if what you’re saying is true,” sad Chris, “the ICC’s not a democratic institution and the Congo is a sovereign state entitled to conduct business.  Think about who voted for the ICC, countries like Iran and Sudan, governments hardly representing the will of the people.  I don’t know that we need to be defending the ICC.”
“It’s not about defending the ICC, the ICC is imperfect, it’s about not providing protection to war criminals.”
“Alleged war criminals,” Chris corrected.
“All right, all right,” the Senator interrupted.  “I don’t want to get into the politics of the UN.  David you’ve been quiet, your thoughts.”
“I agree with Jennifer,” he said.  “I think it’s crass and it looks crass.  I think this is a potential embarrassment that if made public comes back to bite us later.  The military and military personnel in particular are sacrosanct and this seems, well, just too opportunistic.”
“Okay, let me think this over, I don’t have to tell you it would be good to have the support of the mining industry, but I’ll think it over and get back to you.  Okay thanks guys, thanks Jennifer,” he said in a tone she interpreted for consolation.  They thanked the Senator and then stood to leave, leaving Chris behind in the office.  The Association’s interests, she feared, continued to be represented after their departure.
“Jennifer you gave it your best shot, we’ll see what happens,” David said in the hall anticipating that she felt her argument had lost and she’d have to swallow hard.
In her office seeing Jay typing on his laptop, she remembered her own exuberance and naiveté as an intern in college.  She thought back to law school and couldn’t help feeling the sap.  All those hours spent in the human rights law clinic.  In the end, why should it have surprised her that nobody really gave a damn about her client, after all he didn’t have any money.  The law had long since been commoditized, securitized into billable hours, of which her client afforded the lowest common stock.  She was too deflated to admonish Jay or engage in their usual back and forth.  She stood in the doorway until he turned around and noticed her.
“Hey Jennifer,” he said, “sorry about this.  I’ll be out of your way, I just need to finish this up.  Help me out Jennifer, I need a phrase, ‘the proceedings of the Navy were little more than, blank,’ a sham, but I don’t want use ‘sham.’  Do you have another phrase?”
‘The proceedings of the Navy were little more than,” she repeated, “smoke and mirrors.”
“No”
“A dog and pony show”
“Maybe”
“A goat rodeo”
“Goat rodeo?  What’s a goat rodeo?”
“Kabuki theatre,” she had her clichés down cold.
“Kabuki theatre, that sounds right.  What is kabuki theatre?”
“Look it up.  What are you doing anyway?”
“I’m working on a press release for Pat.”
“I thought you were my intern.”
“I am, this is just something I’m helping out with,” he said defensively.
The phone on the edge of the desk rang.
“Do you mind if I get that,” she said.
“No of course.”
“Thanks.”
“Hello”
“Hi Jennifer,” it was David calling.
“The jury wasn’t out very long,” she said.
“No, I’m afraid it wasn’t the answer we were hoping for, the Senator wants to go ahead with the association’s language.”
“I see,” she said.
“Look, I can take care of it, it’s just a matter of calling Bill in the Committee.”
“No, no, it’s my job, I’ll take care of it.”
“You’ll have to get in touch with Talbot with the association and let him know.”
“Yeah, I know, I’ll take care of it.”
“Sorry Jennifer.”
“Thanks,” she hung up the phone and then, “dammit” she said under her breath.
Jay looked up at her, “bad news?”
“Yeah, bad news.”

Chapter 9

The name of the closest town was Pakwach, but Nicole wasn’t in Pakwach, she was in a culture camp or displaced persons camp some twenty miles distant from Pakwach run by the Ugandan Defense Forces.  A dusty affair centered by dozens of tents surrounded by a sprawling slum housing thousands of people.  On the edge of the camp was the base housing the quarters of the Ugandan soldiers.  Those not fortunate to merit a tent resided in a collection of contrapted lean tos and shanties with mud and stick walls and corrugated metal roofs.  Beyond the borders of the camp, the landscape could best be described as scrub.  Patchy bushes mixed with tall grass and some trees to the horizon delineated by low rock hills in the distance.
The camp was not altogether different from the one in the Congo, but it was considerably larger.  The structures were different and the camp was less organized, like a city without a government.  Otherwise there was the same sense of uncertainty, the standing around with nothing to do contrasted with the constant effort to produce the next meal.  The camp also was primarily made up of Ugandans.  Nicole had spent the night before sleeping on the ground and she walked the camp with her head down trying not to make eye contact, listening to the voices in English and unable to understand the conversations carried in Lugandan.  Hunger was an issue, her belly felt hollow and her head ached.  She pushed through narrow alleys where shanties constructed of cast off wood and corrugated metal abutted one another.  The packed clay trail she followed snaked over what was left of the natural landscape, only the roots of trees that had been foraged and stripped bare for fuel remained underfoot.  People came and went carrying water, wood and the necessities for everyday life.  She made contact with none of them as she passed preferring to go unnoticed.
She recognized she had no plan and would soon have to make a decision for helping herself.  The path she followed lead toward one edge of the camp where through thatched roofs, she made out the sound of French language being spoken.  From within a hut a young woman emerged in a shirt and skirt and wearing a wrap around her head.  She was conversing with someone still within the hut asking about firewood and cajoling the person within to go and find some.  A child sat nearby under a piece of plastic fastened to an adjoining structure, seeking shade.  Nicole stopped to listen and the young woman went back into the hut without noticing her.  The young boy sitting in the shade looked at Nicole and then looked where the other woman had been without saying anything.  The woman came outside again, this time with a girl carrying a jerry can and instructed the boy to go with her to get water.  The boy looked again at Nicole, prompting the woman to do the same, and then did as he was told, pushing the young girl out of the yard in front of him.
“Pardon me,” Nicole said to the woman looking at her.  “I was wondering whether you could help me?”
“Yes,” said the woman.  “You speak French.”
“I am from Congo,” Nicole explained.  “I just arrived.”
“What can I do?”
“I have no place to stay,” Nicole said.  “I need to get to Kampala.”
“There are already so many here,” said the woman.
Nicole looked at her without saying anything, she waited for the woman to come to another conclusion.
“Do you have any money, anything to trade?” the woman asked.
“No”
“We can barely care for ourselves,” the woman said shaking her head.
Nicole looked at her pitifully, “if I can just make it to Kampala, then I can get money,” she said.
The woman shook her head again and gestured in an expression of surrender.  “Okay, come in, let’s see what we can do.”
“My name is Nicole,” she said introducing herself.
“Okay Nicole, I’m Alice,” she said, “we have a little water and some corn meal.  This is my father,” she said gesturing to another inhabitant of the hut, a thin man on a wooden bench leaning against one wall.  He looked up and waived at her laconically.
“Dad this is Nicole, she is from Congo.”
“Hello Nicole,” he waived again and then looked away as if the whole exchange was a distraction.
Nicole was seated on a low wooden bench next to a table that divided the room in two.  A fly buzzed overhead as Alice poured water into a plastic blue cup and then set about scraping cornmeal from an aluminum pot.
“You know but we still need some firewood father.”
“Okay, I’ll get it,” the man said as if being asked for the first time and then left. 
“He is all the family, I have left,” Alice explained.  “He and my two children.  We were forced to leave the village after the soldiers came.  They killed my husband, he is dead,” she said matter of fact.  “Where are you from in Congo.”
“Bunia,” Nicole answered.
“How did you get here?”
“I am making my way to Kampala,” she said without elaboration.  It seemed of little importance to relive her journey for Alice’s sake.  “I was traveling with my Aunt and we got separated just the other side of the border.  I managed to make it this far.  I have people waiting for me in Kampala.”
“Okay,” Alice responded as she busied herself with housework that didn’t need to be done.  “Maybe we can get in touch with your people in Kampala.  My family is from Beni,” she continued.  “Have you ever been to Beni?” she asked and Nicole had not.  “It is in Ituri, we had the nicest school house and a great big marketplace until the war came to our town.  Before that I went to school with my brother and sister.”  Alice went on, warming to the availability of adult companionship, someone whom she could talk to.
Nicole wasn’t the imposition Alice had feared and placed no burden on her, allowing her to talk without interruption.  She looked at Nicole to make sure she was still paying attention and continued talking.  She explained how they had come to the camp and described the structure of the camp.  Each camp had its own hierarchy it seemed and in Alice’s mind the French speakers were the cultural superiors.  She derided her Ugandan neighbors, who did not speak French.  She warned Nicole about the Ugandan soldiers camped nearby, who were supposed to guard the camp but took what they wanted.  She doubted that they would fight for the camp but would flee from a rebel attack. “You can sleep here, we have an extra mat, but don’t go out after dark,” she warned.  “The Ugandan soldiers will take women they find outside after dark.”
The soldiers let them farm and collect food from outside of the camp, but only during the daytime.  Residents of the camp had to be back by six o’clock.  The soldiers lived in fear of the Lord’s Resistance Army, Alice explained.  The Lord’s Resistance worshipped the Ten Commandments and deified their own leader.  They occupied parts of northern Uganda raiding villages and abducting boys and girls into military and sexual servitude.  In their attempt to separate the population, the Ugandan military had set up civilian camps and were suspicious of anyone who did not cooperate.  Unfortunately, there was nobody to protect the population from the military, which arbitrarily raped, beat, and killed.
“I wonder if I could use a phone?” Nicole asked.  “I’d like to try and call my Uncle and let him know where I am.”
“You can use a phone, we have several phones that you can use for a fee.”
“I don’t have any money,” Nicole said.
“Well maybe we can arrange to have some sent, you say you have people in Kampala.”
“Yes there is somebody in Kampala that can send money.”
“Okay, we’ll arrange it this afternoon.”
****
Later that day, Alice spoke with the owner of the kiosk that she had taken Nicole to, while Nicole waited standing beside her.  It was large with a counter that separated the front from the back and a portion of the back was fenced off in a pantry of chicken wire.  In front a sign board with exchange rates written in chalk stood next to a large man with a panga.  The sun shone through a crack in the walls and focused on the man behind the counter annoying him as he talked with Alice.
“Your friend in Kampala can bring the money to my cousin in the city, he has his own store called City Exchange on Luwum Street,” he said.  “He gives him the money there plus a commission, he will contact me and then I will give you the money here,” he explained to Alice.
“But we don’t have a phone to call him and without the money we can’t afford one,” she said.
“Give me the number and I’ll call him,” the man responded.
Nicole recited the number that Philomene had made her remember on their trip out of Bunia, and Alice in turn repeated the number to the man who produced his mobile phone and pressed the digits.  “Who am I calling?” the man asked.
“Ask for Father Ignatius Boniface,” Nicole responded.
****
Father Boniface was walking between the rectory and the church when his mobile phone rang.  “Hello,” he answered holding the handset to his ear.  The voice on the other end seemed small and distant at first but then grew louder as he listened.  “Yes this is Father Boniface.  Who am I speaking with?” he asked.  The man on the other end didn’t answer the question, instead he explained that he was calling from the Blue Heron money exchange in Pakwach.  “There is somebody here who says she knows you and is asking for you to send money.  What is your name?” he heard him ask, not him, but someone at the other end of the phone.  “Nicole, do you know Nicole, Nicole Negusse?” the man finally asked.
“Yes, I know her.  Is she there with you?”
“Yes.”
“In Pakwach?”
“Yes, near Pakwach, in a camp near Pakwach.”
“Can I speak with her?”
“Yes, but first we have to make some arrangements.  She wants you to send some money.  If you agree, you need to go to City Exchange off Luwum Street and give them the money there, plus commission of eight percent, plus three thousand shillings for the phone call.  Do you agree?”
“Yes, yes I agree, tell her I will send one hundred thousand shillings plus commission plus for the phone call of course.”  He could hear voices of conversation on the other end.
The man came back on the line, “they said that should be good.  Remember its City Exchange near the Uhuru market.  When you give them the money they will call me and then I can release the money here.”
“City Exchange got it, I’ll take care of it right away.  Can I speak with the young lady please?”
“Just a minute.”
“Hello, this is Nicole Negusse.”
“Hello Nicole, this is Father Boniface, I was just speaking with your Uncle the other day.  He was very worried, he’ll be glad to hear about you.”
The mention of her Uncle jolted Nicole’s emotions.  She had been consumed with her own preservation that she had forgotten she once belonged to a family.   A sense of sentimentality overcame her and her eyes welled up.  “Yes,” she said.  “And my Aunt, how is my Aunt?”
“She is fine, your Uncle mentioned her as well,” he said.  “Nicole, listen, I am sending you some money, okay?  I am sending you one hundred thousand shillings.  I think the best thing would be for you to get to Pakwach and take a bus from Pakwach to Kampala.  Do you think you can do that?”
“I don’t know,” he heard her say and then he heard her say “a bus to Kampala,” but she wasn’t speaking to him, there was second conversation going on in the background.
“Nicole, Nicole,” he talked loudly trying to get her attention.
“Yes”
“Is there someone else there I can talk to?  Someone who might know where the camp is?”
‘Just a minute,” she said and he heard her pass the phone, “he wants to talk with you,” he heard her say.
“Yes,” he heard the voice drawl in Congolese French.
****
When he received the call from Father Boniface stating he would need the travel documents, Jonathan didn’t know what he was talking about.  It had been a while since they had spoken and he had put the matter out of his mind.  After some initial confusion, his memory was triggered and he agreed with characteristic reluctance to see what he could do.  Father Boniface offered to cover all costs and he was a hard man to say “no” to.
Father Boniface sent two pictures of a young woman to Jonathan’s apartment in an envelope wrapped in paper with the name Nicole Negusse written on it.  The photos revealed the soft face of a young woman brown and full.  Jonathan posed the question to his landlord, an Indian who ran a small contracting company in Kampala, in the hypothetical.  “If one needed a passport and travel documents in hurry, how would one do it?”  His landlord recommended his driver, Mahesh.  “Mahesh has contacts in the immigration office, he handles a lot of immigration problems.”  He said that he would have Mahesh wait in the car in the parking lot that evening after dropping him off, and Jonathan could talk with him then.
At around seven o’clock that evening, as told, he heard the sound of his landlord’s car pull into the parking lot.  He looked out the window to see the lights switch off the white camry and his landlord close the passenger door behind him.  He waited a few minutes to allow his landlord safely into the building so he didn’t have to pass him in the hall before making his way down the stairs and out into the evening on the parking lot.  It was dusk and overhead a cluster of bats made their daily migration in search of insects as Jonathan crossed to the parked car.  The driver was sitting with his head back and his eyes closed and he tapped on the roof to let him know he was there.
“Are you Mahesh?”
“Yes sir, I am.  Mr. Jonathan? How are you?”
“Yes, nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you.  What can I do for you?” he asked getting out of the car and standing to face him.  Mahesh was a thin small Indian, who seemed eager to help.
“Your boss said that you might be able to help me.”
“Yes, yes, if I can do it, I will.”
“I need travel papers for a woman from the Congo, I was wondering what would be the best way.”
“Where does she want to go?”
“The United States or France.”
“She is going to need a passport.”
“She might have a DRC passport.”
“A Ugandan passport would be better.”
“Can you get one?”
“I can get a passport through the immigration office, but getting a visa is harder.  You have to go through the embassy, you need to know someone in the embassy.”
“Can you arrange it?”
“I can get the passport, but I have to go through someone else to get the visa.”
“So if you can do that, how much are we talking about?”
“For the passport, five hundred, the visa, I don’t know maybe five hundred, maybe more, I’ll have to see.”
“Okay, how can I get in touch with you?”
“I’m usually here in the evening, when Mr. Patel is in town, otherwise you can call the office in town and get in touch with me that way.”
“I’m gonna need to talk to some people, but here are some pictures of the woman.”
“I might not use the pictures, maybe I’ll just get someone else’s passport, another woman that looks like her.”
“Well I’ll need to see the passport before I agree.  What I can do is pay you two fifty the next time I see you and get you the rest when I see the passport.”
“Two fifty for the passport?”
“Right, a down payment.”
“The passport is five hundred,” Mahesh said.
“I know,” Jonathan said.  “I’ll pay you two fifty the next time we meet and then two fifty when you get the passport, that’s five hundred.”
“I need five hundred for the passport.”
“And, you’ll get five hundred, but I’m not going to give it to you all up front,” he said starting to question his landlord’s confidence in Mahesh’s ability and becoming impatient with the who’s on first quality of the conversation.
“Up front?”
“Yeah, up front, in advance.  I’m not going to give you all the money without seeing the passport first.”
“I can maybe bring the passport next time.”
“Oh, okay, well in that case, if it looks okay, then I’ll give you the whole amount, five hundred dollars and then we can make arrangements for the visa.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, but we’ll meet later this week, I still need to talk with some people about the money.”  He was going to suggest that Mahesh not get a passport before he was able to get the money but didn’t want to confuse matters further.  Instead he agreed to meet Mahesh later in the week not knowing if he’d have the money and if Mahesh would bring a passport with him.
“Nice to meet you Mahesh, thanks for your help and I’ll see you later this week.”
“I’ll be here all week.”
“See you later.”
“Bye Mr. Jonathan.”
****
An insect, a bee perhaps, was flying around the light fixture in the ceiling of Jonathan’s office, making elliptical circles then flying into the fixture and then restarting again attracted by the light.  Jonathan turned off the light, opened the window wide and stepped out of the way.  Attracted to the sun light, the insect flew out the window allowing Jonathan to sit at his desk.  According to policy, Jonathan was required to catalogue all bills of ladings and transfer documents and he kept a single set of books where his bills of ladings should correspond to outgoing cargo plane manifests, thus accounting for all cargo that transited through Entebbe.  While the books were sound on paper and showed no variance, in reality there were significant discrepancies between the cargo manifests and actual cargo being transported to the Congo.  Planes that were light or underloaded took on additional material that did not make the records.  Of course that only accounted for WFP flights.  Other fights on unregistered planes with unfiled flight plans had no record and no manifest to account for.
Looking worried with a hand in his hair, Mr. Singh stepped into the office unannounced and uninvited.  Jonathan stopped what he was doing and looked at the man without saying anything, waiting for his visitor to speak.  His demeanor seemed apologetic in contrast to the man who had threatened him earlier.
“You know Jonathan,” he began, “I’ve been under pressure, under stress as you say.  I was up all night the other night before I saw you, I had meant to apologize,’ said Singh with hat in hand.  “It’s always foolish to act in anger,” Singh the erudite, “and I apologize if I raised my voice.”
“Well forget it, I may have said a few regrettable things myself so forget it.”
“Thankyou,” he said.  “I wish that were all it took to resolve things between us.”
Jonathan looked at him with skepticism not wishing to take the bait he didn’t say anything and made the other man force the issue.
“No I’m afraid not,” Singh continued unsolicited.  “You and I are linked through the last couple of years.  We have become connected, there has been a reliance, if you know what I’m speaking about.  We have become partners or at least were, but this partnership does not end with you and me.”
Jonathan stood looking at him with his arms crossed in a display of impatience for the false show of sentimentality.  “It doesn’t?” he finally contributed not out of any need to know but in an effort to help the narrative on to its inevitable conclusion.
“No it doesn’t, it goes beyond you and me, there are others involved in our partnership, others who have an interest, who have come to rely on flexibility in the flights, the cargo carriers.”
“Others huh, the unseen others,” Jonathan said unimpressed.
“Yes, the unseen others.  The thing is, if there is no benefit in having you in now, well then they might as well just get rid of you.”
“That would mean the unseen others would have to talk to my boss,” Jonathan said with disdain.
“Your joke is good, but I would take this seriously.”
“I do take it seriously,” he said.  “I thought you came by to apologize but you’re making threats.”
“I’m sorry it has to be like this, some things are out of my control.”
“Un huh, well whatever the problem is its between you and me, there is no reason to involve Ronald.”
“It is between you and me and others, it is your own stubbornness that is to blame.”
“Yeah well, I guess all good things must come to an end.”
“Yes as you say,” Singh looked down at his hands then back at Jonathan with an expression of regret.  “I won’t take up any more of time, goodbye then.”
“Yeah, goodbye thanks for coming by.”
Singh looked up at him frowning at the sarcasm and then turned and walked out of the doorway.

Chapter 10

Jennifer called Bill with the Committee staff as she had promised and the mining association’s language was included in the draft committee report.  Buried among hundreds of pages of text, no one would know the language existed, nor thought to object.  Bill expressed his reservations but had little choice in the matter.  The message she left on Edward Talbot’s voice mail was curt and to the point, you have prevailed she informed him.  Over principle and good sense, your side has carried the day.  She had not heard back from him right away with an expression of gratitude making her suspect that he’d already known the outcome.
Jennifer made a half hearted attempt to sabotage her own work.  She thought to contact the press but either lacked the capacity for that sort of betrayal or wasn’t sufficiently angered or courageous.  What she did do was arrange to meet with an old friend for drinks after work.  Stephanie Brown, whom she had met during her summer internship in law school, previously worked for the Senator and now served as chief of staff for Congressman Greene, a bleeding heart republican with a soft spot for the third world.  As the chairman of the hunger caucus, he could be counted on to take up any quixotic effort on behalf of underdeveloped countries.
“Don’t include mine or the Senator’s name in this,” she said to Stephanie, “but word is the committee report contains language undermining the International Criminal Court on behalf of the mining industry.  The suspicion is that the mining industry has done business with some pretty bad guys and they’re looking for a way to cover their ass.”  After all Stephanie was a former colleague, she could be trusted to be discreet.  And the conversation had the desired effect.  Two days later the Congressman’s office issued a “dear colleague” letter informing all members, “Don’t Let the American Service Members’ Protection Act be Hijacked by Big Business.”  She found a copy on her desk with a note from David facetiously scrawled across the bottom, “know anything about this??!!”  She knew all about it but it made no difference.  The issue didn’t gain traction.  No one was willing to gum up the works over the ICC at the very end of the session.  The emphasis was on finishing work and getting home as soon as possible, and this emphasis created a momentum all its own.
In the elevator, on the way to her office, she listened as two young staffers made fun of the constituents who called to complain that the government was bugging their homes or that black helicopters were flying over their neighborhood.  One staffer suggested as a joke that a constituent use tin foil to block the radio waves from the government.  She was struck by their certainty and reminded of her own jokes at the expense of the borderline personalities who contacted the office.  She felt uncomfortable in the elevator and glad when it opened onto her floor.
Jay wasn’t sitting at her desk when she walked into her office.  The interns changed with the seasons and Jay was already moving on, dedicating less of his time to the office and more time to his next opportunity.  The phone rang as she sat at her desk and she picked up the receiver and said, “hello, this is Jennifer.”
“Hello Jennifer, this is Edward Talbot,” said the cheery voice.  “I’m glad to get a hold of you.”  The phone call she had been expecting, an expression of gratitude.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t call earlier,” he apologized.
“Hi Edward, that’s okay,” she said, already wishing to conclude the conversation as soon as possible, ready to move on.  “How are you?” she asked.
‘Fine, fine,” he said.  “I wanted to thank you for all your work, we really appreciate it.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” she said cringing at the unwanted compliment, “just doing my job.”
“I was just talking it over with some of the folks in the office and we really think you struck a blow for the rule of law,” he said.
The rule of law, she thought, are you serious.  “Are you sure they didn’t mean I struck a blow at the rule of law,” she said not caring.
“No, no, don’t joke like that,” he said, “you did good work.  We were even thinking this could set the foundation for a new standard, maybe a bill in the next session.”  If she had thought they would be satisfied with this success, she would have been wrong.  This was just the first step, the foot in the door.  
“Somebody would have to take ownership of a bill,” she said, “that’s different from having language anonymously included in a committee report.  I don’t think that’s realistic,” she said, hoping to distance her boss.
“Maybe so, but we think this language really gives us some momentum,” he said.  “We’re confident we can build on this.  I really enjoyed working with you.  We look forward to working with you in the future.”  Who is we, she thought.  Was this some sort of cruel joke?  She would never be able to free herself now that their appetite had been whetted..
“We’ll see,” she said resenting the connection.
But Edward either ignored her or didn’t understand her.
“Well we certainly couldn’t have done it without you,” he said fatuously.  He had to know she was opposed to the idea.  “We’re planning a seminar in Arizona in February, and I’ll definitely keep you in the loop.  An opportunity to meet with some of our members, a real nice occasion with golf and tennis.  I’ll be sure and let you know and get you an invitation,” he said.
 “Terrific,” she said drolly, “I look forward to it.”
“Thanks again.”
“Okay, bye.”  She put the receiver down as soon as she heard him say goodbye.  She blamed herself, the industry representatives were expected to be unctuous, but she had caved, her office had given in without having to.  The invitation to the industry seminar burned.  Salt in her wound and reward for her complicity.
It was 4PM and already the offices around her were emptying in anticipation of the end of the legislative session.  Jay made a brief appearance in her office.
“Hey,” he said, “big plans for the recess?”
“No, no real big plans, maybe just catch up on my sleep.”  She already knew Jay’s plans and didn’t return the question.
“Okay,” he said, “well, see you later.”
“Okay, see you later,” she responded without looking at him.
She picked up her phone and began to dial Bill in the Committee office and then put the receiver down again before she finished dialing.  A mistake, she thought, it didn’t matter, it wasn’t worth it.
The knock from the door frame caused her to turn in her seat so her head faced the doorway.  “Hey,” she said to David standing in the door way.
“How are ya?” he asked. “I didn’t see you this morning.”
“Good,” she said, “how about yourself?”
“Good, just finishing up, looking forward to getting out of here.”
“Yeah, you and everyone else,” she said.
“I understand the mining association is hosting a seminar in Arizona.”
“Yeah, I just got off the phone with Edward Talbot.”
“Arizona in February, that’s not a bad deal.  You might as well do it, after all you earned it after putting up with all their crap.”
“You’re right, it’s the least they could do,” she said.  “And I don’t know why I should be singled out, after all it was a team effort.  But they are contributors, so I guess I’m not the only who benefits,” she said.
“Yeah, I guess not,” he said warily, “I’ll see you later Jen.”
She picked up the phone and methodically dialed the number for the Committee office.  Bill picked up the phone on the other end and said “Hello.”
“Hi Bill, this is Jennifer, how are you?”
“Hi Jennifer, I’m good, what’s going on?”
“I was wondering if it was too late for changes in the committee report, we have a last minute change we’d like to make.”
“No it’s not too late, were making the final edits now.”
“Oh good, we have a final change, we’d like to get rid of the language challenging the jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court.”
“The Senator have a change of heart?”
“Yeah, he had a change of heart.”
“I don’t blame him.  Okay, I’ll see that the language is taken out.  Just to be clear you don’t want to replace it with anything, right?”
“No, we just want to delete that language from the report.”
“And that’s the language that says, hold on I got it right here, it says that: ‘provisions of US law precluding jurisdiction of the ICC,’ and ‘the US does not recognize jurisdiction over any state entity as recognized by the various states,’ and then ‘any such cooperation is circumscribed by US law.’  I’ll just draw a red line through all of that, will that do it?”
“That ought to do it,” she said trying to sound casual.
“Okay Jen, anything else?”
“No that’s it, thanks a lot.”
“Your welcome and have a good break.”
“You do the same,” she responded.  “Good bye,” she said and hung up the phone.  She powered off her computer, put on her coat and picked up her bag.  On the way out of the office, she walked through the mail room, where Jay was seated signing correspondence with the auto pen.  “Hey Jay,” she said.  “Yeah,” he said swiveling on the seat and taking an ear bud out of one ear.  “Good luck,” she said and put a hand on his shoulder and bent down and kissed him on the forehead. 
“I’m not leaving until Tuesday.”
“Good luck anyway,” she said and kept walking.  Tomorrow was Saturday.  She’d come in early with an empty box and clean out her desk when no one was around.

Chapter 11

Father Boniface delivered the money to the exchange office in Kampala as he said he would and that evening after returning to the money changer, Nicole had one hundred thousand Ugandan shillings in hand.  The money made her feel conspicuous amongst the destitution of the camp.  The holder of a comparatively small fortune, she walked quickly staying close to Alice on the way back to their hut.  She had already parted with ten thousand shillings, which she gave to Alice in gratitude and to pay for the cost of food.  The remaining amount would be more than sufficient to pay her way to Kampala.  Father Boniface had instructed her on the bus from Pakwach, and Alice confirmed that matatus left daily from Pakwach to Mbale and that she could then catch a bus from Mbale to Kampala.  Alice recommended a guide to help her navigate the 15 miles or so from the camp to Pakwach.
She slept fitfully that night with the fold of bills, five, ten and twenty thousand notes secured deep in the pocket of the new second hand jeans that Alice had helped her purchase.  Alice woke her early in the morning before the sun came up and as the camp was just awakening.  “Okay,” Nicole said still sitting on the ground to Alice in a whisper, “I’m awake.”  She got herself up and began gathering her meager possessions in a plastic bag and then followed Alice out of the hut while the rest of its occupants were still asleep.  The smoke of a hundred nascent cooking fires produced a haze over the early morning camp that mixed with the first rays of the sun to create a refracted glare.  Nicole followed closely behind Alice through this landscape of light and smoke to the edge of the camp.
Waiting for them, seated by a small gulley was a man in camouflaged pants and a tank top t-shirt.  He stood as they approached and Alice introduced him as Hector.  “Hector is reliable,” she told Nicole, “you can count on him.”  Hector, the name reminded Nicole of her classical Greek studies and Troy and Achilles, but Hector was not a Greek champion, he was sinewy and middle aged and his lean musculature bore a permanence like accreted scar tissue.
“You’ll take her to Pakwach to catch the bus, like we agreed,” said Alice and she gave him eight thousand shillings, that Nicole had given her that morning.  Alice did not want Hector to see Nicole handling the money.
“Yes as agreed,” he said scratching his graying beard.  “Not to worry, I’ve done this many times and all have arrived safely.”
Nicole hugged Alice.  “Thank you for all your help,” she said, “when I get to Kampala, I won’t forget, I’ll send you some more money.”
“Thank you dear,” Alice said.  “Good luck on you journey, take care of yourself.”
Hector was growing impatient and encouraged the two to finish saying goodbye.  He eyed Nicole and said, “let’s get going young lady.”
“Okay, goodbye,” she said to Alice and started to follow Hector, who had already begun walking away, and turned a last time to waive at her benefactor.  They walked east toward the rising sun over a tramped field that turned into a smooth worn clay path through the bush which grew thicker the further away from camp they got.  Two miles from camp, the scrub was overgrown and the grass around them higher but the path remained definite and they continued on, Hector taking the lead, striding purposefully ahead, and Nicole walking briskly to keep up.  Hector’s attitude was at once solicitous and indifferent, he slowed only to ask where she was from, how old she was and why she was going to Kampala.  She had people in Kampala, she told him and content with the response, he marched on ahead.  Several miles on they came to a small village abandoned and in ruin, they walked through the middle of the town past roofless concrete walls and impressions on the earth where structures had been burned to the ground.  Ash and rubble were the only remnants of the homes of some anonymous persons, who either fled or died.  Past the village the terrain took on the aspect of having been previously cultivated but now neglected, borders of fields remained but no crops only the husks of a previous harvest.  The path cut vertically across fallow plots and she focused on the way ahead.  The sun was higher in the sky and sweat beaded around her neck.
They approached a field of sugar cane that reached above their heads and followed the path that plunged into the center of the thicket.  The path opened onto a small dirt road and they turned onto the road which was lined on both sides with the cane that had been planted and then forgotten and turned a pale brown.  Hector looked back at his charge not at all benevolently and asked her if she was tired.
“I’m fine,” she responded.
“We’ll stop here for a moment,” he said.  They stopped and she sat on the side of the road and drank from a plastic water bottle.
“We are getting close,” he told her.  They had been walking close to four hours.  Hector sat down next to her and took a pull from his own bottle.  “You are very pretty,” he said to her.
She looked at him warily, “thank you,” she said.
He reached over and took her hand and held it in his own and she froze and every muscle tightened, her pores stopped sweating and she felt a chill though her body.  “No,” she said.
“Oh come now bibi mama,” he said, “I have brought you this far.”
“No,” she said and meant to stand up, but he grabbed her forcefully by the arm and pulled her back to the ground and then he was on top of her.  “Please no,” she cried and struggled and one hand was around her neck now and the more she struggled the tighter he grasped until she could stop struggling or risk having her throat crushed and suffocation.  His pants were off and his one free hand worked the zipper of her pants.  He let go of her neck to pull at her pants leg and her panties.  She was able to raise her head, and she kicked out at him and scratched the side of his face.  He turned toward her in full, grabbing her blouse and cuffed the side of her face with the ball of his open palm, knocking her back to the ground.  She was momentarily dazed and he was on top of her again.  “Please no, no,” she cried and struggled against the torso grinding on top of her.  She couldn’t not struggle, to concede would have been betrayal, but her struggle did her little good.  After it was over and he had finished, she lay crying on the ground in frustration and disgust at the whole degrading physicality of it.  She felt like a reservoir of depravity forced to absorb this new indignity.
Hector got up and waited, as if nothing happened, to resume their journey where they had left off.  He sat chewing a piece of cane, stripping the shoot with his teeth and spitting out the bits of masticated fibrous stalk that couldn’t be digested.  She wanted to tell him to go and leave her, she would make her own way without him but could only sit and cry.  Before she could get up or do anything, the quiet of the cane field was broken by the sound of an engine and Hector alerted to the noise grabbed her under one arm.  She was just able to pull on her pants before he pulled her into the cane, and they lay on the ground among the roots and stubs.  Hector watching the road spotted a green jeep and white pickup truck pull up.  She hardly cared who found her and was still sobbing when the doors to the vehicles opened and men got out and Hector put his hand around her mouth.  There were four men in total, two in military uniforms and two in irregular militia clothing, they all carried AK-47s.
One of the soldiers was bragging and laughing, “we took the whole bus,” he said, “we hardly even need your money this week.”  From the back of the jeep he produced boots, guns, telephone cards and uniforms.
“But, I’m sure you’ll take it anyway,” she heard another man respond.  Nicole listened without looking up and kept her face buried in her arm in the dry dusty earth.  “We need to know when they are coming,” she heard the man say.
“Three days from today.  They’ll travel during the day on the road from Mbale to Lira, you can attack them then, maybe in the afternoon.”
“Okay, fine,” the older man said and threw a parcel at the soldier’s feet.  “Here you go, as promised, it’s good doing business with you.”  As the soldier stooped to pick up the package, he hesitated half bent over and looked in the direction of Hector and Nicole.  “What was that?” he said.  A reflection, a movement, a discoloration, something had caught his eye.
“What was what?” the man said, but the soldier had already pocketed the parcel and was moving in their direction. 
He came through the cane and was right on top of them and they lay with their faces in the dirt.  “I’m right here, I can see you,” he said standing over them.  “Get up.”
They were forced to acknowledge his presence and they got to their feet.  “Come on,” he said and they marched out to the road where the three other men were waiting.  Nicole saw them all clearly now, two men, Ugandans, dressed as militia fighters and the other two men, Ugandan soldiers, one of whom she recognized, the smooth dark face with the single creased scar of the Major who drove her out of the Congo.  She caught his eye and he held her gaze for just a moment before turning away.
“How much did you hear?” the first soldier asked.
“We couldn’t hear anything,” Hector lied and he was being pushed between the two soldiers, jostled back and forth as he tried to explain himself.  “I am a soldier like you,” he offered.
“Not today you’re not,” the soldier said to him.  “You’re in the wrong place brother.”
Hector changed tactics, “you don’t have to worry about me, I won’t say anything.”  But this would not save him and only affirmed the other men’s suspicions.  Meanwhile Nicole had sat herself on the ground while the men decided their fate.
“You’ll have to take care of them,” one of the men, an older man in dreadlocks said to the soldier, who began to remove the sidearm from his hip.  “Not here,” he said, take them into the cane where no one will find them.”
“Here, I’ll take care of it,” the Major volunteered and pulled his pistol.  “Wait for me here, I’ll be right back,” he said to the other soldier.  “Let’s go, get up,” he said to Nicole.  He walked the two of them into the cane ahead of his gun.  Behind them the engine of one of the vehicles, ignited and moved off and Hector began pleading in earnest.
“Please brother, you don’t need to do this, I’ll run off no one will need to know,” he said.  “You can take this one, she is still young and pretty.  Please just let me go, I won’t say anything.”
But the Major was not convinced and without warning raised his pistol and shot the man through the head, and with a loud crack Hector fell sideways through the brown stalks.  His body lay crumpled on the ground in an unnatural recline with a dark stain oozing from his head that was absorbed into the dirt.  In a flash of anger, which surprised the Major, Nicole picked up a fractioned piece of cinderblock lying on the ground and heaved it at the corpse.  The epitaph to their brief union conceived in force and consummated in violence.  She fell to the ground exhausted and ready to be reunited with her parents, she was too tired to resist.  A quick bullet through the head she thought and then she could rest.
“Get up,” ordered the Major and helped pull her to her feet by the back of her arm.  “Listen to me,” he said, “if I ever see you again, I will kill you, you understand?  Now run.”  Nicole looked at him puzzled.  “Go,” he said, “now.”  She began moving her feet and stumbled over the uneven ground and looked back once to see the Major standing there placidly.  The stalks surrounded her and engulfed her now and she ran in the direction which she thought was the opposite from where she came.  She heard the sound of a pistol firing twice.  She kept running.
****
The notice was delivered by courier service to his office.  Ronald signed for it and left the package on Jonathan’s chair where it greeted him when he arrived later that morning, an unremarkable DHL envelope that contained another envelope inside embossed with the title of the UN Office of the Inspector General.  The blood drained from Jonathan’s face and he went pale when he saw the return address.  With a knot in his stomach, he removed the envelope and read its contents.  “Notice of Employment Review,” read the title in the center of the page below the letterhead.  “Please be advised,” it continued after the salutation, “your employment status with the World Food Program is currently under review.  An investigation into the propriety of your office is currently in process.  This investigation specifically includes the appropriateness of your conduct in carrying out the responsibilities of your office consistent with UN standards.”   He didn’t need to read any further to understand that his job was in jeopardy.  Without his job what would he do, how would he remain, and what could he return to.  The difficulty of having to leave troubled him more than the loss of employment.  If there was some consolation in the notice, it was that he was no longer subject to Singh’s threats.  He has done his worst, Jonathan thought.
The letter continued, it informed him of his right to a hearing before any action would be taken against him and told him that further notice would inform him of the time and place when he was required to report for an interview.  Jonathan picked up the phone and called Claude’s mobile number.  “Claude, this is Jonathan,” he said.
“Jonathan, I was expecting your call.”
“I’m being investigated.”
“Yeah, I know, I got a call this morning.  The thing to do is not to panic, this is only a preliminary step.”
“This is bullshit.” Jonathan said, maintaining a sense of outrage independent from any notion of actual innocence or guilt.
“Yeah maybe, but there have been some complaints.  I’m afraid this has been coming for some time.  I’m sorry Jonathan, I think this is my fault, I should have transferred you.”
Jonathan didn’t say anything and his silence was akin to an admission.
“Don’t overreact Jonathan, I don’t know exactly what they’re after and you were always in a tough position.  I don’t think they’ll fire you maybe you’ll just be reassigned.”
“How am I supposed to respond?” Jonathan regained his footing.  “It’s just rumor and innuendo.”
“They have to prove it, but you’ll get a chance to respond that’s why they said they’d give you a time and place.  You’ll have to go to New York or Geneva.  Let me make some calls, okay?  In the meantime, you just sit tight.”
“What about Ronald?”
“As far as I know this doesn’t involve Ronald.”
“He has a wife and kids.”
“I know.”
“Okay”
“Let me make my calls and then I’ll get back to you.”
“Okay.”
Claude clicked off and Jonathan put down the receiver.  He thought of his records in the office and doubted that he could survive an investigation and wasn’t sure that he wanted to.  He sat at his desk for a minute staring at the wall and then got up and opened the door to his office, and heard Ronald on the telephone and waited for him to finish his conversation before walking next door.
“Ronald, how’s it going,” he said casually trying to put a brave face on matters.
“How is it going?” Ronald asked back at him.  “It’s going, that’s about the best that can be said.  How is it going with you or would you prefer I asked what’s up.”
Jonathan couldn’t help but grin as Ronald made fun of his use of the colloquial.
“You sound more and more like an American,” Ronald told him.  “Always asking what is up, there are many thing that are up.”
“Okay,” he said, “thanks, I’ll have to watch that.  Actually, there is something that is up, something that I need to talk to you about.  I got a notice today, from the UN, and well I might be leaving you.  I spoke with Claude and he says it shouldn’t concern you and that you don’t have to worry.”
“I knew it,” Ronald reacted immediately.  “I knew you would get yourself into trouble and I tried to tell you, but you didn’t listen,” he said with a pained voice of regret.  “I knew Singh was no good, it was only a matter of time you can’t trust that man.”
“You were right, I should have listened to you,” he would miss Ronald he thought.
“Oh Jonathan, now what am I supposed to do?”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“But they will bring someone new in here that I have to work with and I had just gotten used to working with you.  And who knows who I’ll have to work with now?”
“Well I really appreciate your concern,” he said sarcastically.  “Don’t worry, I’ll be okay.”
“Oh Christ Jonathan, I’m gonna miss you is what I’m saying.  I wish you didn’t have to leave.”
“Well, I haven’t left yet.”
“Why’d you have to screw things up, we had a good thing here.  Shoot!”
“I’m sorry partner.”
“Sorry partner – you sound like a western,” he said quieting himself.  “When do you have to go?”
“I don’t know, it’s still early yet, they’re making an investigation.  They’re gonna probably want to talk with you.  Whatever you do don’t lie on my behalf, okay?”
“What am I going to tell them?  You have your secrets, I’m ignorant, you saw to that.”
“Yeah, well, maybe the whole thing will blow over,” he said.
“Blow over, sure right.”
“Sorry buddy.”
“Now I’m ‘buddy’.”  He left Ronald shaking his head muttering regrets to himself.
In the late afternoon, on the road back into town he decided that he wouldn’t say anything to Debra until the situation was more settled.  First Ronald and now Debra, he felt that he was making a little path of destruction in the wake of his imminent departure.  He drove on clutching the truck forward into a higher gear as the road opened up in front of him.  As he approached Kampala, traffic bottlenecked at the circle west of town.  He waited while Toyotas and mopeds jockeyed for position and managed not to run into one another as they engaged in a seemingly impossible choreography of merging transportation.  Past the circle he skirted the edge of town and after the golf course, he took a left and climbed the hill to the church overlooking the city center.  A gravel parking lot abutted the rectory, a two story white cement building attached to the main church.  The path leading to the door was overgrown and green.  Jonathan first tried to ring the bell but it was broken and he knocked on the solid wood door made like a barricade.  On the third knock, the door opened and Father Boniface greeted him in his usual bearish, all God’s children kind of way.
“Hello Jonathan, how are you? Come in, come in,” he said as he held the door open and grabbed Jonathan by the shoulder.
“Hi Father, I really just wanted to drop this off for you.  I was able to get the passport for your friend.”
“Can’t you come in?” he asked.  “Just for a little bit, I’d like to talk to you – come in.  How about a beer?”
“Sure, okay, a beer would be great,” he said and stepped over the threshold.
“Come on in, have a seat,” Father Boniface said ushering him into the kitchen and showing him a seat at a round table in a space designed for a dozen men but currently inhabited by only two priests.
“I have Tusker or Guinness.”
“Tusker would be fine.”
The Priest pulled two bottles from the refrigerator and fiddled with the bottle opener before returning to the table.
“I’m the only one who drinks beer here,” he said taking a seat.  “Father Joseph isn’t much of a drinker, so I have to keep my own supply.  I do like a cold beer.”
“The place looks good,” Jonathan commented.  “You’ve remodeled.”
“Oh, they had some guy come in and paint the place and they replaced a few things.  The refrigerator is new.”
“Who is they?”
“They?”
“Yeah, you said they.  It’s just you and Father Joseph, you’ve been here for almost a year, don’t you mean we?”
“Oh, well, I guess I just think I’m visiting, I don’t think of this as permanent, as home,” he said and paused.  “You got me on that one.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Still, you’re a shrewd observer, well done.”
“Okay, well I really wanted to come by and just give you the passport,” he said and slid the envelope across the table.  The two had a habit of engaging in accusation and recrimination.  “It’s a good likeness, I think.  Mahesh says it may be good for only six weeks or so, before someone reports it missing and it’s cancelled.”
“Lucy Babinaga,” he read.  “It looks like her.  I don’t know, I’m not real experienced in this, what else can we do?”
“I think it could work.  Mahesh has done this before, he’s generally reliable.”
“Mahesh is the one who helped you with Ugandan immigration?  The one we paid?”
“Yeah, he helped us.”
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to trust in God and trust in Mahesh.  Thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So we’re all set.  I’m glad we got that finished.  I just spoke with her the other day, I expect her here soon.”
“You’re still gonna need a visa,” Jonathan said.
“Oh, right,” Father Boniface said with an expression of recollection.  “I had forgotten about that, how do we go about getting a visa now?”
“I’m afraid I’m not gonna be able to help you there Father.”
“No?”
“I’ve got my own troubles,” he said hesitatingly.  “I don’t think I can afford to get mixed up in this anymore.”
“I know you’ve already done a lot, but it’s just this one more thing.  If you can just help with getting the visa.”
“No really, there’s been some problems at work and my office is under investigation,” he said not being exactly truthful.  “I may have to go to New York, at the least I’ll be reassigned,” he said his eyes blinking.
“You’re in trouble? At work?” he asked.  “You’re too much of an iconoclast.  You should try and get along more,” he said.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said leaning back in his chair.
“You know we all have to live with our choices.”
“Thanks Father, I don’t see how that’s real helpful, but thanks for the timely advice.”
“Ho, ho ho, you take everything to heart, Jonathan,” he said laughing.  “Are you really in trouble?”
“I could lose my job,” he said and the reality of it made him swallow.  “I’d have to leave.”
“It’s just a job after all.”
“You’re awfully glib with my well being.”
“I don’t believe in making a fetish of these things.”
“A fetish?”
“Your job - if you want to stay, I can find you another.  I know plenty of people, I’ll vouch for you.”
“Don’t I have to live with my choices?”
“Who can choose where the heart will lead,” Father Boniface said with an air of triumph.  “I tell you what, just meet with her when she gets into town and we’ll play it by ear okay.  She should be here soon and we can figure it out then.  I do appreciate your help Jonathan.  You know people do come to me for help, if there is anything I can do…”
“You’re really putting me on the spot Father.”
“Just meet with her when she gets here, no promises.”
“You’re very convincing, you’re certain that once I meet her I’ll be compelled to help.  Maybe I won’t like her.”
“That’s fine, just meet with her and you can do as you like.”
“Right, of course, of course, I’ll meet with her,” he said relenting.  “For chrissakes, you can be pushy,” he said and then apologized, “sorry.”
“That’s okay,” he said making a mock gesture of absolution.  “I’ll consider it a prayer,” he said smiling.
“Right,” he said and felt outwitted.  Father Boniface chuckled to himself.
“When do you expect her?” Jonathan asked.
“Soon, I’ll let you know.”
The contentiousness between them was mild and passed quickly.  The usual recriminations set aside, they stood at ease.  Jonathan finished his beer and thanked the Priest, who thanked him in return and promised to call and arrange for him to meet when his friend’s niece arrived in Kampala.  Jonathan left and when he arrived home, Debra wasn’t waiting for him and he prepared his own dinner.

Chapter 12

After the Major let her go, Nicole ran until she came to an irrigation ditch.  She followed the ditch, which led her out of the cane field and to a road where a local matatu stopped for her and took her the remaining short distance to Pakwach.  She just had time to disembark in the red clay pitch that served as a taxi park and bus depot before getting directions pointing her to a crowded bus on the other side of a group of white minibuses.  The bus started its engine as she approached and she pounded on the door to open up before getting on the last bus of the day to Mbale.  She sat next to a Ugandan woman, who looked at her with disappointment and made her young child sit on her lap having lost their exclusive seat just at the point of departure and now having to share the trip with this grubby stranger.  A chicken in a webbed plastic carrying bag squawked whenever Nicole changed positions and sat panting through its half opened mouth.  The woman next to her substituted the chicken and placed the child on the seat next to Nicole, who looked at Nicole with big eyes with the crust of sleep still on their edges and went back to sleep leaning against her and forming a film of sweat between them where their arms touched.
The trip was slow and sporadic stretching a long trip into a longer one.  Soroti, Tororo, and Kangale, the bus had to stop in each town along the way to discharge passengers and onload people, beans, and some livestock.  Between towns the mother next to her held her child over the space between seats to let her urinate on the floor.  The topography flattened and the road improved the further south they went until sometime after seven they entered Mbale and drove through to the other end of town to the bus park.
With the gained familiarity of a fellow traveler, her seat mate directed her to the Mt. Elgin Hotel and Nicole walked the half mile to a squat three story cement structure with an awning on the roof.  Hector had had only time to assault her and not rob her before being interrupted, and she paid the tariff for a single night for a second story room facing the street and overlooking the town’s central intersection.  She washed in the shared bathroom, and then in her own room moved the furniture, a large wooden armchair and end table, to barricade the door before lying down clothed on top of the bed spread to sleep.  Just outside her window on the street below was a constant cacophony of revving motorbikes and the calls of street hawkers selling roasted meat.  Despite the noise, Nicole dozed quickly and slept through the night unmolested.
She woke early the next morning and counted out her money.  She had over fifty thousand shillings remaining and treated herself to breakfast at the hotel café.  After breakfast, she went immediately back to the bus park and enquired about transport to Kampala and was shown to the next minivan departing for the city.  She was early, but was content to wait and sat in the back of the matatu near the window looking out at the drivers and others who worked in the taxi park.  Men sat around idly doing nothing waiting for the matatu to fill while women with bundles on their heads and in their arms walked past.  The sliding door was left open which offered some breeze and allowed other passenger to slowly occupy the vehicle.  Two girls in school uniforms, perhaps going to Kampala on break, sat next to her and looked at her with wide eyes but she did not return the gesture.  After forty five minutes the van was full and the driver’s assistant slid the door shut and collected the five thousand shilling fare from each of the passengers.  The van angled out of the bus park onto the open road where it immediately picked up speed.
When the minivan reached speed, a white plastic bag caught along the body work and the window and began flapping, and the assistant opened the sliding door while in motion and attempted but failed to free it.  The bag flared in the wind like a tell tale shifting with the wind and the direction and speed of the vehicle.  They passed the remains of a collision, a minivan with one side sheared off revealing its insides, a cross section of passenger seats upended and mangled.  The totem did little to impede their own driver, who drove fast and passed slower vehicles using both the oncoming traffic lane and the shoulder when one presented itself.  He used the horn generously and talked excitedly with his assistant as the matatu sped down the road.  “Glory be to God,” was printed across the very top of the windshield in a metallic adhesive foil offering both an expression of faith and a prayer.  They passed through green rolling hills, some covered with rows of coffee bushes and through small towns with buildings whitewashed in MTN telephone advertisements.  After about four hours with her knees pressed up against the seat in front of her, Nicole reached the outskirts of Kampala.
They made an unscheduled stop in Jinja, where the driver’s assistant and a bag of beans left the minivan, and then stalled in the mid afternoon traffic of the suburbs of Kampala.  They crawled the last bit of the journey through the snarl of the roundabout to the taxi park at the base of the city bounded by hills.  The taxi park was larger than any Nicole had seen and held a large number of minivans and white Toyota saloon cars tightly congregated in complex disorganization on a muddy red flat.  She spotted the adjacent Shop Rite on the ride in and after the van came to a stop and everyone got off, she picked her way across the muddy lot to the supermarket.
“Excuse me,” she said to a woman picking a shopping cart for her groceries, “can you please show me the way to Christ the King Church?”
“Sure dear,” the lady, a mzungu, a white woman, said to her, “it’s pretty much straight up the hill,” and pointed the way.
Nicole could have called Father Boniface to pick her up but she was so close.  She should have hired a taxi to take her the short distance up the hill through traffic to the Church but considered it an extravagance.  She had ridden in taxis and trains in France, but her sensibilities were relative to geography and she wouldn’t hire a car to take her the remaining distance.  She settled on one of the ubiquitous boda bodas, a moped, and rode on the back of the bike exposed.  It wasn’t clear that the bike would have the power to make it up the incline with two riders, but it cycled through its gears and gained a momentum that sustained it through the climb.
They went up the street along the side of the supermarket and then cut back sideways toward the center of town before turning right again past the gated parliament building.  The Church appeared to her from behind an office building, a white washed concrete structure with a peaked clay tile roof and bell tower occupying a commanding position on the side of the hill overlooking the city center and eclipsed only by the Sheraton, which stood further up the hill.  She was glad to get off the motor bike and had the driver drop her still two blocks away in anticipation.  Sanctuary was in reach, just in front of her now, and she hurried nearly ran to the front of the Church.  She pulled on the large wooden doors but they were closed to her, locked from the inside.  She banged on the doors in frustration and then felt light headed and sat on the front steps for just a moment.  Picking herself up again, she walked around the side of the building to the rectory.  A caretaker was working on the grounds in the distance and she tried the door to the Church offices, which was also locked.  The buzzer clearly was not working and she knocked and then stood in the shade of the building with her head against the doorway.
“Can I help you?” a man’s voice said to her from behind.  A large man in coveralls and a straw hat, he looked at her and saw a prostitute, a waif, a street urchin.
“I’m looking for Father Boniface,” she said.
“You’ve found him.”
“I’m Nicole Negusse, Father, we spoke on the phone.”
“Nicole, oh my God” he said “I was expecting a phone call.”  He looked at her and she was recognizable from her picture but only just, her eyes were sunken and her face was taught.  “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, oh dear, please come in, how are you?”
“I know, I should have called,” she started to explain, “but I was so close and…,” she trembled and put her face in her hands and sobbed.
“Oh dear, it’s okay now,” he said and embraced her lightly.  She pressed her face into his chest, like hugging a rain barrel, and cried.
****
Jonathan shook his head as he walked through the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel on his appointed visit.  How did he manage to get roped into this kind of thing, another hard luck case.  At home, friends were getting promoted, buying homes, getting married, having children, even getting divorced, moving on with their lives.  He was not being promoted, more likely fired, and on an unpaid errand mostly illegal for a refugee Priest.  He could have avoided the meeting by just agreeing to help.  Why did he let this Priest push his buttons?  
Cups a million or some such thing was the name of the coffee house in the Sheraton Gardens.  Father Boniface was going out of town for the day and suggested that he meet her outside of the rectory.  Nicole Negusse, he remembered her name from the photo, and the whole arrangement seemed unnecessarily dubious.  He felt defensive and manipulated.
Debra hadn’t returned for dinner last night and he hadn’t seen her for two days.  The few small possessions she kept at his apartment remained but they provided little in the way of a connection and could easily be abandoned.  He felt alone as though he had forfeited something, something intrinsic and unrecoverable creating a gap that he didn’t know how to fill.  Maybe it was for the best he thought, but couldn’t convince himself and nurtured this regret as he looked for the coffee shop.
He spotted Nicole right away sitting at a table just outside the coffee shop entrance, in a print dress with her hands folded in her lap.  She was young and pretty with smooth brown skin and her hair pulled straight back.  He knew the matter was already decided for him, and thought to make the meeting as quick as possible.
“Hello,” he said walking up to her, “you must be Nicole.”
She stood and extended her hand.  “Yes,” she said, “it’s nice to meet you.”  They shook hands and her manner was matter of fact as if she were doing him the favor.
“I was going to get a coffee, can I get you something?”
“A small coffee would be fine, if you don’t mind,” she said.
“Not at all.”  He left her and went to the counter and placed the order.  The shop was largely empty and the lobby of the hotel was quiet save for the elevator and the sound of luggage being pulled on wheels.  He returned with the coffee and they sat at the table sipping from their cups.
“Father Boniface says you can help me,” she said breaking the silence.
“Sure,” he said, “did he show you the passport?”
“Yes, he did, but he said I need a visa as well.”
“That’s right and we’ll make sure that you get one,” he said.
“Okay then,” she said looking at him.  “Thank you.”
He looked around feeling uncomfortable, not wanting to be recognized.  I can see it in his eyes, she thought.  I am an intrusion.  You hold me in contempt because I am a burden, indistinguishable from the prostitutes at the Rock Garden.  I am better educated than you, she did not say.  I can speak multiple languages, she thought engaging in her own contempt for the white face looking at her from across the table.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No, nothing, everything’s fine.”
“I do appreciate your help,” she said.  “Father Boniface has told me what a big help you have been, and I want to let you know that I can pay for your trouble.”
“That’s okay,” he said.  “Father Boniface has already taken care of it.”
After a little more small talk, they finished their coffee and said good bye.  Jonathan wished her luck as they parted company at the hotel’s front entrance.  He offered her, a ride back to the rectory, but she said she wanted to walk and had an errand to run besides.  She thanked him again for his help.
****
That afternoon, Jonathan arranged again to meet with Mahesh outside of his apartment building in the evening.  Mahesh told him that he could not produce a visa himself but would need to contact a man who worked for a man named Raju, the boss of a local criminal organization.  For one thousand dollars up front, Mahesh’s contact could obtain a US visa.  He told Jonathan, the point wasn’t a matter of negotiation and Jonathan agreed.  They agreed to meet again the next evening and Jonathan came with the passport and the money, which he got from Fr. Boniface and in turn gave to Mahesh.
Three days later, Mahesh’s contact came through and Jonathan retrieved the passport complete with US visa.  Mahesh instructed that the visa would certainly get Nicole on the plane to the United States, whether or not US immigration officials would permit her entry depended in large part on Nicole’s ability to be Lucy Babinaga.  Together with these instructions, Jonathan put the passport into a large envelope which he sealed with Father Boniface’s name on it and slipped it under the door of the rectory.  He walked away satisfied that his obligation was complete.
****
On the day she left, Father Boniface drove Nicole to the airport in Entebbe.  He walked with her into the departure terminal, which was noisy and busy.  She gave him a hug and thanked him again for all of his help.  After they said goodbye, he stood alone as departing travelers rushed around him carrying luggage.  The hard tile floor seemed littered with passengers and suitcases as people parted or greeted and moved on.  Through the crowd he watched her walk away as far as the immigration control desk.  Upon request by the man in a white shirt and black tie, she presented her passport.  He looked at it as if scrutinizing it for some tell tale sign of fraud or officiality, but in reality was making a show and asked her no questions before stating the amount for an exit visa.  Nicole was prepared and handed him the exact amount and he stamped her passport, handed it back to her and waved her through.
She passed though a pair of double doors and up a truncated escalator and entered the international departure lounge as if entering a different world.  The long hallway was clean and almost silent except for the soft piped in music.  A gaggle of Lufthansa flight attendants dressed in blue pulling their bags on wheels and followed by two men in captain’s uniforms passed, walking in the opposite direction, chatting among themselves.  She walked past the duty free shops, with translucent glass fronts and offerings of liquor and wood carvings, a last opportunity to spend one’s shillings before returning from holiday.  She was early for an early flight and looked out from behind the air conditioned glass of the nearly empty departure terminal into the bright morning sun shining over the airport runway.  She felt she had left the continent already and entered a state of in between, a sort of limbo or purgatory.  Nicole found her gate and sat alone in the departure lounge and waited for her flight.

AFTERWORD

The flight departing Bunia was delayed and Horst was forced to sit in the small terminal building with the overloud television constantly running waiting for the turboprop to arrive from Arusha that would then turn around and ferry him to Entebbe, Uganda.  Horst had flown to the region over the objections of his supervisor, who questioned the merit of the trip, after Alex had insisted that every effort be made to locate and interview the daughter of their original witness.  He had met with Jean the day before and they had managed a small convoy to the sight of the Negusse home, which had been largely set in order since the calamity it had suffered.  Their calls to the Uncle went unanswered and when they showed up unannounced with an armed UN escort at his house, they were met with hostility.  “Showing up here like this, why don’t you just paint a bullseye on my back,” the man identified as Mukadi told them.  Their attempt to interview him never recovered from this start and he only told them that the girl, Nicole, had fled and was probably in Europe.  He refused to answer more questions saying he had nothing more to tell them and closed the iron gate covering his front door.  He asked them to please leave and not come back.
Because the flight from Bunia was late, he arrived at the airport in Entebbe after dark.  The Ugandan in the arrival terminal had his name on a piece of cardboard and anxiously took his luggage and showed him to the van marked for the Grand Hotel.  Horst didn’t know that bandits occasionally stopped vehicles on the Entebbe-Kampala road at night and held onto the interior of the van as the driver sped over the deserted roadway, concentrating on the way ahead and checking his mirrors for headlights from behind.  The driver became visibly more relaxed as he approached the edge of Kampala and eased off the accelerator to Horst’s relief.
The next morning Horst met with the staff of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees, who regrettably had no information about the whereabouts of one Nicole Negusse.  But although her name was not registered with the agency, they were able to refer him to a Catholic Priest, a Father Boniface, who was well connected with the local Congolese community in Kampala.  “If anyone knows where this woman is, it will be Father Boniface,” Samuel, a UNHCR official, told him.
Before he could track down the Priest, Horst was scheduled to make the short flight to Gulu in the North of Uganda to check with Red Cross officials at the displaced persons camp.  He arrived at midday and walked the camp with his guide not knowing exactly what he was looking for and thinking he’d more likely be struck by lightning than encounter and recognize the young woman in the camp’s population assuming she was there.  The Red Cross staff couldn’t identify her and pointed out that she could be at any one of a number of displaced persons camps in the North.
He returned to Kampala and when he met Father Boniface, the Priest invited him in and offered him a beer which he declined.  Initially, he was impressed by the large black man, who showed interest in Horst and his work.
“Her father was scheduled to provide testimony in a case before the Court,” Horst explained.  “We think she might have some information that could be helpful and in any event, we feel an obligation and want to make sure that she is safe.”
“I see,” the Priest responded gravely.  “It’s quite good of you to follow up like this and look after this young woman.  And what is this case before the Court, who does it involve?”
“It’s the prosecution of Jean Pierre Bembe.”
“Ah Jean Pierre Bembe, I once met the man,” he said.  “This was back in the days when Mobutu was still around and Bembe was quite young,” the Priest said and began a detailed history of the circumstances, Bembe’s father and Eastern Congo during the days of Mobutu.  Horst felt obliged to listen if the man was going to help him.  And although the priest was effusive in his discussion of the Congo and knowledgeable, he was reticent when it came to Horst’s real interest, the whereabouts of Nicole Negusse.  Father Boniface stated that he did not know the woman and did not know where she could be, which was a lie.  Horst showed him a picture but he did not recognize the woman.  The Priest shook his head seriously, but Horst thought he detected a note of bemusement in the man’s demeanor as if he was putting him on and feigning interest in the Court.  He had expected some reaction about the UN’s inability to protect the young woman’s father, but the Priest seemed unsurprised and reacted placidly to the information.  Horst couldn’t help but feel that the Priest was humoring him just a little.
****
Matanda listened with the use of earphones as witness “63” testified to rapes committed by Bembe’s troops in Ituri.  He could not see the man, who sat behind a screen and testified with the use of voice distortion technology, but the witness was emphatic that abuses had occurred after Bembe had visited his militia in the region.  From his position in the visitor’s gallery, Matanda could only see the side of Bembe’s head, which he looked to from time to time for evidence of reaction to the testimony offered.  Bembe was perhaps most demonstrative when he began to nod off during the testimony of one of his accusers, and Matanda was relieved when his client caught himself and shifted positions to stay awake.
He watched the tall Scottish lawyer deftly take the witness through his narrative, confirming that the militia soldiers were under no compulsion from their commanders to limit abuses against noncombatants.  To the contrary, the command and control structure was premised on the looting and abuse of the civilian population.  Matanda was not overly concerned though, the witness presented something of an outlier.  Other witnesses on cross examination had been forced to admit that abuses had decreased when Bembe visited his troops in the field.
When Matanda visited Bembe that evening, he could at least present the case so far in a positive light.  He tired of listening to his friend’s complaints.  His mood changes and unpredictable nature that made him a standout leader in the bush did not serve him well in the methodical proceedings of the Court.  Matanda found him exhausting.  He walked out the door of the visitor’s gallery into the corridor to the elevator that would take him to the lobby of the Court building.  He had taken up residence in a nearby hotel and this would be his new routine for at least the next few months.  From his new flat he would commute to London whenever there was a break in the proceedings.  The Court, he knew, was largely designed to convict and he would see the matter through to the end.
****
That Jennifer felt compelled to return to the office early Saturday morning when she knew nobody would be around reflected intuitively her sense of shame.  She knew she had been wrong and now she was sneaking around, which only highlighted the point.  Yet logically, when she tried to square her feelings with the circumstances, a part of her still felt she had been right.
She brought a cardboard box with her and when the elevator opened onto her floor of the Hart building, it did so with a resonant “ding” that seemed to echo through the empty structure in defiance of her wish for secrecy.  Her pass key still worked on the front door to reception signaling that her treachery remained as of yet undiscovered.  Empty box in hand she sat down at her desk for a last time and leaned back and put her feet up on the table top and looked around trying to create a picture for her memory.  She nearly jumped out of her seat when she heard Dave’s voice from behind calling to her. “Hey Jennifer, I didn’t expect to see you here this morning.”
Shoot, she thought and tried to regain her balance and come up with a reason why she should be in the office.  She paused for a moment and then turned around and looked at David who was standing in the doorway smiling.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.
“No, no, I just didn’t think anyone else was in.”
“The Senator called me last night and asked me to pick up a few things.  What’s with the box,” he said.
“Nothing, I wanted to straighten up my office a bit.”
“You’ve got all next week to do that.”
“I know, but I left in such a hurry yesterday, I wanted to pick up a few things, I wanted to take my plant home with me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I just wanted to pick up a few things,” she said, trying to be relaxed.
“You’re so full of it Gruning.”
“Full of what?”
“I read you like a book.  When were you going to tell me, were you just going to leave a note?”
“Tell you what?” she asked feigning surprise but figuring that she had been found out.
“After you left last night, I called Bill in the committee office and guess what, the Senator had a change of heart.  I read you like a book Gruning,” he said again.  “I thought you were acting a little squirrelly so I called Bill and changed the language back.  You kill me, you really think it’s worth losing your job over this?”
She was embarrassed and then became indignant over the tone of his comments.  “You didn’t have to do me any favors.  I’d just as soon left it the way it was.”
“Oh please, it’s a silly thing that probably won’t make any difference in the end.”
“I think it makes a difference.”
“I like you Jennifer, I consider you a friend and think you’re smart, but this was particularly stupid,” he said.  
“I don’t think it’s stupid.”
“For what it’s worth, nobody knows, it’ll be our secret.”
“You can’t want me to keep working here like nothing happened.”
“Take your box, go home, think it over.”
“I don’t know how you can expect me to keep working here or why you would want me to.”
“You know what your problem is, you think too much.  Go home already.”
“I’m going.”
“I’ll see you Monday morning,” he said by way of confirmation, as he walked away and she picked up her box and walked out the door.
Jennifer returned to the office on Monday, but gave notice soon after.  She explained that she was returning to Ohio to be closer to her family and to her mother, who was sick.  The office threw her a going away party, which the Senator attended and personally thanked her for all her hard work.  David told her that she was stubborn and that she would be missed.
On her last day, she was finally able to use the box and filled it with three years worth of photos, letters, bobbleheads and other keepsakes that had accumulated on her desk.  She threw out the majority of its contents and arranged it for her successor and noted how easily three years of work could be reduced in the course of a single afternoon.  She didn’t reminisce long and when the box was full, she carried it to the elevator and out the door for the last trip to her apartment.
****
Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean en route to his disciplinary interview in New York, Jonathan decided to take Father Boniface’s career advice.  Instead of heading to the World Food Program offices when he landed in New York, he went into town and rented a room in a hotel near the Port Authority bus station.  He spent the day walking through Chinatown looking at the fish and animal carcasses decorating the food markets and the junk gifts in the gift shops.  He ate a big lunch of wontons, spring rolls and soup at a cheap restaurant and then walked up Park Avenue into the village.
The next day he caught the bus to Montreal.  When he arrived in the evening, he took the metro towards San Michel and walked the last distance from the station to his father’s house.  He surprised the old man in the kitchen.  His father, with white disheveled hair, wore an apron as he scrubbed a pot in the sink.  Jonathan let himself in and his father stood mute holding the pot dripping water on the kitchen floor before laughing at his son.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, “not a phone call or nothing, you just show up here out of thin air is that it?”
“I guess so.”
“I thought you’d gone native,” he laughed.  “Well shoot, welcome home son,” he said approaching and embracing Jonathan.
****
If Nicole thought that because the Judge was a woman, she would be more sympathetic to Nicole’s claim, she was wrong.  In the Immigration Courtroom in Baltimore, MD, Nicole testified that after arriving at Baltimore Washington International airport, she told the immigration officer that she was Lucy Babinaga, but when the officer didn’t believe her and she was taken aside for additional questioning, she broke down and admitted that her real name was Nicole Negusse, she was from the Congo, and her passport was a fake.  After some additional questioning about why she left the Congo and her fear of returning, she was allowed to enter the United States, paroled she was told, so that she could apply for asylum.  She explained all of this to the Judge and how she was staying in Silver Spring, Maryland with her father’s cousin, Vumilia, who was in the building and willing to testify what she knew.
But the Judge didn’t believe the particulars of Nicole’s story.  She was skeptical that Nicole was from the Congo and hinted that she was a Ugandan posing as Congolese in order to get asylum.  She wanted to know why Nicole didn’t identify herself as Congolese when she first presented herself at the airport and instead tried to enter the country as a Ugandan.  The Judge dismissed the testimony from her father’s cousin as self serving and noted that the letter from her Uncle Mukadi was not properly authenticated.  Nicole tried to explain that she had told her lawyer about Father Boniface, but her lawyer didn’t think it was important to get a statement from the Priest.  And when on cross examination, Nicole testified about the second sexual assault she suffered in Uganda, the Judge wanted to know why the incident was not included in her written statement in support of her application.  She had told her lawyer, Nicole explained, but he didn’t think it was relevant to her fear of return to the Congo.
The Judge didn’t believe her story, didn’t believe she was telling the truth, and didn’t believe it was plausible that Nicole could have escaped death and made it to Kampala under the circumstances she described.  And even if she believed Nicole’s story, the Judge concluded, the gang rape didn’t constitute persecution, but was a criminal act, the result of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  The Judge denied Nicole’s application for asylum.
It hadn’t helped that Nicole’s lawyer didn’t return her calls until the day before the hearing.  After she turned down Mr. Onwenge’s advances at their first meeting, he had shown little interest in her case and calls to his office were answered by an assistant.  She had met with him only that morning to prepare the testimony that she would provide later that day.  After the Judge issued her decision denying Nicole’s claim, Mr. Onwenge was assuring her of good chances on appeal.  Vumilia had already decided to hire a different attorney.
This was a new kind of limbo between acceptance and return.  Her application for asylum denied, Nicole would have to wait for the appeals process and in the meantime had no work authorization and spent much of her day in the house helping Vumilia with chores.  And although she wasn’t supposed to, she pursued informal job opportunities, babysitting and working for a catering company in Washington, DC recommended by the local Congolese diaspora.
On Vumilia’s advice, she queued at the Silver Spring health clinic, sitting in a plastic chair in a room with a tiled floor and large foggy window, waiting for her blood to be taken and tested.  When her results came back, her name was called and she was taken to a room where she was told that she tested positive for HIV.  The nurse spoke with her and gave her literature for treatment plans with the local health agency and a clinic called Whitman-Walker.  She recommended that Nicole see a clinical psychologist over concerns of post traumatic stress and depression.  Nicole assured her that she would, but felt overwhelmed, and the pamphlet remained unopened in her coat pocket.  The medical vocabulary of antiretrovirals, protease inhibitors and viral loads entered her lexicon and became part of her daily life as she undertook a regimen to ward off the infection that invaded her body.  The disease, a remnant of past trauma, was to her the physiological manifestation of an emotional harm.
Nicole sat on a granite bench on the elevated platform of the Silver Spring Metro station in her black and white tuxedo uniform waiting for the train to take her into the city and a catering job at the German embassy.  The platform was mostly empty on weekend evenings and the air was still warm but turning cool as the sun began to set.  A breeze full of moisture picked up and sent dry leaves chasing after a plastic bag that blew down the track, and reminded her of Africa.  She closed her eyes and tried to inhale the smell of it, the faint smell of water in the wind and charcoal, and of mud and diesel, but it passed quickly and she was unable to capture the memory of her home.  She missed her house with the yard and her parents and her Uncle Mukadi and her Aunt Philomene.  She surveyed the cityscape of asphalt and automobiles in front of her, and longed for her family.

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