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Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
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WARLORD. Copyright © James Steel 2011. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
James Steel asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Source ISBN: 9781847561619
Ebook Edition © JULY 2011 ISBN: 9780007443291
Version: 2018-07-23
Epigraph
‘There is no book on the Congo, we must write one ourselves.’
Congo Mercenary
Colonel Mike Hoare,
Commander of 5 Commando mercenary regiment,
deployed in eastern Congo, 1964.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Map
In the Beginning
Chapter One
Eve Mapendo sees the figure lit by moonlight.
Chapter Two
‘We are going to make a new country, Mr Devereux.’
Chapter Three
Alex is struggling to get a grip on the scale…
Chapter Four
‘Come on, we’ve got to hurry up.’
Chapter Five
‘You stink of piss.’
Chapter Six
Sophie’s car pulls up to the barrier and the soldier…
Chapter Seven
The megaphone crackles and squawks, ‘Move up!’ and Eve dutifully…
Chapter Eight
Alex taps the end of a wedge into a log…
Chapter Nine
‘Hello, hello, welcome to Panzi hospital! My name is Mama…
Chapter Ten
‘You are joking, Devereux! You are joking! You’ve lost it,…
Chapter Eleven
Eve is lying on her back on a gynaecological examination…
Chapter Twelve
Alex and his men walk up the hill towards their…
Chapter Thirteen
Rukuba finishes his speech to Team Devereux and a strange…
Chapter Fourteen
Gabriel watches the bare legs of Patrice, the FDLR soldier,…
Chapter Fifteen
Alex continues his talk to the Chinese, Rwandan and Kivuan…
Chapter Sixteen
Gabriel is stuck in the narrow tunnel, underwater and in…
Chapter Seventeen
Matt Hooper is a newly commissioned sergeant in the Kivu…
Chapter Eighteen
A huge explosion comes from his right and Jason Hall…
The Promised Land
Chapter Nineteen
The two undercover Unit 17 men have been hanging around…
Chapter Twenty
Alex is standing in front of another group of people.
Chapter Twenty-One
While the troops wait by the helicopters, Zacheus is lying…
Chapter Twenty-Two
Zacheus lies in the bush and waits for the rockets…
Chapter Twenty-Three
Alex hangs on as Demon 6 flares and they decelerate…
Chapter Twenty-Four
Further back along the ridge Alex is collecting Tac, Zacheus…
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘He’s so sweet.’ Eve lets the fat baby boy get…
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Beelzebub, this is Black Hal, do you copy, over?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The slight, middle-aged man wears a cheap suit and an…
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A heavy explosion shakes Gabriel awake at two a.m.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dieudonné Rukuba stands in front of a large audience seated…
Chapter Thirty
Joseph squats on the ground and looks up as eleven…
Chapter Thirty-One
Eve looks out over the elegant hotel dining room packed…
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sophie points Alex towards the large grass field just inside…
The End of Days
Chapter Thirty-Three
The United States Assistant Secretary of State for African Affairs,…
Chapter Thirty-Four
Gabriel heaves himself off the back of the old blue…
Chapter Thirty-Five
‘Well, welcome to Heaven,’ Alex says, spreading his hands and…
Chapter Thirty-Six
Joseph sits on the ground in the new detention facility…
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Alex looks at Rukuba across the table from him.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Alex looks at Rukuba reclining in his hammock in front…
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The two helicopters wind up their engines on the new…
Chapter Forty
Up on top of the bluff in Tac’s position, Sophie…
Chapter Forty-One
Alex looks at Sophie.
Chapter Forty-Two
A week after the battle at Violo, on 21st June,…
Chapter Forty-Three
Secretary of State Patricia Johnson has expensive blonde hair, shrewd…
Chapter Forty-Four
Joseph and Simon are bursting with excitement as the bus…
Chapter Forty-Five
The helicopter skims low over Lake Kivu. It disappears behind…
Chapter Forty-Six
Sophie turns and looks out of the rear window of…
Chapter Forty-Seven
Sophie is sitting on Alex’s lap after dinner. He has…
Chapter Forty-Eight
Joseph stands laughing on the roof of the cab of…
Chapter Forty-Nine
The Fadoul refinery on the outskirts of Goma is a…
Chapter Fifty
Alex is pacing up and down in the ops tent,…
Chapter Fifty-One
Carla Schmidt and the other journalists are still waiting in…
Chapter Fifty-Two
Joseph and the crowd of young men watch the American…
Chapter Fifty-Three
Alex leans over the shoulder of the door gunner and…
Chapter Fifty-Four
Joseph is near the front of the mob charging towards…
Chapter Fifty-Five
One thousand kilometres away to the northeast, night has just…
Chapter Fifty-Six
Joseph has his face pressed down into the wet grass.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
A shout comes through the trees to Alex’s right.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The second rifle grenade smashes through the windscreen of the…
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Yamba pours water from his canteen over Alex’s face and…
Chapter Sixty
The helicopter settles down gently on the lawn and sinks…
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by the Same Author
About the Publisher
Map
Chapter One
KIVU PROVINCE,
DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF CONGO
Eve Mapendo sees the figure lit by moonlight.
It has the body of a muscular man stripped to the waist and the head of a kudu, a dark antelope head with two heavy horns spiralling out of it like madness.
The creature stands in an opening in the forest on the hillside above her, at the front of a file of soldiers. They wear black cloth hoods over their heads with ragged holes cut for eyes and mouths. They stand in complete silence; the silver light frosts the surface of every leaf around them.
The horned head turns in her direction, the large eyes darkened by the shadow of its heavy brows.
Her pupils dilate wide as the adrenaline hits them. She clenches her throat muscles and painfully chokes off a scream. It cannot see her in the shadows of the doorway of her shack but she feels its gaze bear down on her like a hard hand gripping her shoulder, pushing her until she crouches on the ground.
The creature unslings the assault rifle from its shoulder, cocks the weapon and gestures to the soldiers to fan out and move down the hill towards the refugee camp. They disappear into the trees.
A whimper of fear escapes her and the baby stirs inside the shack.
She knows what the creature is and she knows what it wants.
Joseph bares his teeth and screams at his enemy.
It’s his first proper firefight and he wants to prove to his platoon leader, Lieutenant Karuta, that he can fight. He’s fourteen or fifteen, maybe sixteen – he doesn’t know. He was born in a refugee camp during a war and he never knew his parents.
He sees the enemy soldiers darting in and out of the trees across the small valley, a hundred metres from him now, firing wild bursts from their AK-47s and shouting insults. They are wearing a ragtag of green uniforms and coloured tee shirts. The bushes next to him twitch and shudder with the impact of their bullets, cut branches and leaves tumble down around him. The men in his platoon fire back with a cacophony of gunfire.
He glances across at Lieutenant Karuta who is yelling away and firing his rifle in long bursts, spraying bullets. Joseph brings his AK up to his shoulder and squints through the circular sight on the muzzle. The rifle is old and heavy, its metal parts scratched and its wooden stock stained a dark brown by the sweat of many tense hands that have clutched it during the decades of Congo’s wars. He’s often cursed its weight as the platoon trudged up and down the countless hills in the bush, but now it feels light and vital in his hands, an extension of himself growing out of his shoulder.
He pulls the trigger and the gun chatters, slamming back hard into his collarbone. It clicks empty and he quickly ducks down, presses the magazine release, yanks it out, flips it over and shoves the spare one, strapped to it with duct tape, into the port. This is his first big firefight but he’s practised these moves over and over again.
He doesn’t know who the enemy are: one of the poisonous alphabet soup of groups in Kivu – PARECO, AFL-NALU, FJPC, one of the government FARDC brigades, even a rival FDLR battalion or one of the many mai-mai militias from the different tribal groups: Lendu, Hema, Nandi, Tutsi. No one knows what the hell is going on out in the bush.
This lot look like a local mai-mai militia. Joseph’s platoon of soldiers are from the Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda, more commonly known by their French acronym, the FDLR. They bumped into the mai-mai by accident as they were coming down the valley side into the village and the fighting broke out in a confused way.
An RPG whooshes off near him, the white fire of the propellant shoots across the valley and the rocket explodes against a tree. The enemy gunfire slackens and they begin to withdraw. This is subsistence warfare and no one actually wants to get killed – what’s the point? You can’t steal, eat or rape if you’re dead.
The FDLR soldiers that he is with start yelling and cheering. Lieutenant Karuta is next to him and Joseph looks at his excited face, eyes filled with laughter. The lieutenant is his father figure. His own father was an FDLR soldier killed when he was a baby, somewhere in the middle of the big Congo war. No one knows where or when – over five million people died so it’s not like anyone paid much attention to him.
Lieutenant Karuta is forty and a génocidaire from the old days in Rwanda. He is a big man in green army fatigues with a wispy beard patched with white that he grows to distinguish himself from the young men under his command.
He waves his rifle joyfully in the air and Joseph joins in. The village is theirs; they must get there before the peasants run off.
They charge down the valley side, jumping over tangles of vines and bursting through bamboo thickets. The ragged line of cheering fighters rushes out of the shade of the trees and into the sunshine. They hold their rifles over their heads as they bound through the waist-high grass towards the collection of round mud huts with thatched conical roofs on the flat land at the bottom of the valley. Villagers burst out of the huts and start running around screaming in panic. Women try to grab their kids, old men stumble and fall, chickens fly up, goats run around bleating. Joseph is laughing with excitement. He’s hungry after weeks in the deep bush living on pineapples and snails.
A woman in a red and blue wrap bursts up from a clump of grass to his right, squawking like a parrot, flapping one arm and dragging a goat on a string with the other. Lieutenant Karuta is onto her, changing direction and chasing fast as she flees down a path into a field of head-high maize. Joseph stumbles, recovers and follows him.
He rushes down the narrow path, the tall green stems blurring past him on either side. Lieutenant Karuta catches up with the woman quickly, kicks the goat out of the way and shoves her in the back so she goes sprawling. The goat runs on over her and the lieutenant has a moment of indecision – do I grab the goat or her?
But her shrieks excite him and he looks down at her on the ground in front of him. ‘Get the goat!’ he shouts to Joseph who squeezes past him and races down the path. The screaming starts.
Weird high-pitched animal shrieks come out of the night from all around the refugee camp. It turns her blood to cold liquid fear in her veins.
Eve crouches inside her shack clutching her baby, thinking, ‘No human being can make that sound.’
She is nineteen, with a broad face, oval eyes, a blunt nose and smooth brown skin. Short and stocky, she wears a patterned pagne wrapped around her body and a plastic cross on a string round her neck. Her free hand clutches it involuntarily.
She and her nine-month-old daughter, Marie, are alone in a shelter at the edge of the camp. She has blown out her tiny candle and crouches in terror in the darkness at the back of the hut. It is ten feet long by four feet high; the walls are made of palm leaves woven onto sticks that are fixed to a frame of branches and she can hear everything outside. A piece of blue and white UNHCR plastic sheeting completes the curved roof. Her boyfriend, Gabriel, proudly made a door for her out of a corrugated iron sheet tied onto the branch frame with some electrical flex he found. He showed her how to tie it shut before he left – ‘That will keep you safe!’
The camp mongrels started barking at the attackers as they came near but this turns to frightened whimpering once the screaming starts. She can hear the soldiers shouting now in Swahili, ‘Over there! Look in that one over there!’ ‘Open up! Open the door!’
Screams of fear come from her neighbours in return.
‘Open the door, or I’ll kill you!’
Some confused banging and shouting.
‘Where is it? Where is the albino?’
More sobbing and crying and then the dull sound of blows and screaming.
Her blood pounds so loud in her ears, she is sure they can hear it. She tries to still her heart – if she can make herself very quiet and very small she might escape. They want her baby but she can’t give it up. Marie starts crying and she forces her hand over her mouth, pressing her face into her breast and smelling her milky baby smell one last time.
The shouting nearby has gone quiet. She hears footsteps approaching the hut. The thin corrugated iron sheet is all there is between her and them. A hand grabs the edge of it and tries to open the door but the flex holds it fast to the branch frame. There is a grunt of anger and then the iron bangs loudly as a machete hacks at the flex. Heaving, banging, tearing, they pull the door off its flimsy hinges and throw it to one side.
The demonic figure silhouetted in the moonlight is half man and half animal. The kudu head and horns look huge. It is stripped to the waist and muscular and in the flat silver light she can see the artery in its neck, beating fast just under the rim of the headdress. It is breathing hard and beads of sweat roll down its chest. The smell of the forest pours into the hut, musty and damp.
Eve cowers on the floor and looks up, wide-eyed in terror. Her hand moves to hold the baby tighter and Marie lets out a loud wail.
The creature holds its Kalashnikov in its right hand and stretches out its left to her. Eve makes a noise of denial, just a whimper. The Kudu is enraged and bellows at her before ducking its long horns under the roof and grabbing her arm. Its fingers are like steel, biting deep into her flesh, dragging her out of the doorway, clutching the baby in one arm. She is screaming now with fear, ‘No! No! No!’
As soon as she is out in the open, a soldier in a black cloth hood shouts excitedly at the sight of the pale baby and hits her in the back with the butt of his rifle. A rib cracks and she makes an oof sound as the air is forced out of her.
She loses her grip on the child and the Kudu grabs it by one arm and lifts it up in the air. It throws back its horned head and howls in triumph. The other members of the gang all join in howling and firing their rifles in the air.
Eve lies winded on the ground until they finish celebrating. The baby is taken away and then they look down at her. Rough hands grab her under her arms and throw her on her back and tear off her pagne. As the first man presses his heavy weight on her stomach, something inside her says, ‘This isn’t happening.’
But the tearing and jabbing continues and she thinks, ‘Why are you doing this to me, God? Why have you made this terrible country?’
Chapter Two
‘We are going to make a new country, Mr Devereux.’
The Chinese businessman looks at him closely to gauge his reaction.
Alex Devereux has the face of a man with strong feelings deeply controlled.
Dark tides run just under the surface but you will never find out what drives them.
His eyes lock onto the businessman’s and flicker with interest before a shutter comes down and he glances away to look out of the window over the lawns of his country house.
Alex has a stern cast to his face, the habit of command engraved on his features by his time as a major in the Household Cavalry and his subsequent career as a mercenary commander. He is six foot four, broad shouldered, lean and fit, running every day up and down the hills of his Herefordshire estate – ‘exercising his demons’ he calls it.
Outwardly he is dressed like a modern gentleman with jeans, loafers and button-down shirt, black hair neatly trimmed; he’s just turned forty and there is some salt and pepper at the temples. But there is a lot more to him than that.
At the moment he is very relaxed with one arm thrown over the back of the old Chesterfield and his long legs stretched out in front of him. It’s April, a shower is thrashing the rose bushes about outside, and it’s cold so he’s lit a log fire in the oak-panelled drawing room of Akerley, the Devereux country house where he lives alone. His family has been there nearly a thousand years, since Guy D’Evereux was granted the land by William the Conqueror. He is currently restoring the house with money from his Russian adventures but it is still always freezing cold.
He looks back at Mr Fang Xei Dong and says, ‘That sounds interesting,’ without any feeling.
It is a measure of how much more relaxed he is about life than before his success that he can be so detached about such a huge project. He refused to go up to London for the meeting and only agreed to it if it was at Akerley. It is also a measure of how interested in him the businessman must be that he agreed to the demand, arriving just after lunch in the back of a chauffeur-driven Mercedes.
Alex was surprised by Fang when his long limbs unfolded themselves like a daddy longlegs from the car door. He is northern Chinese, as tall as the Englishman, with wavy black hair, blue eyes and an angular face with cheekbones that seem painfully large. His skin is smooth and he looks to be about thirty.
When he arrived he strode up the imposing stone steps of the house towards Alex, full of confidence, completely unfazed by his first time in the heart of the English countryside. He thrust his hand out, ‘Hello, my name is Fang Xei Dong but my business name is Simon Jones.’
His English is American-accented but it still has the flat, staccato Chinese diction. He clearly knows that no Westerner will ever get the sliding tones of his name right and doesn’t want them to embarrass them with untoward mispronunciations. He cheerfully laughs off Alex’s polite attempts at saying his name. ‘Don’t worry, in Congo I am called Monsieur Wu. It’s the only Chinese name they can pronounce.’
He talks in rapid bursts, his long arms often reaching forwards as he speaks, as if trying to get hold of some perceived future.
He wears the casual uniform of the modern global businessman: neatly pressed chinos, button-down blue shirt with a pen in his top pocket and iPod earphones hanging down over his top button, a casual black blazer and loafers. When he settles himself in the drawing room he sets out an iPad and two BlackBerries on the coffee table in front of him that beep and chirrup frequently.
He sits forward on the leather armchair now and pushes his narrow-lensed titanium glasses back up his nose with a rapid unconscious dab of his hand; they slip off the bridge of his nose because his head jerks about as he speaks.
‘This operation is completely covert at the moment but I understand from my contacts in the defence community that you are used to operating in this manner?’
Alex just narrows his eyes in response.
‘I am referring to your operation in Central African Republic, which I understand was a Battlegroup level command?’
Alex nods. He is very cagey about his past activities. His CAR mission has achieved legendary status in the mercenary community but they don’t know the half of it. Any mention of the word Russia or any possible operations he was involved in there and he clams up completely.
Fang is reassured by his discretion.
‘This operation will require that level of skill and more. To be candid with you, we realise that it is …’ he pauses ‘…unconventional, from an international relations point of view, and we would prefer to work with a discreet operator such as yourself rather than one of the big defence contractors. They are much more … conventional,’ he finishes, sounding evasive.
Alex knows that by conventional he means law-abiding. He nods politely in acceptance of the point but winces internally. It wasn’t the sort of reputation he had sought at the start of his career. He had always wanted to be able to serve his country for his whole life; major general was what he had been hoping for. Somehow things just didn’t work out like that.
Fang blasts on regardless. ‘I represent a consortium of Chinese business interests that will lease Kivu Province off the Congolese government for ninety-nine years. Under the terms of the lease it will effectively be ours to do what we want with.’