Читать книгу Warlord - James Steel, James Steel - Страница 10

Alex is struggling to get a grip on the scale of the project that Fang has just outlined.

He stops being relaxed and sits forward, the fingers of one hand pressed to his temple.

‘Hang on; the Congolese government is going to lease you Kivu Province?’

Fang nods confidently. ‘Yes, just like the British government leased Hong Kong from China for ninety-nine years.’

‘OK. How many people live there?’

‘Well, that is a good question actually. No one really knows because surveys are from before the war, but we think about six million.’

‘Six million people?’ Alex looks incredulous but Fang looks back at him unfazed.

‘Yes.’

Alex shakes his head. ‘Why is the government going to do that?’

‘Well, Kivu is actually an embarrassment to the government in Kinshasa. The President promised to bring peace to the country when he got elected but he has failed to end the fighting, or deliver on any of his other Cinq Chantiers policies.

‘The government has no control there. I mean, look at the distances: Congo is the size of western Europe and trying to run Kivu from Kinshasa is like trying to run Turkey from London. Plus there are no road or rail links between the two areas.

‘The government had to get the Rwandan army in to try and defeat the FDLR but that failed. Now they throw their hands up and say it is a Rwandan problem and the Rwandans do the same back to them. No one takes responsibility for it so the whole problem just festers on and will never get solved. I mean, the whole of Congo is just …’ Fang waves his arms around trying to communicate the depth of the exasperation he feels about the country ‘…completely dysfunctional, the country makes no sense. The only reason it exists is as the area of land that Stanley was able to stake out.’

He begins ticking points off on his fingers: ‘The country makes absolutely no sense on a geographic, economic, linguistic or ethnic level. There are over two hundred different ethnic groups in it and the Belgians practised divide and rule policies that exacerbated the differences between them. The only things they have in common are music, Primus beer and suffering.’

Alex is nodding in agreement with this. He has had some dealings with the place and is aware of its legendary chaos.

‘OK, they don’t control Kivu so they might as well get some money off you for it, right?’

Fang clearly doesn’t want to be drawn into detail on money but nods. ‘Yes, we are talking very significant sums here. China is already the largest investor in the Democratic Republic of Congo with a nine billion dollar deal and we have been able to leverage this to give us more influence.’

Alex nods; he can well imagine what ‘influence’ billions of dollars of hard cash could get you amongst Kinshasa’s famously rapacious elites.

Fang continues to justify the project. ‘Actually the deal is not that unusual if you look around at the land purchases that are going on at the moment. UAE has bought six thousand square miles of southern Sudan, South Africa has bought a huge area of Republic of Congo, Daiwoo Logistics tried to buy half the agricultural land in Madagascar …’

‘Is that the one where the government was overthrown because of it?’

Fang nods, unfazed by Alex’s implied scepticism about his own project. ‘Yes, but that was different. No one in the rest of Congo cares about what happens in Kivu; when you go to Kinshasa there is nothing on the TV or in the papers about it.’

‘Hmm.’ Alex is still not reassured – the more he begins to get to grips with the project the more he can see problems with it.

Fang continues, ‘So your role would be to …’

Alex holds up a hand to stop the tide of enthusiasm. ‘Hang on, who said anything about me actually being involved? This is a huge and very risky project and I am very comfortable at the moment. I’m not looking to take on any new work.’

Fang is momentarily checked and nods. ‘OK, I can see that this is a highly unusual project that will take a while for you to absorb.’ Then he just storms on anyway. ‘The role of the military partner in the consortium would be to neutralise the FDLR.’

Alex feels he has made his point and that he can continue the discussion on a hypothetical basis. ‘The Hutus?’

‘Yes. After they conducted the Rwandan genocide in 1994 against the Tutsis they were driven out by the returning Tutsi army in exile and a million Hutu refugees fled across the border to Kivu.’

‘And have destabilised the province ever since.’

‘Yes. The genocide was twenty years ago now but their leadership have successfully maintained their ideology of Hutu power and indoctrinated a new generation of fighters. Their continued presence means that there are about thirty armed groups in Kivu but the FDLR is the main cause of the instability that breeds the others. Defeat them and the other militias would agree to negotiate; there would be no need for them to exist if a strong authority was established.’

‘So it’s a bit like Israel having the SS sitting on its border?’

‘Yes, the Hutus killed eight hundred thousand civilians in a hundred days with machetes so Rwanda’s government doesn’t feel comfortable with them there. They will be our partners in the consortium.’ Fang’s mind is racing ahead already. ‘How long would it take to set up a Battlegroup operation to deal with them?’

Alex takes a deep breath and considers the issue for a moment. ‘Well, for the sort of air mobile strike warfare you would need, you would want to start the campaign at the beginning of the dry season in May, so next year, that would be thirteen months.’

‘Is that long enough set-up time?’

‘Yes, that would be fine.’

Fang makes a note on his iPad.

Alex continues, ‘But look, President Kagame is safe now, isn’t he? Why does he need to be involved with all this?’ He’s aware of the Rwandan leader’s reputation for ruthless efficiency and running the country with an iron grip.

‘Well, yes and no. The FDLR is not capable of reinvading Rwanda right now but he is still a Tutsi in charge of a country that is eighty-five per cent Hutu. If he were assassinated like the last president in 1994 then the whole thing would start again. He is not the sort of guy who is prepared to have that level of threat right on his border.’

‘So are you saying that the Rwandan military are on board on the project?’

Fang looks momentarily uncomfortable.

‘This is a very delicate area.’ He clears his throat. ‘As I think you know, the Rwandans were involved in atrocities when they were in Kivu that attracted …’

One of the BlackBerries in front of him rings. He cuts off in mid-flow and answers it aggressively in Chinese and then starts listening with occasional grunts. He gets up and walks over to the window and looks out over the rose garden. He suddenly lets forth a tirade of angry instructions, jabbing his free hand into the air.

Joseph wrestles the goat to the ground and holds its head down.

He then faces the dilemma of how to hold both his rifle and the goat. The goat’s string has snapped; he looks back and forth between the two. Should he hitch his rifle on his chest and hold the goat on his shoulders?

Eventually he settles on dragging it by a horn in one hand with his rifle in the other. He sets off down the path in the maize field, back towards the village where he can hear shouting, screaming and gunshots as the hungry FDLR troops set about the civilians.

There is the noise of a struggle going on ahead. As he comes through the maize he sees Lieutenant Karuta wrestling with the woman on the ground. She is putting up a fierce resistance. The goat bleats and Karuta looks up, his face puffy and angry with frustrated lust. Joseph stands and stares at him.

Karuta rolls off the woman and grabs his rifle off the ground and points it at her. She lies on her back looking up at them, eyes wide in terror.

‘Cover her!’ he orders Joseph, who holds his rifle by its pistol grip and the goat in the other hand. She stares at the muzzle just above her face as Karuta pulls out a knife, gets hold of her feet and quickly slits her hamstrings. She screams in agony.

He puts the knife away and straightens his uniform. ‘Come on, she’ll keep for dessert. Let’s have dinner first.’ He walks off down the path towards the village.

When they get back there the lieutenant organises the looting of food and three women are tied to trees. He sends out a patrol under the command of Corporal Habiyakare, another old génocidaire. They are to scout around the small valley to check that the mai-mai have gone. Meanwhile the men slaughter the goat and start cooking it whilst eating foufou and drinking the farmers’ home-brewed beer from gourds.

An hour later the patrol returns, dragging a thirteen-year-old boy with them. He is barefoot, wears shorts and a ragged tee shirt, is crying and looks terrified.

Corporal Habiyakare reports back. ‘Lieutenant Karuta, we have captured a prisoner!’

Karuta’s eyes are already reddened from drinking; he is in a boisterous mood.

‘Bring the prisoner over here, we will interrogate him!’

The boy is dragged into the middle of the village and stripped to his red underpants. His belt is used to tie his elbows behind his back so tightly that his chest sticks out painfully. Karuta sits on a wonky wooden chair in front of him but the boy falls over in tears. The men gather round and laugh and clap as they drink the beer.

The corporal drags the boy to his feet.

‘What is the charge against the prisoner?’ asks the lieutenant.

‘Sir, we found him hiding in the woods, spying on our soldiers. He was armed with this axe.’

‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

The boy sniffles and mutters, ‘I was chopping wood.’

‘You were chopping wood! You think I am a fucking idiot! You are a spy!’

‘No! Not spy!’

‘You were spying on my men!’

‘No, not …’

‘Shut up!’

‘No spy …’

‘Shut up! You are a spy! You work for Rwanda! Look at his feet, he is a Rwandan!’

The crowd pushes forward and looks at the boy’s feet; none of the younger soldiers has ever been to Rwanda so they accept the older génocidaire’s word.

‘Not Rwandan!’ the boy screams in a high-pitched shriek.

‘You will admit it! Beat him!’ The lieutenant gestures to the crowd of men who push the boy to the ground and start kicking him. Others run off and pull supple branches off trees, then run back in, push through the crowd and start whipping the boy.

He curls up in a ball but his hands are behind his back and the blows rain down all over him.

‘You are a Rwandan spy! Confess!’

He cannot speak under the torrent of blows; raw red and pink gashes open up all over his dark skin from the slashing branches.

A soldier pushes the others back and jumps on him, his Wellington boots landing on his hip with a heavy thud. The man springs off laughing and others take running jumps onto the boy.

‘OK, OK!’ Lieutenant Karuta waves his hand: laughing, the men back off.

The boy lies still, covered with dust, his pants wet with urine.

‘OK, come on.’ Karuta shakes his head, grinning at the enthusiasm of his men. ‘On your feet, boy.’

The boy doesn’t move.

‘Get him on his feet.’ He gestures to Corporal Habiyakare, who gets hold of the belt holding his elbows together and yanks him up. The boy stirs and sways on his feet.

‘Over here, heh.’ Karuta points casually to the ground at the edge of the cleared area between two huts.

The boy senses something bad and starts struggling. Habiyakare tries to drag him backwards by the belt but the boy becomes desperate so the corporal kicks his legs out from under him and pulls him along by the belt. The boy shrieks with pain and fear in a high-pitched cracked voice.

Lieutenant Karuta walks ahead with his Kalashnikov and the crowd of men follow, grinning in anticipation.

‘Here!’ Karuta points to a spot on the ground and the corporal throws the boy forward and jumps out of the way.

In one smooth action the lieutenant hefts his assault rifle by its pistol grip so that the weapon is held upright in his right hand. He cocks it with a flourish with his left and then fires a long burst at point-blank range into the boy. His body bounces on the ground and a red mist appears over it briefly.

The men give a huge roar of approval and Karuta turns and brandishes his weapon with a broad grin.

He starts call and response, shouting, ‘Hutu power!’

‘Hutu power!’ the men respond, raising their guns in the air and punching out the words with their fists.

‘Free Rwanda!’

‘Free Rwanda!’