He feels insecure, almost like a child, and for one or two seconds actually wants to cry. He imagines Nora sitting on the bed, opening her arms to him, but he flinches from the image, and shakes his head.
Then he goes over to the mini-bar, opens it and extracts two small bottles, a Jack Daniel’s and a Teacher’s. He unscrews these and knocks them back, one straight after the other.
That settles him.
After a while, he takes a shower, shaves, puts on a fresh suit. He looks at himself in the mirror. He straightens his tie.
At noon, they’re taking him back to the airport for the last leg of the journey, the one-hour flight to Buenke. They’ll be landing at the airstrip, which is a few miles from Kimbela’s compound, and a few more again from the mining area itself. With any luck, he should be back here at the hotel by late evening, ready to start the return trip in the morning.
Rundle paces the room for a while, going over various negotiating positions in his head, stuff he might need to pull out later on. Then, suddenly, he stops. He stands at the window and looks out at Lake Kivu. For the first time since arriving here, he feels able to… not relax exactly, but…
Slow down a little.
Look at something directly in front of him and not be thinking about something else. And what’s directly in front of him right now, he has to admit, is pretty stunning.
Not so the streets of Bukavu. As the convoy speeds through them a couple of hours later, along Avenue de la Résidence and Avenue Lumumba, past rundown art deco buildings – dusty and peeling, remnants of what must once have been a gorgeous city, probably as far back as the 1950s – Rundle’s anxiety returns. It’s the shanty town overlay, the air of menace and despair, the realisation that without this armoured SUV he’s in, and the ones up ahead and behind, without his Gideon shell, he wouldn’t survive ten minutes here, that left to walk any of these streets on his own, he’d be torn apart, limb from limb, then left to rot and decompose.
For the dogs, for the maggots.
The flight to Buenke is in a light aircraft and does nothing to mitigate his feelings of anxiety. They pass over mountainous terrain, jungle and scrubland and while it’s all undeniably beautiful he has this queasy sense that he’s falling deeper and deeper into some inescapable abyss. This is Congo’s ‘wild east’ after all, a region of the country in which government forces and rebel militias vie for control of the abundant natural resources so coveted by the rest of the world.
Though, OK, vie for control…
That makes it sound almost civilised, like a game of chess or something. But it’s not. The hard fact is, shifting loyalties here and the fluidity of the security situation in general make eastern Congo one of the most unstable and barbarous regions on the entire planet.
If there is a real chess game, where it’s played out, he supposes, is behind this great cloak of ungovernability, and the players are people like himself, and James Vaughan, and whoever the party leaders in Beijing have sanctioned to come over here and do business. It’s like the Cold War, with its drawn-out proxy conflicts, only this time there’s no pretext, no talk of a clash of ideologies, no talk of a domino effect.
This time it’s strictly business.
At the Buenke airstrip, Rundle is greeted, much to his relief, by Don Ribcoff, who came on ahead to oversee the security arrangements in person. He looks at home here, all dressed-up and heavily armed.
Rundle isn’t complaining.
As the two men walk from the plane to another convoy of SUVs, they discuss arrangements. Kimbela is at his compound for the rest of the day and will receive Rundle at 1600 hours. What happens after that – locations, timeframes, catering – will very much depend on how negotiations proceed. At all points along the way Rundle will be accompanied by a team of eight Gideon contractors, and leading the unit will be Peter Lutz, who – as they arrive at the head car of the convoy – Ribcoff now introduces Rundle to.
‘Sir,’ Lutz say, extending his hand, ‘it’s an honour.’
Rundle wants to say at ease here, or some such, but he knows this isn’t the military, knows the PMCs do things differently – he’s just not au fait with the protocols.
Not, of course – if this was the military – that he’d be saying at ease to anyone.
He’s a bit thrown at the moment, that’s all. The heat here is unbelievable, like New York in August, only ten times worse.
He looks at Ribcoff with renewed respect. The man is more or less wearing battle fatigues and hasn’t broken a sweat.
By the same token, Rundle is in a suit and tie, and while he won’t claim not to have broken a sweat, he is holding his own.
What he says, turning to Lutz, is, ‘That business last week?’
Lutz nods, readies himself. ‘Very unfortunate, sir, and we all send our best wishes to the Senator, but as far as procedures here are concerned, I can assure you that a definite line has been drawn in the sand.’ He pauses, glances around, and although there is no one within earshot, continues in a lower, more discreet tone. ‘As you know, sir, during the course of the incident it became necessary to terminate the contractor concerned. It was unavoidable. The only other contractor closely involved, and in a defensive capacity, let me stress, has already shipped out on extended leave, so I think -’
‘Why?’
Lutz hesitates, seems surprised by the question. ‘Why has he gone on leave, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘He appeared to have been traumatised by the incident. I felt it wiser to remove him, for his own sake, and also for the morale of the unit.’
Rundle considers this. ‘Makes sense, I guess.’
Ribcoff then nods at Lutz, who extends an arm, indicating to Rundle the middle car.
‘OK,’ Rundle says, following him, and adding, a little self-consciously, ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’
It’s a phrase he’s heard James Vaughan use many times.
Conway pulls out of the cemetery onto the Cherryvale Road. There is a big reception being held in a local hotel and everyone will be there, most of the cabinet, various financiers, business people, a bishop or two, the media, celebrities…
But at the earliest opportunity – approaching the first main intersection – Ruth takes a deep breath and says, ‘Take me home.’ Her voice is shaky, uncertain. These are the first words she’s uttered in over an hour.
Although Conway doesn’t want to go to the reception either, he certainly doesn’t want to go home. He doesn’t want to go anywhere.
But with Ruth in the car what choice does he have?
He takes a left, leaving the main road behind – and the route to the hotel.
He wants to say something, just to break the silence. There is nothing to say, though. Unless they want to have it out and go all the way.
But not in the car.
Not in the kitchen, not in the bedroom, not in front of the au pair, the kids, the baby.
Where then?
‘Ruth, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s a mess. North Atlantic are calling in their debts, and -’
‘You’re only telling me this now?’ She punches the dashboard. ‘You let me go on thinking everything was OK?’
‘I didn’t want -’
Ruth screams. ‘What? You didn’t want me to be worried? Don’t give me that crap, Dave, I’m not an idiot.’
‘Well, if you’re so on the ball,’ Conway says, squeezing the steering wheel, ‘why didn’t you see this coming? Because it’s been staring us in the face for months. You read the papers. You follow the news. Why should I be immune? Why should I be any different?’
Ruth screams again, but quickly muffles it. ‘Because,’ she says, the shake still in her voice, ‘I thought you were different.’