“They wanted to know why Mr. Leonce was so protective of the package. They thought maybe he was transporting drugs. They moved his car to the side of the road and took him and his boy to see their commander.”
Harvath looked at Decker. He could tell that she was thinking the same thing he was.
“Then what?”
“The commander did not believe Mr. Leonce. He opened the package and dumped out its contents. He says one of the vials broke.”
“Ask him to describe the commander.”
Jambo did and replied, “Medium height, medium build. Thirty-five with a thick scar across his forehead.”
“Shit,” Decker exclaimed.
Harvath couldn’t have put it better himself. “So much for yellow fever,” he said to her.
“We still don’t know enough,” she replied, composing herself.
“I know enough,” he stated, turning back to Jambo. “Keep going.”
“Mr. Leonce and his son were allowed to leave. They repacked the box and drove to Bunia. The plane they were supposed to meet had already taken off, so they had to wait until the following day for the next one.
“The car gave them trouble on the way back. They had no money for repairs, so they left it with a mechanic in a village several kilometers away and walked back. When they arrived at their village, they saw their animals being slaughtered and thrown into the back of a truck. None of the other villagers were anywhere to be seen.
“They ran through the jungle toward the clinic. They could hear gunshots from the area where they burn the trash. When they got to the edge of the clearing, they ducked down and watched as a group of four men put on protective suits.
“It was then that Mr. Leonce thought to film what he saw. The men walked into the clinic and began shooting. The rest of the story you already know.”
“And Mr. Leonce and his son have been in hiding ever since?” Harvath asked.
Jambo nodded.
Harvath was about to say something else when his phone chimed.
CHAPTER 22
Even though his digital guru, Nicholas, was groggy and angry from having been awakened at such an ungodly hour back in the States, he had made quick work of the assignment Harvath had given him.
With his laptop balanced on the hood of LC1, Harvath scrolled through the satellite images. Nicholas had highlighted all the cell towers that Leonce’s phone had shaken hands with.
The pictures drew a path back to Bunia.
“That’s not good,” Ash said over Harvath’s shoulder.
He didn’t bother turning to look at him. “What do you see?”
The Brit reached over, put his finger on a cluster of buildings near a cell tower on Harvath’s screen, and said, “MONUSCO HQ.”
“Let me guess,” Harvath replied. “That’s Swahili for rebel central.”
“Worse. United Nations Stabilization Mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. MONUSCO is the acronym for the official name in French. You could probably pronounce it, but I don’t parlez le frog.”
The historical animosity between the French and the Brits always made him laugh. “Why is it worse than rebel central?”
“You ever work with a UN stabilization force?” Ash asked.
Harvath shook his head.
“Then trust me. As the old saying goes, you can’t spell unprofessional, unethical, or unaccountable without the UN. The cholera outbreak the old blue helmets caused in Haiti? Over ten thousand dead, and it has spread to the Dominican Republic and Cuba. The rapes and sex crimes they have committed in Mali and everywhere else? The stories of their depravity and brutality are legion.
“Their entire ‘military,’ if you can call it that, is shot through with corruption and rampant lack of accountability. They even allowed two of their own unarmed military observers in Bunia to get slaughtered years ago because none of their fellow UN troops wanted to risk a rescue operation. They’re pathetic.”
UN troops were indeed known for a lack of honor and discipline. Harvath was familiar with the horror stories surrounding their deployments. He could think of no greater nightmare than to have his country reliant upon the UN to provide “peace” and “stability.” He’d rather take his chances combatting whatever was causing the war and instability in the first place.
A fish rots from the head down and any organization that boasted a human rights council, yet accepted human-rights violators like China, Cuba, Russia, Saudi Arabia, and even slavery-infested Mauritania as members couldn’t be taken seriously, much less be expected to police and field an effective and honorable military. In short, Harvath didn’t have much use for the UN.
“What about this?” Harvath asked, advancing to another image.
“Downtown Bunia,” said Ash. “About three clicks from the hotel we stayed at.”
Harvath pushed a button and the red dots representing cell towers dimmed, and a cluster of green dots became visible.
“What do those represent?” Ash asked.
“Opportunity,” Harvath replied.
Decker felt certain about one thing. If Leonce and his son were not already exhibiting symptoms of whatever illness they were looking at, they likely weren’t going to.
Her emphasis on the word likely didn’t put Harvath or the security team at ease. None of the men were willing to roll their personal dice on her assessment. She had signed on to be a doctor and willingly commune with the sick of Africa, they hadn’t.
After Harvath gave her a wad of bills, Jambo drove Decker to the village where Leonce had left the clinic’s vehicle. The repairs had been minimal, and the car was already waiting. She and Jambo returned twenty minutes later. In an act of solidarity, she would be driving back to Bunia with Leonce and his son while the rest of the team rode in the Land Cruisers.
Decker didn’t have to worry about the harrowing river crossings they had conducted on their way in. Her little vehicle would never make it. They had to go far out of their way and cut back toward Bunia. All the while, Harvath and the security team were keeping their eyes peeled for roadblocks. None of them had any desire to bump up against the FRPI again.
Their trek was long, but thankfully uneventful. When they arrived at the Bunia Hotel, it was well after dark. After checking in, they unloaded all of their gear and secured it in their rooms. Ever eager to spread money around the family, Jambo had offered to ring up his relatives and have them come back and babysit the trucks, but Ash had said it wasn’t necessary. Harvath, though, thought he might have another use for them.
Those green dots on his laptop earlier corresponded to six cell phones Nicholas had traced to a walled, concrete structure on the other side of town. It reminded Harvath of a poor man’s version of the Bin Laden compound in Abbottabad.
He wanted to do a drive-by and Ash had agreed to go with him. They brought Jambo just in case.
When the hotel security guard opened the gates, Ash put the Land Cruiser in gear and pulled out into evening traffic.
Motorbikes carrying passengers, known as boda-boda, weaved in and out between cars, while bicycle riders piloting black mambas, so named because they left trails in the dust that resembled those of the deadly snake, grabbed onto trucks and other vehicles to hitch free rides. Harvath and Ash kept their Glocks under their thighs, hidden from sight.
The GPS system on Harvath’s phone guided them toward their target. Along the streets, small, ramshackle shops sold everything from cheap Chinese televisions to cooking pots.
Harvath had long held that with its incredible resources, Africa should be the most powerful continent on the planet. But because of its tribalism and terrible governments, it was relegated to permanent third world status. Seeing it firsthand always made him appreciate even more what he had back at home.