Part 12 (1/2)
In his frustration, Maxie rounds on Philip. ”I understood all this was agreed in advance.”
”But of course it's agreed, Maxie,” Philip replies soothingly. ”It's a done deal, sealed and delivered. Luc signed up to all of it long ago.”
The dispute being in English and of a private nature, I elect not to render it, which does not prevent Haj from rolling his head around and grinning like an imbecile, thereby incurring the silent rage of Felix Tabizi.
”Three leaders, three independent enclaves,” Maxie forges on, addressing the conference at large. ”Each with its own airstrip, disused, used or part used. Each supplied by heavy air transport out of Bukavu. Your whole problem of access, extraction and transportation solved in one throw. Unfindable and without enemy air power impregnable.”
Enemy air power? The enemy being who precisely? Is this what Haj is wondering, or am I?
”It's not every military operation where you can pay your men out of the ground you're camping on, for G.o.d's sake,” Maxie insists, in the tone of a man overcoming opposition. ”And have the satisfaction of knowing you're doing your country a bit of good while you're at it. Tell 'em that too, will you, old boy. Hammer the social benefits. Each militia collaborating with local friendly chiefs, each chief making a buck, and why shouldn't he, provided he pa.s.ses it on to his clan or tribe? Not a reason on earth, in the long term, why the bases shouldn't flourish as self-maintaining communities. Schools, shops, roads, medical centres, you name it.”
Distraction while Anton sets a plastic toy airliner on Franco's jungle base and everybody watches. It's an Antonov-12, Maxie explains. Carrying a cargo of diggers, dump trucks, forklifts and engineers. The airstrip can handle it with room to spare. Whatever anyone needs, the Antonov can deliver it with bells on. But once again, Haj stops him in his tracks, this time by shooting his right arm in the air and holding it there in the manner of an obedient student waiting his turn.
”Monsieur Philippe.”
”Haj.”
”Am I correct in a.s.suming that under the proposed agreement the militias must occupy their bases for a minimum of six months?”
”Indeed you are.”
”And after six months?”
After six months the Mw.a.n.gaza will be installed as the People's choice and the creation of an inclusive Kivu will be underway.”
”But for those six months before the mines pa.s.s into the People's hands who controls them?”
”The Syndicate, who else?”
”The Syndicate will mine the ore?”
”I certainly hope so. ”Joke.
”And s.h.i.+p it?”
”Naturally. We explained all that to Luc'
”Will the Syndicate also be selling the ore?”
”Marketing it, if that's what you mean.”
”I said sell.”
”And I said market,” Philip rejoins, with the smile of a fellow who enjoys a good set-to.
”And keeping all profits to itself exclusively?”
On the other side of the table, Tabizi is about to erupt, but nimble Philip is once more ahead of him.
”The profits, Haj revenue is a kinder word will, as you rightly imply, for the first six months go towards defraying the Syndicate's up-front investment. This of course includes the high costs incurred by supporting the Mw.a.n.gaza's accession to power.”
Watched by all the room, Haj mulls this over. ”And these mines, these three bases your Syndicate has selected one for each of us' he resumes.
”What about them?”
”Well, they're not just any old mines, selected at random, are they? They may not look it, but these are highly specialised sites.”
”I fear you're losing me, Haj. I am not a technical man at all.”
”They have gold and diamonds, right?”
”Oh, I sincerely hope so! Otherwise we've made a most terrible mistake.”
”These mines are also dumps.”
”Oh, really?”
”Yes, really. All round them there are hill-works of colt an ore. Ore extracted, stockpiled and abandoned while we were so busy dying we didn't get around to s.h.i.+fting it. All you have to do is crude-process it on site to reduce the weight, s.h.i.+p it out, and you've got a bonanza. You don't even need six months. Two will do fine.”
At the edge of my screen, Tabizi is tenderly exploring the pockmarks on his jaw with the tips of his jewelled fingers, but to me it is Haj's jaw that he is thinking about.
”Well, thank you for that information, Haj,” Philip replies, bland as cream. ”I can't imagine that our experts are unaware of what you've told us, but I'll make sure it's pa.s.sed on. Coltan isn't quite the wonder mineral it used to be, alas, but I'm sure you know that.”
”Roomer, Skipper?”
My hand is up, requesting clarification. Maxie tetchily supplies it. Well, how was I to know that roamer radios move so fast from one frequency to another that there's not a listening device in all Africa, let alone Bukavu, that can touch them?
”Mercs, Skipper?”
”Mercenaries, man! b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. What did you think they were? Cars? Thought you could do military.”
”And PMC, Skipper?” not two minutes later.
”Private Military Company -Jesus, Sinclair, where the h.e.l.l have you been all your life?”
I apologise, a thing a top interpreter should never do.
”Cordons. Got that, old boy? French word, you should be all right with that. Soon as a base is secured, we throw a cordon round it. Fifteen-mile radius, n.o.body goes in or out without our say-so. The whole outfit air-supplied by helicopter. Our helicopter, our pilot, but your base.”
Anton pops a toy helicopter on each base. Moving to avoid Haj's stare, I discover that Philip has taken centre stage.
”And these helicopters, gentlemen' never shy of the showman's touch, Philip waits for total silence, gets it, starts again' these helicopters, which are so vital to our operation, will for ease of identification be painted white. And for ease of pa.s.sage, we propose to take the precaution of painting UN markings on them,” he adds in a throwaway tone which I do my level best to emulate while keeping my eyes fixed on my Perrier bottle, and my ears deaf to Hannah's ever louder cries of outrage.
Maxie is back. He favours the sixty-mill mortar, essential to Spider's beloved mayhem. He has a kind word or two for the rocket-propelled grenade which goes nine hundred yards then self-destructs, making mincemeat of a platoon, but it's the sixty-mill that has his heart. Rendering him, it's as if I'm in a long tunnel, hearing my own voice coming at me out of the darkness: First we ferry in fuel, then ammunition.
Each man to get his own Czech-made Kalashnikov. Find me a better semi anywhere in the world.