The Warrior

Andrews steps to the window overlooking the plaza and immediately steps back as a few TV cameras train their lenses on him. ‘Vultures,’ he mutters.

They don’t have long to wait. The door opens, and the Secretary-General enters.

‘So, Mr. Andrews, we meet again. Never at happy moments, should I say? This is a shameful episode for us,’ he says in his dry, precise voice.

He looks at Zeb. ‘Major Zebadiah Carter, I have read your file, what little of it Mr. Andrews gave me. I think we owe you thanks for recovering some warheads.’

‘I am no longer a major, sir. And I don’t know anything about any warheads.’

‘Quite. You’re the first Western eyewitness to what happened in Luvungi. I want to hear what you saw.’

Zeb recounts without emotion.

The ensuing silence is loud and heavy.

‘You’re sure about these numbers? No, I take that back; it’s a stupid question. The scale of what has happened makes an exact number quite irrelevant.’

‘These mercenaries you came across…they were capturing mines and selling the ore to unknown parties? And the FDLR was helping them in this? Or were they helping the FDLR in this?’

‘The mercenaries had access to buyers for the ore. They recruited the FDLR to help them hijack the mines,’ Zeb replies.

‘They told you all this? Just like that?’ asks the Secretary-General.

‘I did say pretty please,’ replies Zeb.

A long pause. ‘Quite.

‘You could have done more to stop the soldiers,’ the official says with the mildest of reproof.

‘That’s on my head,’ Andrews butts in. ‘I was the one who asked Zeb not to engage with the soldiers. There were a couple of reasons for that. First, there were about forty of them, and Zeb was alone. He wouldn’t be here if he had engaged. Secondly, I had contacted their embassy over here and ours over there to raise hell. Did I do enough? Would Zeb have made a difference? Those questions will haunt me for a long while. I have seen some shit in my life, sir, excuse my language, but this is on a scale that I have never come across.’

‘Sir, may I ask a question?’ Zeb asks finally, breaking the silence.

The UN official nods.

‘Why did you want to meet me? In your position, you will be surrounded by people who can give you the most detailed information; you will have men on the ground or those working with the UN who can give you hourly updates on this. Why me?’

The head of the UN Secretariat smiles humorlessly. ‘I wanted to feel what it was like out there.’

On that, his aide steps into the boardroom, signaling the meeting is over. He clasps Zeb’s hand in a warm handshake; then they leave.

Andrews is silent as they descend in the elevator.

He is silent as he gets the car on 1st Avenue heading downtown.

‘Don’t feel guilty. Don’t ever feel guilty,’ he says suddenly, fiercely, and pounds his horn at a garbage truck, getting the finger in return.

Andrews parks in the basement of a drab-looking building near City Hall.

‘The Director wants to meet,’ he explains.

Zeb recognizes the building from one of his previous visits as an office frequently used by the agency in New York.

The basement has men in suits at the perimeter, one of them stopping them to see their pass, radioing ahead.

Zeb raises his eyebrows at Andrews, who shrugs and mouths, I don’t know.

They go up the elevator from the basement to the fourth floor and step into a tightly wound world.

At the elevator they are greeted by another couple of clean-shaven, neatly dressed men who frisk them, check Andrews’ identity again, and have whispered conversations in their mics before directing them to a receptionist.

There aren’t many people around – the receptionist, a few people hurrying about – but a palpable tension is in the air. He senses Andrews has noticed the charged environment too.

Zeb takes a step back from Andrews, an idea forming in his mind, scans entry and exit corridors, and spots more suits there. The receptionist steps out from behind her desk and leads them to an unmarked meeting room, where the Director awaits. Zeb trails a few steps behind, his senses on full alert.

She regards them calmly, brushes aside Andrews’, ‘What’s burning?’ and motions them to sit.

‘Andrews has briefed me on the Congo, Zeb. I sent all we know about these military contractors to the FBI and have suggested they get international arrest warrants issued. I should hear from them shortly. I have also asked them to put an alert out on all incoming and outgoing flights. It’s possible the remaining three will return to the US. Andrews, will you…’ She stops as an i

Chapter 3

Zeb rises instinctively, Andrews doing the same with his jaw dropping open. The Director clears her throat, breaking the spell over Andrews.

The President says, ‘Clare, I’m sorry for interrupting. I wanted a word with you on that dossier before heading off to Washington. Sorry, guys, I have to kidnap your boss for a moment.’

The Director says, ‘Sir, this is Andrews, my right-hand man, and this is Major Zebadiah Carter. I have mentioned the Congo to you. Zeb was there.’

The President sizes up both of them. ‘Andrews, Major, there are many of you who work unsung and unheard in protecting our country and often safeguarding global security. Some of you work within the remit of the government and’ – he focuses on Zeb – ‘some outside.’

He looks old and weary as he addresses Zeb. ‘Major, we have let down that part of the world badly. I’m glad that you were there to raise the first alert, though Clare tells me that you did quite a bit more than that – that you have done things I’m not supposed to know about. Know this, that I am very grateful for the work of people like you and Andrews.’

The Director suggests they meet later and dismisses them.

Andrews is still a little dazed as they head back towards his car. ‘The Secretary-General and the President in one day. Andrews, my boy, you can die happy now,’ he mutters.

Andrews drops him off on Broadway with a promise to update him on progress with the FBI.

Zeb tells him finding Holt’s conduit in the US is the key to finding Holt.

Zeb strolls along Broadway, soaking in the energy, buys soup from a vendor in Times Square, and walks towards Central Park. New York is as much a jungle as the Congo is. The rules aren’t that different. The predators aren’t that different. Zeb is good at hunting predators in jungles, wherever the jungle is.

Noise drops off in the verdant expanse of the park as Zeb walks along West Drive and reaches Springbanks Arch. He finds a bench near the arch, slows his metabolism, and becomes one with time.

*   *   *

She comes when its pitch black, when even the foolhardy would never enter the park alone. She has attempted to take her life on a couple of occasions but lost her nerve at the last minute. She has now come to die in the park, in its most remote section, hoping the darkness and her misery will help her take her own life.

She finds a bench in the darkest part of the park near Springbanks Arch, rummages through the bag she has brought, and removes a sharp kitchen knife. She pulls up the sleeves of her sweater and turns her left wrist upward. She’s not sure how she should do this and takes a deep breath before placing the knife over her wrist.

‘That’s a messy way to die, and there’s no guarantee it will work,’ a voice calls out from the dark.

She starts, and the knife slips from her hand. She gropes for it in the dark while looking around. Nothing, just the dark and the shadows.

‘You can’t stop me. I’ll cut myself before you reach me,’ she calls out defiantly, no fear in her voice. She is past fear.