The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (19 page)

“Shame on you Jesse,” Rigby said. “All this talk about killing Max is meant to butter me up. Listen to me for a second. I know the Congo. I fought there as a mercenary. The Congolese are proper Africans, not like the Africans you see around here. The ones around here talk on cell phones. We're talking about cannibals who file their teeth and run around naked looking for someone to eat. The Congo's dangerous.”

“Arthur isn't in the Congo,” declared Lynn. “He's in the Sudan, the Darfur region to be exact. Sorry, Helen, I should have told you.”

Croxford sprinkled a pinch of tobacco on a piece of paper, licked the edge and rolled it. After he lit the cigarette, he picked a piece of errant tobacco from between his teeth and smiled. “Well now, that's lovely news. The Sudan's even more dangerous than the Congo. I hunted elephant in the Sudan thirty years ago. We used camels as pack animals until we heard that if the Arabs captured us, they'd eat us and rape the camels. Or maybe it was the other way around. This ought to be interesting.”

“Does that mean you've decided to lead the rescue?” Helen asked.

“Lynn, arrange a meeting with Turner. Jesse, does he know you're in Zimbabwe?”

“I don't think so, but I wouldn't bet my life on it.”

“Bad choice of words. I need a promise that you won't interfere?”

“I'm hoping Arthur Turner will be a friendly witness against Nelson Chang. I promise I won't get in the way.”

Rigby held up his hand to stop them from speaking and turned his back. He stared out at his land. There was a snake-eagle soaring high above the green hills. It's so peaceful here, so tranquil, he thought. They have no way of knowing how bad this could get. He shook his head and turned back to face them. “If we're gonna do this thing, I've got lots to do. I said ‘we,' because I need all of you to go as far as the Central African Republic. Helen, I'll need your medical expertise. I'll play the safari guide, and you two will be my clients,” he said, nodding at Lynn and Jesse. “Once we get to the Sudanese border, I'm on my own. This rescue will be damn expensive. Just the bribes will be a fortune.”

“Max says he's willing to pay you a half-a-million dollars,” Lynn said.

“You tell Max I'll do it for expenses. This isn't about money, it's personal.”

“We'll take the money,'' Helen demanded.

“In that case, let's get the money in advance,” Rigby insisted.

Her husband's words made Helen uneasy. She had hoped time would heal his war wounds, but she realized a long time ago there was no magic cure. Does he want the money up-front, because he plans to settle an old score? She had no way of knowing.

A
rthur Turner squinted as he proofread his letter. He moved upwind from the smoke. His assistant, Abel Deng, a Dinka boy, handed him a cup of bush tea. Turner sniffed the contents and scowled. The boy's expression changed to a gaptoothed grin.

“This tastes like cow piss. I'm afraid to ask what you boiled to make it.”

“Khawadja
, the tea is brewed from swamp reeds. There were days in the Sahel when I prayed to God for ‘cow piss' to quench my thirst. I ate mud for the wetness. Some days, my uncle gave me his urine to drink. I was so thirsty I cried, but my tears wouldn't flow. My people have always bathed in cattle urine, but the Arabs have stolen our cows. I think that's why many of us are sick.”

“The Dinka are sick for many reasons. When you finish medical school, you will understand these things. Tell the women if they leave the camp to search for firewood they might be kidnapped.” He waited until Abel's back was turned before pouring the tea on the ground. He picked up the letter and resumed his proofreading.

My dearest Lynn,

It has been two months since our last attack. The Sudanese rebels continue to steal most of the food and medicine sent to the Darfur. Since my last letter, the English doctor has left the refugee camp.

If you could send me a copy of Jamison's Diseases and Mortality of SubSaharan Africa, it would be greatly appreciated. Mail it to the same address in Kampala.

For the first time in my life I feel like I'm making a difference. I work with an Italian nurse and two French nuns. We work twelvehour days. The work is the most satisfying thing I've ever done.

My personal problems seem trivial compared to what these people are enduring. The president of the Sudan has declared that he wants this country to be an Islamic state. There is a movement to kill all of the Christian males in the Sudan. Pregnant women are killed, fearing they might be carrying a male baby.

Thousands of boys have left their villages to avoid being massacred. The boys, some as young as five, marched single file across the desert into Ethiopia where they hoped to find a home among the Christian majority. They walked at night to avoid detection by the Arabs. Many of them died during the march. The Dinka girls have fared no better. They have been raped and killed. Malnourishment and exposure killed thousands. The Janjaweed continued to attack the children until they crossed into Ethiopia.

The Ethiopians are plagued with another famine; as such, they couldn't afford to share their food. Faced with starvation, some of the boys went in search of food. They stole some pumpkins from the local farmers. That's when their world got turned upside down. The next few words are exactly as they were told to me by a Dinka survivor. Lynn, the story is so brutal it defies the imagination:

“We had nothing to eat for five days. Some of the boys left the camp to search for food. They brought back pumpkins and tortoises. The People's Protection Brigade came to the camp with soldiers. They demanded we turn over the boys who raided their crops, but we refused. I remember my uncle reciting an old African proverb: ‘When two bull elephants fight, it is the grass beneath them that gets trampled.' The next day more soldiers came to the camp. They told us that we must leave and go back to the Sudan. My uncle asked if they would reconsider. A soldier shot him in the face.

The camp is on the Gilo River. The river had risen above its banks. Few of us could swim. Gunfire forced us into the water. When they ran out of bullets, they used their rifle butts to smash the heads of the smaller boys. A helicopter fired bombs into us as we gathered on the bank. The river turned red from the blood. The first boys were crushed by those who followed. Crocodiles fought over the bodies. I tried to hold on to my brother, but a crocodile pulled him under. Somehow, I reached the other bank. When I looked back, I thought the end of the world had come.”

Lynn, we heard rumors that as many as eight thousand boys may have died in the Gilo River. I apologize for this disorganized letter. I'm writing between treating cases of cholera. I missed my calling. I am a far better healer than a lawyer. Please see that Ashlyn gets the enclosed sealed letter.

All my love,

Arthur

Arthur stared at the glowing embers. There was wheezy coughing coming from some of the mud huts. The stench was a mixture of human waste and the sour smell of sweat. Some of the refugees were too weak to make it to the latrines. He strained to hear a mother humming to her baby. The Dinka embraced their shortened lives with such enthusiasm. This is such a living hell, I wonder why I love it, he thought.

He opened a book entitled Introduction to Parasitological Studies in Cameroon, but before he could find his place, Abel Deng reappeared in the dull glow. Two white-haired black men stood behind the boy. Their cadaverous features were obscured in the flickering light. Both men were naked from the waist up and skeletally thin. When they stepped forward, he could see the intricate scarring on their foreheads, indicating they were tribal elders.

“
Khawadja
,” said Abel, “these men have traveled from the Kangen Marshes in the Sudd. They say there are young Dinka girls hiding there. There is little food and many of them are sick.” The two men escaped the shadows and stepped into the light. One of them wobbled and grabbed Abel's shoulder for support.

“Have you been injured?” Arthur asked the man. The old man looked down. Encouraged by Abel, he stepped forward. His skin sagged from malnutrition. He unhooked his pants and let them fall to his ankles. His uncircumcised penis drooped above a festering wound where his testicles should have hung. Streaks of septic pus glistened in the light.

“How many days have passed since the Janjaweed did this to you?” Arthur asked.

“Ten days,” the old man answered. He showed no indication of pain, only embarrassment.

“And you walked here from the Sudd. Surely, God will smile favorably on you in the next life. I am honored to meet you.” He felt the man's forehead. “His temperature is elevated. Abel, bring my medical kit. We need to get an antibiotic in him.” Arthur looked away and muttered, “Will the insanity ever end.”

“A thousand blessings upon you,” said the injured man. “I will never see heaven. A man cannot reach the next life without a son to guide him. All of my sons have been butchered by the Arabs.” Sadness filled the moment.

“Don't the Dinka believe an adopted son can show you the way to the next life?” asked Arthur, trying to lift the man's spirits.

“Ouch, I have been bitten by a scorpion,” the old man barked as Abel stuck the syringe into his wrinkled buttocks.

“Sorry, the needle is sterile, but dulled by a hundred injections,” said Abel. “The
Khawadja
has taught us not to be wasteful.”

“My friends, I must say goodnight. I leave for the Sudd in the morning,” Arthur said. The Dinka men bowed and left him.

The next morning, the injured man was waiting next to the Land Rover for Arthur. Abel Deng complained about not being allowed to go, but his words fell on deaf ears. If they were stopped by the Sudanese Liberation Army, Abel would be conscripted. If they were raided by the Janjaweed, the odds of him surviving weren't good. Arthur spoke to Abel as he was leaving. “Abel, I'm leaving you in charge.”

“Are you sure I'm ready?” Abel asked.

“Someday you'll be in charge of a camp. Don't worry, you'll do just fine. Goodbye,” he said, shaking the boy's hand. Abel watched Arthur's truck disappear behind the sand dunes.

The Darfur was held hostage by the dry season. Only the Bahr-el-Jebel or White Nile fed water into the lower regions. The earth was cracked and buckled from a lack of rain, which made the driving difficult. Arthur worried about being seen from the air. He slowed down to reduce the road dust.

On the first day, Arthur's convoy came upon three scorched villages. Only the walls of the huts were left standing. Everything had been burned.

The skeletal remains of the cattle defined the Arab's plan. In Dinka society, cows are the essence of life. Without cattle, there is nothing. What animals the Arabs didn't steal they slaughtered, hoping to force the Dinka from their land. Driving across the parched earth, Arthur realized how successful the ethnic cleansing had been. Only the vultures are thriving here, he thought, squinting up at the specks circling above him.

The last village they came to was still smoldering. A scrawny yellow dog straddled the remains of a calf. When the men got out of the truck, the dog lowered its head and snarled. An old woman crawled out from under a demolished hut. She was naked and tried to cover her private parts with her hands. Her breasts hung like black leathery pouches. A few tuffs of white hair covered her skull. She wore a necklace of white crocodile teeth. When they offered the old woman water, she gulped it down and dropped to her knees. When she recognized Arthur Turner, she squealed and shuffled up to him. She sighed and placed her head against his chest.

“
Khawadja
, I am sickened to have you see me. The Janjaweed have killed and stolen everything in the village, even my clothes. It's not safe for you here. You must leave this place before they return.”

“How far is it to the Kangen Marshes?”

“Not so far. Why do you go to the swamps? You will find nothing but blood-sucking mosquitoes. Even the hippos have been killed by the Arabs.”

“We've come to rescue the Dinka women,” Arthur answered. “I was fishing in the swamps yesterday. There are no Dinka women in the marshes. I think maybe you play a joke on me,” she said, giggling. “Tell her about the women,” he demanded, turning to the old man he treated the night before. The man looked panicky. “Please tell me we didn't drive all this way on some wild goose chase.

Well, just don't stand there. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“It was only a small lie,” the old man said, looking away.

“Why would you lie?”

“Our spies warned us about an attack on the camp. The Arab devils were coming to kill you. You have many friends in the Sudan. The deception was Abel Deng's idea. He was afraid you wouldn't leave. I was following orders.”

“You old fool, what have you done?” Arthur yelled, running to the Land Rovers.

The minutes ticked by like hours as Arthur raced across the desert. He was so preoccupied by worry; he hit a petrified tree stump. The truck became airborne. After skidding to a stop, he jumped out and crawled under the vehicle to inspect the damage. A broken shock absorber made the vehicle sag. He ran back, jumped into the other Land Rover and drove away.

Two hours later, he saw a plume of black smoke mushrooming up into the cloudless sky. At that moment, he had a premonition that Abel Deng was dead.

***

General Mohammad Nur used binoculars to survey the carnage his men had wreaked on the refugee camp. His view was clouded by the dust kicked up by the Sudanese Army helicopter touching down three hundred yards behind him. The gunship's rocket launchers and her 12.7-millimeter machine guns were empty. Nur had ordered the pilot to fire everything into the refugee camp. The black billowing smoke looked like the tentacles of a black octopus. The mounted militiamen paraded past the general. The plundered loot they carried in their saddlebags was rubbish, but to the victims, the objects were priceless. A few skinny cows and some captives were also marched in front of the general. He seemed more interested in the human contraband. Abel Deng was one of the boys captured in the raid. The young boys were valuable assets to the general. He always needed fresh recruits for his children's army.

A large bellied man wearing crossing ammunition bandoliers swung down out of his saddle. His lathered horse pranced on the rein. He handed the general something wrapped in a bloodied rag. Nur unraveled the contents and looked at the Arab. “Do you think I'm stupid? I ordered you to bring me the Khawadja'
s
right hand. This is a woman's left hand. You cut off her finger to steal her wedding band. The man fell to his knees and begged for mercy. Without hesitating, General Nur fired a pistol shot into the man's brain. As he walked away, he rehearsed what he would tell Nelson Chang.

***

The Janajweed had deserted the camp by the time Arthur got there. The Arabs had killed everything, except the old people who were seen as unworthy of the bullets needed to kill them. The Italian nurse had escaped in the confusion. The two French nuns were not as fortunate. Their handless bodies lay naked in the sun. Arthur buried his face in his hands. The fact that Abel's body wasn't found meant he was probably kidnapped. It was a small consolation.