The usual Congolese hangers-on — were they Hema or Lendu? He never could tell the difference — sat in the shady spots, hoping for a small job, cash, or food. A quiet day in a very unquiet part of the world.
Vermeulen pulled a Gitane Papier Maïs from its blue pack and lit it. He was used to air-conditioned offices in New York, to pulling together evidence from files and interview transcripts. Sure, there were trips to the field — Kosovo, Bosnia, even Cambodia once — but he always had his office in New York. Until he’d stepped on some important toes during the Iraq oil-for-food investigation. Next thing he knew, the UN Office of Internal Oversight Services sent him to the eastern Congo.
An ancient air conditioner rattled in its slot above the door, blowing humid air into the room. It wasn’t any cooler than the air outside. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and took off his jacket. It had dark spots under the arms. The Bangladeshis didn’t seem to mind the climate. Their uniforms looked crisp.
“There is the Antonov now, sir,” the air traffic controller said with the lilt of South Asians. He pointed to a blip on the radar. The timing was just about right.
“How far is it?”
“About ten miles, sir.”
“How long until it lands?”
“Fifteen minutes, give or take. Maybe more. Depends on the approach Petrovic takes.”
“Is he usually late?”
“Sometimes Petrovic is on time, sometimes he isn’t. This is Africa.”
A loud voice crackled over the radio.
“Central Lakes Air Niner Quebec Charlie Echo Juliet requests permission to land.”
The voice had a strong Slavic accent.
“Niner Quebec, this is Bunia air control, Bangladeshi Air Force controller Ghosh. Permission granted for runway ten. Visual flight rules in effect. Westerly winds, about three knots.”
“Ghosh, you dumb Paki. When’re you gonna get a decent radar to guide me in?”
“When you fly a decent aircraft, you lazy Chetnik.”
Ghosh smiled and scribbled something into a logbook.
“Can I intercept the plane right after it lands?” Vermeulen asked.
“No, sir. No vehicles allowed on the tarmac during taxiing.”
“Where will he stop?”
“At the cargo area over there, sir.” Ghosh pointed in the general direction.
Vermeulen grabbed his jacket.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
Good thing he remembered their insignia.
PETROVIC’S STOMACH BULGED over jeans made for a man twenty years younger. The Hawaiian shirt revealed dark chest hair decorated with a gold chain. His bullet-shaped head was shaved except for a bushy mustache — he was a bruiser who’d gone to seed.
He stood by the cargo door of the Antonov and supervised a Nepali engineering platoon. Three soldiers pushed a pallet along a track to the rear gate, where a fourth put the pallet on a forklift and took it to a storage tent.
Vermeulen found the corporal in charge inside the storage tent. The man checked his ID, shrugged, and gestured to the two pallets already unloaded.
They were wrapped in plastic netting. The freight bill attached to each listed the number of boxes and their contents. Vermeulen checked each bill and counted the items on that pallet. They added up.
He pulled at the netting of the nearer pallet. It didn’t budge.
“You want it off ?” the corporal asked.
“Yes, I need to check the contents.”
The corporal took a box cutter from his pocket.
“Get the fuck away from my cargo,” a voice shouted from the entrance.
Vermeulen and the corporal turned. Petrovic had jumped to the ground and hurried to the tent.
“You better get the goddamn freight manifest signed before you open anything.”
“What’s the matter with you, Ranko?” the corporal said, brows raised. “You never gave a rat’s ass about paperwork before.”
“It’s my cargo until the paper’s signed,” the pilot said. His eyes — the color of dishwater — were cold and menacing, and he had the stare of a street fighter. It reminded Vermeulen of all the bullies he had encountered from grade school on. He took an instant dislike to the pilot.
“Who the fuck are you?” Petrovic asked.
“Valentin Vermeulen, OIOS investigator.” He pulled out his ID. “I don’t need a signature. I can investigate anything I like.”
The pilot stepped closer. At six feet six, Vermeulen towered over Petrovic, but the latter’s bulk made him a formidable obstacle.
“You ain’t getting near that cargo until the paperwork is signed.”
“Okay, then let’s get it signed,” Vermeulen said. He turned to the corporal. “Just sign his manifest.”