“I’m not allowed. The master sergeant does that, but he isn’t here right now.”
“So I won’t be able to inspect the cargo until he returns?”
The corporal nodded.
“When will that be?”
The corporal hemmed and hawed. “I’m not sure. Probably not today.”
Vermeulen shook his head. This wasn’t going to be his day after all. He saw the sneer on Petrovic’s face and turned to leave the tent. The corporal followed him.
Outside, he watched the forklift hoist a large aluminum container — wider and deeper than the pallets — from the plane.
“What is that?” Vermeulen asked the corporal.
“A refrigerated unit, sir.”
“What’s in it?” he asked, realizing too late that it was a dumb question.
“Perishable food for the troops. Meat, frozen vegetables, and the like.”
Vermeulen nodded. What was that old saying? An army travels on its stomach. That was also true for UN peacekeepers. The UN could not feed a whole brigade from local resources. Hell, the locals barely had enough to feed themselves.
Petrovic climbed back into the plane. The white Toyota pickup assigned to Vermeulen waited outside the fence that enclosed the cargo area. He turned to it. Another wasted day on a lousy mission. Time for a drink.
“To the hotel, monsieur?”
Walia Lukungu’s arm hung out of the window. He was one of the locals who’d been fortunate enough to snag a job with the UN. His driving skills, though, were questionable. Vermeulen had the feeling of sitting in a Formula One race car every time they went anywhere.
He was just about to nod when one of the soldiers inside the plane called to the corporal. The corporal answered, then shrugged.
“Anything the matter?” Vermeulen shouted from the open pickup door.
“No, sir. It’s just that those chaps in Kampala have trouble counting past three. Now there’s one refrigerated unit more than the cargo manifest says, but one was missing last week. It happens all the time.” The corporal shook his head. “That’s the trouble with contractors.”
It took a moment before the significance of the corporal’s comment sank in. Once it did, Vermeulen felt a familiar adrenaline rush. A clue. He ran back to the tent. The container hovered on the tines of the forklift. Its front consisted of a grille that covered the compressor and fan, and the large door was sealed with a plastic cable tie and bore some sort of label.
“I must check that extra unit. Now.”
The corporal shook his head.
“You heard Petrovic. We can’t open anything until the cargo is signed for.”
“I don’t care. I’ll take responsibility for opening it.”
Vermeulen signaled the forklift driver to place the unit on the ground. He pulled his pocketknife out and bent down to cut the plastic tie. A strong hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back from the container. Petrovic.
“Keep your fucking hands off that unit,” he hissed, taking a boxer’s stance.
“I won’t and you can’t stop me.”
Vermeulen turned back to the unit. Before his knife reached the plastic tie, he felt a gun barrel against his head.
“Drop the knife and turn around slowly.”
Vermeulen turned to face Petrovic, who kept pointing the gun at him. The corporal and the other soldiers stood and gaped.
“Listen, asshole. You can’t check the cargo until it’s signed for. So why don’t you go to your hotel, get some rest, find a whore, whatever, until that formality has been taken care of.”
The sight of the pistol took the wind out of Vermeulen’s sails. But he decided to play tough.
“What are you going to do? Shoot me?”
Petrovic’s eyes narrowed.
“I will,” he said. His tone left no doubt that he meant it. “ ‘Courageous Pilot Prevents Pilfering of UN Supplies.’ It’ll play well in New York. And don’t count on these guys helping you. They don’t want any trouble. They want to go home.”
Vermeulen swallowed. He had overplayed his hand. Without a weapon, he could do nothing. In a vain attempt to maintain his dignity he picked up his knife, straightened his jacket, and turned to the Toyota.
“Take me to Colonel Zaman, Walia.”
THE CEILING FAN spun lazily. Small eddies in the smoke rising from his Gitane were the only indicators that the hot air moved at all. Stripped to his shorts, Vermeulen lay on the bed in his hotel room. His third bottle of Primus rested on his stomach. At least the beer was cold, even though it tasted like piss. He lifted the bottle to check the name of the brewery. Brewed under license of Heineken. Damn! You’d figure a former Belgian colony would at least have a decent Belgian beer, like De Koninck or Celis. Hell, he’d even settle for a bottle of Duvel.