Page 27 of Soul on Fire
“He did not have a fever and he showed no other signs of infection. He said none of his village had fallen sick before the rebels swept through.”
Relief was a physical thing flowing through Elliot. “Doctor, you’re the only one alive who knows who this man is and who can identify him. Our intel says his name is not Elombe, it’s Majambu, and he and the ADF commander are planning an operation with international terrorist support. We have to find him,now. Take us to him.”
Ikolo pointed to the camps, to the thousands and thousands of bodies crammed together. “He was sent in there with all the rest of the refugees.”
Elliot’s sharp jaw clenched, the muscles bulging outward. “What is he doing with the refugees? Why is he going into the camp? Is he targeting the refugees?” Ikolo watched him think, a thousand scenarios flashing through Elliot’s eyes, possibilities weighed and measured as he stared at the dying embers in thousands of campfires.
“It doesn’t make sense for him to target refugees,” Elliot said turning into Ikolo, speaking to him. “Our intel says the ADF wants to hit American targets. Their hatred is for the West, and America in particular.”
“I can tell you for a fact, there are no Americans in that camp.”Evacuate. “If he wants America’s attention, attacking refugees won’t get it. Attacking and killing African refugees has been done before. America never cared then, either.”
“So if he’s not going to attack them, that means he’susingthem. Why?”
“Whatever the reason, he has to work quickly if he wants to do anything. There are buses leaving from the camps and taking the refugees out of Kivu. To Bukavu, to Kindu, to Kasongo—”
“Fuck, that’s it! When do the convoys move out?”
“Starting tomorrow.”
“He’s trying to get out with the refugees. Ituri and Kivu Provinces are blockaded, and if Majambu wants to sneak out of ADF rebel territory, what would be the best way to do it?”
Ikolo’s stomach dropped, like he’d fallen from the top of the tallest tree in the forest. “By processing through a refugee camp and obtaining a certificate of resettlement.”
“And who provides that paperwork?”
“Many can. The UN, the Red Cross…” Ikolo looked up. “And me. As I release patients who were first brought to my hospital, I can process them.”
He’d processed resettlement paperwork for Elombe and forty others that day. There were so many faces, so many names. And he was still processing on paper, providing everyone with a folded document and a card. The UN had tablets and biometrics, optical recognition and facial scanners.
Maybe that was why Elombe—Majambu—came to his hospital.
“Punguani,” Ikolo breathed. “I am stupid.”
“You gave him his papers?”
Ikolo nodded.
“Then you have to help us find him.” Elliot turned to the camp, nearly pitch black with only piles of embers scattered among the tents. The night was quiet, the wind carrying whispered words, the sounds of unease and tension. Crinkling plastic. Voices hissing to each other, talking low. Fear in every syllable. “You have to help us find him in there.”
“He was alone with no family. The UN puts unaccompanied men in sector thirty-nine. It is a long walk.” Ikolo eyed Elliot and his men, smudges in the shadows with their antennae-like night vision opticals over one eye, their massive body armor and gear. They were still, barely moving, barely breathing, inky smears camouflaged into the night. “You will terrify the refugees if they see you again. We will go around the camp.”
“Just hurry, Doc.”
* * *
Chapter Eleven
UN Refugee Camp outside Sake
The Congo
Majambu sawthem before they saw him. By divine providence, he was certain.
He’d been walking, too rattled to sleep. He was out of sorts, out of his skin, out of his mind. There were too many people around him, too much sound. Too many women and children and people in tears. It all grated on him, all thesepeople. He was too close to lashing out.
He wanted the quiet back, the solitude of the forest. The peace that came when they were alone after they had cleared the forest of the infidels. When the land was theirs, all that they could see and hear and feel.
There wasn’t even a mosque in the camp, no muezzin calling the adhan. He prayed in his tent, nothing more than a plastic UN food sack stretched over three bamboo poles.
