Page 34 of Soul on Fire
They didn’t know this land. They didn’t know these people. They were blind.
But not alone.
Elliot studied Ikolo. A doctor, but there was more there. He could feel it. Ikolo was an ocean to be sounded, depths to be navigated. Were the secrets Ikolo kept safe? Was Elliot putting his trust in the wrong man?
Could they do this together? Could he and Ikolo track a man through the Congo?
Was he making the right choice?
His gaze strayed to the children in Jumper’s arms and the baby in Doc’s. They’d be dead in twenty-four hours if they didn’t get out.
There were rights and there were wrongs. He knew it. Everyone knew it, even if they turned their backs and pretended they weren’t involved. Ignorance only went so far before it became complicity.
If no one else in his world cared about Africa, or the Congo, or the slaughter that was waiting to unfold, at leasthedid. He could get these children out. He could dosomething.
He could live with that.
“Go. When the Admiral blows his top, you tell him to radio me. The radio will work until we get too far into the interior. After that, I’ll check in on the satellite phone every twelve hours. If I don’t make a check in, then I’m dead.”
* * *
Chapter Thirteen
Outside Sake
The Congo Forest
A track,nothing more than a dirt path cut through the forest, headed west and into the vast expanse of the Congo. Refugees peeled off in small groups and hugged the shore of Lake Kivu, afraid of the forest and what lay within. They were heading for Bukavu, or Kasongo, or even Kalemie, or further to the border of Burundi and Bujumbura. Anywhere but deeper into the forest.
Finally, it was just Majambu on the lonely track, striding through the dark.
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
Guangzhou, China
“I don’t understand,”she said, fighting back her tears. “I already told the police everything. And the man from the United States Embassy.”
“I’m not from either of those,” Bai Ji said. His voice was flat, perfectly so. His face was expressionless. “I need to ask you about your daughter.”
“How many times must I go through this?” Finally, Mrs. Wu’s tears fell, raining down her cheeks as her voice clenched. She wiped them quickly and turned away, composing herself.
He gave her the moment.
“Yes, Officer,” she said, inviting him into her home with a different tone, a different expression. “Please come in. I will make us some tea while we talk.”
He walked through her apartment as she prepared tea in the kitchen, the cupboards shutting a little too loudly, the dishes clattering a little too much. There were pictures on the wall of her daughter studying in America and hanging out with her American friends. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders and wide smiles for the camera. Another photo of her daughter in a suit, beaming as she stood in front of a door with her name on it. Her American name:Emily Wu, Journalist, New York Times.Beneath Emily’s photos was a plate with half-burned papers, Mrs. Wu’s shaking handwriting making the characters forpeaceon each sheet.
Emily’s mother returned with a tray, two cups, and a boiling pot of water steeping green tea. He could smell it, the roasted leaves, the warmth.
He nodded. “Please, sit.”
It wasn’t a request.
She folded into the corner of the couch, her hands clasped between her legs, shoulders forward, chin down. “How can I help you, Officer?”
“I need to ask you about Emily. About what she was doing here.”
