grabbed the Kalashnikov.
Then he dragged the other man to the wall, as far from Kinzonzi as possible, and shone the light on him. Predictably enough, he had reacted as Harry had; blinded, he had shot into the sun. Harry’s detective eyes automatically registered that the man’s groin was soaked in blood; the bullet must have have continued up into his stomach but was hardly likely to have killed him. A bleeding shoulder, therefore one bullet had probably entered his armpit. That explained why the Kalashnikov had come first. Harry crouched down. But that didn’t explain why the man wasn’t breathing.
He shone the light on his face. Why the boy wasn’t breathing.
The bullet had gone in under his chin. From the angle he had fired the lead must have passed into his mouth, through his palate and up into the brain. Harry inhaled. The boy couldn’t have been much more than sixteen or seventeen. An altogether good-looking lad. Wasted beauty. Harry stood up, put the gun barrel to the dead man’s head and shouted: ‘Where are they? Mr Leike. Tony. Where?’
He waited a bit.
‘What? Louder. I can’t hear you. Where? Three seconds. One. Two. ..’
Harry pressed the trigger. The weapon must have been on full auto because it fired at least four times before he managed to release his finger. Harry closed his eyes when the salvo hit his face, and when he opened them again he saw that the boy’s attractive features had disintegrated. Harry noticed hot, wet blood was running down his naked body.
Harry stepped over to Kinzonzi. Stood astride him, shone the torch on his face, pointed the gun to his forehead and repeated the question word for word.
‘Where are they? Mr Leike. Tony. Where? Three seconds…’
Kinzonzi opened his eyes. Harry saw the whites quiver. The terror of dying is a prerequisite for wanting to live. It had to be, at least here in Goma.
Kinzonzi answered, slowly and clearly.
88
The Church
Kinzonzi lay quite still. the tall, white man had placed the torch on the floor so that it lit up the ceiling. Kinzonzi watched him put on Oudry’s clothes. Watched him tear his T-shirt into strips and tie them round his chin and head so that the gaping jaw, the wound running from his mouth to his ear, was covered. Tightened it to stop the mandible from hanging on one side. Blood soaked through the cotton material as Kinzonzi looked on.
He had answered the few questions the man had asked. Where. How many. What weapons they had.
Now the white man went to the shelf, pulled out a black case, opened it and examined the contents.
Kinzonzi knew he was going to die. A young, violent death. But perhaps not now, not tonight. His stomach stung as though someone had poured acid on him. But it was OK.
The white man was holding Oudry’s Kalashnikov. He moved towards Kinzonzi, stood over him with the light behind his back. A towering figure with his head wrapped in white cloth, the way they used to bind the chin for death before the deceased was buried. If Kinzonzi was going to be shot, it would happen now. The man dropped the torn strips of T-shirt he hadn’t used on Kinzonzi.
‘Help yourself.’
Kinzonzi heard him groaning as he went up the ladder.
Kinzonzi closed his eyes. If he didn’t wait too long, he could stop the worst bleeding before he fainted from blood loss. Get to his feet, crawl across the road, find people. And he might be lucky, they might not belong to the species: Goma vulture. He might find Alma. He could make her his. Because she had no man now. And Kinzonzi no longer had an employer. He had seen what was in the case the tall white man had taken with him.
Harry stopped the Range Rover in front of the low church walls, radiator-to-radiator with the chunky Hyundai that was still standing there.
A cigarette glowed in the car.
Harry switched off the headlamps, rolled down the window and stuck his head out.
‘Saul!’
Harry saw the cigarette glow move. The taxi driver came out.
‘Harry. What happened? Your face…’
‘Things didn’t quite go to plan. I didn’t imagine you’d still be here.’
‘Why not? You paid me for the whole day.’ Saul ran his hand over the bonnet of the Range Rover. ‘Nice car. Stolen?’
‘Borrowed.’
‘Borrowed car. Borrowed clothes, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Red with blood. The previous owner’s?’
‘Let’s leave your car here, Saul.’
‘Will I want this trip, Harry?’
‘Probably not. Does it help if I say I’m one of the good guys?’
‘Sorry, but in Goma we’ve forgotten what that means, Harry.’
‘Mm. Would a hundred dollars help, Saul?’
‘Two hundred,’ Saul said.
Harry nodded.
‘… and fifty.’
Harry got out and let Saul take the wheel.
‘Are you sure that’s where they are?’ Saul asked, as the car purred onto the road.
‘Yes,’ Harry said from the back seat. ‘Someone once told me that it’s the only place where people in Goma can get to heaven.’
‘I don’t like the place,’ Saul said.
‘Oh?’ Harry said, opening the case beside him. The Marklin. The instructions for how to assemble the rifle were glued to the inside of the lid. Harry set about the job.
‘Evil spirits. Ba-Toye.’
‘You studied in Oxford, didn’t you say?’ Matt, greased parts readily clicked into place.
‘You don’t know anything about the fire demon, I suppose.’
‘No, but I know these ones,’ Harry said, holding up one of the cartridges from its own compartment in the Marklin case. ‘And I would back them against Ba-Toye.’
The feeble yellow interior light made the gold-coloured cartridge casing gleam. The lead bullet inside had a diameter of sixteen millimetres. The world’s largest calibre. When he had been working on the report after the Redbreast investigation, a ballistics expert had told him the calibre of a Marklin was way beyond all sensible limits. Even for shooting elephants. It was better suited to felling trees.
Harry clicked the telescopic sights into place. ‘Put your foot down, Saul.’
He laid the barrel over the top of the empty passenger seat and tested the trigger while keeping his eye some distance from the sights because of the bumpy ride. The sights needed adjusting, calibrating, fine-tuning. But there would be no chance to do that.
They had arrived. Kaja looked out of the car window. The scattered lights beneath them, that was Goma. Further away, she saw the illuminated oil rig on Lake Kivu. The moon glittered in the greenish-black water. The last part of the road was no more than a dirt track winding round the top, and the car headlamps swept across the bare black moonscape. When they had reached the highest plateau, a flat disc of rock with a diameter of around a hundred metres, the driver had headed for the far end, through clouds of drifting white smoke tinted red beside the Nyiragongo crater.
The driver switched off the ignition.
‘May I ask you something?’ Tony said. ‘Something I have given a lot of thought to over the last few weeks.
