Vengeance: Mystery Writers of America Presents

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.

He drew hard on his cigarette. The coarse tobacco crackled and sparked.

Colonel Zaman, commanding officer of this UN outpost, had been unavailable. His deputy, a timid paper pusher in a major’s uniform, was afraid to make a decision. He rattled off the usual excuses: Can’t order Nepali soldiers without talking to their superiors. Better wait until their master sergeant signs the manifest. Yes, the pilot was out of line, but he was right about his cargo. No harm done. The weapons, if they were there — the major made no effort to hide his skepticism — would still be there in the morning. Extra guards would make sure of that.

What was Vermeulen doing here? Chasing gunrunners? That seemed so futile. There’d be plenty whether or not he nailed that son of a bitch Petrovic and whoever worked with him. But would it come to that? Judging from his past experience, no.

He could easily write his report now. Inconclusive evidence, no witnesses, peacekeepers absolved — the usual bureaucratic-speak that declared victory even as it left everything unchanged. It would make everyone happy.

This job stank, Vermeulen knew that. More than once, he’d been ready to call it quits. But each case was a new opportunity, a chance that, this time, justice would be done. That’s why he couldn’t write the report yet. But his reservoir of hope was slowly running dry.

He lit another cigarette and watched the smoke curl upward until it reached the faint turbulences below the fan.

A door slammed down the corridor. The UN had chosen Bunia as the headquarters for the Ituri Brigade, so a bevy of aid organizations had descended here as well. Those with more money occupied several rooms the Hotel Bunia reserved for its important visitors. He’d seen a few at breakfast, B-list Hollywood personalities wearing brand-new safari clothing and big smiles.

More steps in the corridor. They slowed as they reached his door. He raised his head. A slight scraping on the floor. A quick retreat.

He jumped up, almost spilling the beer. A note was stuck under the door. He pulled the door open. The corridor was empty.

The note contained a single sentence: Come to the Club Ideal at 9 tonight.

He checked his watch. Eight thirty.

THE DRUMMER HAD played this beat a million times. Half asleep, he rested against the wall. His hands seemed to have a life of their own. The two guitar players were a little more animated, stepping out, swinging their guitars as they kept the soukous melody flowing at the right speed. Not that it mattered. Nobody was paying attention to the music. Two couples moved on the tiny dance floor, but to Vermeulen it seemed more like foreplay than dancing. Sure enough, one of the couples disappeared behind a ragged curtain, the girl squealing in pretend delight.

He found an empty table. The reek of sweat, cigarettes, and beer that had assaulted his nose began to fade into the background.

A man with a limp had waited for him outside the hotel and hustled him into a beat-up old Citroen 2CV. The man said, “Club Ideal,” over and over until Vermeulen figured the ride would be no riskier than walking alone at night. Like all OIOS investigators, he was unarmed.

A girl in a blond wig, maybe seventeen, if that, wiggled her hips as she came to his table. Her breasts were barely concealed beneath a ragged tank top.

“Je suis Lily. Tu veux quelque chose?”

Lily’s blond wig stood in startling contrast to her ebony skin. He stared at her. Although there was no real resemblance, Lily reminded him of his own daughter. Gaby had run away at age fifteen after he divorced his wife. The police didn’t care much. Runaways were common in Antwerp. So he searched for her himself. Staking out her friends, asking questions until he found her, in a hole not much different from the Club Ideal.

Lily’s smile faded a little under his stare. She suddenly seemed self-conscious. He caught himself.

“Yes, a beer, please.”

“Primus or Nile Special?”

Tired of Primus, he chose Nile Special.

The girl came back with the bottle and sat down at his table.

“You want company?”

He took a swig from the bottle and examined her again. You should be doing homework, he thought, or working at a decent job. His own daughter had finally turned a corner, gotten clean, and made it to the university. But the price had been estrangement. They hadn’t spoken in five years. All he knew was that she worked for an import-export company.

Lily lingered a little and bent forward, hoping to change his mind by giving him a glimpse of her breasts. He shrugged and smiled apologetically. She got up, wiggled her hips under the impossibly short skirt, and rejoined the other girls by the bar.

None of the men in the bar was in uniform, but he knew most of them were UN soldiers or contractors. What else was new? Wherever there were soldiers, there were whores.

He finished his beer and noticed the beginnings of a pleasant buzz. One more and he’d be in the right spot. But he held back and lit a Gitane instead. Who knew what this meeting would bring?

A big woman waddled to his table. Of indeterminate age, she wore a brightly colored muumuu and an equally colorful cloth wrapped around her hair. She sat down. Close up, her round face showed the ravages of living at the margins in a poor country.

“My girls, you do not like them?”

He really didn’t feel like defending his celibacy to the madam of the brothel. “Your girls all seem a little too young for their jobs.”

She waved her right hand with a worldly flair. “Age, what is it? Polite men don’t ask.”

“I thought that applied only to women over thirty.”

Her face lit up with a smile. “A gentleman in Mama Tusani’s club! What a surprise. Let me buy you another beer.”

She motioned to the counter. Lily brought another bottle and a glass with a milky fluid for Mama Tusani. She didn’t leave.

Vermeulen clinked his bottle to her glass and took a swig.

“Nice place you got here,” he said.

It was a blatant lie. She knew it but smiled anyway, swaying to the rhythm of the music. When the song ended, she leaned over.

“Please, go with Lily to the back.”

He lifted his hands, angry. Mama Tusani took his hands and continued smiling for anyone watching.

“Please, it is important,” she said in a tone quite unlike her smile.

He finally understood and got up.

The girl pulled him toward the curtain, giggling, clinging to him, rubbing his chest. He couldn’t make himself play the part. To the rest of the crowd, he must have looked like a sixteen-year-old being dragged to his first sexual encounter.

They moved past ill-fitting doors through which unrestrained — and obviously faked — sounds of various stages of ecstasy could be heard. She pushed open the last one and pulled Vermeulen into a cubbyhole. The smell