Standard disclaimers apply
Anna clung to the roll bar as the old Land Rover rumbled down the rutted dirt road. The ride was excruciatingly bumpy. She winced when the vehicle bounced and she bit her tongue. Again. She rinsed her mouth from her canteen and spit yet another reddish stream over the side of the Rover.
It occurred to her that she hadn't seen a paved road since she snuck away from Maneima.
Anna shifted from sitting on the cracked leather seat to squatting on it. Her legs seemed to be better shock absorbers than her ass, which had mostly gone numb from the abuse. They had been in the Rover since before dawn, and now the midafternoon sun beat down on them mercilessly. She swept her hair up under her floppy-brimmed hat and rubbed sunscreen onto her face and neck again, though she doubted it would do much to halt the inexorable march of her freckles.
"Keep them down," Lockhart said when she started to roll up her sleeves. Like him, she wore a loose-fitting shirt and khaki pants that Neema had scrounged up for them somewhere. "Believe or not, it's actually cooler that way – if the sun cooks your skin, you're only going to feel hotter."
Anna gave a him a skeptical look, but left her sleeves down. Besides, they were almost to their destination, a village called Bizi, which was near the edge of a large gold mine. One of the most lucrative gold mines in central Africa, according to the man driving the Rover, who gave his name only as Martin. He was a former MCA government mine inspector, who had lost his job after refusing to falsify safety certifications for the mines in his jurisdiction.
She suspected Bizi would be just like the other half-dozen or so villages they had visited over the last few days – a collection of thatched-roof huts straddling a wide place in a bumpy road, surrounded by leafy banana trees, with nothing but verdant wilderness between them. Control of the area seemed to be pretty evenly split between the government and the CAFM, although there were no discernable lines. Sometimes they would find MCA soldiers lounging in what passed for a village square, only to run across one of Neema's units a couple of miles away, the two groups completely unaware of each other.
Anna was jerked from her thoughts when a man popped out of the bush and blocked the road. Not a man, she realized with a start, but a kid. No more than fifteen or sixteen, clutching an AK-47 in one hand and a bundle of green buds in the other. The Land Rover skidded to a stop a few yards in front of the kid and within seconds they were surrounded by a dozen teenage boys, a heavily armed posse in ratty camouflage and filthy T-shirts materializing from the jungle.
The first boy sauntered over to the side of the Rover. A pungent odor wafted over her, and she recognized the greenery he carried. Judging from the smell and his big goofy grin, he'd already been indulging.
"Tsigara," he demanded, and the other boys took up a chant. "Tsigara, tsigara!" they yelled.
Neema and Martin dug into their backpacks and came out with several packs of cigarettes, which they pushed into the greedy hands that suddenly extended from every direction. Martin added a fistful of crumpled bills. Neema spoke sharply to the first boy, who responded by grinning and sticking his tongue out at her. Apparently satisfied with the tribute, the little band melted back into the bush as quickly as they had appeared.
"What the heck was that?" Anna wondered as the Land Rover lurched forward again.
"That is Zlatist Mining's idea of local security," Martin said.
Anna frowned. "I thought the mining companies had their own security forces. And what about the MCA Army?"
"The MCA Army is corrupt and incompetent. The soldiers steal from the mine and the village, so their officers accept bribes to keep them out in the bush hunting for us," Neema explained. "They use the boys to keep the villagers in line, and pay them with marijuana and weapons and a warped sense of manhood. The mine security forces protect the mine itself. And the compound where all of the Muscovians live."
"The government troops we saw didn't seem particularly interested in finding you," Anna said, thinking back to the soldiers she'd seen lolling around the other villages.
Neema shrugged. "Without their officers, they have little motivation to do so. Why look for a fight when you can get drunk on home brew and accost the local women with no penalty?" She turned to look at Anna fully. "We are winning out here, Princess Anna. It is only a matter of time. We will either have control of this entire province, or…"
"Or…?" Anna prompted.
"Mwenye will send in mercenaries." Neema shot a glance at Lockhart. "That is why he is so desperate for the Americans to help him. If he has to use mercenaries – white mercenaries, to be clear – he risks international condemnation. Even he cannot afford that."
Yeah, I can just imagine how well that would play in the UN. Even Imanutjob couldn't support him.
"But he will do it," Neema went on, "and I am afraid we will be on our way to becoming a failed state. CAFM needs to be involved in these talks, Your Highness. This is our country, our future, and we cannot leave it to the whims of a corrupt regime and a greedy foreign power."
Anna wondered how the Americans would react if the negotiations suddenly shifted from how to best support Mwenye to how best to get rid of him. Who cares? They're already playing both sides, and have been for a while.
Another half-hour and the jungle finally parted to reveal Bizi. It was a bit larger than the other villages they'd visited, but had the same broken-down feel: scattered clumps of round huts, an open-air market where the stalls were made of sticks and shopkeepers hawked secondhand goods. Just beyond the village, Anna could see the edge of the open-pit mine. A sparkling, emerald-green mountain rose behind it.
They sat down with the village elders, and Neema introduced Anna as a representative from Écoles Sans Frontiéres. They had used the same cover story in all the villages they'd visited, with Neema and Anna speaking French to help further the ruse. The elders' eyes darted nervously as they spoke. Despite the bounty of the mine, there was no sign of prosperity. No electricity or running water. They needed medicine for their clinic and books for the school.
The wealth from the Bizi mine, like that of every other resource in the country, flowed to President Mwenye and his cronies, and ultimately to Yuri Imanovajov. Almost nothing stayed to benefit the village. Anna fought back her rage and disgust at the sight of the barefoot kids, their bellies swollen from disease or malnutrition.
How can President Mwenye allow this to happen to his own people? Being a leader is duty and responsibility and honor, not a license to pillage!
She thought back to Kohro, the MCA capital. Gleaming skyscrapers, well-maintained paved roads, all the lights and glitter and vibrancy of a cosmopolitan city. Yet Mwenye sat in his presidential palace, feasting on champagne and caviar while his country's children curled up and starved.
She could only imagine Elsa's reaction to all of this. Unseasonably cold weather centered around the Presidential Palace, probably. Or maybe just centered around the President.
They thanked the elders and walked down the hill toward the mine, the afternoon sun slanting behind them. Anna swallowed as they approached the guard post at the entrance. Armed guards in olive drab uniforms – all Muscovian – patrolled the perimeter. Beyond them, she could see workers swarming like ants over the different tiers of the pit.
Two guards strode out to the gate as they approached, hands resting lightly on the submachine guns slung from their shoulders. The first one said something in Muscovian and stretched out his hand. Martin handed their papers to him. He studied them closely. His partner, a tall, well-built blond man, looked Anna up and down appreciatively. He spoke to her, giving her what he probably thought was a charming smile.
Oh, for fuck's sake…he looks like a toothpaste commercial. She smiled back, trying not to roll her eyes when he grinned and nudged the first man. The first guard – probably a supervisor of some type, judging by his collar insignia – snapped at him, then questioned Martin in Muscovian. Neema jumped into the conversation as well, pointing at Anna and Lockhart. The supervisor rolled his eyes and she gave him a Gallic shrug. He waved them down the road toward a temporary building.
"What did you tell them?" Anna asked.
"That you are une gosse riche, here to help the ignorant natives," Neema said. "A ditzy dilettante who wants to see 'the working environment'."
"Excuse me?"
"That way they don't see you as a threat." Neema's mouth twitched with her efforts to keep a straight face.
"Oh. Great. Now what?"
"They say we must talk to the local 'minister of mines' before we can proceed," Martin said.
"Local 'minister of mines'?" Anna repeated.
"A provincial government official who is accepting bribes from the Muscovians to ignore basic standards of decency."
They opened the door to the temporary building, and Anna grimaced as the odors of stale food and human funk assaulted her. They found the 'minister' sitting at a desk behind a veritable forest of empty beer bottles, sweating profusely despite the blasting cold from the air conditioner in the window. He was an enormously obese Central African, wearing a cheap suit jacket that stretched taut over his thick rolls of fat.
How the hell does he fit through the door?
"Hujambo, mzee," Martin greeted him.
The man burped loudly and leaned back in his chair. He sat Buddha-like with his hands folded across his vast belly, examining them through half-closed eyes. "Unataka nini?" he rumbled.
Martin handed over their papers. The man glanced at them, then tossed them aside. He stood abruptly, scattering the beer bottles. Anna jumped back as one rolled off the desk and shattered at her feet. She stared wide-eyed as the man leaned across and poked Martin's chest with a thick finger. "Hakuna akaguzi? Eh?"
Martin held his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture as he replied, but whatever he said didn't seem to help. The 'minister' became increasingly agitated, slamming his hand on the table. More beer bottles hit the floor.
Then a heavyset Muscovian in a white dress shirt stepped through the door, breathing like he'd just run a marathon. He joined the conversation, which switched rapidly back and forth between Swahili and Muscovian. Martin kept his voice calm, gesturing at Anna. The Muscovian raised an eyebrow and barked a question at him.
"Who is this guy?" Anna whispered to Neema. "What are they saying?"
"He is the mine manager," Neema whispered back. "They are angry that they received no warning of our visit. They think we are foreign spies, or perhaps worse, journalists."
The Muscovian kept shooting puzzled looks at Anna, his thick brows pinching together into a single line.
"We need to leave." Anna flinched at Lockhart's low voice in her ear. "He recognizes you."
"Well, maybe that's better," Anna said softly. "If they know who I am, they might be more cooperative. After all, I'm here at Imanovajov's behest."
The mine manager's head whipped around at that. He stared first at Anna, then at Neema.
"No," Lockhart hissed. "I think he recognizes Neema, too."
Neema evidently had come to the same conclusion. Before Anna could protest, Neema was herding her toward the door, smiling and speaking to the men in a conciliatory voice. The men grumbled and watched with suspicion as Martin retrieved their papers.
"Asante, mzee," Martin said as they backed out the door.
They hurried back down the road toward the gate. "What did you tell them?" Anna asked.
"I apologized for our poor manners in arriving unannounced, and that if it pleases them, we will return tomorrow," Neema answered.
"And will we? Come back tomorrow, I mean?"
"No. Absolutely not." Lockhart's tone brooked no argument. "They're suspicious. We're leaving before that so-called 'minister' has us arrested."
Anna looked back to see the mine manager step out of the building. He pressed his phone to his ear, never taking his eyes off of her. Was he calling security? Would they be arrested? She held her breath as they approached the guard post, heart racing when the guard with the toothpaste-model smile stepped out of the shack. Her hand dropped to find her pistol before she remembered that they had left their weapons hidden in the Land Rover.
Toothpaste Model spoke briefly to Martin. Whatever Martin told him made him laugh. Then he fell into step with Anna, smiling and talking. Anna shook her head. "Je ne comprende pas," she said. He cocked his head and switched to Swahili. She shrugged helplessly. "Je suis perdu."
He looked frustrated for a moment, then stepped in front of her, causing her to stumble a bit to avoid running into him. "Qu'est-ce que - ?" she broke off when he took her hand and raised it to his lips. Anna stared as he murmured softly and winked at her.
Yeah, whatever… She forced a smile and withdrew her hand as politely as she could.
He chuckled and gave her a wave as she walked past the gate. Anna kept glancing behind her as they headed back toward the village. Toothpaste Model watched her until they crested the hill, but neither he nor any of the other guards seemed inclined to follow. Thank God.
"What was that all about?" she asked. The language barrier was getting to be a pain in the ass. She wondered how fast she could learn Swahili. Then I could tell Toothpaste Model to fuck himself. Though it might lose something in translation.
Despite the tension, Lockhart chuckled. "Not too many white women out this way, LT. Don Juan probably hasn't had his ashes hauled since he got here."
"Great," Anna muttered. "At least he's not following us."
"Yet," Lockhart said. "Never underestimate how far a man will travel if he thinks he might get laid."
Neema rolled her eyes. "I am sure he has availed himself of the services offered by some of the village women. If he is a decent sort, he might have even paid them."
"What did you say to him?" Anna asked Martin, trying to change the subject. She'd already learned enough about how the villagers were treated to turn her stomach. Just one more outrage on the list…
"That the manager was too busy to show us around today, and that we will be back tomorrow," Martin said.
"And they believed that?"
"Yes. They think we are all ignorant savages. Men like that fat minister do not help."
They hustled back to the Land Rover and sped off down the bumpy road away from Bizi. Anna decided that she had seen enough. It was time to shine a light on what was really going on in Muscovian Central Africa. Maybe she couldn't solve their problems – even Elsa couldn't solve all these problems – but they could lend their support to Neema and CAFM, and give the Central Africans a chance to take control of their own destiny.
"You've put a lot of thought into this," Anna commented as she leafed through the journal on the table in front of her. She was back in her uniform, sitting with Neema in what she thought of as the 'dinner hut,' having a long discussion about the previous few days, and the past and future of Central Africa.
"If CAFM is successful, we should have a plan," Neema said. "I do not want to end up like the dog who chases cars, but has no idea what to do if he catches one."
Anna laughed as she scribbled down her own thoughts. The habit of carrying paper and pen everywhere had been painfully imprinted on her at the Krigsskolen, and the pocket-sized notepad was the only thing she'd brought with her when she snuck away from the base at Maniema. So really I was only like ninety-nine percent unprepared.
A few sentences in Neema's journal caught her eye. "Weak parliaments tend to become merely players, if not outright tools, in the slide back to old authoritarian systems of personal rule," she read aloud, tapping her pencil against the page. "That sounds familiar."
"It should," Neema said. "It was written by Professor Rune Ingesen."
"My advisor at Arendelle University." Anna cocked an eyebrow. "I thought you said you weren't a politician."
Neema had the good grace to look embarrassed. "I am not, truly. But if we are going to be a stable democracy, there are worse countries to emulate than your own, are there not?"
Anna smiled uneasily. In truth, Arendelle's democracy was largely uncodified and dependent on the power of a thousand years' worth of parliamentary tradition and the integrity of the monarch. Neema's people had no such traditions, as far as she could tell, at least not on a national scale. They would need strong, codified institutions and leaders able to put the needs of the people ahead of their own. Neema struck her as capable of that. But what about the other CAFM leaders?
Would they act in their people's interest, or would they eventually become another kleptocracy? Or find out that after a revolution, the revolutionaries were often the first ones put up against a wall and shot?
Those thoughts were forgotten when they heard shouts from outside. Then Lockhart stuck his head through the door and said, "We need to go, LT."
"What? But I thought – "
"Now." He was gone before she could finish her question.
The distinctive crack of AK-47s firing reached their ears. Anna jumped up and raced outside, Neema hot on her heels.
A/N - getting to the nitty-gritty now. Thanks to everyone who has read and commented - you guys give me life.