Warning: contains graphic language and descriptions of newsworthy events. All descriptions of the Lord's Resistance Army is true; any geographical mistakes are unintentional and completely my own fault. The Holy Army is, as far as I know, made up by me. However, there are indications that the Lord's Resistance Army are using uneducated youngsters and idiot gangs in different countries to sell drugs, guns and people to fund their war.
Ten
The rest of the day was spent pounding the pavements, hooking up with a few of the more suspicious characters he knew, trying to find some information about a gang that were calling themselves the Holy Army. According to the Thompsons' report, the Holy Army were responsible for brining a new type of cocaine, heroin and marijuana into the city. It was, if the report was to believed, even worse than the usual stuff: cut with all sorts of dangerous chemicals and poisons.
So far, it had been limited to the poorer section of the city's addicts because it was so cheap and filthy, but Hallowe'en was a party night, even if it was in the middle of the week: many young professionals would head out to parties in pubs and clubs, forgoing alcohol and its unwanted hangover the next morning in favour of the so-called 'safer' party drugs like weed, speed, and the old favourite: cocaine.
By six o'clock, T-Bag was back in his abandoned, ground floor apartment in a high-rise in Clichy-sous-Bois. Tintin found him there, counting a giant wad of cash. At his feet was a cardboard box filled with cellophane-wrapped bags of weed. Tintin picked a bag off the top and gave it an experimental sniff.
"That doesn't smell so good," he said, tossing it back in with the others.
"It isn't," T-Bag said shortly. "This new shit is killing me."
"Where did you get it from?" Tintin asked.
"Germany. Costs a fortune too, but it's all I can get. Goddamned Interpol shut down most of the grow houses. I'm trying to set up a couple myself, but it's expensive."
It was dangerous too: these days, all the police had to do was monitor the electricity board. If a house suddenly showed a huge spike in electricity use that lasted for more than three months, they raided it. Halogen lights cost a lot of power to run, and four times out of five they interrupted a grow operation.
Tintin took a seat opposite T-Bag, who was sitting on the same rank, old couch he'd been sitting on the first time Tintin had ever met him. "What do you know about the Holy Army?" he asked.
T-Bag looked up sharply. "Don't mess with them," he warned. "Those guys are hardcore."
"Who are they?"
T-Bag shrugged. "They're not locals. They're African or some shit. Some war-torn place, I guess."
"The Congo."
Tintin looked around. A young, thin white boy – imaginatively nicknamed 'Fatty' by the other boys – had spoken up. He was in the corner, perched on top of a nest of old, soiled clothes, shuffling a pack of cards.
"The Congo?" Tintin asked, his imagination stirred by pictures of safari, and remote villages in the wild savannah.
"Yeah. Lord's Resistance Army. You heard of them?"
The pleasant scenes of wild Africa disappeared in the blink of an eye. "Yes," Tintin said, dismayed. "They're the guys that do all the raping, right?"
"That's them," T-Bag confirmed. "The Holy Army are just a front. They're bringing all this shit-grade junk in and flooding the market. They're able to sell it at a profit because they've cut it with stuff like bleach and baking soda, to make more of it. They use the money to fund their war."
"That's terrible," Tintin said.
"That's business," T-Bag corrected him. "Look, man, these guys won't talk to you. They'll kill you if you go 'round there asking questions."
"'Round where?" Tintin asked quickly.
T-Bag rolled his eyes. "Now how the hell am I supposed to know where those psychopaths hang out? You're forgetting, T: I just got rid of the crazy people from my life. Why would I want to get involved with more?"
"Fine. But if you hear anything?"
"Then I'll be running in the opposite direction, because those nutty fuckers will have heard of me too! But I will throw some information your way while I'm running passed you."
"Good enough for me." Tintin took his leave. Outside, buttoning his coat against the cold, he whistled to Snowy and started away. Snowy, who had stayed outside to be admired and played with by a large group of small children, toddled resolutely behind Tintin.
x
Tintin gazed at the computer screen as Snowy, hidden under the desk, chewed his shoelaces. They were in the Bibliothéque Nationale. A small pile of books about the Congo lay in an untidy heap beside the monitor, which in turn was hooked up to the microform. On the monitor, old news articles about the Congo flashed by, and he paused it periodically as he gave his full attention to anything relating to the Lord's Resistance Army and their war of terror on the Congo, the Sudan and Uganda.
Their aim, as far as he could tell, was to establish a new kingdom in Uganda based on the Christian tenets of the Ten Commandments. Ironically, they murdered, raped and coveted their way around the various countries they were active in, thinking nothing of telling lies against their neighbours and generally being bad Christians as they went.
They swooped in on villages, leaving a slaughter behind them as men were murdered, the women raped and butchered and the girls stolen for sexual slavery. The boys were taken and sent in to combat zones as armed soldiers, to kill or be killed. Those that did their 'job' satisfactorily were given girls to rape; those that didn't perform as well as they should watched as their sisters were raped. The constant threat against their sisters encouraged and motivated them, and rape was a weapon to be wielded with as much brutality and cruelty as a machine gun or a machete.
The strange thing was, though, that everyone knew about this. It wasn't a secret: it had been happening since 1986. The leader, Joseph Kony, had stolen about 100,000 children. The numbers were staggering, but nobody was doing anything to stop it. Where were the U.N.? Where was America? This was genocide, pure and simple, and three nations were suffering under the insanity of one man and his greedy followers.
Great snakes, compared to this, they went into Iraq and Afghanistan needlessly!
Tintin sighed and rubbed his eyes. Jack, he knew, had been to Uganda and the Congo back in the nineties. Of course, that was before Jack had become a total lush. Maybe he could explain exactly what the Lord's Resistance Army stood for, but for now Tintin was backing away. He wasn't stupid after all: the Holy Army and the Lord's Resistance Army were out of his league.
For now, anyway…
He checked his watch: it was 8.30pm. He was due to meet everyone in Au Crazy Horse at 9pm. His costume was simple though, and didn't need much prep time beyond a bit of hair gel. He gathered up his things and hid Snowy under his raincoat as he left. Outside, he was hailed by an unfamiliar voice. He turned to see a young girl of about fourteen. She had been leaning against the wall, sheltered from the worst of the cold by the Romanesque columns of the library's façade. He vaguely recognised her as one of the hood-rats that hung out around Clichy-sous-Bois with T-Bag's gang.
"What's up?" he asked cautiously.
"Were you asking about the Holy Army?" she demanded.
"Maybe."
"Don't be stupid: you were or you weren't."
"Why do you want to know?" he challenged.
"Look, T-Bag wouldn't tell your friend anything either, but" –
"What friend?" Tintin asked, frowning.
"On Monday. They guy you work with."
"Jay?" Tintin said indignantly. That sneaky so-and-so! No wonder he was so eager to be friends again: he just wanted my contacts! "Jay went to see T-Bag?"
"Yeah. I think that's his name. Look, T-Bag wouldn't tell him anything, but a couple of the lads sold your friend the information. He's going there tonight on his own."
"Good!" Tintin snapped.
"Mister, they'll kill him!" she cried.
He rolled his eyes; she was being dramatic, of course. They'd beat him up, which was what he deserved for being such a snake in the grass. But on the other hand, he had been a friend once, and a small part of Tintin felt wrong about letting him walk into something so dangerous.
"Fine," he said reluctantly. "Tell me what he knows and I'll try and stop him before it's too late." She gave him the address of a gentleman's club in le quartier Pigalle, Paris's main red light district.
"That's where they store their stuff," she added. "Or so I hear."
"Good. Thank you." He dug into his pocket and handed her a ten euro note. Her face lit up.
"Thanks, mister!" She winked, pulled down the zip of her Puffa jacket and hid the note in her miniscule cleavage before turning on her heel and strolling away. Meanwhile, Tintin took out his phone and dialled Jay's number. Still walking towards the metro station, Snowy stuck to his heels, he waited for Jay to answer.
"Hey! Tintin!" In the background, Tintin could hear a colossal roar as other people took up the shout. "It's Tintin! Hey Tintin! Tell him to get down here!"
"Don't go after the Holy Army," Tintin said shortly.
"What?" Jay shouted.
"Don't go after the Holy Army!" he repeated, louder this time.
"No, it's no good, mate, I can't hear you. Hang on: I have to go outside." There was some ambient noise and crackling before the loud, pulsing bass and shouting voices died away, leaving just Jay. "You on your way?"
"No. Listen to me: stay away from the Holy Army."
"Who?"
"Don't play dumb: I know you went to see one of my contacts this week. I know you're going after the Holy Army. Don't."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Tintin. I'm already in Crazy Horse. Chris is with me."
"Oh, whatever." Tintin shook his head. "I warned you, ok? Don't come crying to me when they put you in hospital."
"What the hell are you talking ab" –
Tintin hung up. He felt an evil sort of pleasure in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't help it, and he felt awful for feeling it, but it would serve Jay right! He had no idea how hard Tintin's job really was: he spent the days chasing leads and catching stories, and he spent his nights doing pretty much the same thing. He was obliged to show up for work each day, because as far as anyone else knew it was Jack doing all the hard, important work. That left Tintin doing the bulk of it in the evening.
Plus, most of the people he had to talk to weren't exactly day-people either: the scum of the earth – the junkies and rats that would sell out their grandmothers for the cost of a hit of heroin – naturally moved in the night-time hours, and those guys were dangerous. They were the kind of low-lifes that would stab someone for a few euros. Every time he had to meet with these people, he was taking his life into his hands and heading into the unknown.
Let Jay try it! Let him see what he aspired to become, in all its sordid glory. Let him take the chances. Good luck to him!
Author's Note: Tintin might seem totally OOC in this chapter, but by the time this story, and it's follow up (Tintin in the Democratic Republic of Congo*) is finished, he will have changed his selfish, all-for-one-and-everyone-else-can-go-to-hell attitude to the altruistic, selfless, mature character we all know and love.
*This is being researched now, and is barely in the planning stages. But to be fair, if any of Hergé's stories were to be revisited by Modern!Tintin, this has to be top of the list. I mean, the whole thing is about smashing a diamond smuggling ring in the Congo. Does anyone remember anything about diamonds, diamond mines, or the bloody destruction of lives that the blood diamond mines results in, being mentioned in Congo? So when Modern!Tintin gets there, prepare for a story completely different from the original. In fact, it's not a rewrite; it's a sodding reboot!