13: Questions

Skidding around a muddy track in off-road go-karts seemed like a distant memory as George trudged through the cloying red mud on his way back from work the next day. A downpour had started in the morning and not relented, leaving all the paths a sucking mess of mud which covered shoes and boots within seconds, making every step a slip hazard.

Today has been George's last shift during the day and he'd be swapping onto the night shift, which was brutal because sleeping in the heat of the day was nearly impossible. Michael had traded with someone to get onto the same shift, since the middle of the night would be perfect for causing a distraction now that they knew Bheki was coming.

"George," someone shouted in heavily-accented French. George looked around, shielding his face from the rain.

"Here." It was one of the guards that George didn't recognise, brandishing his rifle. George stepped off the path and waded through a few yards of mud to reach him.

"You come, problem," the guard said, his fatigues heavy and wet from standing in the pouring rain.

"Come? It's tipping it down, can't I at least get a shower and get changed?" George asked, pointing to his own sopping wet shirt.

"No, no, come." This time the order came with a prod from the AK-47, so George shrugged and began following.

"What's wrong?" George asked, nerves rising in his stomach. It didn't seem likely their cover had been blown, but you couldn't rule it out, and George cast a wary eye at the AK. No matter how much he told himself to keep calm, he couldn't stop images of being led behind a building somewhere and shot from entering his mind. He wished he'd hung back to walk with Michael so someone else would know where he was.

The guard didn't reply, so George repeated the question.

"I don't know," the guard said in a monotone. "Come."

He was led to the main office building, which was crumbling just like every other part of the compound. It originally had automatic doors, but these had stopped working and the guard went in through a side door, which he had to unlock using a key hung on his belt. George followed, relieved to be out of the rain once he was inside. He wiped a hand through his soaking hair, sending a dribble of water down his back, and noticed that the guard didn't bother to lock the door again behind him.

"Come," the guard said, as he sat down and began unlacing his muddy boots. George eyed the rifle - this was a golden chance to grab it if he was going to try and escape. But, he decided to play it safe and wait to see what was going on.

The guard had swapped his boots for a pair of indoor slippers, but when George looked for a pair to wear there were none in his size. He pointed this out to the guard.

"What should I do?" he asked, pointing at his bare feet.

The guard shrugged. "No shoes, fine. Come."

Resigned to it, George followed him, leaving a trail of dripping water and wet footprints along the carpeted corridors. Most of the rooms they passed were either empty or being used as storage, full of boxes of documents or piles of old equipment. George made a mental note of what he could see of the layout, as breaking into the office building to look for information would be a key part of their escape plan. Unfortunately, looking through all those boxes of documents would take weeks, and any one of them could be the one they were looking for.

At the end of the corridor, they turned right into another corridor, but only went a few paces before the guard stopped outside a wooden door. He knocked twice, then pointed at the door and looked at George.

"In."

The interior of the office was sparse: the venetian blinds that had once covered the window on one side were battered and hanging half-off, the desk had chunks of chipboard gouged out of it and the air conditioning wasn't working, based on the huge metal fan sitting at one edge of the room. Behind the desk was a harassed-looking African, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, filling in a form or writing a document with an old-fashioned ink pen. He gave George a nasty smile when he came in, revealing rows of uneven teeth.

"George? I'm Descamps," he said, his French accent perfect.

"Nice to meet you," George replied, moving to sit on the open chair.

"No, don't sit down," Descamps replied, putting down his pen and looking up at George. "I don't want the chair getting damp."

George remained standing, trying to size the man up as he tidied away some papers into his desk drawer. The excellent French meant he was educated, and George guessed he was probably the site manager or something.

"Books," he announced, reaching into his bottom desk drawer and producing a stack of paperback books. George immediately recognised them as the pile that had been in his locker. "These are yours, yes?"

There was no point denying it. "Yes, they're mine." George kept his gaze steady, focusing on a breathing exercise he'd learnt on campus, designed to keep you calm and collected when answering questions in an interrogation. He fought down the nervous butterflies in his stomach.

Descamps tapped the top of the pile with his finger. "These are from outside. Nothing from outside is allowed." He paused, looking at George, but George just stared back at him.

He sighed."Have you got any more?"

George shook his head. "No, just those."

"If you lie to me, the punishment will be much more severe."

George didn't break eye contact. "Just those." He could feel a film of sweat developing on his palms. He knew he had a few more by his bunk, and hoped they hadn't found those.

Descamps stared back, before tapping the books again. "Where did you get them?"

George shrugged. "Found them."

"No you didn't. Who gave these to you?"

"Nobody. I got them from the library."

The man paused again, picking up the book from the top of the stack. The plain paper cover was stamped with dense Mandarin characters. "You read this?" he asked, flicking through the pages.

George didn't reply.

"Answer me, George, or things get worse. You can read this?"

George nodded briefly. "Some of it."

Descamps fixed his eye on George again. "Forgive me, George, but I am trying to puzzle this out." He tapped the books again, this time more firmly. "When we search the lockers, I'm expecting to find cigarettes, dirty magazines, maybe alcohol. Maybe a knife. But we find this." He laid his hand on the Mandarin book. "A French-Mandarin dictionary. I looked through it, but there's nothing hidden, no secret space to keep a razor blade. Why do you have this?"

George shrugged again. "For learning. Reading."

Descamps ran the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away sweat. "Learning. Tell me, George, are you planning to apply for a school when you leave here?"

George didn't reply, but kept his gaze steady. He knew that people didn't just get up one day and leave.

"Why else would you want to learn this?" Descamps asked, but he didn't expect a reply. He got up, and looked out through the broken blinds for a few seconds.

"George, you are a white boy, maybe fourteen, fifteen. You speak good French and you're also learning Mandarin. The foremen say you are a good worker, tough, smart. Never cause any trouble. Does this also sound suspicious to you?"

George let his expression change to one of confusion. "Suspicious?"

"In this country, we have many enemies. Foreign countries that want us to fail. They want our territory, our resources. It would be easy for them to send a poor white boy into our facility and then, suddenly, western media is here in Kolwezi, saying we're exploiting you, getting your picture in the New York Times. You read a few documents in Mandarin, share these with journalists. Does this sound familiar?"

George shrugged again. "No idea what you're talking about."

Descamps turned around to look at George, staring at him, but George kept his face straight.

"Let me tell you this, George, that is not how we do things here. If I catch you doing anything you shouldn't be, you will not be alive for much longer, and your journalist friends can search all year for your body."

The threat was designed to be chilling, but George reckoned it was only being made because Descamps had no other information. He was safe.

"You may go," Descamps said, waving his hand dismissively. George turned and reached out to open the door.

"Oh, one more thing, George," Descamps said, tapping his hand on the pile of books. "No more books, that would be bad, okay?"

It was a textbook interrogation tactic - Descamps had waited until George was about to leave, feeling relieved, then asked a casual question in English. Without training, George would have automatically responded in English, giving away the fact that he could speak English as well as French, and raising Descamps' suspicions. Instead, George turned around immediately.

"Sorry, I don't understand," George replied in French, face blank. "English?"

Descamps stared at him again, willing him to give in, but then gave up himself. "No more books," he said firmly, in French. "Now go."

Unfortunately, the guard escorted George back to the entrance, when he'd have preferred the chance to explore a little. Pulling his horribly wet and cold boots back on, he stepped back out into the relentless drizzle, his mind racing with questions. It wasn't surprising that Descamps couldn't conceive of the idea of the secret services using children to infiltrate his facility, and it made more sense that he thought it was a possible media stunt. The fact he was so worried about it told George there was definitely something he was hiding, some punishment from a higher authority he was afraid of.

George had rarely been to this part of the compound before, and the guard had hung back to do something else in the office building, so despite the rain he decided to take the scenic route back to the bunkhouse. The front of the building, outside the entrance, was yet another decaying landscaped section, with a couple of stunted trees struggling to grow amidst the general mud. George caught a glimpse of a car parked around the corner, and, wondering whether it would be a possibility to steal one for a getaway, he went in that direction to investigate.

There was a small car park with room for about fifteen cars, but it was less than half full. The cars were the usual collection of battered Toyota 4x4s and knackered-looking vans, but parked a few spaces away at one end was a gleaming black Mercedes G-class off roader. It was at least ten years newer than any of the other cars, and, when George examined it, it seemed to be in perfect condition apart from the pervasive mud which was coating the tyres and wheel arches. He ambled over for a closer look, trying to peer through the blacked-out windows, and noting that the windscreen wasn't a standard Mercedes one. Glancing at the suspension underneath the car, George realised it was an armoured car, bullet-proof. It would be the perfect thing for a breakout, but they'd have to find and steal the keys.

"Hey!" a voice yelled as George circled around to the driver's side. George looked up with an innocent expression as a guard hurried over, splashing mud.

"Get away from Bheki's car, he'll kill you," the man shouted, waving his arm vigorously.

"I was just admiring it," George explained, but the man wasn't being swayed.

"He'll probably kill me too," he shouted. "Go now or I'll shoot."

It was an empty threat, but when the guard grabbed his rifle, George complied, turning back on himself and walking back through the car park. So, Bheki was definitely here in the compound, and they'd be able to tell if he'd left by looking to see whether the car was still here. Another breakthrough. The conversation with Descamps still weighed on George's mind, and as he struggled through the mud towards a long-overdue shower, he knew he'd have to discuss this with Michael, and soon. They'd waited six months for this chance and he wanted to grab it.