The Jeep is gone, presumably taken by Holt. It was he who had come into the room during the fight.

Carsten Holt. Unofficial leader of the Rogue Six. NowRogue Three, he corrects himself. Ex-Seal, used by the agency for wet work, expert in close protection work and explosives. Quit the army to go freelance and isn’t particular how he earns his money. Now running a mine-hijacking and mineral-trading racket in the Congo. The agency had him on a watch list for some time and had blacklisted him and his closest associates when the Congo happened. The surviving two with Holt are Quink Jones and Pieter Mendes. Both of them ex-Rangers.

He powers up his satellite phone and wakes up Andrews.

Over two hundred women raped – some of them young girls – some children and infants killed. The perpetrators – about forty FDLR soldiers and six ex-agency mercenaries. Many of the villagers in the DRC who worked in the mines had a private stash of ore, which they used to trade, and it was such homes that brought Holt and his band to Luvungi.

The men in the village had been out working in the mines when Holt and the soldiers arrived. Cobalt ore and pebbles were what Stark and Schulte were weighing and recording when Zeb sent them to their Maker. Rape and killing was part of instilling fear and cooperation. Schulte knew that Holt was working with someone in the States for capturing mines and selling the minerals but didn’t know who that was.

Andrews goes Chernobyl, his tirade lasting a good few minutes, burning the air. Andrews calms down a long while later.

‘You have to come back immediately. We need you to meet the UN and depose. You’re the first eyewitness account to this horrific…this atrocious…this sickening…whatever one calls it.’

Zeb is silent.

‘I guess Schulte, Stark, and Boulder are in no position to embarrass the agency?’ Andrews asks, knowing full well what the answer is.

Zeb keeps his counsel.

‘I want you back here immediately. Once the news breaks that FDLR soldiers and some mercenaries who seem to be American were involved in mass murders and multiple rapes in the Congo, the shit will not just hit the fan, it will create a mushroom cloud over Washington. The White House will be brown. I need you back with your photographs and your record of the events to prevent collateral damage here. Your being there, we could spin it that you helped stopped the most horrific abuse in Africa in history. I can see the headlines now.’

Collateral damage.

Andrews-speak for covering his and the Director’s ass and playing the D.C. game.

‘This’s more important than those three. I’ll put them on an international blacklist and get international warrants issued on them. In any case, Holt and the other two will likely disappear now that you located them.

‘And there’s another reason for you to get the hell out of there. The villagers won’t be able to distinguish you from the rogue soldiers. Tempers are no doubt going to be high there for some time. I also don’t want to explain your presence to the authorities there right now, even if you are listed as a charity worker. You aren’t exactly unknown to some intelligence agencies around the world. It’s best you get out and come home.’

Zeb looks back at the hut where the girl with the vacant eyes lies, and makes his mind up.

Holt’s lifespan can be measured in hours.

He just doesn’t know it yet.

Chapter 2

New York – a maelstrom of people and energy. Zeb has spent a day sleeping off his months in the Congo. When he rises after a tabla-playing session, he heats up some soup, opens the windows overlooking 77th Street, and lets the world wash over him.

His second-floor two-bedroom apartment is adequate for his needs. No, it’s too big, he thinks. Maybe he should downsize further. He looks back towards the tabla resting in the corner of his lounge, the shells dark and gleaming from the streetlights.

He had been walking around in Jamaica, in New York, many years back when he heard the tabla being played in an Indian music school. The taals had stirred something in him that no other instrument had done, something that he thought was dead. He went inside the school and watched a white-haired elderly teacher demonstrate the instrument to a bunch of kids. There were a few drums hanging on the walls of the school. He went closer to view them.

They were strange instruments to him, the curved wooden shell with ropes to tighten the skin, very distinct from Western musical instruments. He ran his palms over the skin of the drums, felt the texture of the black spot, and behind him, he heard the teacher launching into a taal. He lingered around till he heard the students leaving and turned to the teacher.

The teacher was much older than he thought, in his seventies, but still strong of body, bright eyes peering at him through his spectacles. He grasped Zeb’s hands without a word and ran his fingers over Zeb’s calloused palms, all the while looking into Zeb.

‘You will not find forgiveness in the tabla. But you will lose yourself in the drums.’

Zeb started training that day.

Pounding on his door startles him from his reverie.

Andrews. Distinctive and impatient.

‘You know the phone was invented for a purpose.’ He strides inside, looks around, and finds Zeb’s phone on the dining table. ‘Twenty calls. Twenty fucking calls and messages from me.’

Zeb shrugs.

‘Have you seen the news? Luvungi is front page and has been on TV all day.’

‘I don’t follow the news, and I don’t have a TV.’

Andrews shakes his head in exasperation. ‘Tomorrow is your big day. You’re meeting the Secretary-General of the UN, who wants to hear about what happened over there,’ he says, waving in the direction of the ocean.

Andrews, being Andrews, is pointing to the wrong ocean. ‘The book deals and movie rights will start pouring in now.’

Zeb is amused. ‘Is that what you drove through rush-hour traffic to tell me?’

Andrews hesitates, his manic energy subsiding. ‘No, I wanted to see you, to see if you were okay. That girl you mentioned…’ He trails off and looks searchingly at Zeb.

Zeb ushers him towards the door, saying, ‘Pick me up tomorrow,’ and shuts the door on Andrews.

He hears Andrews cursing. ‘Prick! Why do I bother to be sympathetic? I must need a shrink. You had better be ready at eight sharp tomorrow. I’m not going to take any shit about your waking up late.’

It’s cold, crisp, and sunny the next day when Andrews arrives driving an agency car. He’s dressed to the nines and drives off without a word as soon as Zeb is seated. Andrews drives with utter disregard for the traffic, honking wildly, sticking his finger out at every opportunity, as he cannons across Roosevelt Avenue and then Queensboro Bridge toward United Nations Plaza.

‘Andrews, are you from New York?’ Zeb asks.

Andrews flips the bird again as he overtakes a blonde applying lipstick. ‘Bronx born and raised. Doesn’t it show?’

‘Who would have guessed? Hasn’t anyone shot at you, the way you drive?’ Zeb is unruffled as Andrews overtakes and nearly sideswipes a cab.

‘Once this guy chased me all the way from Central Park to Wall Street, waving his handgun. I pulled over and stuck my AK-47 out. He went from Mighty Mouse to Minnie Mouse and drove away.’

Andrews pulls into UN Plaza, the utter professional now. The massacre has made the news, and there’s a throng of protestors opposite UN Plaza, many of them holding placards either shaming the UN or urging it to do more. A few news stations have their broadcast vans outside, providing live coverage.

They are whisked upstairs after passing through security, and ushered into a boardroom.