Thirst for Justice Read online

  “I hit the wall in marathons, and guess what? I just keep going. It’s more mental than physical.”

  Anna shook her head at his stubbornness, his conviction. She put in a CD, cranked up the volume, and turned to look out the window. The gorgeous voice of Mali’s Rokia Traore filled the vehicle.

  Michael enjoyed making snap decisions in the face of adversity. It was a large part of the reason he had become a surgeon and also underlaid his decision to join IMAF. He’d become increasingly frustrated in the emergency ward at Seattle’s Harborview Medical Center. Renowned as one of the best trauma surgeons in town, he had an ability to envision the violent geometry of bullets as they entered the human body and ricocheted off bones, deflected off tendons, and pierced soft tissues. What had finally pushed Michael over the edge was the return of a bullet-riddled teenager named DeShawn. The kid had been in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong skin color. According to the paramedics who brought him in, he’d been shot by Seattle police on the fringes of a peaceful protest. The America he knew and loved was coming apart at the seams.

  Michael went for a long run after his shift that day and came across a demonstration refugee camp set up in Volunteer Park. After several conversations with volunteers about their experiences overseas, he decided that he would join IMAF for a tour of duty. He needed the change. He would happily go wherever they wanted him to go. When they assigned him to Goma, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, he had to look it up on Wikipedia. Maria, understandably, had been less than thrilled by his radical change of course.

  Michael was jolted from his memories when the speeding Land Cruiser hit a deep pothole. There were less than five hundred miles of paved roads in the entire Congo, a country the size of Western Europe.

  “Hey Laurent. Slow down a bit would you, please.”

  Laurent was taken aback, and took his eyes off the road to glare at Michael. “It is too fast?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right.” He lifted his foot imperceptibly from the accelerator. “It is better?”

  Michael grunted ambiguously. The two men had dueling fears. Michael was afraid they would crash. The roads were in dismal condition, rules and enforcement were nonexistent, and driver’s licenses required passing a bribe, not an exam. Particularly unsettling were the hand-painted signs, hung on bent poles, which said “DANGER—LAND MINES.” The crucifix dangling from the rearview mirror and the plastic Jesus glued to the dashboard were no consolation.

  Laurent’s fear, on the other hand, had nothing to do with driving. He didn’t want to be on the road after dark because he was familiar with the Congo’s three Rs: roadblocks, rebels, and robbers. They were already behind schedule. Both men’s fears were well founded. One man’s were about to materialize.

  “Can you pull over? Sorry, Laurent, but I need to take a leak.”

  “Vous ne pouvez pas attender quelques minutes?”

  “No, I can’t wait.”

  “Merde!” Laurent abruptly stopped the vehicle at the side of the road. Michael climbed out to relieve himself. The sunset above the volcanic peaks was an apocalyptic sight, the blood red sky darkening to a livid purple, like a fresh scab congealing. Congolese sunsets happened fast, as if the sun itself shared people’s paranoia about the dangers of night and was eager to escape.

  A gang of children appeared from nowhere, surrounding Michael. Palms extended, begging, but also curious, the children slipped their roaming quicksilver hands into the pockets of his shorts, seeking something to eat, something of value, or an item that could be ransomed back to its owner. Michael chuckled at the sight of a bright-eyed boy, barefoot but wearing a Harvard University T-shirt like a tunic, with a string tied around his waist. Another boy was shirtless, wearing only acid-washed blue jeans and a straw fedora.

  “Bonjour, mes amis,” said Michael loudly, prompting a chorus of giggles. Coming up empty in their informal frisking, the boys turned their attention to the Toyota. Laurent stood, leaning on the hood of the car, having a quick cigarette break.

  “Allez, allez. Let’s go!” Laurent licked his thumb and index finger, pinched the half-smoked butt, and put it in his shirt pocket.

  Michael shooed the children away. Like Laurent, he knew the road was a poor place to spend time at night. Soon they were back to a foolhardy speed on the narrow, winding road. The potholes were nearly invisible in the fast encroaching darkness. Laurent navigated as best he could, swerving and veering in a futile attempt to avoid the bone-rattling impacts. The concept of a centerline was foreign to Congolese drivers. The only observed rules of the road were that smaller vehicles had to give way to larger vehicles, and slower vehicles had to make way for faster ones.

  It began to rain, a heavy pulsing downpour. Without functioning wipers, they had no choice but to slow down. It was now pitch black outside. Although the Toyota’s sole headlight was on, many of the other vehicles on the road had no running lights, bulbs long smashed or burned out, or wires pirated to fix something else. Darkened vehicles appeared without warning, as in a video game. Every approaching corner made Michael take a deep breath, exhaled only when it became clear that there was no oncoming traffic.

  Anna awoke from an intermittent nap and bent down to change the CD.

  “How about some King Sunny Adé?” Michael asked.

  “Merde!” Laurent cursed.

  Michael was momentarily confused. He thought that Laurent was a fan of the Nigerian band and their exuberant drumming rhythms, but the vehicle was skidding to a jerky stop.

  “What the—” Michael saw the makeshift roadblock, a tree trunk and two 45-gallon fuel drums. Standing on the road was a ragtag band of about dozen men and children, armed and bizarrely dressed.

  “Merde,” Laurent repeated, softer this time.

  “Rebels?” whispered Michael.

  “No, c’est pire.”

  “Worse? What do you mean?”

  “Mai Mai.”

  The Mai Mai, meaning “water, water” or “strong water,” were a legendary group of warriors, sorcerers, and priests. Rooted in a long history of animism, superstition, and secret societies, the modern Mai Mai struck fear wherever they appeared. Their reputation for unwavering courage made them popular mercenaries, and they’d become even more deadly when assault rifles supplanted bows, arrows, and spears. It was rumored that the Mai Mai ate the flesh of their victims, particularly the warm hearts and livers, to bolster their courage.

  In the solitary headlight filtered into flickering prisms by the rain, the Mai Mai appeared ethereal, like dark spirits of the forest. Some wore long blond wigs, while others sported grass skirts or sequined dresses.

  “We need to stay calm,” Anna said.

  “Can you handle this, Laurent?” Michael asked.

  He didn’t answer. His hands were still clenching the steering wheel.

  “Laurent! Are you okay?”

  Still no response. Michael slowly opened the door, raising his empty hands above his head. One of the children approached the Toyota, casually propping the duct-taped stock of a Kalashnikov against his shoulder with one hand while smoking a cigarette with the other. Decked out in a military uniform several sizes too large, bandoliers over both shoulders, wearing a beret at a rakish angle, and with a showerhead dangling around his neck to ward off evil spirits, the boy was almost a comical sight, but Michael, Anna, and Laurent were not laughing.

  As he came closer, it became apparent that he was not a child at all, but a short man, less than five feet tall, perhaps in his mid-thirties. He had a thin, sparse mustache and bloodshot eyes.

  “Donnez-moi votre identification! Passeports!” the man demanded.

  “I am a doctor,” Michael replied, “with the International Medical Assistance Foundation, and these are my colleagues.”

  The man switched to English. “I am the General. Where are you going?”

/>   “We’re on our way back to Goma.”

  “We’ll see about that. Where have you been?”

  “We spent the day in Masisi, distributing food, vaccinating children, and checking for outbreaks of cholera, measles, and other diseases.”

  “Do you work for the Hutus or the inyenzi?” The General used the Kinyarwanda word for cockroaches to refer to the Tutsis. It was a loaded question. The Hutus and Tutsis, the most populous ethnic groups in Central Africa, are blood enemies. The Mai Mai belong to a different ethnic group, the Hundes, who were perpetually at war with both Hutus and Tutsis. There were so many feuds, so much hatred, that the aid organization’s neutrality was challenged every time they visited a new community. A decision to begin a therapeutic feeding program in one village meant that people might continue to go hungry in villages down the road or over the hill.

  “IMAF is neutral,” Michael answered. “Our mandate is to help all people in need of medical and humanitarian assistance. We do our best to treat everybody that comes to our clinics.”

  “Very well, you may proceed.”

  Michael exhaled and started to relax, allowing his shoulders to fall and his fists to unclench. The General watched him closely, then added, “Of course first you must pay a road tax.”

  Michael frowned. “We can’t do that, General. Such a payment would compromise our neutrality. Please accept my apologies and permit us to continue.”

  “You will pay.” It was a statement, not a question. The Mai Mai leader lay his Kalashnikov on the hood of the Toyota and pulled a handgun from its holster.

  “No.” Michael stared at the gun but held his ground.

  The General’s red-rimmed eyes flashed from bemused to angry. He sneered at Michael and turned his head, shouting orders. Two teenagers with acne-pocked faces and gangly limbs hurried toward the vehicle, where Laurent and Anna remained in their seats. The soldiers brandished pangas, the flat-bladed machetes that were used to conserve bullets. The taller one knocked aggressively on the driver’s side window with his blade, motioning for Laurent to get out.

  “Please leave the driver alone.” Michael spoke firmly.

  “No. Pay the road tax or face the consequences.”

  Michael bit his lip and shook his head, refusing to be blackmailed. He didn’t want to show weakness. Paying a bribe would violate IMAF rules and if the Congolese government discovered that IMAF gave money to the Mai Mai, it could spell the end of their operations in the country. Laurent was dragged from the vehicle to stand beside Michael. The General dismissed his two soldiers with a nod, and they melted back into the shadows beside the road. The rain was easing off.

  Through the open door Anna whispered, “Take your money and hand it over.”

  The General leered at Anna before returning his focus to Michael. “Listen to your friend, and do it now. This is not a negotiation!”

  Michael looked down at his feet, wondering if he should offer what was in his wallet, or try to disarm the smaller man. There was an earsplitting explosion. For a nanosecond he thought it was odd that a spray of warm raindrops struck only the right side of his face. Time ran in slow motion. He looked up and saw the General blowing on the end of his gun’s barrel. Then Michael turned toward Laurent, whose face had become a bloody mask. His body toppled backwards, glancing off the side of the Land Cruiser as he fell. Michael instinctively knelt down and put his fingers on Laurent’s neck, checking for a pulse. A glance at the gaping entry wound in the middle of his forehead confirmed that it was futile. He turned to look up at the General and slowly rose to his feet.

  The pistol wavered less than a foot from his face, pointing up at him. The General’s gun hand was shaking. Michael could smell an acrid miasma of body odor, marijuana, and sex emanating from him. He could hear the other soldiers, out of sight, laughing and swearing. He could feel his own heart racing.

  Sweat dripped from the General’s temples, rolling down his face as he ranted. “You have no idea what it’s like to live here. Every day, guns pointed at our heads. Every day, death all around us. Congolese lives are cheap. You think you can come in, save a few lives, and puff out your chest? Do yourself a favor and go home. You’re putting Band-Aids on machete cuts.”

  Michael was outnumbered, outgunned, out of his element. He had unwittingly sacrificed one friend. Continue to refuse to pay, and who knows what they would do to Anna. He, too, would probably be shot in the face. Run, and he’d be shot in the back. He lifted his shirt to reach into his money belt.

  Then the General’s arm swung in an uppercut motion, smashing his pistol on Michael’s temple. Anna’s scream was the last thing Michael would hear before he blacked out.

  When consciousness returned, Michael thought he was waking from a nightmare. But his vision was blurred, and he was lying on a road, not in bed. His head throbbed and when he reached up to touch it, he saw stars. His fingers came away sticky with blood.

  It all came roaring back. Laurent, dead, on the ground beside him. “Anna,” he cried, pulling himself up on the Land Cruiser and looking inside. Empty. In the soft light of the moon he swung his gaze left and right. The Mai Mai were gone, the roadblock dismantled. Michael walked around the vehicle and an animal cry was wrenched from his throat. Anna was on the ground, blood on her face, shirt ripped open and pants around her ankles. “No,” he moaned, kneeling beside her. His hand flew to her neck. There was a pulse, steady and strong. He did a quick check for further injuries, found none, pulled up her pants, closed her shirt, and as gently as possible placed her in the backseat. He circled the vehicle, picked up Laurent’s body and carefully laid it in the back. Michael knew he had to keep going. Shock and adrenaline would lend a hand, but soon he would crash.

  He climbed into the driver’s seat. All of their phones were gone but the keys, miraculously, were still in the ignition. He drove back to Goma, speeding recklessly through the dark and the rain, head pounding, vision still dodgy, flinching every time the vehicle hit a pothole. The events ricocheted in his mind. The gunshot. The spray of blood. The destruction of Laurent’s face. Then the savage blow that knocked him out. He punished himself by imagining how he could have responded differently. If he’d handed the money over right away, maybe the General would have let them go. Who knows? The possibilities were irrelevant because only one outcome had occurred. Michael knew the night’s images would haunt him forever.

  Chapter 3

  Michael returned to the staff compound, a sprawling villa abandoned by a colonial Belgian businessman. Although it was two in the morning, somebody would still be up. He leaned on the horn, stumbled out of the Land Cruiser, and opened the back door so he could sling Anna’s body over his shoulder. He staggered to the surgical tent and slid her onto an operating table.

  “What’s going on? We couldn’t reach—” Jean-Claude asked as he ran in, stopping as he recognized Anna, who was beginning to regain consciousness, a low moan emanating from her that grew into quiet sobbing.

  Through his shock, Michael tried to explain. “Mai Mai. Shot Laurent. Think they raped Anna. She needs help. And call the police.”

  Jean-Claude absorbed the cascade of catastrophic news and turned to run back to the vehicle. It was his job to be unflappable, but this was bad. “I’ll go get Laurent.”

  “No!” Michael couldn’t meet Jean-Claude’s eyes. “It’s too late for him. Get Henri.”

  He turned to Anna. She flinched as he placed his hand on her shoulder.

  “Shh. You’re safe now. We’re back.”

  Anna didn’t say anything, just rolled onto her side and pulled her legs to her chest. Michael had carried out many examinations of sexual assault victims, but never on a close friend. Henri could do it, but he might be half drunk, and Michael felt a sense of responsibility. He would have to distance himself, carry out the physical examination, collect evidence, and provide Anna with preventive medications to deal with possible infe
ction or pregnancy. He could feel his pulse slowing as he slipped into the medical routine. First, he needed to wash up. As he scrubbed his hands, he remembered Laurent’s body in the back of the vehicle and felt weak in the knees. But nothing could be done for Laurent now. Anna came first.

  “Anna, I’m sorry. So sorry. But can you tell me where you are in pain?”

  Almost imperceptibly, Anna shook her head. There was a lot of blood matted in her hair. Michael would need to clean that up, see if stitches were needed, and test her for a concussion. His own head hurt like hell and his vision was still blurred around the edges, but he shrugged it off.

  Jean-Claude was back. “Henri will be here in a minute.” He hesitated. “He’s in good shape, Michael. When we couldn’t reach any of you on your mobiles we stayed up waiting. He only had one or two beers. And the police will be here in a few minutes.”

  “Okay, thanks, JC. Now give me a hand. I need warm water, sponges, and some cloths. And a pair of scissors. I want to start with her head wound.”

  “Of course.”

  Henri entered the tent, wearing scrubs and ready to work, and took in the scene. “Are you okay, Michael?”

  “No, I’m . . . Yes, fine. It’s Anna that needs help. Head wound, lost consciousness, and pretty sure she was sexually assaulted.”

  “Mon dieu! Anna, I’m terribly sorry. But Michael—you are bleeding.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Let me see your ’ead—”

  “No! Leave me alone. We need to help Anna.”

  “Look at me, Michael.” The two doctors locked eyes. “You need ’elp too. And where is Laurent?”

  Michael looked at the floor. “He’s in the back of the Toyota.” He paused. “Dead.”

  Henri dropped his head to his chest for a moment and took a deep breath. “Okay, so sit down, and if I need your ’elp, I’ll ask for it.”

  “Let me see your hands,” Michael replied.