NINETEEN
Enzi was fourteen years old the first time he had killed anyone with his own hands, and it had been someone he loved and someone he hated. His father had been murdered by a local warlord some years before, he could not remember when, time became blurred. His father’s crime was refusing to join the local militia, become what he detested, what he wanted to escape. Shot in front of his family not in the head, but the stomach and legs, it took him hours to die. The warlord made the whole village watch, and Enzi had to stand by with his mother, while his father bled to death in agony.
The warlord took Enzi’s older brother and all the other men in the camp without resistance. The warlord returned each month, to ensure that the food aid the village received was taken and controlled by him. He would wait until the western aid workers had left, then come into camp at night and take everything. The villagers would bury and hide some grain, using any container they could, sometimes he would find it; sometimes he would not.
On that day, the last day, he found the grain that Enzi’s mother had buried in the floor of their house. After he had his men dig up every floor in every house, discovering all the hidden food, he punished the perpetrators. All the women in camp were systematically raped, while the warlord watched from his jeep, Enzi’s mother sat next to him trembling. Enzi had objected, but been pistol whipped into submission, now sitting bleeding by the front wheels of the jeep. The warlord wanting to show his prowess and power to his men, tied Enzi’s mother to the bonnet of the jeep, and with Enzi sitting only feet away, took what little innocence he had, and any dignity his mother had retained.
The warlord left the village, informing them that any future lack of cooperation would mean the village and its occupants would be burned alive.
Enzi waited for the Warlords return, gathering other young boys from the surrounding villages, hesitant frightened angry young men.
The warlord’s visited on his usual schedule, and was told that all the grain was stacked up in one of the deserted houses for him. The arrogance and confidence that drove him was to be his undoing. The usual band of brutes that accompanied the warlord were absent, even Enzi’s brother was not among them. The warlords confidence arose from his previous atrocities giving him respect through fear, Enzi would exploit this lapse in judgement.
The warlord entered the house, the grain stacked as promised; he stabbed some sacks with his knife, checking the contents. He heard a scream. Outside by his jeeps the eight men he had brought with him, who had been relaxed and smoking when he entered the house, were all dead. In their heads and chests embedded with spears. He retreated inside the house reached for his revolver, but it was not in its holster. Then he heard it click behind him.
He turned slowly not wishing to antagonise the holder, his knife still firmly in his left hand. Enzi was standing in front of the stacked grain sacks, hidden just behind them when the warlord had entered. He had lifted the revolver from its open holster, even though he had never held one before, he felt its power.
‘You will not harm me or my mother again!’
‘Shut up boy! Give me my gun, young fool!’
Enzi shot the warlord, first in the shoulder, the kick from the old gun surprising him. Then he fired again, hit him in the stomach, his intended target, the force and close range knocking the warlord from the house and into the dirt outside. The rest of the village were outside watching the destruction of their tormentor. A third shot, hit him in the groin, by now the warlord was screaming and cursing, his knife falling from his hand as the pain coursed through his body. Enzi fired again, hitting his left side, blood spraying out of the man’s mouth as his lung collapsed. Then Enzi stopped, looked at his mother who was in the entrance of their meagre home, she was crying. He left the bleeding man, running to his mother, the gun smoking in his hand. ‘What is wrong mother? Why are you crying? I have killed our tormentor, the man who defiled you?’
‘And that is why I am crying?’
‘I don’t understand? I have stopped him, I will kill him!’
‘And through your hand, taking his life, his blood will be on your hands forever. Your father and I never wanted that for you.’
Enzi paused looking at the man lying on the floor, wheezing, bleeding into the arid soil. He turned back to his mother, who was looking at the gun. ‘Enzi, you have become like him, like your brother. I cannot live with what you have become.’
‘So what can I do? What can I do to make it right?’
‘Give me the gun my son.’
Dutifully Enzi passed his mother the gun, and looked at her, she stepped back, and without hesitation shot herself in the head. The young boy looked at his hands, the blood from his mother on them, the spray from the warlord on his chest. He could not take the gun from his mother’s hand, could not go near her. He wanted the last bullet in the gun for himself, but could not touch her body, approach her staring eyes.
Enzi called over the other boys and told them to finish the warlord, while he sat in the jeep, blood and bodies around him. The boys beat the warlord to death, taking the little remaining life in exchange for rage, revenge and blood lust. When they had finished, they returned breathless to Enzi, looking to him for guidance. He took them to the river, where they all washed off the blood, then went back to the warlord’s compound, and ordered the boys to kill all of the remaining militia who had not fled, he fired no shots himself. The grain and other goods were distributed back to the villages they were stolen from.
Enzi never went back to his home, his brother buried their mother. Enzi never told him how she died. The dreams of that day resurfaced, he tried western drugs, hypnosis, but the memory remained, her blood invisibly staining his palms, it would never leave, never fade.
Mastasson brought him back to his senses, cautioning him against apathy. ‘It will not be straight forward, taking the camp you should precede carefully.’
‘They are merely scientists what harm can they do to me?’
‘You are forgetting Jacob Mathias.’
‘He is of no consequence, he may be the leader, but he is nothing.’
‘You are mistaken Enzi, and you must ensure that he is neutralised, he is not to be underestimated.’
‘Why not? What do you know about this man?’
‘He is, was, with me in my old job, he was Head of Special Operations for a time, he is a former Ranger and it was rumoured he did work with the CIA or another agency before resigning.’
‘This is unacceptable, I am not prepared for anyone with military training, I only have twenty men and a few local mercenaries!’
‘My contact will get him out of camp before you arrive, but you must send a second team upriver to ensure that he is taken care of.’
‘You might have told me this before I left!’
‘I did not know he was coming until yesterday, he only arrived in camp a few hours before you, so adjust your tone!’
‘Fine, I will do as you say, but your contact better do his job, I do not want an ex-special forces man destroying all my work!’
‘My contact is reliable, and don’t you mean our work?’
‘Yes that is what I said, I will see you tomorrow.’
Enzi closed the phone assured that anyone intercepting the message would not understand their intentions, but concerned on how much information he was being given by his partner.
TWENTY
Alexander Uncotto entered his limousine in the underground car park of the Four Seasons hotel. His security team in SUV’s in front and behind, two men inside the car in the screened front area. His aide sat beside him, checked his itinerary, and the profiles of all the dignitaries he would be meeting at the United Nations today. Alexander always prepared a list of all potential guests, memorising their partners and children’s names, favourite hobbies and habits. He wanted to appear knowledgeable and friendly; it was always helpful to provide a positive lasting first impression in politics.