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Intersect: Danger

a novel

by John T. Cullen

10.

Congo, 1942

Major Robert Malone had little trouble integrating himself into diplomatic life in Leopoldville. The tropical heat took a bit of getting used to, but Malone had experienced similar extremes in Malaysia and even in Florida. One had to get used to traveling everywhere with bodyguards, given years of growing popular unrest at Belgian mistreatment of their colonial subjects. The bodyguards could be inconvenient at moments when Rob found an opportunity to gamble. The card games were a way to raise cash, keep ahead of his creditors, and listen for interesting intelligence tidbits. Between several floating crap games, he could hobnob with every official of any significance in this part of Africa.

As a cover story, Rob was one of the multitudes of Allied military officers, diplomats, and bureaucrats swarming around the rich province. The Belgian exile government in the form of colonial governor Pierre Ryckmans ruled the Congo. Belgian rule had never been a kindly one, though nothing on the scale of the royal depredations in the late 1800s, which had created a world outcry and caused the king’s personal colony to be handed over to the Belgian people as a national fief.

Dozens of miners and other local laborers had recently died in uprisings in Luluabourg and Elisabethville. Relations with the locals remained testy.

Belgium was still in name and reality a Nazi possession, while the Belgian Congo was in reality already a staging area for the Allies in their drive to retake Africa from the Axis. Under cover, Rob was the eyes and ears of Wild Bill Donovan in the Congo. His concern was less with the Nazis, whose star had already badly waned in Africa, than with the incipient efforts by Stalin’s Soviets to make the world safe for Communism.

Rob’s primary technical contact was a Belgian physicist, Henri Brégel, who lived with his wife and daughter in a villa in the resort town of Boma but spent much of his working time in Leopoldville where he served as a scientific advisor to various Allied governments. From Brégel, Rob learned that the United States had interned a shipload of prime grade uranium-235 at a dock in New York City, and that some unspecified initial research into uses of the radioactive material was being conducted at a secret facility in Manhattan. That was either all Henri Brégel knew, or was willing to divulge. From the importance Donovan placed on this mysterious green glowing watch-dial paint, Rob could readily surmise Brégel knew his health was at stake if he had a loose tongue.

Rob found himself moving easily and elegantly in the frontier society in Leopoldville. He found the wives of European and American administrators to be intriguing and bored, and their daughters eager and attractive. He also quickly learned the ropes in terms of who was selling what, and who needed what, while keeping himself as squeaky clean as possible. Most people believed he was a foreign correspondent for several U.S. weekly journal. Nobody knew he was a U.S. Army officer, much less an O.S.S. plant.

As far as the women went, everything was “the war.” C’est la guerre. Among the dalliances Rob cultivated was one with the neglected and beautiful wife of a Belgian mining engineer named Simon Clery—a big, brutal man who was away most of the time, usually in Katanga where rubber and coal were mined, along with uranium ore, diamonds, and the other fruits of a jungle paradise spoiled by human greed. Clery’s wife was of no particular intelligence value, but she was beautiful and needy—and, like Rob Malone, had a dark and terrible secret. Rob only saw her occasionally, and he hardly thought of her when they weren’t together, but each time he saw her she roiled up a lot of inner turmoil in him. It was an affair that was going nowhere, they both suspected. And maybe that made it all the more passionate and pungent for both of them.

Rob found himself hovering around Brégel’s 23 year old daughter Astrid—no child, certainly, and sure to have been already deflowered though she radiated girlish innocence—who had been studying nursing at Louvain but had fled with her mother and siblings to join their father not long after the German invasion in 1940. Astrid was a willowy blonde with bright blue eyes, a sweet smile, and long slender arms—she looked great holding a drink, and Rob discovered she was something of a lush. That would account for that perennial reddish blush in her creamy peach fuzz cheeks, he thought.

One day he was invited to tea at the Brégel villa near Boma. This was 60 miles inland from the mouth of the Congo River, where the last tidal beaches of the Atlantic Ocean reached. Rob, Brégel, Astrid, and several servants and bodyguards drove down to the beach in a white convertible Peugeot driven by a local in black uniform, white billed cap, and white gloves. There were several children along, and the party frolicked down to the tumbling river water. Brégel was a stiff, somewhat dour civil servant who insisted on wearing his suit and tie, though he made a concession by removing his dress shoes and socks. He sat in a beach chair sipping a vinegary Belgian ale and wiggling bluish veiny feet. Rob sat nearby, sipping Campari, while Astrid walked down to the water with several small children.

Brégel held forth about Congo politics, seen from the perspective of a loyal bureaucrat who assumed all would go back to its timeless colonial torpor as soon as the current Germanic craziness had been resolved. Rob had been briefed by a midlevel State Department official from Katanga, a gray soul named Sylvester, who, when he passed about the fourth or fifth rum cola, became lubrifaciently detached and scholarly. According to Sylvester, local agitators like Joseph Kasavubu, Patrice Lumumba, and Moise Tshombe were pressing for independence, at a time when black Congolese were considered primitives and not allowed to own land, purchase alcohol, and similar prerogatives of human dignity. The colonial military had attempted mutiny in 1944, and there were constant strikes and riots with many deaths across the province. Many of the black revolutionaries had strong ties to the international workers’ movement centered in Moscow. Rob listened and nodded sympathetically to Sylvester’s barroom conversations at the Yank downtown, but Rob kept his own counsel privately. He had no love for European colonial powers, and felt sympathetic to the blacks, but reflected that in the United States, particularly in the South, a black man could be lynched for looking at a white woman the wrong way. Fundamentally, he had his doubts about how the black man’s lot could be improved in the Congo if it was still so dreadful in the world’s homeland of democracy, the United States. Rob also felt uneasy about staying involved in another country’s colonial morass, particularly when the Belgians had been so arrogant and cruel, and made such a mess of things. Why inherit a century of resentment? Then again, as the Old Man (Donovan) had made clear, it was all about the future world balance of power. That seemed a compelling reason to lay prudence aside.

Brégel seemed to feel at ease with Rob, and let slip information that might be considered sensitive. Or was he trying to divert Rob’s attention from Astrid? The girl was on her way back from the water now, toying with a slim bit of driftwood and looking mischievous. Time for her to sneak another a nip of sour lambiek, Rob thought.

Brégel talked about yellowcake, the refined uranium ore avidly sought by all major countries. “Down there in Katanga,” he said, “uranium oxide is in the ground and you can practically dig it out by hand. We have locals down there digging day and night, now that we can be certain the Germans won’t be back to take it away. Your country will want the stock that is coming out. We must be careful of the Soviets, and these monkeys around here who want to sell their souls to the Communists.” The wattles under his chin shook with outrage, and his bushy gray eyebrows hid glowering steel-blue eyes.

Rob sat back, squinting his eyes shut in the late afternoon sunlight and not reacting. Brégel meant the colonials, the black Africans. He could understand their rage, not owning their own ancestral land.

“How are my men doing?” Astrid said, uncorking a bottle of lambic with china teeth and sitting down in the sand beside Rob.

“Your men are solving the world’s problems,” Brégel said with a brushing motion of his red and blue mottled hands.

“The men are hungering for the company of someone who walks up from the sea like a young goddess,” Rob said softly.

Astrid laughed, and her father didn’t hear. Madame Sylvie Brégel of course missed nothing, but appeared to aid and abet her daughter in a subversive way. Rob noticed that Sylvie rarely sat beside Henri or touched him. Rob reached languidly behind his chair and pulled a cold Alsatian beer from a cooler kept refreshed by a black valet. It would be an interesting evening, and interesting sport. After a certain amount of subtle negotiation at some telepathic level assisted by gestures and nuances, the game became clear. At the moment, Sylvie had no need of actual assistance in bed. Rather, her game was to secure a sense of approval by flaunting still attractive charms and receive signals that, if she were open, they might connect other day. During all this, Sylvie deftly saved Astrid at the last moment, reining the girl in with the children and servants and making off to the villa. This left Rob to drive back along the river with Brégel to the capital. Madame Brégel had rewarded Rob by contacting a mutual friend that afternoon in Soyo. Rob had forgotten about Regine Clery, and looked forward to some steamy relief from his needs. While the limousine with Brégel and Rob rocked through the deep Congo night under rustling trees and palm fronds with the great Congo river on their left, and Rob listened to Brégel’s endless monologues about his home in Belgium and his ideas about white people in Africa, Rob occasionally caught glimpses of another limousine following half a kilometer behind—Madame Clery, he guessed.

He was right. Separately, they caught small bumpy river planes that smelled of kerosene. Flying via Matadi and Luozi they arrived in Leopoldville in a little over two hours. There, Brégel thanked Rob for a lovely day and had himself driven off to his hotel suite near the Belgian mining conglomerate headquarters.

Rob, on the other hand, continued on with a taxi to the small but elegant Hotel Blankenberg, not far from the airport and the Congo River.

Madame Regine Clery was in the waiting room reading a newspaper. The hotel was quiet and subdued, since it was getting late. The concierge, a gray-haired Arab, kept busy behind his counter, and the one page, a young native lad wearing white gloves and a round hat, took his time about sweeping dust out of the corners with a half-length broom.

Rob walked up and offered his arm. Regine put her paper aside and rose. She was a slim, elegant dark-haired woman of 30, wearing a crisply cut black jacket and dark dress with small flowers. Her husband, a mining engineer, was away in the field most of the time and had a blonde mistress in Katanga with whom he preferred to spend his free time. Regine was a Walloon of French extraction from Chimay in Hainaut. A strong touch of the Mediterranean, perhaps even Araby, ran in her veins, and her skin had a light complexion like gold tobacco, darkening around the finger joints. It made her the object of some disdain, though she had a fine education in a cloister school and spoke flawless English in addition to French, Flemish, and German. The husband was an ignoramus, Rob had long since decided, and Regine needed rescuing. “Hello, Regine.”

“Rob, darling.”

“Did you have a nice flight?” Rob said wrapping his hand over hers as she thrust her arm through his.

“I dozed,” she said with a slight laugh. “Sylvie is my closest confidante. I had no idea you were in Boma.”

“Does Sylvie know—everything?”

“I’m sure she does. She is very tolerant. She helps me when she can.” They walked arm in arm together as if they were married, a deceptive portrait. “I wish I could be like her.”

“You’re still young.”

“A faded flower,” Regine said.

“Nonsense. You just need a fresh start, that’s all.”

Regine looked at him sadly. There was hunger in her eyes, and he knew the routine.

“Want me to take you home?”

She shook her head. They stepped outside for a few moments, and Rob asked: “Do you have it?”

She nodded, held up a small white packet. “Will you help me?” She handed him a tiny metal object.

He nodded. Opening the small brown earring box inside the packet, he used the spoon she’d given him to take out a small quantum of heroin, one for each nostril. She held a finger on each opposite nostril and inhaled, quickly, violently, so that her cheekbones looked like ceramic and her eyes closed as if she were dying. He put the rest away, pressing it into her hands, and she stuffed it into her purse in the same motion. Then she leaned against the wall, face up toward the moonlight, and sighed deeply. Her breathing became relaxed and easy. “Thanks.”

They entered a tiny room overlooking the river with its lights, very romantic, and sat at a table with a candle. The proprietor, a tired looking old black man, shuffled out grumpily and informed them the restaurant was closed. After a bit of haggling, he left them two glasses and a bottle of Elephant brand palm wine. He offered to light the candle, but Rob emphatically raised his palm and shook his hand. The old man left the matches on the table and shuffled off. The wine was too sweet and too harsh and a bit warm, but they sipped it sparingly and let it wrap itself around them with its faint intoxicated aura. They held hands and laughed gently as they talked.

“Brégel was telling me about mining in Katanga,” Rob said.

She laughed. “I heard enough about that when we first got here. Now I hear nothing.” She shrugged. “It’s just as well. After the war, c’est tout. We are finished. I go my way, he goes his way.”

“He is a fool.”

“We knew that long ago. And you, mon cher? You are not a fool. Will you ever marry?”

He grinned. “Probably not.” Probably yes, but to a nice Virginia debutante who could fuss like a Southern lady but probably couldn’t tell Angola in Africa from Angola in Louisiana. “You covered your tracks?”

She shrugged, lighting a cigarette. “I’m with Sylvie in Boma.” She exhaled and he enjoyed the smells of her mouth, her tobacco, her perfume. He leaned close and kissed her. She leaned willingly, hungrily, forward. Their tongues swept silently together, in the silence of the little room where a clock ticked and out on the river a ferry whistle shrilled briefly, a steamy hiss that echoed around the hills and river bends.

“I have information for you,” she said.

“Oh good. I need something to make my day interesting.”

“This is good information, darling. It should get you started paying all that money you owe, and it should keep me supplied with what I need.”

He held both her chilly hands in his. “What, darling? Tell me.”

“In the morning, sweetheart. I want to enjoy you with me tonight. In the morning, we will travel north together. You’ll see.” She touched his nose with the tip of her forefinger and made a naughty, promising face.

That night, Rob made love to Regine Clery in her husband’s villa overlooking a bend in the Congo River. Several times, he helped her shoot up, because she did not have the courage to face the needle herself. For his part, he licked a bit of the monkey but didn’t want to get any further involved in its grip. Regine needed the stuff, but managed to get by most of the time with substitutes like cocaine and hashish brought in from the north by Arabs.

As he slipped into bed with her for the third time, she dozed off. Frustrated in his desire for her, he considered going out to find a tart on the street, but he was too tired. So he contented himself with one of her cigarettes and a tall glass of Clery’s red Bordeaux. Then he fell asleep in bed beside her, trusting that her staff would let her know if by some astronomical chance the maitre was coming home, which he almost never did, and when he did one could tell by the bright headlights shining up the driveway and illumining the bedroom to near daylight. As Regine snored softly beside him, Rob fell asleep with one arm around her slender waist.

The next morning, while she was still asleep, Rob took a taxi to his own little house in the suburbs. There he shaved, showered, and had his maid make a solid breakfast for two, with strong black coffee. Whistling, he packed a travel bag and listened to the birds, the trees, and the street noise of Kinshasa.

Regine appeared just in time as the heavyset maid, wrapped in silky white native dress and frowning, brought their food. They ate under a large tree, at a mossy little table with two rickety wrought-iron chairs. Birds twittered loudly overhead, and every once in a while a monkey or a parrot screeched in the neighborhood.

Regine smoked a cigarette and laid her arm across the table. Rob cooked up a spoon and put on a tourniquet for her. Carefully, he drew up the bubbling yellowish brown horse and injected her. She squinted and looked away, holding up fingers and cigarettes to shield herself from the view.

Rob ate heartily, while she picked at her dry toast, smoked, sipped coffee, and stared out through the hanging willow fronds. “What are you cooking up, sweetheart?”

She flicked her cigarette carefully on the stones around the table. “We’re going to fly up into Mauritania.”

“Mauritania! That’s over a thousand miles away!”

“I know, but it will be worth it. I made connections with a couple of expatriate Germans, ex-Nazis like everyone once they get Hitler out of their system. You’ll like them.” She puffed deeply, exhaled luxuriously as the drugs coursed through her mind. Rob, meanwhile, felt a slight sweat break out along his neck. “Regine, sure, but this is a bit out of my league.”

She sat up, looking drunk. She seemed to have trouble focusing for a second, and her lips trembled as if she wanted to speak. A minute later, she had recovered, and sat close to him. “Darling, it’s the answer to all of our problems. They have a large amount of hashish and some opium that I have already agreed to buy from them. I need you to go along to carry the cash.”

“How much cash exactly is that, Regine?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

He whistled. “That could get us robbed and killed along the way.”

“Yes, but Willi and Walther are good men. They fly an airplane. Cargo. I happen to know Willi from a sports flying club near Houfalize before the war, when the Germans still had to hide the fact that they were developing an air force. They were in thick with people from Fokker.”

Rob shook his head slowly. “I don’t see what’s in it for me, babe.”

“Intelligence, Rob. They have a connection to a Russian spy network up there. I know it because I overheard my husband talking with another Belgian last week.”

“Ah,” Rob said. Her husband was an ardent Communist, though a Belgian nationalist resistant to letting colored people steal back their own land.

“Just think,” she said. “Willi and Walther will introduce you to one of the key contacts. If this works out, and I’m sure it will, we can make this trip once every two months, or you could go more often. You can buy drugs from them, posing as a trafficker. You can give me my bit, sell the rest, and work your way into their network.”

Rob nodded. It was a gamble he was just desperate enough to try.