African Ice by Jeff Buick Read Free Book Online

security men hovering behind the customs official leaned forward as he began to poke through the first bag. He found nothing of interest and continued on to the second, smaller bag. He stopped when he came to her underwear. He lifted a pair of panties from the suitcase and held them up like a trophy.
    â€œCotton,” she said to him. “They breathe.”
    He smiled at her and gave the ever-growing group of men behind him a stern glance. “What is your reason for visiting Rwanda, Miss Carlson?” He replaced her underwear.
    â€œGorilla research. In the Ruwenzori Mountains.”
    â€œThe Ruwenzori Mountains are in the Democratic Republic of Congo,” he said, “not Rwanda.”
    â€œI’m aware of that, sir,” Sam responded quietly. “However, the less time I spend in the Congo, the better. I would much rather be in Rwanda than the Congo any day.”
    â€œWhy is that, Miss Carlson?”
    â€œThe Congo has a corrupt government. When I pay the expected fees to enter the country, or to travel on a road, the money does not go to the correct people. The men in charge always get the money. I resent that.”
    â€œYes,” the customs official agreed. “That is very true.”
    â€œIn Rwanda,” she continued, “your government is freely elected, and your president is a good man. He encourages free enterprise, and is rebuilding your country’s reputation and economy. And the entry tariffs are always fair.”
    â€œYes. Agreed. Our rate of,” he paused, watching for her reaction, “fifteen thousand francs is very reasonable.”
    Samantha did the math in her head. With one U.S. dollar equivalent to about three hundred eighty Rwandan francs, the man wanted slightly less than forty U.S. dollars for her to breeze through customs. She nodded slowly, and reached into her suitcase. She pulled a wad of francs she had bought in the U.S. from under her clothes, and tucked fifteen thousand into a half-full cigarette package. She held it out to him.
    â€œAmerican cigarettes,” she said. “If you are allowed to accept them.”
    He opened the package and slipped a cigarette out, quickly closing the pack. “Thank you, Miss Carlson.” He stamped a blank page in her passport. “Enjoy your stay in Rwanda.”
    The remainder of the team followed her lead, slipping the official the obligatory fifteen thousand francs as they passed through. Ramage was the last one to clear customs, and the official took his money, but did not stamp his passport.
    â€œThe contents of your suitcase bother me, Mr. Ramage,” he said, fingering the stamp gingerly.
    â€œWhat bothers you?” Ramage asked, irritated at the delay.
    â€œI am a simple man. I own two white shirts. One I wear to work every day, and the other I wear to church on Sunday. I could not imagine owning more than two white shirts.”
    â€œSo what’s your point?” he asked.
    â€œYou have six white shirts in your suitcase, Mr. Ramage.”
    Troy shrugged. “So what?”
    â€œPerhaps you are considering selling these shirts in Kigali. And selling merchandise without a license is illegal.”
    â€œWhat the—” Ramage began, but he was cut off in mid-sentence by Samantha Carlson.
    Sam reached across the table and lifted four shirts out of the bag. She handed them to the customs agent. “Mr. Ramage brought the shirts to give as gifts,” she said. “He told me while we were in the air that he hoped he would find someone in Rwanda that would appreciate them.”
    The official smiled again. “How thoughtful, Mr. Ramage. I’m sure I can find someone who can benefit from these shirts.” He tucked them under his desk and stamped Troy’s passport. They filed from the relative comfort of the inadequate air conditioning in the terminal out the front door and into the blazing African sun.
    â€œWhat the fuck are you doing?” Troy