African Ice by Jeff Buick Read Free Book Online Page A

turned to Sam.
    â€œKeeping you out of a Rwandan jail,” she replied tersely. “If you think any of
this
looks bad,” she waved her arm at the squalid slums that bordered the airport, “you should see the inside of the prison. It makes this quite palatable.”
    â€œShe’s right, Troy,” Travis said as he scanned the line of cars and taxis for their contact. “They don’t need a reason to throw you in jail here. You do what’s necessary to keep them happy.” He cocked his head slightly to the right. “Those are probably our guys.”
    About a hundred feet from the doors, two Land Rovers were parked against the curb, their motors idling. One man leaned on the tailgate, and when Travis caught his eye, he nodded. The group turned and walked down the crowded sidewalk toward the waiting vehicles. As they approached, the man smiled and asked, “Travis McNeil?”
    â€œThat’s me.” He extended his hand and the man shook it. “And you are?”
    â€œPhilip Acundo,” he said. “Personal aide to Colonel Mugumba. We are to accompany you to Goma.”
    McNeil ran his eyes over the man, evaluating what he saw. The man’s skin was typical for the region, very black and stretched tautly over his facial bone structure. No wrinkles. His eyes were deep hazel, the whites in striking contrast to the darkness of his skin. His teeth were white, but in need of orthodontic work. Still, when he smiled, he looked pleasant enough. McNeil’s eyes paused at the area near Acundo’s armpit. A slight bulge. The man was armed.
    Acundo motioned to the four-wheel-drive vehicles. “Please, let’s get loaded up and drive into the city.”
    The group split into two, Travis and Samantha traveling in Acundo’s vehicle, and the remaining three members of the team in the other truck. The four Congolese soldiers, all dressed in civvies, split into two per truck. The drive into the heart of Kigali was slow, but hardly boring.
    The roads were partially paved, but long overdue for maintenance. Potholes peppered the road and jarred the riders whenever the driver hit one. Both sides of the road were lined with shanties, pieced together with discarded boards and covered with corrugated metal. Scores of natives, dressed mostly in motley clothes, watched suspiciously as the two-vehicle procession motored slowly into the city center. Remnants of the long-past Belgian influence still showed through in places. French signs were as prevalent as English, and the architecture reminiscent of a European culture was now replaced with African influence.
    The foliage was thick and tropical. Umbrella and banana trees punctuated the white buildings, and low broad-leafed plants thrived everywhere. Hibiscus, lianas and ferns grew wild, wherever a patch of dirt allowed. Raw sewage, open to the tropical air, fed and watered the shrubbery. Samantha watched the passing spectacle with vivid recollection.
    Four years had not changed Rwanda’s only city. People still moved about the grimy streets and narrow alleys, eking out a subsistence on whatever they could lay their hands on. Many suffered from diseases unfamiliar to the western world. Signs of AIDS were everywhere—hollow cheeks, sunken eyes devoid of life, and people stricken with viral pneumonia. In such a temperate climate, good health should be easy. But it wasn’t.
    The United Nations deemed the AIDS epidemic to be out of control in numerous Central African countries, Rwanda and the Congo included. They adjusted the mortality rates accordingly, and the life expectancy had dropped in Rwanda to less than forty years. Contraceptives were almost unknown, birth control a bad joke, and abstinence totally unheard of. Sex was killing these people now, just as the horrific infighting in 1994 had decimated the Tutsi population. 1994.
    A year that would live in infamy in Rwanda. Modern-day genocide while the civilized world