Free African Ice by Jeff Buick Page A

the door and started for the guard booth. Surprisingly, neither of the guards stopped him. He entered the booth, and a minute later emerged with the passports. He spoke to the guards in French, and they lowered their rifles and lifted the wooden arm that crossed the road, allowing the trucks to proceed.
    â€œWhat happened?” Sam asked as they moved through a hundred-yard stretch of no-man’s land toward the Congo.
    â€œI don’t believe these guys. I go into the booth, and the guard’s asleep. The passports were just sitting beside him, so I took them. Christ, it’s amazing anything gets done in these countries.”
    â€œWhat did you say to the other guys when you came out? I couldn’t hear you.”
    â€œI just told them that the other guy said it was fine for us to go ahead.” He shook his head in amazement.
    The border patrol at the Democratic Republic of Congo was not as tired. There were seven of them, their uniforms pressed, and their AK-47s well oiled. The differences did not go unnoticed by Travis or Samantha. Philip Acundo looked relaxed as he steered the Land Rover up to the nearest officer. He produced his papers, and spoke in what Samantha thought to be Kikongo, one of the four official indigenous languages. She recognized an occasional snippet, but couldn’t make out the overall gist of the conversation. Everything seemed all right, until the guard looked at Hal’s Rwandan passport.
    â€œThe border is restricted to Rwandans right now,” he said, handing the papers back.
    â€œHe is part of our expedition,” Acundo answered halfheartedly.
    â€œThis man is not entering our country,” the guard said forcefully, and began to walk away. Sam started to speak but Travis held his hand up, then pointed to a line of military vehicles parked a hundred yards distant. All six vehicles were manned by members of the DROC military. As they watched, a man exited the armed personnel carrier and strode across the clear-cut area to the crossing hut. He spoke with the official who had refused Hal entry, then the two men turned and walked toward the Land Rovers.
    Samantha watched the newcomer as he approached. He was of average height and build, his skin very black, and he sported a small mustache and goatee. A service pistol was strapped to his left side. As he closed the distance, she studied his eyes. She didn’t like what she saw. They were emotionless, almost cruel, and she wondered what horrors this man had seen, or perpetrated, for that matter. He scared her.
    â€œI am Colonel Mugumba,” the man said as he reached the lead Land Rover. The crest on his shoulder sported a small circle with three underlying symbols that mirrored the shape of a detective’s badge—the insignia of an army colonel. “Who is in charge here?”
    McNeil extended his hand. “I am. Travis McNeil. Pleased to meet you, Colonel.”
    The officer shook hands. “Why is there a Rwandan citizen with your team? I was not informed of this.”
    â€œHe is essential to our success, Colonel. He knows the area well, and will be our guide.”
    â€œWe have many local tribesmen who can guide your expedition, Mr. McNeil. And I have already assembled a team of twelve porters and guides. You do not need this man.”
    â€œI
need him,” Samantha said. She shuddered as Mugumba’s gaze fell on her. “I asked him to join us.”
    â€œYou must be Samantha Carlson,” he said, letting his eyes run up and down the length of her body. “Surely you realize we cannot allow Rwandan riffraff into our country. We did so back in 1994, and the result was quite disastrous.”
    â€œYou’re talking about a massive humanitarian issue, Colonel,” Sam countered. “Hundreds of thousands of displaced peoples. We’re dealing with one man here—one who’s essential to our expedition.”
    Mugumba studied her again, his eyes burning into