The Secret Chamber by Patrick Woodhead Page A

the conversation, but his mind kept circling back to a single word Jean-Luc had said – ‘minerals’.
    In all the time that he had been managing these shipments, he had never discovered what it was exactly they were trading. There was too much for it to be diamonds and too little for gold. He had agreed to buy it blind from the handler, guessing from the high levels of security that the substance must be phenomenally precious. But now Jean-Luc had confirmed that it was a mineral. Which mineral was so valuable? Uranium ore?
    When the last handlers clambered off the plane, the soldiers took their place, not lowering their rifles until the ramp was fully raised and the IL-76 engines had fired up once again.
    ‘Until next week,’ Jean-Luc shouted above the din. Leaving Louis standing mutely in the centre of the runway, he ran over to the nearest Oryx helicopter. As soon as he had perched on the edge of the cabin, the helicopter powered up, hovering a few feet above the ground. The others rose up one by one, forming an echelon port configuration, with the Rooivalk gunship continuing higher, until it was 1,500 feet above them and providing cover. They then dropped their noses and sped forward, banking round in a wide turn towards the pale orange glow of the volcano.
    Louis stood still, just listening to the softening beat of the rotors. The nausea had quickly turned to exhaustion and he let his shoulders sag in relief now that the Frenchman was gone. Just as he was exhaling a long, deep breath, an arm suddenly grabbed him from behind. He was about to shout in protest, when he realised that one of the Chinese handlers was pulling him clear of the Iluyshin’s engines. Side by side they scurried to the far side of the tarmac.
    ‘Take attention, Mr Louis,’ the handler shouted in broken English, gesticulating towards the plane. He then pointed again for extra emphasis. Louis could feel the weight of something being pressed into his open pocket, but resisted the temptation to look down.
    ‘The money’s under the rear seat of the first car,’ he responded, through gritted teeth. The handler paused for a second as he tried to understand the meaning, then prodded into the air once again.
    ‘Engine dangerous!’ he said, and turned to rejoin his group.
    Louis curled his fingers tight around his pocket, already trying to judge the weight of the substance. Whatever it was, he had the best middleman in town already lined up in Goma. All he had to do now was get to the Soleil Palace nightclub.
    With a low-pitched roar of its engines, the plane departed, followed shortly by the 4x4s. Louis was suddenly alone once again. He looked over his shoulder, double-checking that no one was watching, then carefully pulled the packet from his coat. Rolling the substance through his fingers, the shards of rock felt brittle and flaky, but with a warmth to them that was somehow comforting.
    He smiled. Strolling back to the terminal, he lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply on the rough tobacco. Whatever he had in his pocket, they had got away with it. And right under that bastard Frenchman’s nose!
    His smile broadened just as another bout of coughing shook him. Spitting the cigarette on to the ground in disgust, he wiped a trail of saliva from his chin with the back of his sleeve. Screw the
muzongos
and their damn’ cigarettes. He needed a drink.

Chapter 7
     
    THE SOLEIL PALACE lay down one of the labyrinth of backstreets in downtown Goma. There was no sign to mark its existence, only two huge piles of black volcanic rock stacked outside the entrance, as if the nightclub had been carved out of the ground instead of being built on top of it. Inside, the lighting was equally subterranean with stubby candles on each table and a faintly neon-lit bar. At the end of an array of optics was an open stretch of concrete used as a dance floor, with towering speakers arranged around it in a semicircle. The music was already pumping. Friday night was