CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JAKE
†
BY CHRISTMAS, I WAS only too ready to come home. It seemed that my resolve to stay in the States and start putting down some roots had been well and truly broken. This last assignment had nearly broken me.
When Marshall called me that last night in Hawaii, he was near hysterical. Tim Shaw, the journalist he sent to the Congo in my stead, had disappeared, seemingly without a trace.
“Jake, please,” Marshall pleaded. “I can’t have this man’s life on my hands. He’s got kids, for God’s sake! This wasn’t that dangerous of an assignment! I don’t understand what the fuck happened here as we did hire bodyguards. But, you’ve been to the Congo before, you know the landscape and I know you’ve got the contacts. I’ll pay you anything you ask.”
I ignored his last remark. I knew Tim and his wife and considered them my friends. I’d already made up my mind to help even before Marshall kept on rambling about the authorities not being interested in helping at all as there was no crime reported. That was just the way it was in some of these third-world countries.
“I’ve got your flight booked already and you need to leave right away to catch the flight in time to get you there by tomorrow evening. We haven’t heard anything from him since he disappeared two days ago.”
God, I didn’t want to leave like this, trust me. But, I knew Marshall was right. I knew the system, I knew who to talk to, I knew who to pay off for the right kind of information.
So, I left.
†
She was on my mind as I boarded my flight, right there, behind my closed eyelids as I leaned back in my seat. Nicole. Beautiful, Nikki, who I hoped to see in only a couple of weeks, depending on how long it took to find Tim.
You only ever chew women up and spit them out.
Brandon’s angry words drifted to mind. I knew he was wrong. That wasn’t the case with Nikki, I was sure of it. But, maybe he was right about other times, and I certainly didn’t have the best track record in the world to present to him as an argument for getting his approval when it came to his sister. Not that I needed it, but I sure would have wanted it.
I sighed heavily, thinking of what a goddamn mess everything now seemed. I just hoped to God that Nikki found the note I left her. I didn’t even have her damn number but knew I would get it as soon as I returned.
Even so, I knew I needed to push the thought of her aside, for now, and focus on what lay ahead, whatever that might be.
I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of what might have happened to Tim. Michelle and the little ones needed my help; they needed my full attention now. I had to find my friend.
†
The flight to Africa seemed to take forever, and, as soon as I landed, the games began.
It took only three days to find Tim, and, thank God, he was still alive, although just barely. My contacts paid off. As soon as money exchanged the right hands, the word went out. News was quick to return. Someone had spotted a small party of men, one American, not far from one of the cobalt mines a week or so earlier. That was all I needed.
We found him lying in a dugout protected from the elements only by a couple of tree branches and tarpaulins left there by the Congolese army. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone so relieved to see my face. And, I’ve never seen a grown man sob like that either, tears of gratitude streamed down his dirt-stained face as his body spasmed in shock, his hands not even having the strength to hold onto me as I help to pull him out of that hole.
His injuries were bad, but his dehydration was even worse, the high fever he was running not helping either. It was a miracle he was still alive.
Later, he explained how their small party of three were caught in a crossfire between two ethnic groups, the warlords stirring up animosities between them as they fought over grazing rights and water; a common thing in this war-torn country. His bodyguard was killed, taking a shot to the head, while he took one to the knee. The guide fled as soon as the first shot was fired.
He was lost and too scared to move. So he crawled into the dugout he found while the fighting carried on around him. By the time it ceased, he was too weak and injured to move. We found him just in time.
It nearly broke me to think that he was in that goddamn burrow for all that time, trapped and too fucking scared to even move. His only saving grace were the few snacks and water he had with him in his backpack, and, as he later showed me, a photo of Michelle and his two boys which he still held onto even while recovering in one of the local clinics before his flight back to the States.
On our way back to the clinic, we passed the edge of one of the mines where I caught sight of an entrance. A tunnel was cut deep into the rock and propped up with a couple of flimsy logs. A generator hummed just outside the entrance, pumping air down the shaft. Men with cheap head-torches scurried around, sorting through the ore.
Then I saw them.
Three little ones emerged from the dark underground, their faces covered with mud that had dried into white scabs all over their small little bodies, each carrying a chisel in the one hand and clutching a filthy bag with the other.
If you stood next to me, seeing what I saw that day, your heart would have broken for them as well, just like mine did.
That was the exact moment I decided to stay. Their story needed to be told.
While my security team was much tighter this time around and I had no complaints about the hospitality, it certainly wasn’t an easy ride. The corrupt officials seemed even more corrupt than ever, and there were times I had to take on different personas to get the real story. Some days I worked for a big broadcasting company. Other days, I was a backpacker simply out to explore the deepest jungles of the Congo.
We happened to stumble upon several child labor camps during our many excursions. We had guns pointed at every part of our bodies every time, but the issues were usually quickly resolved with long explanations and stacks of cash exchanging hands.
But, it was worth it. The photos spoke for themselves.
One of the pieces won a National Journalism Award, where Marshall proudly walked onto the stage and insisted that none of it would have been possible without my hard work and dedication. Thanks to the piece, charities were raising hundreds of thousands of dollars to help get kids out of the mines and back into schools. I was proud of the work, although it had almost cost me everything; including, nearly, my sanity.
It had certainly cost me Nikki.
I knew that by the time the assignment was over, a little after Christmas, she’d have moved on and forgotten about me. As I lay awake in my bed, she, once again, drifted back into my thoughts like so many times before. I was immediately taken back to the sweltering evenings in Hawaii when we’d lost ourselves in each other’s naked bodies.
†
As I was reading the week’s email from Marshall about some of our latest assignments, I thought I was dreaming when I saw the name of one of the bookings.
Nicole Thomson - Conference, Tuesday, it read. Great Points Architecture, 138 Argent Plaza. Assigned: Sienna.
Sienna? The rookie, fresh out of college and eager to make a name for herself, was assigned to cover the story. I didn’t even know there was a story. I’d been back in the country for only a matter of days, but as I paused reading the email and went onto the internet to search for Nikki, I saw that, in my absence, she’d achieved incredible things. Her plyscraper design had been picked up by no fewer than five major cities, and now she was being awarded the Architect of the Year award.
I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. Then I narrowed my eyes and reached for the phone. There wasn’t a chance in hell that Sienna was going to that conference. I called Marshall. I think he was a little confused.
“You know it’s a small-time gig, right?” he asked. “I mean, from what I’ve seen of her work she’s certainly talented, but it’s nothing like the jobs you usually cover. And I can’t say the paper will pay you your normal rate for a chick pointing at the model of a building.”
“It’s fine,” I smiled. It just wouldn’t be Marshall if he didn’t put a price on it. “I’ll take it pro-bono. Call it a late Christmas present. Or, a Hanukkah present, in your case.”
“Hey, buddy. You know we have eight days of presents for Hanukkah,” Marshall replied, dryly. “Can I expect you to be this generous for seven more projects, too?”
“You can expect it,” I replied, “but you’ll be disappointed, my friend.”
He laughed. “I’ll let Sienna know you’re covering it.”
There were no more questions. Marshall wasn’t the kind of guy to worry too much about anything as long as it meant that the job was done, so, on a freezing cold January afternoon, I headed downtown with my camera. I made a point of shaving my beard, keeping the same length of stubble I’d had that week in Hawaii. I wanted Nikki to see me as she remembered me.
The hall was abuzz with journalists all wanting to get a look at the model of renewable city solutions. Conservation was becoming a hotter and hotter topic every day, and I only had to look at my recent foray into the jungle to know how important it was for the world’s press to highlight the need for the kind of solutions that weren’t going to destroy the planet.
It seemed that Nikki was doing exactly what was needed, judging from her work and the reaction to it. She was fast becoming the leading name in her field.
As I mingled with the other journalists and made my way through the crowd, I saw heads turn to look at me. One guy’s mouth fell open as he rushed over. “You’re Jake Matthews, right?” he asked.
I looked at him and grinned. “Last time I checked, yes,” I said. “How are you?”
“Oh, my God. You’re like the reason I got into photojournalism,” he gasped. “That piece on the indigenous tribes in Bolivia was the best thing I’ve ever seen. I keep a copy of the magazine in the drawer next to my bed!”
I didn’t quite know how to respond to a statement like that, so I just laughed and shook his hand.
I knew that Woke was the most popular magazine in America at that moment in its niche, with both hard and soft copies being sold at an astronomical rate. I knew that I had made a good contribution to its popularity, too, but I wasn’t the only one. We were a huge team who all worked together to put out the sorts of pieces that made people think differently about the world we lived in.
A little like the work Nicole Thomson was doing, I said to the young, eager guy, shifting the focus back to the reason we were all here. “Oh, she’s inspirational,” he beamed. “I think she’s just the kind of thing Woke would really be interested in.”
“That’s why I’m here, for sure.” I said and I made my way to the main press desk. I knew what I wanted, and spoke to the pretty blonde behind the counter. I explained where I was from, and her interest peaked immediately.
“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped when she saw my ID. “Let me speak to Miss Thomson right away, Mister Matthews.”
She blushed and tucked a strand of hair flirtatiously behind her ear. I played along.
“I’d like a one-on-one interview for a full magazine spread,” I said, winking at her. “I’m sure you can make that happen for me, right?”
With quick steps, she strutted across the room in her high heels and disappeared through a set of doors.
I had to take a deep breath and compose myself, knowing that behind them was Nikki. I was sure that she’d agree to the interview, and I couldn’t wait to see her again.