Savage Roads (Where Griffons Feed)

By Erich Penhoff

Three older men—Marco, Karl, and Michel—have been partners in “investment planning and security” for more than thirty years. Karl is the investment banker, Michel is the idea man, and Marco—well, Marco is somewhat of an adventurer/mercenary. The latest plan, on the heels of Marco’s incarceration in the North Caucasus Mountains, involves many investors and millions in gold, and presents a challenge to the trio, particularly Marco, for both personal and professional reasons. However, given several motivations, none of the men turns down this job, and the wheels of the intricate and dangerous plot are placed in motion: Marco and Michel are to enter the African jungle, retrieve the gold, and return. Before they even leave France, the murder attempts begin, a beautiful French agent captures Marco’s attention, and it becomes unclear who the enemy is...
Author Erich Penhoff writes a vivid and graphic novel, depicting the harsh realities and politics that occur across borders and among mercenaries, as only one who has been there knows.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erich Penhoff
• Release date: Feb 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301196142

Erich Penhoff

The world as a playground is Erich Penhoff's motto. From the cold vistas of the high Arctic to the sweltering jungles of Central America. From the dark side of Africas dangerous corners to the opulence of Europes cities, it is a live well lived. Erich Penhoff makes his home in Vancouver Canada.

Book preview

Foreword

La Isla de Maiz, October 8th, 1986.

October 8th 1986, three days after Eugene Hasenfus was shot down over Nicaragua and lived, a reporter asked one of the men from other countries a question.

The young woman, a Chilean journalist asked, Why take the risk? Why support a revolution? Why the Contras?

The answer came with a smile on the man’s face. In a very accented English and with a shrug he replied, It is a very narrow divide, a chasm between adventure and misdeeds! It is the instant adrenaline of the adventure and the exhilaration of every successful action. It is my belief for a cause, maybe a right or wrong cause, but we can always find a cause every time we feel the urge! Of course the money is not bad either, and that is the way we keep count!

You risk your life for adventure and the rush, the money or the cause?

No, we do it because we can, it is our tradecraft! Ten minutes later, he was joined by two others in camouflage, and all went aboard a flying boat that touched down without stopping and immediately took off again, flying east toward Martinique.

The French were always more understanding.

Prologue

Marco does not know who he is, how badly he is hurt, or why he is his new cellmate. Marco had been arrested by men in wood-patterned battle dress; his cameras, bag, film, and papers and the vehicle, with his guide—all was taken. He is held a week in this prison. It is actually just a room in an old stone tower, in the steep hills along the border between Ingushetia and Chechnya in the mountains of the Northern Caucasus. He was engaged in outdoor photography for money, taking photos of wildlife, the beautiful creatures in the valleys of the north range of the rugged mountains. He took photos of bears, mountain goats with horns like the big Ibex, and wild boars with tusks as dangerous as a Kris. Who took him? Soldiers of the FSB; Russians fighting against the rebels of Chechnya. The shitty thing is communicating with them; he does not speak Russian, Georgian, or Ingush or any one of the myriad of dialects in the most southern parts of the Russian Federation. Of course, they don’t speak German or English or Spanish. When you are stuck in a quagmire, don’t struggle; hold still and hope someone will throw you a rope and save your life. He has his documents in order: visas, travel permits, and credentials issued by the World Wildlife Federation. Marco Resnic banks on this manufactured reputation and some credits in dubious magazines. So far, his cover story has always held up. To think of it, his worries are not nearly as big as this guy’s are; the one they threw into the cell with him.

Marco had listened to the screaming from outside for a good portion of the day, then the door was thrown crashing against the wall and the man was thrown in, literally thrown in.

The first impression to stick with Marco is the smell; the metallic, coppery smell of blood. The coppery odor sort of sticks in the back of your throat when you swallow; it also stays in the nostrils. The next sensation is the retching in his own throat. It takes effort not to puke all over the poor sap.

The little opening at the top of the wall gives barely enough light to see this badly beaten, new cellmate, the wreckage of what is supposed to be and once probably was a man. His guards had left Marco water and a blanket; in a sarcastic moment, he had thanked them for the sheer kindness. The man, whatever is left of him, is alive, but barely hanging on. Marco fills the tin cup with some of the brackish water and puts it to his lips. Would he drink? Is he aware enough?

"Spasiba." Now Marco knows he is Russian. There is that language barrier again.

Hey, buddy, I don’t speak Russian. You speak English or Germanski?

Somehow, the tortured man understands and in a pained and hoarse whisper, he replies, "Ich spreche Deutsch." He speaks German; now maybe Marco can find out where he hurts.

How bad are you banged up? How can I help you? Anything I can do? His next question immediately follows. What did you do? Those guys out there are Russians too. How did you piss them off?

Can I get some more water? And maybe you better don’t help me. I am an enemy of the state. I am not Russian. I am from Ingushetia and I am a fighter for the independence of my country. You ask me what is wrong with me? My legs are broken, some ribs are broken, I have lost my teeth, and one ear has been cut off. My fingers on the left hand have been cut off; my right hand was needed to sign my confession. It is a bitter and hate-filled answer, condemning his torture with words coming out in little gasps, not in one sentence; his words come between struggling for breath and moans. There is nothing one can do to ease his pain or tend to his injuries. Marco is well versed in many things; he is just not a doctor or even a first aid kind of fellow. The tortured man finishes the second cup of water.

Stand back, I have to piss and it will be offensive, so don’t mind the stink. And he does; it mixes with the blood on him and it pains him. You can hear it.

The hours pass slowly; in the evening one of the soldiers opens up and he hands Marco a bowl of borscht, a half loaf of black rye bread, and a tin cup with vodka. Marco says in proper German, "Danke, mein Herr." The young guy answers with a rant in something strange. It is not understandable; something not even Russian. He slams the door—you can hear the key turn—and a big metal bar clanks into place. It is not a sound intended to give comfort to the men inside.

He said, you are a guest of the Russian Federation and you will be let go as soon as your papers have been translated. The food is for you; you are not allowed to share it with me, the terrorist from the mountains.

The walls in this prison or cell, as one may call it, are rough stone, ten feet high. The roof is sheet metal supported by I-beams. Light only comes from a small two-foot opening high up the wall. The door is sheet metal too, bolted onto a small tubular frame. It must be a bitch to be in here during the winter. Two wooden benches, eighteen inches wide and sitting opposite each other along the walls are the only furnishings besides the shit bucket in the corner. The man is barefoot, without a shirt, just filthy camouflage pants; it is the uniform dress of many of the mountain people here in the Caucasus. In the sparse light, Marco can check him out. The vodka in the tin cup is tempting—it might take the edge off—but this guy needs it more. The fingers on his left hand are gone, cut off at the knuckles, then cauterized by fire, the work of a pro; pruning shears or rose clippers found a new purpose. He is not bleeding anymore, but the smell of singed flesh is still clinging to his pants. Marco watches his movement—he is trying to stretch out—then Marco can see his condition. His legs are busted below the knees and his ribs are sticking out an inch on his left. Marco has seen some heavy shit before, but this is worse than anything he has ever encountered. A brutal and devastating torture, administered by an expert. The interrogator had no regard for life or humanity; he probably fed his sadistic and extreme desires.

"Hallo, mein Freund, have some of the soup and some bread. There is a swig of vodka; it may take some of the pain away." They speak in German; at least if the men of the FSB are listening, they won’t understand a single word of it. The Ingush is still on the floor, a dirt floor, just pounded hard by the goats, horses, or people, whichever use it. White ammonia stains in the corners give witness to animals pissing in here. Marco covers him with the blanket, just to make it look like he can do something for him, help him, because sympathy is all he can offer.

You have to swallow on your own. I can hold the bowl and you eat. The man stops moaning and, in small sips, he eats the borscht—red cabbage soup with a few potatoes in it. Marco eats a hunk of the bread. It will be a long day and night for both. Marco knows they will kick him loose in a day or two. Grozny or Moscow will confirm his papers and his permits to travel through the Federation and the Caucasus. Only Georgia is off limits for him. He is clean of incriminating evidence. They searched him like only sloppy soldiers can. They could not find the two memory chips with the pictures he took in Chechnya. They are a bonus income for Marco. A magazine or one of these abbreviated agencies will pay cash, Euro cash, for the record of the assault on the Russian convoy.

The man sips the vodka, all of it. He falls back into Russian; he is pretty much out of it, spent of all energy. If he is still alive tomorrow, Marco will start to believe in miracles. The guard, the same young one, comes back. He throws open the door and snarls. He comes in, looks at the man on the floor, and kicks him. The moan satisfies him; he just had to make sure the prisoner was still alive.

* * *

It is late October now and the nights are colder. The village in which they are being held is along a mountain track. It took a long three hours to drive up here, the track going uphill all the way. Usman, the Grozny guide, is outside with the locals. Marco can hear them chatter in a dialect of Russian or something local. Marco’s guide speaks English too, so he did not worry when it was time to ask for directions. These damn directions got them up here, right into the hands of these Russian or Chechen Special Forces.

"Ich bin kein Russe, I am no Russian. Barely, Marco can make out what he whispers. I am from Ingushetia, I was born in Kazakhstan. My parents were part of the resettling program of our Stalin. He was from Ossettia, the Caucasus too. He pauses just long enough to have a sip of water. Marco holds the cup to his lips. I am called a terrorist by the security forces. I am not. The world thinks we are Wahhabi’s, Muslim extremists. We are not. I am Sufi. We are fighting for the independence of Ingushetia and Chechnya. We could be rich countries with schools and trains and wealth. We have so much oil in our ground, billions of barrels. We have gas and gold; we could be good neighbors to all nations around us. Yes, I am Muslim, and no, I have not seen the inside of a mosque in thirty years. It was then I was sent to Leipzig University, to learn German and engineering. I also learned to destroy bridges, or build a bomb. The Germans taught us how to destroy a roadblock or a convoy too. He utters a small, apparently painful chuckle. The communists taught us to deny all religious affiliations. It was not accepted. He is quiet for a long time before he regains the energy to continue. It is time for us to be the fighters our grandfathers were. Again, he winces with his quiet chuckle. I am sorry, my friend, but we kicked the arse of the Krauts a few times too."

Tell me about it. Marco wants to keep him talking; this way he will know when the life of this man fades away. He can sense the man’s whole being ebbing away slowly; it’s sort of like a room being aired out. The smells have changed. It’s a cloud drifting away into darkness. A little soup is all that’s left. Marco had been keeping it for himself, but this guy does need it more. Maybe he only needs kindness to be shown to him, but a little food will help too. Or at least it will make Marco feel better. Ninety-three years ago, fifteen hundred of our Wild Division, Ingush cavalry, attacked the German Iron Division. It took them only one and a half hours and these men annihilated the Kaiser’s heavy artillery. The tally at the end of the day, four thousand five hundred killed, thirty-five hundred taken prisoner, and another two thousand wounded. We Ingush have earned our fighter reputation, many times, the hard way.

Marco has listened, and then he asks the obvious question. We are in Chechnya; why are you here? The whispering voice fades into nothing; just labored breathing. In the pit of Marco’s stomach is a heavy lump. A chill goes through his whole being; it is plain and simple fear. The witness of torture and murder—will he be next? He does not think he would last as long as this guy did. Thoughts of prayer come to mind, but no, he is not willing to give in just yet.

Finally, he dozes off, only to be woken by the beam of a flashlight in his eyes. The young soldier again. I need a blanket. With the arms around his shoulders and indicating the cold, he gives him his best shiver. Just a grunt, but the young solder, a young boy really, returns a few minutes later with Marco’s down-filled jacket. The feeling of desperation that lingers on the edges of his mind is eased just a tiny bit.

"Von wo bist Du?" He must have been awoken by the soldier. The whisper is a little stronger, the voice hoarse like sandpaper on old wood. More water; as soon as he takes s few sips, he releases his bladder again. Marco can smell the warm piss. Why does he not just go and die? Deprive his enemy of their last triumph, his execution. The suffering Marco witnesses is enough for him to conjure up his own fears. Talking will take his mind off it, so he answers him.

I am from Vienna, but I live in Canada. I take pictures for a living. Here, it is the wild Ibex of the Caucasus. In the dark, he reaches into the shank of his boots, ensuring he still has the two memory chips. Was it the money that is promised, or maybe the thrill of being witness to the slaughter? Right now, Marco is contemplating tossing them, hiding them between the cracks of the stone walls.

On my way back from East Germany, I went to Vienna. He must have grinned; it is the sound he made. It reminded Marco of still being kids, when they were up to no good. A long trip it was. I started at the Wall in Berlin to go home and I ended at the wall outside at home. Now Marco understands his resignation, not being able to change what he knew was his ending against the wall outside. Different thoughts go through Marco’s mind. One of them is just the idea of, or maybe a misconception, it is not always in the morning when executions are carried out, or is it?

When you are free to go, tell them in the west of what you saw. Tell them Uslan Barkhanoyev stood on his two broken legs against the wall. Tell them he died the good way, the way many of our Ingush have gone. Tell them we killed more than forty and six of us paid for it. Six of us Ingush against the Russians column. It was a good trade, six for forty. He portrays the intrepid, the will to scarify his life, to die a hero, a martyr for the freedom of Ingushetia. But what is he doing dying in Chechnya? Tell them to give Emir Dokka Abu Umarov my gratitude for his support, and tell him to join all Caucasus nations, from Cherkessia to Dagestan into a force the Russians cannot defeat.

I will tell them, I promise. First, he has to get out of here. He won’t say it, but he thinks it. This request is of a dying, condemned man, Marco can hear his conviction, hear what he is saying, hear what is meant as a rallying cry for others, to tell them of his martyrdom.

The Ingush seems to take strength from his promise. He talks again. My great grandfather fought and died for the Soviet army in July 1941. In the battle for Brest, he was the last one of five hundred Ingush. They held the SS troops for one month, until all of them had perished. At the German victory parade, one Umatgirei Barkhanoyev, he was nearly blind from his wounds, walked out of the ruins of the underground bunker. The German SS general saluted this Red Army officer, as did all the other Germans, as only true soldiers would honor and respect a worthy adversary. The Red Army officer pulled his own gun and shot himself. That was my grandfather Umatgirei Barkhanoyev, a proud and loyal Ingush till the day he died. In these words, Uslan is telling Marco, like his grandfather, he’d rather die than submit to Russian rule. He fades away again. These last words did get Marco thinking about his own lack of commitment to a cause, his own lack of a cause. The heroic idea of going out with a bang, never having to worry about being old and infirm, never needing some stranger to wipe your arse. Future generations will revere you and remember you as larger than life. Somehow, it is a dream for immortality in the very final hours of your life.

He doesn’t speak again. When the grey of the morning comes through the little window high up in the wall, two come for him. The young one and the interrogator; bearded, tall, and built like a brick shithouse. They drag him under his arms. The door to the cell is left open so Marco can watch. There is a stone wall across the courtyard; he is propped up against it on his broken legs, facing forward. To Marco, it feels he is looking at him, challenging him, asking him again to tell the world. Hearing the commands and knowing what is to come, Marco puts his head between his hands to cover his ears and shuts out all sound; his eyes open, fixed on the eyes of the grandson of the hero, Umatgirei Barkhanoyev, until he hears the staccato report of the guns through his fingers.

Before he is released with all his belongings two days later, Marco signs a statement telling them of the confession of one Ingush terrorist. Later in Makhachkala, he tells the story to a reporter. He will never know if it is ever written, for Marco it ended at that stone wall in the Caucasus Mountains.

He walks the streets and looks at the quiet waters of the Caspian, all the time being aware of the two silent watchers. Nondescript men following him through the streets, waiting for him to get on the plane, waiting for him to leave, and making sure there is no one to talk to. Marco’s guide/driver has been dismissed and he hopes he made it back to Grozny. Marco remembers the opening line of their anthem….We were born at night when the she wolf whelps…the driver referred to himself as a wolf, he knew before it happened, he took them above the ambush site into the high rocks, to witness what would happen. He was a wolf, all right.

In one of the few internet cafés, Marco checks the messages that had accumulated in the three weeks he was here; he deletes all of them, except the three from Paris. The message he sends back is short and to the point. I will be there Monday. A stop on the way home? He thought this would be the end of his travels, ended at the stone wall in the old mountain redoubt, but no, the wall was just part of the troubles to come.

Chapter 1 Paris

Charles de Gaulle airport is like any of the internationals. You hear a torrent of voices, constant announcements from the PA system, a multitude of different languages and you see a rainbow of different faces. Asians and Africans, Brits and Germans. Like rodents, they all try to navigate the warrens of the airport. To Marco, it is like a corn maze in Canada; too many people milling around in a sort of confusion. Finally, he makes his exit at the baggage wheel, where a uniformed man holds up a sign with the name Resnic scrawled on it. That being him, he walks over to the uniformed chauffeur, and pointing at the sign says, Let’s get away from this madhouse. He speaks in English, since his French is as bad as anything or worse.

In perfect German, the uniformed man replies, with a smirk, "Jawohl, Herr Resnic, Herr Wittgen erwarted Sie im Auto." So Karl Wittgen is waiting in the car. He had sent one of the e-mails he replied to from Dagestan.

Jesus, Karl, you are getting old. Where has all your hair gone?

Karl, an old friend, looks at Marco, shaking his head. Why are you always such an ornery loudmouth? But he says it with a smile, like old friends should do. Marco sits back into the new leather seats of the stretch Mercedes, enjoys the new smell, and feels the texture of new leather. Karl Wittgen pours a brandy for both and looks him over. I guess the mountains were not too kind to you this time?

The mountains were fine; it was the people who were not so friendly, he retorts back to him, while his mind is drifting back to that room and the stone wall in the mountains. Especially the ones with the red star on the shoulder boards and the hat.

Karl just nods. Karl is a moneyman, a Liechtenstein investment advisor to the rich and infamous, some of the famous too. He handles their investments in Swiss banks with total anonymity and secrecy to the rest of the world. These men go back a long time, nearly fifty years. He is the kind of guy you trust with all kinds of bullshit. Income from the Aures Mountains had been derived from hashish, or income from Bosnia and Croatia, that would be cigarettes and whiskey. To Marco, he was always the friend that made sure his child support was paid to his daughter in Tel Aviv. And if there was no money in the account, Karl paid it anyway, sometimes for a long time. They became friends because they liked each other and most importantly trusted and respected each other and sometimes needed each other’s expertise. Even innocent bankers needed sometimes a little muscle or somebody to make a convincing argument on their behalf.

Marco, I need you to meet an associate of mine. Michel will be there too. We have a proposal for you; make that, more of a high paying job. I have booked you into the Hotel Concorde at Montparnasse for a couple of days. This way, Michel just needs to walk across the street; he always comes by train. Karl checks his watch. In just about half an hour.

Marco Resnic is well into the middle part of the sixties, and Karl and Michel are just a bit older. They are old, but not over the hill yet; they refuse to admit it. Maybe they are too proud or just too ornery to follow public opinion. Marco was recently told he wears a crown of hemorrhoids, his head that far up his arse, but the ones who said it are still afraid of him. These three are friends, old friends, they have been friends since '60-'61. Especially Michel; they became friends when he still went by the name of Mikhal Simonenco. It was the Legion le Entranger, the Foreign Legion. As he had been promised, he became a French citizen with a French name. The year was 1960 when they met and ever since then, the three of them did a lot of business together and kept the friendship alive.

Michel does not enter into a room; he storms the Bastille. He bursts in with a voice loud and demanding, in the days of the old gods, Thor or Odin or any warrior like that, he could have been doing their voiceovers. Michel is only a bit over 5’ 6, but he is built like a fire hydrant; short and stocky, he has no hair left and the little crown above the ears, he has shaved off. He wears a beret in the French style, an ascot like a Brit, army boots like a legionnaire, and carries a large plastic bag with a glass tinkling in his hand. To get a hello from him means a great big embrace; he is telling you hello," but it has the effect of punishment. His arms are clamps and his chest is the vice. But just before you faint, he will set you free, maybe slap you on the shoulder, and watch you stumble a bit.

He empties the big plastic bag on the bedcovers and in his booming voice announces, I bring gifts from the gods; this is the best cognac from Cognac. It is our brand, Camus, and it is for you and me, my friend. This Swiss banker does not appreciate the nectar of France. He steps into the bathroom and brings out two of the glasses wrapped in little paper bags. I can’t stand the cheap booze they put into those mini bars. He rips off the paper and fills both glasses with the amber liquid to the rim. Marco, you look like a homeless catacomb dweller. Did you just crawl out of the dirty underground city here in Paris? Have this drink and clean up, so we have time later to plan and scheme.

Michel is right. He needs a shit, a shave, and a shower, but most of all, he needs clean clothes. Maybe he will go shopping later. Something is up. Karl does not leave Vaduz unless it is important and Michel hates to get out of his Charente hideout. I will take a quick shower and then we can talk. It does feel a lot like seventh heaven; lots of hot water, the glass with Camus on the shelf with the razor and clean towels galore; he must have gone through all six of them. There is one more visitor to come, and halfway through shaving he can hear a new voice in the sitting room. Karl’s associate, whoever it is; he has arrived. It is time to leave the luxurious shower. With a sigh, he puts on the old pants and shirt; he still has clean socks and boxers.

Marco, I would like to introduce you to Julian Considine. He is a fellow banker and associate of mine. Karl turns to him and introduces everyone. Julian, this is Michel. He is from Cognac and this man here is Marco; both are very good men. Marco just came back from the little hotspots of Ingushetia and Chechnya. I hope these men will be willing to assist us in the recovery of our assets.

This Julian Considine is a very well dressed man in coordinated Armani suit and coat, a beauty of a Baume Mercier watch, a diamond ring, and tiepin. Anytime somebody wants something from you, and this guy wants something, you better make sure he can afford you. You must figure out for how much you can skin him and, if possible, go right to the top of your fee schedule. Good meeting you, gentlemen, he starts without preamble. My friend Karl and I have invested over thirty-one million dollars in a foreign country. That is money we don’t own; it is money invested into our hedge funds, and now we have a severe problem of recovering it. Considine looks at all of them. Karl is uneasy and twitching to talk. Michel is jumping at the bit. His excitement is visible and worrying.

Marco is more distrusting than both of his friends. Marco recognizes one thing immediately: the guy is a braggart, the way he throws millions around in conversation. Maybe that makes him a good mark to fleece. So what do you want from us, and keep the bullshit to a minimum.

Karl lifts a hand to forestall the dissent he sees coming. Marco, the truth? We are on the hook for more than thirty-one million dollars. We invested the money into three little goldmines and bought one year’s production. The promised profit was outstanding, more than thirty percent. Now we can’t get it out; the mines have the gold stashed in a neutral location, but there are rebels all around it. I should tell you right now. He looks pale and peevish. It’s in the eastern DRC, in the Ituri Mountains near the borders to Orientale province.

A dead silence pervades in the room. Everyone looks at Marco; he needs a drink. In silence, he refills the glass full enough to risk spilling it while he walks to the window. There is a really nice park across the street, on top of the train station. It is something to look at while he is thinking. He thinks about idiots and insanity, about suicide, dirty roads, snake-infested bush, and deadly rebel militias. Yes, he remembers the Congo. He remembers it really well. This is idiotic; you took a risk with an investment, a high risk. You lost it. You and your investors just have to get over it. See, I might be old and ignorant, but I promise you, I’m not stupid, insane, or flirting with senility. This is a step you take before suicide, even for a couple of morons. I am going down and have myself some fresh air. There is too much bullshit in here. It stinks. Marco walks out the door with the opened bottle of Camus in his hand.

The hotel is arranged around an inner courtyard. Between the ends of the horseshoe-shaped building is a great little garden to sit and have a drink. He expects Michel to show up with some fantastic proposal, but it is Karl Wittgen who comes down a little later. Karl walks over with his dainty little dancing steps and sits down beside Marco. He pulls his creased pant legs up on his knees, hesitant to speak as he looks at Marco. You guys are nuts. Who do you think is dumb enough to go there and carry thirty million dollars worth of gold through a fucking war zone?

Marco is annoyed. He knows of the trouble brewing in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Marco, listen to me, it is not thirty; it is sixty million dollars worth of gold, nearly two tons. And you should know the investors are mostly little people, retirees, or some soon-to-retire with small trust funds, like your daughters and her children, your grandchildren. Karl Wittgen has just made it personal; that is the reason he was the one to come down to talk. A long time ago, Marco had put money aside for his daughter in Israel and before that for her mother in Tel Aviv. It is their money too; yeah, now it has become personal. Marco remembers his thoughts in that little cell in the mountains; he thinks of the Ingush and his commitment to his cause. He thinks of his own lack of a cause and his need of such a commitment. Maybe he could use a bit of glory before he will cash in his own ticket.

Look, Marco, you are the only man I know that has been there, knows the land, and is sly and mean enough get out of any deep shit if he has to. Michel said he would go with you if you sign on and if you think it has even a small chance to be pulled off. Michel knows your planning does not allow for fuck ups.

Everything can be pulled off; everything is possible. It depends on the price and how much support we can depend on. Money is a priority and you know we will have to pay bribes, buy guns and shooters, and pay for an escape route and exit strategy.

So what do I tell Julian? Karl is anxious and Marco wonders why.

Tell him I don’t like his eyes. He is a sleazebag. No, tell him it will be very expensive to fix these fuck ups. But we will see how we can find a way around it. We will need visas for the DRC. I have all the shots needed except yellow fever. Check with Michel to see what he needs, and both of us will need a second passport. He has to think what else is needed and what other known assets he can tap into. Marco’s mind is already trying to solve a problem that he does not even know exists. But then again, anytime you walk on the shady side of life, you will find problems. This definitely is on the shady or even the criminal side of it. One more thing we will need is an advance immediately, ten thousand Euros; in the next two weeks, another fifty thousand or more. Tell Considine the ten grand in the morning; I will let him know the rest by the end of the week.

Marco, I will give you the ten right now, and the rest of the money I will arrange too. Let’s go and tell Julian and Michel, and I will make arrangements for the cash.

Back in their room, Considine is pacing the floor and simultaneously talking and texting on his Blackberry. We have reached an understanding. Can you arrange for the visas for them? Karl is grabbing a small leather bag, a man purse, while talking to Considine. He carries large amounts of cash in it.

Your appointment is at the consulate of the Democratic Republic of Congo tomorrow at ten a.m. You must bring two color passport photos each. Well, it seems he has some pull.

Once we have been at the consulate, we will meet again. How is the day after tomorrow for you, Julian? Karl is organized; he is used to a Day-Timer. He is the one taking notes.

Wednesday is fine. Maybe we can sort out the details of their proposal then? This is some asshole; he is nuts if he thinks this is a proposal. This is now a set play.

He leaves; now only the three friends are left in the room.

Okay, Karl, how much are you willing to set aside for us? What is our share, fee, or should I call it ‘the ransom’? Once Michel and I have our hands on it, it may well be a ransom you guys have to pay.

Friends, we have agreed to pay you thirty-five dollars per ounce of bullion weight. It is the gold weight once it is refined and cast into bricks or bars, whatever.

Expenses and extras? The three know expenses can kill you. If you don’t have the cash to buy your way out of the shithole, or to buy enough protection, then you won’t need to worry about a return ticket. Coffins fly home with the blessing of the UN, if your body is ever found.

We pay all expenses up front. If you can’t do it, it’s a write off. When you come back with the gold, we will deduct it from your fee. The reward could be anywhere from one point three to one point eight million dollars. Bankers always figure the net; this was an impressive net figure. With amounts like this being offered, it becomes more doable, much more interesting, and the level of motivation just went up exponentially.

Good, but now I need to buy some new duds; pants and underwear, and a new down jacket. It’s frigging cold outside and I am not looking my best in these.

* * *

Good morning, Karl. I hope these two will show at the consulate this morning. Julian Considine is the early morning caller. Wittgen is barely out of bed when he calls. So tell me again why do we even talk to these over-the-hill bandits? This Marco is just too much; arrogant and belligerent. The other one is at least a Frenchman and I can trust him.

Wittgen gives him a small, subdued chuckle. Julian, the thing is this: one comes with the other. This Marco served nearly two years with Bob Denard and John Peters in this shithole during the early days of Congo’s independence. He was one of the white mercenaries who broke the Simba’s hold on Stanleyville, what is now Kisangani. He survived the brutal attacks of the communists and the Cubans in the dirty war. He and a few dozen men held the UN forces at the border of Katanga for ten days. Stopped them cold. He was always the driving force behind the Frenchman, who is really a Russian. Wittgen is more than a little pissed off with Julian and he feels it is time to set him straight. Julian, do you have second thoughts? Do you want to bail out on this operation? Remember what I told you. I can go it alone. There is a hoard of sixty million dollars sitting there. You invested what? Twenty-one million? If I go it alone, I take the risk alone and keep it all. Your friends would just have to eat the loss, right? And you will have to eat crow.

That is not what I meant, Karl, but these guys are old. I have sincere doubts they can do this, or are as capable as you seem to think. Also, I hate to lose another ten thousand now. Julian Considine shows his fear of losing more money, more commission paid by his investors.

Julian, it is not ten thousand; it will be more than sixty thousand. But think and please always remember, I can and will go it alone.

Just make sure they show up at the consulate today. Both hear the annoyance that is so easily disguised on the phone. Karl looks at his watch; it is time to have breakfast with his two friends, then send them off to have their pictures taken and head to the consulate of the DRC.

* * *

Gentlemen, please come in; have a seat right here. I will be with you in just a moment. He is big, he is black; meaning blacker than night, and he has a face only a mother could like. His cheeks are marred by small cuts and deep pits. His left ear has been bitten off or at least mutilated, and his teeth are shrouded in gold. He works at the consulate. The nameplate on his desk identifies him as Roulon Josef Matombe. I have been instructed to give you every assistance I can. If you just give me your passports, I will expedite the whole process for you, he says with a golden smile.

While he is out of the room, Michel takes a stroll through his office and looks out the window. He spins around and points at a window across the courtyard. The consulate is at 32 Cour Albert, an old classic and renewed building, dating back a few decades. Look over there, Considine is talking to our dear Mr. Matombe; he must have special privileges, all right. They watch Julian Considine handing this Matombe an envelope that seems to disappear in his pocket by sleight of hand. The whole thing is fast enough, and a casual observer would have missed it. A bribe, a gratuity, whatever, it is an indication of who is on the payroll. Ah, Monsieurs Resnic and Simon, we have your visas approved.

Great, thank you, when do you want us to come back for them?

No need to come back. If you just wait for a few minutes, we’ll have your passports stamped and, how is it they say in Canada? You are good to go, eh?

Well, that is exceptional service, Mr. Matombe, thank you, but what about our yellow fever inoculation? Marco just can’t resist; he has to ask.

Nothing to worry about. I know you will get it before you leave, right? He gives them the stare of absolute I don’t give a shit. Some flunky knocks on the door and brings their passports, all stamped and in nice travel folders outlining the conditions of entry into the DRC. No weapons, no satellite phones, no army dress, cameras have to be registered, all travel has restrictions—without a government guide it is a big no-no—registration with police authorities, all that shit to keep the authorities informed of what you saw and did and can tell about. Gentlemen, I am aware of the unlikely case of you following these regulations, but do not worry about it too much. The DRC is very much the Wild West these days, and your friend has assured me you will take good care of yourself. When are you intending to arrive in the Congo? And which airline will you be traveling on?

This government flunky is asking too many pointed questions. Why tell him the truth? Michel will bunt this one right into foul territory. Well, we think we leave right after Christmas. My friend Marco will go back to Canada for the holidays until then and I will go back to Cognac for the next month and just rest up a bit. We are not the youngest anymore.

Matombe listens to Michel and his eyes cloud over. It is like a curtain, like a heavy fog, a sheer white sheen, making it impossible to assess his reaction. Gentlemen, I do hope you have a successful trip to my country. I wish you luck. And with these words, Matombe has dismissed them. This son

Reviews for Savage Roads (Where Griffons Feed)

[soireadthisbooktoday · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

He who joyfully marches to music in rank and file has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake, since for him the spinal cord would suffice. Albert Einstein

Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired, signifies in the final sense a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. Dwight D. Eisenhower


To understand Savage Roads, one must first understand the author. Erich Penhoff has been many things. Many things he won’t, or can’t talk about. For instance, he list under “School” on Facebook: The black market, after the war. And we aren’t talking the Vietnam War.

Erich has seen many things, from jungles to deserts, to the wastelands of Antarctica. And it shows in this first novel of suspense, intrigue and the horrors of savagery and war in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (the DRC).

There are a lot of suspense books out there, and some of them are very good. But they aren’t like this book. Erich has been there, done that, and has the scars to prove it. And so does his hero, Marco Resnick . Marco is unlike any other “action hero” I have ever read about. He isn’t a 6’6” superhero, muscleman who hasn’t seen his 30th birthday. Marco is a real guy. He, along with his friends Karl and Michel have worked together for 30 years, traveling the world, doing what needs to be done. No matter how dirty, or how bloody, things become.
skulls

West Africa’s super market for Voodoo witchdoctors…there may be one or two human heads in there too. – Erich

The DRC, Rwanda, many of the hellholes of Africa come into play in Savage Roads. The scenes in the book aren’t for the weak of heart for, as Jean-Paul Sartre says; When the rich wage war, it’s the poor who die. There is blood and death aplenty as Marco and Michel travel the savage roads of a country drowning in violence. Unlike many heroes, Marco isn’t there for the killing, or the glory. He simply does what needs to be done. When what needs to be done is rescuing children from members of a savage paramilitary gang, he does it. Even if that does mean that many of that gang have to die.

Karl, a financial investor for many small and retired investors, has invested in gold mines in the DRC. Now, the gold has been stolen. Not only that, but Marco has received word that a huge cargo of munitions is set to leave Africa, destined for a group of ‘mafia types’ and warlords. In order to stop this, and to regain the gold, Marco and Michel will defy the odds to right these wrongs, and return the monies to Karl’s investors.

If you love action, adventure, suspense, and intrigue, you MUST have this book. You won’t regret the purchase, and you will be talking about it with your friends for a long time to come.

Highly Recommended.

Disclosure: I was the editor for this book, and Erich’s second, “Savage Death:Not Forgotten”. This in no way influences my review. It just gives me better insight into the novel.