War Child - Attack On The City: War Child, #3

By C. P. Clarke

WAR CHILD Trilogy

Attack on the Village

Attack on the Mountain

Attack on the City

 

Set in war torn Africa.   A young boy fights for survival against a corrupt regime and power hungry rebels, and a dark force controlling them all.  A handful of warriors stand beside him trying to keep him alive as the pasts of all come back to haunt them.

For more details of each book, click on the link to read the full description.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. P. Clarke
• Release date: Nov 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223225799

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Part Three

Attack on the City

1

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The city called and I answered.  I felt lost.  I had no place.  I was a wandering tribesman in a concrete jungle.  My people were displaced, frightened to return home and herded by governmental shepherds who insisted they knew best where we should go.  I didn't trust them, and being educated I had options.

I wanted to buy land for my family and for my people.  If I made enough in the city, I reasoned, we could resettle along the southern border.  We wouldn't have to return to the land we'd abandoned, even though most wanted to.  It was their inheritance, a legacy now drenched in blood and haunting memories and soaked in superstitious dread.

Two years has passed since we fled.  I felt like Moses in the desert, leading my people in circles with no idea where the Promised Land lay.  And so I returned to Egypt, to the royal courts to have it out with Pharaoh, but he asked why I was there.  For justice I replied.  He laughed.  The civil servants that did the king's bidding rubber stamped my credentials but gave no heed to the need of the people I represented.  And so I was alone.  Suited and booted I roam the upper canopy of the legal system, trying to pick up where I'd left off and fight the system from the inside, from a legal standpoint.

I imagine lots from my lofty towers as I dream of my country united under a fairer government.  I pray for a home for my people.  I pray for better health care.  I pray for less fighting, less foreign interference, and a true and noble native to rise up as leader, someone I could follow and support.

I dreamt one day that I had seen Benjamin among the faces floating across the marble floors and through the swimming sharks of the Central Court House.  I followed him through the chambers until he was lost to me through a door I couldn't enter.  I hoped it was him.  I hoped he had survived and carried on past what we had left behind.

I had heard of the death of the white warrior, Benjamin's adoptive father, Robert Peffers.  I had heard how the mountain had thrown him off to be claimed by the river below.  His body had been found more than a week later, it was told, half eaten by the crocodiles.

I heard too of the demise of the Mad Dog.  The war mongrel Daniel Jok had also flown from the mountain with lead embedded in his brain.  His body had never been found, claimed it was thought by the religious nuts that followed him as though he were a god.  The same cult that had amassed throughout the Milele woodlands, forcing us out and claiming the land as their new sacred ground.  Here was where the blind boys resided, the curse unbroken, the latent power that fed them spreading as their numbers grew.

I had vowed to destroy this evil, but in that I had faltered.  I retreated to self-preservation and that of protecting my people.  Yet those whom I swore to protect I have abandoned, telling myself it is all for the right reasons, but really I was, am, running.  People look to me for strength, but I am nothing but a coward.

Even here in the city I cannot escape the cackling call of the badlands.  Even here the rumour of the blind boys has reached the city; the hallowed halls of power are growing fearful of the zombie army amassing throughout the country.  Village after village has fallen.  Towns have been cut off.  Roadways are no-go zones.  The country is collapsing under the power of a force even the foreign barrens that own us don't understand.  They can send in their armies and their guns, but they cannot kill the evil that is inherent in the land.  The ancient power I know, despite myself, that I must face.

I made a vow, now is the time that I must fulfil it.

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2

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Entering the room, I feel completely out of my depth.  I've handled small cases, family disputes and petty civil cases, and acted as second counsel for a couple of other bigger suits, basically being a glorified runner.  In essence my experience is limited, but, as with many things in our country, not all processes and procedures are followed correctly.  At least I have earned my credentials, others I suspect have bought theirs.  It is fairly easy to purchase exam results and a letter of accreditation from a firm in a neighbouring country, especially one that is undergoing civil unrest; such things in every walk of life are hard to track and to verify.

Seven men sit in the room as I enter with my paralegal, Gregory.  Gregory has been at the firm longer than I and probably has more experience, but he failed the bar exam and has settled with the lesser role.  I suspect he still wants to be a lawyer but is fearful of spending the money to re-take the exams.  I know he has a large family living on the outskirts of the city and buses the long journey in every morning as he doesn't own a car.  Even the pay of working for a law firm in the city doesn't seem to go far when you have so many mouths to feed and medical bills to pay.

Dr Gerard Rubekki I know from our previous meetings, as well as from his long-standing reputation in the media.  I hadn't known previously that he held a doctorate, and even now I don't know what he is a doctor of; it wasn't something he was usually referred to in the press, but in business he is keen to use the title to gain the respect that the title ‘Mr’ fails to give him.  I have found him to be egotistical, floating on an air of self-promoted gravitas.  He is aggressive and rude, abrupt and insensitive in his speech, and something of a huge contrast to the public persona he is portrayed as in the media.  If I were a betting man, I would lay odds that he pays well for those who handle his marketing and publicity campaigns.  Sadly, he is also my employer, having recruited our firm many years ago to handle his affairs in the city.  He had requested a fresh face to be on his team for these negotiations, and so being new to the firm I was offered the opportunity of stepping up.  Little did they know how I had manoeuvred myself into their eye line.

Lito Maboa is part of the city council.  He is a junior minister whose position doesn't in itself hold much power, but he is rumoured to be the influential whip that stirs up the back corridors of political brawn and manipulates the votes and direction of parliament.  He is the ‘go to’ man if you want anything doing in government and are willing to pay to get a bill through.

General Akuba is the third man sat at the desk.  I don't know his first name.  He is the only one in uniform and the only one not to look up as we walk in.  He is stern and stony faced and needs no introduction.

Rubekki and Maboa stand and move toward us and shake both our hands as if keen to show a relationship of friendship and inclusiveness into the band of brothers gathered together.  Rubekki falls into the role of host as he introduces everyone in the room.  There are two Russian's: Ivanov and Kuznetsov.  I’m not given their first names only the titles of 'Mr'.  Both are smartly dressed in tailored suits that few natives could afford to have cut.  The former is portly and gives a wry smile and has the air of a businessman rather than a politician.  The latter is broadly muscular and stony faced and gives only the slightest hint of a nod of acknowledgement; he is military or at least had a background in the security forces; I recognise the steely demeanour.  They are the only white faces in a sea of black.

There is a Nigerian: Moses Mbwa, and a Kenyan: Michael Saronda.  They are both dressed casually in open neck shirts and chinos, and are both very smiley and welcoming, and other than their countries of origin I am told nothing more about them.

Akuba, doesn't look up even when his name is mentioned.  He is perusing what looks like a map with multiple scribbles upon it, his brow ruffled, and his teeth gritted as he studies it.  I recognise the region.  I recognise the words written in bold and understand his concern.  He is still paying the price for his incestuous affair with Jok.

This is supposed to be an informal meeting to discuss future contracts Rubekki wishes our firm to legalise.  The formalities of their decisions were supposed to have been drawn up before we arrived but clearly their discussions have over run.

Christopher, we are slightly behind.  Please take a seat.  Rubekki gestures to two chairs at the end of the boardroom table and Gregory and I lower ourselves obediently.

As I take note of the eclectic mix of nationalities and personalities in the room, I can’t help but wonder what mischief these men are openly concocting.  Surely, they are up to no good, no good for the people of the country at any rate.  The atmosphere stinks of selfish ambition and personal wealth and power.  No doubt I am here as the token legal advisor who will act as facilitator and patsy.  I am to draw up the papers and make whatever shady deal they've invented look legitimate and legal, and if it goes wrong then the finger of blame could be pointed at me.  They are counting on my inexperience and naivety of the business to take advantage and manipulate my firm, hoping my ambition to be a successful lawyer would be enough for me to be corrupted to their ways, hooked in, caught, and in their pocket forever more.

I have no such intention.  I will play along, biding my time, gathering what information I can.  If what I think is happening elsewhere in the city is true, then I figure I know someone else who could make use of any information I can gather.

Kuznetsov says something in Russian with a cautious look in my direction.  Rubekki glances across at me and smiles and gives a light chuckle in response.  What can I say, I like to surround myself with big strong characters! he chortles.

I think back to Daniel Jok and the rumours which had circulated about the Mad Dog having been in the employ of the South African oil barren.  I bite my tongue.

I understand little of the conversation, some of which takes place in English, some in Russian, and some in Swahili.  Of those in the room only Gerard Rubekki seems to have a handle on everything that is said, sections being withheld from those who don't need to know details that aren't applicable to them.

I gather snippets about power sharing agreements, but I am unsure whether they apply to business or government.  There is talk of banking institutions and using parliament to control financial flow, and something about taking instructions from an Englishman.  I gather from this that there is an upper echelon directing those in the room.  The purchase of weapons raises the interest of Akuba as he engages energetically with Mbwa and Kuznetsov.  Oil and mining are referred to but in reference to something earlier discussed that I had missed.  Most of the discussion that I understand which is in English seems to centre around governance and infrastructure and building campaigns for leadership potentials from different regions, so long as they can be bought and controlled.  This is business I do understand.  I don't like it, but I understand it.

A full forty minutes goes by before papers are slid across the table towards me and I am addressed directly as part of the meeting.  I look at them, scanning them quickly.

What's this? I ask.

A retainer, replies Rubekki with a smug grin.

The contract before me has been drawn up by another solicitor I presume, maybe by the Russians.  It ties my firm into representing a conglomerate for an indefinite period, with me as the primary point of contact.  This would bring in a huge fee as a new client for the firm and would establish me as reputable and respected, but I am no fool, to accept is to sell my soul.

Rubekki has drawn me in, not because he needed representation at this meeting but because he wanted me to hear the potentials of what they were building, how they plan to change the nation and control it as the foreign investors rape our resources.

I can feel Gregory sitting uncomfortably next to me.  His hands are shaking under the table as he too recognises the dilemma I am in.  To accept the contract would gain me riches and power, but at the cost of losing my integrity and all self-respect.  To reject it would be to lose my career, my reputation, my livelihood, and in light of what I know, potentially my life.

I look to Gregory.  He has a slight sideways quiver to his head as he tries to warn me against it.  I love him for that.  He is a good man.  He has integrity and we need more like him working in high places in the city.

I look away, reach for my pen and scribble my name on the bottom of the contract.

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3

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I rent a small room in the city.  It is a short bus ride from the apartment complex to the commercial centre where most of my work is conducted.  Having left the meeting with Rubekki and his associates I make my way home instead of to the company offices.

I send Gregory to report back to the senior partners roughly the