his trophy room didn’t excite him as it had in his youth. Now he required something more.
Aleksandr admired the rugged beauty of the African landscape. From the air it was easy to dismiss the reality on the ground, a place where the people had yet to progress past the foundation of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. A thousand feet below, malaria remained the leading cause of death, sanitary drinking water was scarce, accusations of witchcraft resulted in mob justice, HIV/AIDS affected at least 5 percent of the population, and women not only suffered the highest percentage of genital mutilation in the world but also endured one of the highest maternal mortality rates. The Central African Republic was not kind to its people.
Outside the few cities, the country remained embroiled in civil war, with fourteen separate factions of Muslim Séléka and Christian Anti-Balaka militias still vying for contested areas and set on wiping the others from existence. Ethnic cleansing in Africa was the default setting of strife, one that tended to turn on the swing of the machete.
The two turboprops touched down on a small dirt strip and taxied to the mine administration building. Under the watchful eye of no fewer than fifty armed Russian soldiers, groups of men labored in the sun extending the runway and constructing additional infrastructure to accommodate the ongoing rape of natural resources. Aleksandr noted the handful of local militia who were clearly outmanned and outgunned by their Russian advisors.
“We will see two mines today, Director Zharkov. We will start with the uranium mines and then move to the diamond mines as you requested.”
“Da.” Aleksandr nodded, his mind working through the possibilities.
The Toyota Land Cruisers they were being shuttled in were a far cry from the newer armored Hiluxes they’d used in the capital, but their low torque and unmatched reliability made them the vehicle of choice this far from civilization. Even with the windows down Dobrynin’s suit was soaked with sweat and Aleksandr wondered why the diplomat insisted on clinging to the formal trappings of Mother Russia. No matter; Aleksandr just needed to tour the operations, make his decision, then issue his directive.
Their three-vehicle convoy was led by a camouflage Peugeot P4 manned by two of the Russian advisors and one of the local militia leaders. Based on the venerable Mercedes G wagon, the P4 was the French version of a “jeep.” Aleksandr smiled knowing Peugeot did not have an export agreement with Mercedes. Never trust the French. Trailing the convoy was an olive-drab Renault troop carrier with eight local militia members and four additional Russian troops. As they maneuvered the rutted roads toward the mines, Aleksandr noticed young men and boys turn away, ducking behind corners as the envoy passed. The counterinsurgency tactics of the spetsnaz were working; fear reigned supreme.
They sped through local villages as quickly as the low-torqued machines allowed, the front and rear vehicles bristling with overt weapons. The message was clear: do not fuck with this convoy. The poverty was not shocking to Aleksandr: thatched roofs, the occasional malnourished cow, dirty ditches oozing with excrement, and old men and women hovering near death in the dirty streets. As in developing countries the world over, the only smiles belonged to the children playing in the grime.
* * *
The uranium mine radiated destitution. The workers that Aleksandr observed lining up to enter the shafts looked like zombies. Even children had been consigned as forced labor, the cost of a village overrun by HIV and AIDS. As the raw ore was raised by hand in wooden buckets or pushed on a crude railway in rickety carts, it was heaped outside the entrance in large piles. Aleksandr was cautioned to stay on the observation platform, as the radiation level was toxic closer to the piles of ore.
“What’s their life expectancy?” Aleksandr asked his host, observing the workers covered in boils and blisters.
“Less than a year,” Dobrynin confirmed. “Luckily, conscript labor is not a rare commodity in this part of Africa.”
It reminded Aleksandr of the corrective labor camps, what the West insisted on calling gulags after Solzhenitsyn received the Nobel Prize in literature for his The Gulag Archipelago. Solzhenitsyn was right about one thing: the prisoners were given the opportunity to work to death.
“I’ve seen enough. Take me to the diamond mines.”
* * *
The convoy continued another two hours, as they pushed deeper into the hills, the vehicles making slower progress. Aleksandr wondered if the reporters who had “disappeared” a few months earlier were killed because