The black sedan was still following them as they neared the airport, albeit at a distance. Jan decided whoever it was wanted to keep an eye on them but wasn’t looking for a confrontation. He glanced back again as Brian made a quick turn and then another. After four years in Matadi, he knew the city’s streets well. Soon, they were headed back across the bridge into the heart of town, the sedan no longer visible behind them. The sun beat down as Brian guided the truck through Matadi’s bustling streets, which smelled of exhaust and overripe fruit from market stalls and street vendors. He turned down narrow alleys twice, the truck’s tires screeching in protest.

Five minutes later, they pulled up to a small, tidy house in an affluent neighborhood.

“Come on,” Brian said. “We need to talk.”