_At the Norwegians’ trial, more than 300 spectators filled the

courtroom. During breaks, the music of Céline Dion played in

the background._

"After about twenty or thirty meters," French continues, "someone intercepted me from my left, a skinny little black man [not, he says, Kepo or Kasimu]. We had a rough tumble for one or two seconds. I’ve done martial arts for quite a few years, so I was on my feet rapidly, and he decided that whatever he was attempting to do wasn’t a good idea. I did a fake charge on him, and he ran off into the woods."

At this point, he says, they ran back to the Land Cruiser. Moland jumped into the open bed and grabbed the shotgun from his bag—"for our own security," French says—while French approached the driver’s side. "I saw someone lying on the ground," French continues. "There was a lot of blood on the seat."

He got in and stepped on the gas, leaving Kasongo’s body in the middle of the road. He claims their first priority was to seek help but that they couldn’t get a cell signal. But they never sought any help—not even when they came to a military checkpoint in the village of Bafwasende, about two hours later. "They just passed us through," said French. "We didn’t stop to try to talk to them because my French and his [Moland’s] French was limited. We knew that the situation would be taken advantage of by the Congolese against us—we just knew. This is how Africa works."

After another hour or so, they reached the village of Nia-Nia, a crossroads where one dirt track leads north toward South Sudan and another heads east toward Uganda. French took the eastern road and again pulled over about a mile later. "We stopped the car because I was sitting in brains and guts, driving," says French. "There was a small pit of water in the road, and we decided, because it was getting smelly in the cockpit, to stop the car and wash out my seat."

As Moland started cleaning the blood from the front seat, French picked up his camera. "I said, ’Hold on a minute, I want to take a picture of the cockpit before anything,’ " he told me. "My intention was to have a clear picture of the inside of the car, undisturbed, before we washed everything clean—at least we’d have a picture of exactly how it looked originally. The problem is, as I took the picture, our reaction as soldiers is, to be honest with you, we don’t cry or get afraid from danger; we laugh and mock it. So I said ’cheese’ or something, and Moland turned to me and smiled."

"Dark humor," Moland chimes in.

They drove for four more hours. At 3:30 a.m., they stopped in the village of Epulu and at a wildlife preserve for okapi—a rare species that’s a cross between a zebra and a giraffe—and they again considered telling the authorities what had happened. But there were several Congolese passenger buses parked at the station, they say, and this changed the situation. "We did not feel comfortable with all these people, a car full of blood, and probably some guys after us. If there had been only the rangers there, we probably would have stopped and explained ourselves. But there were lots of people—sitting by fires, walking around. We didn’t like the atmosphere. Somebody could just turn against you."

Instead, they say, they decided to camp nearby and return in the morning. They drove another half hour and turned onto a nearly hidden dirt track; with few drivable roads, it would only be a matter of time before someone spotted the white Toyota Land Cruiser. Deep in the bush, they stopped and pitched their tent. By not continuing any farther that night, French says, "this proves our intention of going back to Epulu. Otherwise we would have just driven off eastwards." But by then it was about 4 a.m., and fatigue likely played a role in their decision to stop.