AS DARKNESS FALLS in the camp, Roman gets word from Kinshasa. The election results are in: Kabila has won, Bemba is claiming fraud, and the city is bracing for trouble. "We gotta get out of here," Roman says. "If the shit hits the fan, I gotta be there. If planes stop flying we could get stuck out here for weeks and weeks."

At midnight we pile into the truck and go. It's pitch black. Pouring rain. The road is almost impassable. We crawl through the night, Roman berating the driver. "You fucking asshole!" he shouts.

After nine hours of kidney-thumping automotive violence we roll into Kikwit and Roman's cell phone lights up. "Shit, the chagas—street people loyal to Bemba—have taken over the cité," he tells us. "The embassy is in lockdown." As his camp manager fights for seats on the airplane at the ticket office, streams of soldiers jog along the street, hundreds of them, all heading in one direction.

"You see these guys?" Roman asks. "There are too many in one place. They're massing, and they don't belong to the chief—they're all from the west. I don't trust Bemba." It's an eerie scene. Their boots are clomping on the pavement in a steady beat, Roman is covered in dirt and sweat, unshaven. The camp manager emerges: no seats until the second flight.

"There will be no fucking second flight, and we'll be lucky if there's a first," Roman barks. "That son of a bitch just wants money. Tell him I'll call his boss in Kinshasa and get us on that fucking flight." Ten minutes later the manager emerges with two tickets. As we pile into the truck, a soldier with mirrored sunglasses comes up to us and starts shouting. "Fuck him," Roman says. "And drive." We ignore the soldier and take off. Roman tells the manager, "The airport will be safe, but when you drop us off go straight back to the camp, immediately."

Three hours later we're back in Kinshasa, cruising through a largely deserted city. The block in front of Bemba's headquarters is full of guys throwing rocks, 15 UN armored personnel carriers lined up one street over. But other than that, the city is calm, with no apparent need for an embassy lockdown.

"Americans are pussies," Roman says. "Let's go home." The gates to his home swing open, Boxy the poodle comes bounding up, and the house smells delicious. "Check this out," he says, dragging me into the kitchen. "Wanna smell split-pea soup like your mama used to make?"

Suddenly the phone rings. It's Joseph Kabila. The president. "Yes, sir," Roman says. "Yes, sir. Congratulations. Now you've got a country to build. Yes, sir."

"Shit," Roman says when he hangs up. "He wants to build 10,000 kilometers of road in the next ten years. And prisons. He wants to build prisons."

He pauses a moment and stares into space. The pool is shimmering. The walls high. "God," he says, lighting a cigarette, "I made millions and millions flying for these guys and I just poured it back into the country. Sometimes I just want to go home, do something different. I'm worn down. But I've been to just about every country in the world, stayed at every Four Seasons hotel, slit kilos of coke with my finger, flown jets. What else could I do now? Where else could I go?"

He hits the button, the chime sounds, and Crispin comes out with a bow.

"Yes, boss?"

"How about a couple of martinis?"