The EMB-120 regional passenger plane bound for Soyo was hovering over the airport in preparation for landing.

Semler had already been irritated by the engine noise, which sounded like asthma, and now he finally breathed a sigh of relief. He turned his head toward the window beside his seat, taking the opportunity to gaze down at the city of Soyo, which he hadn’t seen in many years.

Compared to when he left in 1993, Soyo hadn’t changed much. Around the straight airport runway, thousands of makeshift houses built from mud bricks and corrugated iron were scattered chaotically, divided into uneven neighborhoods by a spider web of roads. The brownish-yellow dirt between the gray rooftops was dotted with a sparse number of trees, making the entire city look like a giant mossy patch.

As Semler stared out the window, lost in thought, the EMB-120 ceased circling and began descending toward the runway.

Soyo, located in Angola's northwestern Zaire Province, is a port city near the border with the Democratic Republic of Congo. Before being devastated by the civil war in 1993, it had been an important oil port for the country.

On February 22, 2002, UNITA leader Dr. Jonas Savimbi was killed by government forces. In April of the same year, the MPLA and UNITA signed a ceasefire agreement, bringing an end to the 27-year-long civil war. However, the years of conflict had caused incalculable damage, severely crippling Angola’s economy and industry, and almost completely destroying the country’s infrastructure.

Although Angola had achieved some economic growth in recent years due to its abundant natural resources, its over-reliance on oil and mineral exports meant that the 2008 global financial crisis had severely impacted the country's economy. Many infrastructure projects had been delayed or halted, and since the government's development focus was on Luanda and the southern regions, Soyo's reconstruction plan remained a distant hope. Its status as an oil port has been replaced by the enclave of Cabinda.

The airport terminal, with its corrugated iron roof, still looked the same, though the walls had been freshly painted grass-green, a notable improvement compared to before.

As the only white passenger on this flight, Semler was quickly recognized. As soon as he walked out of the airport, a small, thin black youth in four-season pants and a light blue T-shirt approached him, greeting him in broken Portuguese: "Are you Mr. Semler?"

Semler nodded.

"Please give me your passport," the youth said, extending his hand.

Semler pulled his passport from his jacket pocket and handed it over.

The youth took it, flipping through the pages while glancing up at Semler from time to time. After about a minute, satisfied, he returned the passport and respectfully said, "Mr. Jaba sent me to pick you up." He then reached out his hand and added, "Let me carry your luggage."

Semler handed him the travel bag with his change of clothes but kept the shoulder bag containing cash and a satellite phone.

The youth led Semler to the nearby parking lot, where they got into a silver Mitsubishi Pajero SUV and drove north along the main road beside the airport.

This was one of the few paved roads in Soyo. Although it was narrow and dirty, with no traffic lights at the intersections, it was much better than the dirt roads elsewhere that were merely compacted mud.

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Along the way, the city looked desolate. On the roadside, makeshift shacks made of iron sheets, canvas, or wooden planks could be seen. Poorly dressed black locals were everywhere, idly gathering in the shade, staring blankly at passing vehicles.

After about five or six minutes, the Pajero reached an overpass that connected the city to the port district. The vehicle turned right at the roundabout and entered another road along the Congo River. After traveling about a third of a mile east along the riverbank, they turned onto a bumpy road and stopped in front of a simple dock.

To the left of the dock was a local fishery. Several small boats, mostly stripped of their paint, lay upside down on the riverbank, and nets were strewn haphazardly on the pebble-covered shore.

As they approached the dock, Semler noticed that to the right was a dilapidated port. A row of decaying wooden breakwaters extended into the river, and at the end was a white yacht, at least twenty feet long, which stood in stark contrast to the small fishing boats moored nearby.

A white man was a conspicuous sight in such a place, but the black workers at the dock seemed fearful, avoiding eye contact with Semler and his party, even deliberately looking away as they approached.

The young man walked up to the side of the yacht and handed the luggage to a black crew member dressed in a white polo shirt. He then pointed to the yacht.

Semler nodded in acknowledgment and boarded the yacht via a gangplank. Several black men quickly untied the ropes, and the yacht slowly left the dock, heading down the Congo River toward the Atlantic Ocean.

Padron Point, located to the northwest of Soyo, juts into the mouth of the Congo River like a giant rhino horn, forming a natural breakwater for the city. The place Semler was headed was at the tip of this "horn."

After about half an hour on the water, the yacht arrived at a white dock. The dock was entirely built of white marble and looked quite grand. Next to it was a thirty-foot-long pier leading to a small man-made island in the water, a dedicated dock for seaplanes.

Two black men stood on the pier. One had a magazine pouch attached to his belt and carried a G3KA4 rifle with a folded stock slung across his chest. The other wore black trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt, with a khaki vest over it, looking like a hotel doorman.

Once the yacht was docked, the "yellow vest" man came forward, took the luggage from the crew member, and led Semler up a white marble staircase on the hillside behind the dock.

At the top of the fifty-foot-long staircase was a neatly manicured lawn. In the northeast corner stood a glass greenhouse occupying over a thousand square feet. In the center was a three-story white Victorian-style villa, with armed guards patrolling the area.

Rounding the villa, the first thing visible was an oval swimming pool. Further west was an observation deck with a view of the Atlantic Ocean, and in the corner was a hexagonal pavilion.

As they approached the pool, a tall, thin man with dark sunglasses and a navy beret, carrying a Polish-made PM-63 submachine gun, approached Semler and gave a "raise your hands" gesture.

Semler handed his shoulder bag to the black man carrying his luggage, then raised his hands.

After a thorough body search, the tall man gestured to someone behind him and pointed to the pavilion by the observation deck. "Mr. Jaba is waiting for you there," he said.

Looking in the indicated direction, Semler saw a fat black man in dove-gray trousers and a dark orange short-sleeved shirt standing in front of the pavilion. Semler quickly walked over.

As he approached, the bald, round-faced man with a bulbous nose and thick lips, whose neck was nearly invisible, smiled broadly and opened his arms. In an exaggerated tone, he greeted, "Semler, my dear friend, it’s been so long."

Semler’s eyebrows unconsciously twitched as he stepped forward to embrace him.

After a few moments of insincere pleasantries, Jaba invited Semler into the pavilion. The two settled into large wicker chairs, and Jaba personally opened a light yellow cedar cigar box on the coffee table, offering a full box of H. Upmann cigars to his guest.

But Semler waved it away, pulling a box of Davidoff cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

Jaba glanced at the cigarette box in Semler's hand and, with a half-boastful tone, said as he picked up a cigar from the box, "Are you sure? These are top-quality Havana cigars—each one costs at least fifty dollars in Luanda."

"No, thanks. I’m not used to cigars," Semler said as he took a cigarette from the pack.

Jaba chuckled. He gestured to a nearby man, who quickly ran over. The thin black man in a light brown short-sleeved shirt pulled a shiny gold lighter from his pocket and respectfully lit Semler's cigarette.