“Mr. Monet, this is a fascinating story, but if you knew for sure something of value was there you guys would go on your own. I will not risk my ass in the jungles of the Congo unless I can have a true twenty-five percent permanent ownership of this mythical quarry,” John said. He waited while Henrico spoke to someone on the phone.
“We don’t normally give out ownership, but since we don’t have anything in our hands, there is a good chance you will get twenty-five percent of a pile of monkey shit wrapped in banana leaves,” Henrico quipped, as he corrected and initialed the contract. Henrico felt this was another of Papa Doc’s crazy schemes and John Cole would never be heard from again. He handed John the contract, journal, and ore samples. John told Henrico he wanted to test the ore samples before signing the contract.
John smiled, knowing the man was probably right about the monkey shit.
An aide to Papa Doc gave John a letter of instructions for the banker in Africa. The agreement was to remain secret; however, John was free to hire whomever he wanted and communicate only with the bank. He would travel to Abidjan in the Ivory Coast and report to the International Bank of South Africa (BIAO). His mode of travel to Abidjan was a government contracted tramp freighter called Afrik-Rev that Duvalier had exempted from normal paperwork, as the owner was Captain Plato, Papa Doc’s favorite cousin. John felt sure the conditions would be somewhere south of comfortable.
He found a lab at the College de Port-au-Prince suitable for mineral testing. Since the local chemistry professor didn’t complain, John didn’t have to play the “Crazy dictator will get your ass” card. The professor let him have the run of the lab. Much of the equipment John had brought from Colorado, but some samples were strange enough to warrant special testing.
The green soil was a simple classification for John, who suspected from his first glance the famous kimberlite ore found in diamond-bearing areas of the world.
“Well kiss my ass. I was right on target from the start,” John bragged to himself. He had done his master’s thesis on diamond-bearing ore, his first trip having been to Arkansas to study the green variety of kimberlite pipe.
John knew the green soil samples likely contained diamonds. Most geologists wouldn’t have recognized the soil, since common forms usually present as “blue ground’ or “yellow ground.” Green kimberlite occurs when kimberlite is mixed with serpentinized olivine, which is uncommon. Diamond ore usually exhibits as a pipe brought to the surface by eruptions deep within the earth. John carefully explored and sorted all the soil, selecting two small diamonds and a larger one with a pinkish tint that was more than a karat. He figured the tent boy in the Stanley expedition had not stayed long in the quarry and therefore had quickly grabbed a few handfuls of soil. The area must be very rich, John thought.
The orange ore could have been a myriad of minerals, so to rule out common arsenic, John ran tests using both his and the chemistry lab’s equipment. He checked his results, pulled out one last item from his field geology bag, and turned on the machine. The Geiger counter came to life and buzzed and clicked repeatedly as John waved the machine over the ore. Next he measured exactly 1000 grams of ore and tested the intensity for a given amount of material by cpm (counts per minute.) He had made his determination. The orange ore was uranosphaerite, commonly known as uranium.
“Holy shit!” John murmured. This ore was the strongest “Dan class” and emitted 1,033.58 MilliRem per hour on the hand. The maximum adult dose for the hand is 50,000 m/Rm per year and the lethal dose is 400,000 to 500,000 m/Rm.
John turned off the noisy Geiger counter and sat quietly, looking at his notes. So far, the first two minerals he had tested were worth a fortune, with one more mineral remaining. He speculated that the people who were digging before Binza came upon the mine had no use for uranium or appreciation of its value. They only understood diamonds and gold.
Testing the third sample, a silver-colored ore, was relatively simple. Scientists knew the ore as semi-rare “coltan,” short for columbite and tantalite. Since coltan had no major use, John was relieved he would not have to devise yet another mining plan.
John signed and sent off the contract without mentioning the valuable ore he had found. He was aware that doing business with Haiti was very dangerous, even on a small concession contract. Haiti had been attacked repeatedly by factions wanting to kill Papa Doc. Stories abounded of large-scaled public executions and mass graves. No one doubted the tales. Papa Doc brought the head of one murdered enemy to his residence, put it in a bucket of ice, then tried to communicate with it.
John started thinking, “Papa Doc. What a fucknut! I’ve got to get out of this country before this wacko puts my head in a bucket of ice and asks if I’m a Virgo or a Sagittarius.”
After a few days’ planning, he notified his college in the U.S. that he wouldn’t be teaching classes in the fall, but would give credits to senior level students for field study in Africa at their expense. He hoped one graduate student in particular would bite on the offer. She was Vikki Hanover, a Texas beauty who had a fortune waiting from her dad’s oil and gas wells in three states. She was not the unkempt, unattractive female geology nerd who looked more masculine than most males. Vikki was a sexy, blonde, fashion model type who had wandered out of a photo shoot with a rock pick in her hand.
John was in his early thirties, divorced about five years and had no children from the marriage. He had taken Vikki out a few times, but nothing seemed to be happening between them, other than they had fun being together. The expense of an African adventure would amount to pocket change for her, so John invited her on this field trip with the knowledge that she could pay for herself. Her parents may not want her playing in the jungle with her geology professor, but he certainly wanted to take on the part of a great white hunter. Here, he thought, was a way to win her over, and if things worked out, he would have the wealth to compete for her while duly impressing her parents. Visions of having unlimited sex in every possible position in a tent in the jungle would occupy most of his fantasies.
John made contact with the freighter captain, Plato, who gave him a sailing date two weeks away. Vikki was not at all reluctant to go, but convincing her mother, Susan Hanover, was a challenge. John made a personal visit to Texas, outlined his meticulous arrangements, which included a portable short wave radio for the trip. Her mother paid for every kind of snakebite anti-venom available, even for serpents that didn’t live in Africa. She hired individual safari guides in the Congo region to go along with them, while also checking the guides’ inventory of guns. A doctor would now join what was becoming a duplication of Henry Stanley’s expedition to find Livingstone. Satisfied her daughter would be in good hands, Susan wished them well. John expected to find her in the tent with them at some point. Susan was blonde, well put together, and very hot for a rich lady in her late forties, so John wouldn’t have complained.
Her father, Mike Hanover, on the other hand, was more interested in the ore and value of the find. John told him he wasn’t at liberty to discuss the find, but hinted that just about every known mineral in the world can be found in Africa and more specifically in the Congo. Their discussion centered on the engineering issues of establishing a mining operation deep in the jungle. He suggested if the geology was worthwhile, he might be interested in being a partner. Although Mike Hanover wasn’t a geologist, he was a chemical engineer who helped build a dynasty in the oil and gas business. However, none of his wells were in the godforsaken middle of the African Congo.
Other graduate students wanted to go on the expedition, but since they could barely pay their bills, they declined his offer.
Vikki had the choice of flying to Africa and waiting for John, or soaking up the ambiance of a tramp steamer, rubbing up against sweaty men, eating meals in a dirty galley, and having very little privacy. She decided that she would do the freighter, since “it would be just like college life.”
She flew into Port au Prince and they left on the Afrik-Rev the same nig
ht.
On board ship, John tried his best to slowly work his way into her heart, but Vikki recognized his tricks—and his motives. It was not that she didn’t want to sleep with him—he was so handsome she wanted to attack him at times. Deep blue eyes and Robert Redford-type blonde hair made him hard to resist. She hesitated out of fear the relationship would take her to the edge. If her feelings were no longer kept at bay—they might easily be dangled over a ledge. Vikki had experienced that awful pain that lay at the bottom. She had really cared for men in the past who later dumped her after they got what they wanted. Vikki was beautiful, and had been the target of many slick guys. She had been there.
At this point, Vikki and John were like fencing partners using invisible swords.
“I’m going to the galley to get us dinner. Your choice of pork chops or pork chops. What will it be?” John asked.
“A big ole greasy pork chop. And my selection of wine tonight?”
“That would be a wonderful, full bodied red wine lacking a label and found aging under the sink next to the Comet cleaner.”
“Sounds perfect. Should we let it aerate a bit?”
“Not necessary, my dear. My suggestion is drink fast followed by large slices of pork chops.”
“Great! Hurry back, dear.”
John returned a few minutes later with dinner and the suspect bottle of wine. They ate and finished off the bottle. Since Plato loved rum and the crew drank beer, fancy drinks were scarce and of dubious quality. After all, this was a freighter, not a cruise ship.
Several bottles of wine and three days and nights on the open ocean elapsed before Vikki let John stay in her cabin. She admitted she had always liked him. Since he was tall, athletic and handsome, keeping him away from cute college girls in his classes would be a problem. Did he only have fun and sex on his mind? His conquests of pretty young ladies had cost him his marriage. Vikki was well aware of these issues and tried to hold back her feelings, but each was falling for the other more every day.
“John, I really care about you. How do I know we will be together when we get back home? I see how all the girls flirt with you. Am I going to be another notch on your gun?” Vikki asked.
“Do you have my gun? I haven’t seen it lately.”
“Quit screwing with me, John. Talk to me. The divorce—all the girls? Having kids? A real family life? I want all the goddamn answers,” she demanded.
He knew he better reach down deep in his gut, or she would rescind the invitation to her cabin.
“Vikki, I have been a royal jerk—not to you I hope, but in general. I married for all the wrong reasons. My ex didn’t want kids—at least not with me anyway. I did, but I’m so glad I didn’t have any then—I wasn’t ready and would have been a lousy father. I wasn’t a good husband—too tempted by young girls in class. I was weak, but I learned I wanted things other than a wild carnal adventure. Sex is exciting—fresh flesh—a conquest, yes, but fleeting and after a while, sort of sick—knowing it doesn’t mean anything. It has to be part of a relationship. It has to be permanent, strong, lasting—a relationship has to develop stronger and stronger with children and family. It has to be real. I know that now, and that’s all I want in life—to be part of a permanent family. Vikki, I hope you believe me,” John said, his eyes watering.
“I do believe you, John. I hope it will always be exciting for you. That’ll be my job. I’ll have to seem like fresh flesh and all that.” She laughed and sounded relieved by John’s speech.
“I will force myself to get into it as best I can—maybe even with some enjoyment,” John said, laughing.
John kissed Vikki, but hesitated before he let their lips touch and took in her breath for a while, then kissed her deeply and long. They made love that night and both were ready, the perfect time, the perfect place, and the perfect two people. John made her feel very comfortable, but unleashed every bit of passion he could and she responded. Their first sex was wild, sweaty, and athletic. All their pent up emotions flushed through their bodies, satisfying needs they couldn’t define, yet acted upon without hesitation. Afterwards, their love making was slow, with much pillow talk, then touching softly, and intense eye contact. John was a potent lover for Vikki and she returned the intensity with great care. Her body was incredibly beautiful and John couldn’t believe how lucky he was. They made love so often they lost track of time. Each one realized, given the adventure in front of them, they would need commitments-life changing commitments. This moment in their lives, on a tramp steamer in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, on the way to an African safari in search of diamonds and uranium—was wonderful, exotic, mystical and sensual. They were falling deeply in love. This time would never exist again.
Chapter 5
Abidjan, Ivory Coast
John Cole and Vikki Hanover were physically sore from a week of around the clock love-making. When they stepped on the docks in the Ivory Coast, their legs barely worked. They were also paying the price for traveling on a small freighter that bounced around on the high seas. Both were smiling like drunken monkeys, convinced nothing mattered except their relationship. John was surprised Plato accompanied them to the BIOA bank to discuss the terms of the expedition. Plato was more than a tramp steamer Captain, John realized. As they left the docks, five small trucks pulled up, and a crew loaded several heavy wooden crates from the boat.
The three piled into a taxi up on the dock, Plato up front and John and Vikki in the back seat groaning and laughing. The city was huge and unlike what John had pictured for Africa. Abidjan was teeming and dirty like so many in third world countries, yet gleaming tall buildings cast shadows over festering slums and trash-filled streets.
“Where the hell is Tarzan?” Vikki said.
“He would play hell convincing Jane to shack up with him in this place,” John said.
John and Vikki were impressed when the taxi pulled up to a modern, multi-storied building, with huge smoked glass windows reaching all the way to the top floor. A handsome man in a custom-tailored suit opened a large glass door with chrome handles. They were soon to learn the bank had several Haitian ex-pats working in managerial positions. As Plato introduced the pair to several employees, John and Vikki surmised why this bank kept the offshore assets of a country located several thousand miles away.
“Haiti has lost some of their finest and best educated French speaking citizens to this bank here in the Ivory Coast,” Plato explained, while he shook the hand of a tall, distinguished black man with salt and pepper hair.
Romulus Jean-Baptiste watched over the holdings of the Haitian government, whether the money was in accounts or safety deposit boxes, or, as they were about to learn, in underground safety deposit vaults. About that time, five small trucks pulled up to the rear of the bank, escorted by the police. John crept to a window and spotted police and military types, standing in line, their guns drawn and ready. Workers hauled the crates to the rear of the bank, and down the steps leading to an underground storage area. Romulus excused himself. He went to supervise placement of the wooden crates, and possibly, even their contents.
“John, the bank officer can see us now,” Plato said. He motioned the two Americans to a handsomely appointed office, decorated in African tribal motif. Masks, spears, arrows, and crude knives were displayed on the walls, along with a painting of Africans dancing madly and a line of natives banging on colorful drums.
“You must be John Cole.” The senior bank officer sat behind a mahogany desk made of enough wood to have wiped out half a forest.
“Yes, I am, and I would like you to meet Vikki Hanover.”
The gentleman rose, took Vikki’s hand, and introduced himself as Cangé Petit-Frere, also a Haitian transplant.
Then, he got right down to business, except for laughing and smiling at inappropriate times.
“John, the letter you delivered to us on your arrival charges this bank to finance and oversee an exploratory trip to the Democratic Republic of the Congo and the upper Congo regio
n, to determine if mining various ores are economically feasible. If it all pans out, so to speak.” He chuckled at his own pun.
“Then, to contract with that country for long term mining leases, for which you will receive a 25% share in ownership and net production revenue.” He laughed and picked up another file, which he explained had arrived from Haiti a few weeks before; instructions were to contact and engage certain individuals within the government of the Congo.
“Boy, getting in touch with those folks was fun, since they all seemed to be moving targets. But, we did find a few people in place who weren’t afraid to make a decision,” he said with a large smile.
Cangé looked up from the letter lying on his desk, and shook his head. “Are you sure that this is what you two want to do?” Before they could answer, he shook his head again and laughed out loud.
“The Ivory Coast went through a civil war a few years back, and we are not back to normal. Whatever normal is in Africa.” He laughed at his own comment.
“The Congo just replaced their president through a coup. The new President is Joseph-Desiré Mobuto. A real piece of work.” He smiled and sort of chuckled.
“In May of this year, he hung his former Prime Minister Evaristic Kimba, and three cabinet members in front of 50,000 people.” He shrugged. “His idea of entertainment for his constituents. You know the history of Trujillo in the Dominican Republic, and, of course, Papa Doc in Haiti. This man, Mobutu, may well make them both look like members of the Mickey Mouse Club.” He followed this statement with a deep laugh.
“You are going to a dangerous and unstable place. Over one thousand Haitians live there. Some are fleeing, as we speak. All are part of the brain drain from Haiti, where there is almost no opportunity for well-educated blacks. I think the only reason they come in the first place is ‘French and Creole are spoken here.’” Smiling and amused, he continued. “Not nearly a good enough reason to get shot or hung.”
Once Upon the Congo Page 3
