by Peter Ralph
The deaths made Yannick physically and emotionally ill, but he finally had some dissent and outrage he could exploit. The workers and their families were still scared, but anger outweighed their fear. Yannick was determined to ensure that the mine was safe, wages were increased, and conditions were improved before the workers went underground again. He had heard Marc Boucher threaten Gert Botha with the loss of his job if the mine wasn’t restored and operational within four weeks. Yannick knew this was his window of opportunity.
CHAPTER 10
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JOSEPH ASKED HIS MOM IF they could say their farewells at home, but she was determined to go to the airport. As the limousine stop-started through the LA traffic, she sat next to him, holding his hand. Frank sat opposite, casually chewing gum, but his stomach was churning.
“Tell me you’re not going back to your village,” Michelle said, tightly gripping his hand.
“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t think I am.”
“The Congo’s a horrible, dangerous place,” Michelle persisted, “and life is cheap. Please be careful.”
“According to George, soldiers are going to guard us around the clock. I’ll be safer there than I am here.”
A tear ran down Michelle’s cheek, and there was a tremor in her voice. “I’ll die if something happens to you.”
“He’ll be all right. He can look after himself,” Frank said without conviction.
As the limo pulled into the departures area, Michelle said, “We won’t come any further. If we do, I’ll break down, and I don’t want you to remember me in a mess of tears. Please come home to us.”
Frank shook Joseph’s hand and said, “Safe trip, Son. Follow George’s lead. He knows what he’s doing. We’ll see you in two weeks.”
“Sure,” Joseph said, giving his mom one more hug before climbing out.
As the limo drove away, Frank and Michelle waved. To Joseph, they looked like they’d just been to a funeral.
Faraday was already on the Gulfstream when Joseph boarded. A flight attendant who was part of the hired crew offered him an orange juice. Joseph gazed around the cabin in astonishment. There were only eight large seats in two pods of four facing each other.
“Hello, Joseph. Isn’t it great?” Faraday said. “You want to see the boardroom? There are two separate bedrooms at the rear, too. Oh, I nearly forgot, there’s a fully stocked bar. It sure is the way to travel.”
“Yes,” Joseph said, doubt written all over his face.
“You’re worried about the cost? Don’t be! We’re gonna make so much money, by the time we get back, you’ll be able to buy one of these.”
Joseph was about to respond when two men boarded. They nodded to Faraday and made their way to the second pod of seats.
“Who are they?” Joseph asked.
“State Department officials. I told them Frank didn’t want you to stay in the palace. They’re happy if we use them as an excuse.”
“State Department? Why? Dad said if anyone came with us, it would be Department of Commerce officials. Aren’t our meetings going to be about trade, investment, and development?”
“I’ll let them explain the details, but they want to ensure the Chinese don’t get their hands on a massive uranium resource. Don’t fight it. These guys have way more power than the hacks from the Department of Commerce. When they learned of the potential size of the deals, particularly the uranium deal, they insisted on coming. We won’t have to bullshit Bodho, even though I’m sure he’ll invite them to stay at the palace too. Don’t worry, they’re going to say they can’t accept because it breaches the department’s rules. It worked out perfectly. I’ll introduce you to them once we take off.”
“There’s no hurry. We’re going to be in the air for nearly thirty hours.”
“No, that’s what it would’ve taken if we’d stopped in Paris to refuel. The State Department has arranged for us to refuel at Nouakchott in Mauritania. I tell you, having those two guys with us is going to be a big plus. We’ll be landing in N’djili in twenty-one hours,” Faraday said, looking at his watch. “President Bodho will have the red carpet rolled out for you.”
“I hope not,” Joseph said.
The two guys from the State Department were somber, and while they politely asked a few questions about the decathlon, their focus was on U.S. business and investment in the Congo.
“I don’t understand why you guys are involved,” Joseph said. “I thought the Department of Commerce handled trade matters.”
The more senior of the two, Jack Costigan, clenched and unclenched his meaty hands before responding. “The fucking Chinese got into the Congo, and they’ve been ripping the guts out of it. That gold medal you won is our chance to get back in again.”
“How did the Chinese manage that? What did they do that we didn’t?”
“Nothing. They’re as cunning as shithouse rats. The size of the bribes they paid was outrageous, and then they built hospitals, schools, roads, and infrastructure. They obviously didn’t do it out of the goodness of their hearts, though. They screwed the workers and paid way below market prices for the commodities they bought. However, they made it appear as if they cared for the people and their communities. When the veil’s pulled away, they’re far worse than us. Slimy bastards.”
Joseph’s face clouded over. “So our companies are screwing the Congolese, and the Chinese companies are screwing the Congolese. The only difference is they’re doing it in a nicer way.”
A vein in Costigan’s bull neck started to throb, and Faraday cut in. “No, you’ve misconstrued what Jack said, Joseph. The Chinese, because of their dirty deals, have kept the West out of the Congo on significant developments for years. We want to help the Congolese people.”
“Sure,” Joseph said, but only to smooth things over – he was already having his doubts about his new companions.
With the help of Costigan, Faraday had arranged for senior executives of BHP, Barrick, Freeport, Alcoa, Newmont, Anglo American, and a few smaller mining companies to be in Kinshasa at the same time as Joseph. Faraday was licking his lips. He had never been able to get any business from the big miners. Now they were falling over themselves to use his services. He was going to be rich beyond his wildest dreams.
The Gulfstream touched down in N’djili at 4:30 p.m. When the door opened, Joseph looked down from the top of the mobile stairway at an army band, before staring in amazement at tens of thousands of cheering faces. A red carpet stretched across the tarmac, and a group of officials were waiting at the foot of the stairway. One of the officials signaled, and the military band struck up the “Debout Congolais,” the country’s national anthem.
“How cool is this?” Faraday beamed.
“It’s terrible,” Joseph replied. “I never expected anything like this.”
“Don’t keep them waiting.”
Joseph recognized President Bodho from his photos. He wasn’t tall, but he was massively obese, and his navy blue suit wrapped around him like a tent. General Zamenka, who was of similar build, was standing next to the president in full military regalia, including medals and ribbons. A third man, also in uniform sporting the insignia of a colonel, stood with them. He was taller, and also had a generous girth, but nothing like the size of his boss’s. Half a dozen steps farther back was a group of politicians and public servants.
As Joseph neared the bottom of the stairway, President Bodho grabbed his hand and embraced him. Camera flashes erupted, and television crews pushed closer, capturing every moment. When Bodho released him, General Zamenka repeated the performance. Then they stood on either side of Joseph while photographers pressed in, taking more photos. The third man, Colonel Gizenga, was more subdued. When Joseph looked into his eyes, they were dark and foreboding.
One of President Bodho’s aides took Joseph by the elbow and directed him to the motorcade waiting at the end of the red carpet. Joseph got into the back of a black Mercedes. Bodho took the seat on the other side, presse
d a button, and the rear half of the car’s roof slid away. He stood on the back seat and beckoned Joseph to join him. The crowd started applauding, and flashing camera bulbs momentarily blinded Joseph. He felt Bodho’s arm around his shoulders and involuntarily tensed. General Zamenka climbed into the front seat, and the Mercedes rolled slowly across the tarmac, followed by twenty other black sedans. Motorcycle police took up their positions on either side of the motorcade. Joseph turned to look back at the motorcade but couldn’t see Faraday or the State Department officials. Thousands of Congolese lined the road, cheering and waving distinct DRC flags. Large pictures of Joseph and the president hung from the light poles. Joseph fought to hold his balance when the Mercedes hit ruts in the road and swerved to avoid deeper potholes. How can the road between the capital and the airport be in such a state of disrepair? Joseph wondered.
As the motorcade neared Kinshasa, the crowds pushed closer, and it slowed to a crawl. Cheering Congolese threw streamers, and Joseph felt paper dropped from buildings falling on his head. Someone in the crowd started chanting, “Muamba, Muamba, Muamba,” and within a few minutes, it became a crescendo. Bodho smiled and threw an arm around Joseph while waving with his other hand.
Two guards saluted as the motorcade turned into the presidential palace. Joseph gasped. All he’d seen on the drive from the airport was poverty: children dressed in rags, crumbling roads, and old, faded buildings. The palace, rolling green lawns, and gardens that he was now staring at would not have been out of place in Versailles or London. When the motorcade stopped at the front of the palace, a valet opened the president’s door, and another ran around and held Joseph’s open.
“My valets will show you to your room, where you may refresh yourself, and if you’re tired, perhaps take a nap. Dinner will be in the Great Hall at eight o’clock.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
As Joseph followed the valet down the corridor, he was struck by the grandeur. Marble and gold leaf tiles glistened, and some of the sculptures were breathtaking. The first valet unlocked the door to his room, which was the size of a small house, and said, “I’ll return just before eight. There is a platter of fresh fruit on the table, mineral water in the refrigerator, and a well-stocked bar. If there is something not to your satisfaction, or you need help, there is a red button next to the bed. Press it and I’ll come running.”
The valet carrying his suitcases followed Joseph into the room and asked, “Would you like me to help you unpack?”
“No thank you. I won’t be unpacking.”
After the valets had left, Joseph laid out a clean set of clothes before going to the toilet. The taps, showerheads, and grates in the bathroom were gold. When he returned to the living room, he took a seat in a large period chair and kicked his shoes off. He felt his feet sink into the lush, beige carpet, put his hands behind his head, and pondered what the night might hold.
CHAPTER 11
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JOSEPH ENTERED THE GREAT HALL through enormous, gold double doors just before eight o’clock. A young girl dressed in a white sleeveless blouse showing just a trace of midriff and a colorful, full-length skirt took him by the hand and showed him to a chair next to the head of the table. The high-backed, red-cushioned chairs were regal. Sitting opposite him were General Zamenka and Colonel Gizenga. He glanced down the long table. Military personnel sat in the first ten chairs, and politicians and administrators, including George Faraday and the two State Department officials, occupied the next thirty. Embroidered red and gold drapes ran the full length of the walls, huge chandeliers sparkled, and the table was set with gold candelabras, matching cutlery and gold-leafed crockery. Three paces behind each chair, young girls stood at attention, waiting to serve their respective guests. Joseph was still taking in the decadence of the room when a fanfare of trumpets erupted, and everyone at the table stood up. The president swept in, a security guard on either side of him, and took the chair at the head of the table. Looking up, he held his hands out in front of him and moved them downward, and his guests sat back down.
President Bodho rested his hand on Joseph’s arm. “You will enjoy the food. I employ the world’s finest French chefs. The quail was flown in from Paris this morning, and the wagyu from Tokyo. The truffles are from Italy.”
“I’m sure I will, Mr. President.”
While they were talking, waiters carried bowls of exotic foods to the table, and the servers attended to their guests’ needs.
Malt whiskey was the president’s drink of choice, and bottles lined the table. Joseph knew there would be little change out of $2,000 a bottle. When his waiter came to fill his glass, he put his hand over it and said, “No, thanks.”
“What is wrong?” Bodho asked, his booming voice carrying the length of the table.
“Nothing, Mr. President. I just don’t drink alcohol.”
“Why? You have won the gold. You don’t need to worry anymore.”
“Mr. President, I’m going to defend my title in London.”
“For the U.S. or the Democratic Republic?”
“The Democratic Republic.”
Bodho’s scowl disappeared and was replaced by toothy, raucous laughter. “Then I forbid you to drink alcohol. You must bring more honor to our country by again winning gold.”
Colonel Gizenga, chimed in, “I understand you used to live in Katanga.”
“Yes, in a village in the northeast.”
“Are you going to visit?”
“I don’t know. I understand the rebels control much of the north.”
“Ah, so the famous decathlete is too scared to go back to his old home,” Gizenga sneered.
Joseph fought back a surge of anger. “I’m not scared. I’m just following the advice of the State Department.”
“I control Katanga,” Gizenga said. “I’m flying back tomorrow. If you want to visit your village, six of my men will provide you with more than enough protection so long as they have Kel with them.”
“Kel?” Joseph asked, looking puzzled.
“Kalashnikov,” Gizenga said, thumping his leg while the military men and president roared with laughter. “Six Kalashnikovs is enough to wipe out all the rebels if the cowards would only fight. Let me know if you want to go back. You will not be at any risk.”
“Why did you refuse my invitation to stay at the palace?” the president asked, slurring slightly. The whiskey bottle in front of him had only a few inches left in it.
“The State Department wanted me to stay with their officials. I think they want to ensure the mining executives will have access to me. The last thing our government wants to do is insult you, Mr. President.”
“Our government?” Zamenka said. “We are your government. What do you mean? Those mining executives will go home with nothing without our support.”
“I have dual citizenship. I have responsibilities to the country in which I live.”
“Yes, and you used that dual citizenship to gain a place on our Olympics team because the U.S. wouldn’t have picked you,” Gizenga chipped in.
“Rubbish,” Joseph said. “I would’ve been the first selected. I wanted to give something back to the people of my country of birth.”
“Then why did your friend pay a bri−”
“Enough,” Zamenka said, glaring at Gizenga.
“What?” Joseph said. “What did you say?”
“He didn’t say anything,” Zamenka said. “Would you like some company tonight?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you fancy any of the young girls?” Zamenka asked, swiveling his bulky neck to look around the room.
“No,” Joseph said, suppressing a look of disgust. “I’m tired from the flight. I need sleep. If you don’t mind, Mr. President, I’d like to go to my hotel.”
“But you will miss my head chef’s pièce de résistance – lemon soufflé,” the president slurred, downing the last of the whiskey bottle in front of him and shouting for more.
&n
bsp; “Thank you, Mr. President, but I don’t eat sweets.”
“You don’t drink alcohol, don’t like girls, and don’t eat sweets,” Zamenka said. “What do you like?”
“Sorry, General.”
Gizenga beckoned one of the soldiers standing at the doors.
“Your friend seems to be enjoying himself,” Zamenka said, nodding toward George Faraday, who was talking animatedly and drinking champagne. “I don’t think he’ll be going back to the hotel with you.”
“That’s all right. He can come when he’s ready.”
“Your luggage is being taken to the car. Follow me,” Gizenga said.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. President. Thank you, General. Goodnight.”
Gizenga showed Joseph to a black Range Rover. There were Jeeps in front of and behind it, each carrying four soldiers. Half a dozen motorbikes flanked either side of the convoy.
“Is all this necessary?”
“Kinshasa is not Los Angeles,” Gizenga said, closing the door behind Joseph. “If anything were to happen to you, we would be the laughing stock of the world.”
Joseph cringed as the motorcade roared through the city. People on the streets smiled and waved to him.
