Blood Gold in the Congo

by Peter Ralph

  Joseph involuntarily felt the USB around his neck. “I don’t know. The army murdered seventy-four innocent people. Someone has to pay.”

  “Are you going to tell the president?”

  “I don’t think so,” Joseph replied, thinking of Gizenga’s warning. “He might have condoned it.”

  “I was thinking the same. Nothing will happen. No one’s going to be charged. They never are. It is the way of the Congo.”

  “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “The bones of one,” Joseph said. “I intend to see Gizenga and his murderous thugs brought to account.”

  “How are you going to look after Moise when we get back?” Maya asked.

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing. I’ll find a way.”

  “I can look after him. There’s always one of us at the apartment. I’m sure my girlfriends will be willing to help. Are you really going to take him back to the U.S. with you?”

  “That would be a big help. And yes, I want you to come with us too. Is your passport current?”

  The flight attendant returned to tell them the captain was preparing to land and to fasten their seatbelts.

  “Everything’s easy for you,” Maya said. “I have a good job at the hospital. If I did go, there’s no certainty I’d get it back when I return. I’m probably already in trouble for not going in yesterday.”

  “They will re-employ you, and you won’t be in any trouble.” Joseph yawned. “That’s something I can guarantee.”

  “God, you’re full of yourself.” Maya smiled. “And yes, I have a current passport.”

  “I don’t mean to be. I just know it’s something the president’s advisers will be able to fix if I ask them.”

  “I’m sorry, Joseph. Try to lighten up. Sometimes it’s like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

  The plane made a soft landing, and Joseph turned on his cellphone. There were more than a hundred emails, and he quickly scanned the senders, smiling when he saw Ron Patterson’s name. He glanced out the window and saw a stressed George Faraday standing at the front of a three-vehicle motorcade. He would wait until he was at the hotel before reading Ron’s email.

  Joseph and Maya, still wearing nightgowns, left the plane with Moise, rubbing his eyes, close behind them. George Faraday was at the bottom of the stairway. “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  “Not now,” Joseph replied.

  They traveled in silence until the limo pulled up in front of an old, three-level cream-colored apartment building. Joseph patted Moise on the head and gave Maya a peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you both soon,” he said.

  As the door closed, Faraday said, “Jesus, what happened? I knew I should have gone with you. Did the rebels try to capture you?”

  “There were no rebels. The miners went on strike, and the army came in and murdered them. Seventy-four! Seventy-four murdered, and their village burned to the ground! The soldiers drove trucks from the mine, and I guess New Dawn paid for the helicopters they flew in on.”

  “Bu-but the newspapers reported rebels killing two soldiers. General Zamenka confirmed it.”

  “Come closer, George,” Joseph said, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “I killed them. They were going to rape the little boy I brought back.”

  Faraday’s face collapsed. “You did what? Christ, if they find out, you’ll never get out of the country alive.”

  “They won’t find out. It’s convenient for Gizenga. It gives credibility to his bullshit story about rebels. George, who did you sell the mine to?”

  “I told you, I can’t remember.”

  “Yeah, you did.” Joseph smiled grimly.

  “Why did you bring the boy back with you?”

  “The soldiers murdered his family. I’m taking him back to the U.S. with me.”

  “What? What? You can’t!”

  “I can and will. Set up a meeting with Jack Costigan tonight. Tell him we’d like to have dinner,” Joseph said, as the motorcade stopped in front of the hotel. “I’m going to take a nap for a few hours. Message me with a time.”

  As Joseph walked into the foyer, staff and guests burst into spontaneous applause. He smiled and waved but didn’t stop. He was dying to get to his room and turn on his laptop.

  Ron’s email covered all of the negotiations Faraday had entered into, to sell the gold mine in Katanga fourteen years earlier. Unfortunately, it appeared Faraday had failed to make a sale and had elected to go it alone. Ron did point out there was a draft agreement on file, but the name of the proposed buyer was blacked out. The only letters Ron could make out were “PLC,” which suggested the proposed buyer had been a British company. Did George cut the firm out of negotiations to avoid paying commission and then do the deal privately? Joseph wondered.

  Disappointed, he plugged in the USB, copied it to his laptop and started reading emails. After a few minutes, it became apparent that Boucher’s immediate boss was a man named Thibault, who kept in contact via a Gmail address. From his name, Joseph guessed he was French or Belgian. An email from Boucher to Thibault included a summary of New Dawn’s budget for the current year. Targeted gold production was three hundred thousand ounces with a value of $540 million. Boucher was getting 5 percent of the gross paid quarterly. No wonder he was ruthless and pushed the workers so hard. New Dawn transferred Boucher’s profit share to a company controlled by him in the tax haven of Mauritius and claimed it as fully tax-deductible management fees.

  Loans to the New Dawn mine aggregated $50 million, but it paid more than $100 million a year in fully tax-deductible interest to a company incorporated in the Virgin Islands. Thibault authorized payments to many recipients with bank accounts in tax havens, for professional fees, consulting fees, engineering fees, and technical advice. There were even payments to companies who supposedly provided mine safety and environmental information. Two $20 million payments transferred to a bank account in the Caymans for professional services rendered by someone or something simply referred to as “Z” intrigued Joseph. It seemed Thibault authorized all payments more than $5 million. Other than those, Boucher was in full control.

  An email from an international firm of tax accountants set out New Dawn’s prior year’s tax liability of $375,000 on gold sales of $497 million. The Congolese government had granted an exploitation permit for the mine in Katanga. Around $500 million of gold per annum was being extracted, but New Dawn was paying a meager $375,000 in tax. No wonder they call it an exploitation permit, Joseph thought. It also accounted for why there were virtually no paved roads in the Congo. New Dawn paid virtually no tax, didn’t provide any safety or health benefits, grossly underpaid its workers, and – when they went on strike for better wages and benefits – killed them with impunity.

  Joseph was determined to go through the thousands of emails in the deleted folder, but for the time being he had had enough. His cellphone beeped, and the text message from Faraday said, “7:00 p.m. dining room.” He had two hours to fill in. It was 9:00 a.m. in Los Angeles when he called Ron Patterson.

  Joseph’s relationship with Ron had changed over the years. When he was a young boy, he had been accountable to Ron as his teacher, but their roles had reversed. Perhaps it was because he was the boss’s son. Perhaps it was because he was a champion athlete and had won an Olympic gold medal. The most likely reason was that Ron was quiet, passive, and reactive rather than proactive.

  “Ron, this is Joseph. Thanks for the information.”

  CHAPTER 23

  ..................

  “JOSEPH. JESUS! YOU’VE BEEN ON every news channel and the front page of all the newspapers. They’re saying you were lucky to get away with your life. Did the rebels try and kidnap you?”

  “No, the army and the government lied. I’m fine. There were no rebels. The workers from the New Dawn mine went on strike. Seventy-four of them, men, women, and children, were slaughtered by the soldiers. They’re
using the rebels as an excuse.”

  “That’s tragic. What does it have to do with finding out who owns New Dawn?”

  “Nothing. It was just a coincidence. The army’s covering up mass murder. I want your help in exposing the bastards.”

  “How-how can I help?”

  “You’re a computer expert. I’m going to send you photos of the massacre. I want you to anonymously send them to the media, Greenpeace, and the United Nations. I know Greenpeace will act quickly and travel to the remains of the village within the week. Oh, send copies to the International Monetary Fund. If the IMF turns off the funds, those in power in the Congo will have no choice but to act.”

  “Does your dad know what you’re doing?”

  “I’m going to forget you said that, Ron. I hadn’t finished. I want those photos on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Flood the Net. I want the world to know what happened.”

  “Joseph, don’t take this the wrong way, but did anyone else have a cellphone? If they didn’t, it’s going to be obvious who took the pics.”

  The two Americans had cellphones. “Don’t worry. Some of the soldiers are sure to have had cells. And, Ron, drop whatever else you’re doing and get those photos out in cyberspace. I have to go.”

  Joseph entered the hotel’s brasserie just after seven o’clock. The décor was typical of five-star hotel restaurants, but only three tables were occupied. Jack Costigan and George Faraday had their heads together at a corner table. Costigan stood up, extended his hand, and said, “You can’t imagine how much trouble you caused. You created a major international incident. We’ve had to pull strings at the highest level to smooth things over. The Congolese want to know why you went back to your village without an army escort. They say they offered. Did they?”

  As Joseph sat down, Faraday was shaking his head. “Yes, they did offer, Jack, but I don’t like traveling with murderers. I’m sure your men have told you there were no rebels. I don’t know why you’re upset. I didn’t do anything to cause the trouble.”

  “You still don’t get it, do you? It’s not our country. We’re visitors. We don’t know what goes on here, but we sure as hell don’t want to upset the government. We’ve finally got our foot back in the door at the expense of the Chinese. We don’t want to alienate President Bodho or General Zamenka.”

  Joseph fought back a surge of anger at the mere mention of Zamenka’s name. “You’re right. It’s not your country, but it is mine. You know what happened, but you’re more worried about trade and diplomacy than the lives of poor villagers. You need to take a good look at yourself.”

  “Joseph, you can’t talk to Jack like − ”

  “Shut up, George. Jack’s big enough and ugly enough to stand up for himself.”

  “You’re out of your depth, way out of your depth,” Costigan said. “Leave government relations to the experts.”

  “Happy to, but what do you intend to do about the seventy-four workers murdered by the Congolese military?”

  Costigan rolled his eyes, turned his palms up, and looked at Faraday. “If we hadn’t arranged those two pilots, you’d still be in the jungle, probably dead.”

  Joseph laughed. “It’s you who have no idea, Jack. I could’ve lived in the forest for months. Long enough to cross into Tanzania and safety. I didn’t need your help or protection.”

  The table descended into an uncomfortable silence. Faraday looked around for a waiter. Costigan looked down at the polished timber floor. Joseph rested his arms on the table, a grim smile pasted on his face.

  Faraday finally broke the silence. “Can we talk about the next two days? Prescott Uranium is presenting, and the total investment over ten years is $20 billion. If they’re successful, the mine will be constructed by Fachtel America. It’s a great resource and will be a monumental deal for us.”

  “It’s more than that,” Costigan said. “It’s the largest unmined uranium resource in the world. The Chinese have had their greedy eyes on it for years. We can’t let them get their hands on it. We have to win this deal.”

  “I’ve looked at Prescott’s proposition, and there’s no way the Chinese can match their technology and expertise. If we knew the Congolese were going to base their decision on merit, Prescott would be in the driver’s seat,” Faraday said.

  “Jesus, George, you’ve been coming here for forty years. When was the last time the Congolese made a decision based on merit? Just make sure Prescott does what it has to do to get the green light.”

  The waiter served their drinks: Jim Beam for Costigan, beer for Faraday, and mineral water for Joseph. After they’d ordered their meals, Faraday muttered, “I guess it won’t be less than $500 million.”

  “Just make sure you get it done. I don’t want to know figures. Do what you have to do, but don’t tell me,” Costigan said.

  “You know Prescott’s going to pay an enormous bribe, Jack, but you don’t want to know. Is that what you call diplomacy?” Joseph frowned.

  Before Costigan could reply Faraday said, “Don’t worry, I won’t let the Chinese beat us.”

  “Will I be needed tomorrow?” Joseph asked.

  “Of course you are. When you were reported missing, I thought President Bodho was going to have a shit fit,” Faraday replied.

  “From what Jack said, you haven’t missed me too much. You’ve still managed to close deals.”

  “They were small,” Faraday said. “Prescott is the big one. I’m going to need you.”

  “Yeah,” Costigan said, “if the Chinese get hold of that uranium, there’s going to be hell to pay back home. The secretary himself has said this deal is a must-win. I’d hate to face him if the Chinese wrangle their way into a winning position. It can’t happen. It can’t!”

  Joseph, tired of business talk, changed the subject. “Jack, I brought a seven-year-old boy back with me. The army killed his family when they attacked the village. I want to take him home with me. I’ve taken some photos. Can you arrange a passport, visa, and whatever other papers are needed? Do them in the name of Moise Muamba. No, on second thought, make it Moise Rafter.”

  Costigan nearly choked on his whiskey. “Are you stupid? Why did you bring him back? I can’t and won’t arrange the papers. There are orphanages in Kinshasa. They’ll take him.”

  “Jesus, Joseph, your parents are too old to look after a young kid,” Faraday said.

  “You say you know my father. If he were in the same position, he wouldn’t dream of leaving Moise behind. I’m not going to, either. Pass on my apologies to President Bodho, but I won’t be able to attend any further negotiations. If Moise is going to fly out with me on Saturday, I’ll need every minute I have to arrange a passport for him.”

  “You won’t get any documents without his parents’ or guardian’s consent, and with his parents dead, it isn’t going to happen,” Costigan scoffed.

  Joseph ignored the State Department man and said, “George, I’m going to get my father to transfer $50,000 to me tomorrow. When you apologize to the president, can you ask him if he has time to see me tomorrow night? Call me as soon as you know.”

  “You-you have to be there tomorrow. If you’re not, they won’t even start the negotiations. You have to be there!” Faraday said.

  “Sorry, I won’t have time.”

  Costigan looked flustered and signaled the waiter, telling him to bring the bottle of Jim Beam and leave it. “Send the boy’s photos to my cellphone. I’ll get the documentation sorted out. You’re a real smartass, aren’t you? I should’ve left you in the jungle.”

  Joseph stood and smiled through compressed lips. “Thanks, Jack. I’ll have to call it a night. I have to prepare for the Prescott meeting. I’ll see you for breakfast in the morning.”

  A few steps from the table, Joseph heard Costigan hiss “bastard!”

  CHAPTER 24

  ..................

  JOSEPH WOKE EARLY, REACHED OVER for his cellphone, and clicked on the news services. The first headline he read on Reuters was
“Massacre in Katanga.” There were photos of the village being shelled and burned. AAP had gone with “Soldiers Slaughter Civilians” and reported that United Nations peacekeepers were on the way to the village to interview the survivors. Bloomberg’s headline was “Tragedy in the Congo.” Thousands of comments from outraged readers sat below the articles, but Joseph didn’t have time to read them. Ron had done a great job.

  The mood over breakfast and in the limo on the way to the palace was icy. Costigan and Faraday made no mention of the headlines flashing around the world. However, Costigan’s demeanor suggested he knew and had most likely been woken by a call from the U.S. in the early hours of the morning. Four senior executives from Prescott Uranium were traveling in the limo immediately behind.

  Surprisingly, President Bodho, General Zamenka, and their advisers were already sitting behind the long table when Joseph and the Prescott team entered the room. The president stood up, came around to the front of the table, and hugged Joseph. “We were worried about you. Were you harmed in any way?”

  “Thank you for your concern, Mr. President. I am fine.”

  “Thanks to our army,” General Zamenka cut in.

  “Did the rebels fire at you?” Bodho asked.

  “I didn’t see any rebels. Only villagers, and no, they did not shoot at me. They only had spears and old rifles. I doubt they’d even fire.”

  The president frowned and looked at Zamenka, who said, “Why did you run then? What were you scared of?”

  “I ran because the soldiers were firing at random. They didn’t seem to care who they hit. That’s why the villagers ran too.”

  “How would you know what a rebel looks like?” Zamenka asked. “Especially when you were running like a rabbit. Do you have eyes in the back of your head?”

  The advisers smirked.

  “I’m telling you what I saw. I didn’t see anyone firing at the soldiers.”

  “And yet two were killed,” Zamenka said.

  “Were they shot?” Joseph asked.