by Peter Ralph
The soldiers at the entrance paid little attention to the approaching army vehicles until Yannick leaped out of the Jeep, and ordered them to stand to attention. They were confused and did not recognize the uppity major. When they saw the machine guns leveled at them, the penny dropped. Yannick ordered two of his men to stand guard at the entrance, while the two soldiers were stripped, bound, gagged, and thrown in the back of the truck.
The convoy continued for half a mile into the mine site until Yannick could see the smelter. The only heavily secured building on the site was fifty yards from the smelter. It was where the ingots were stored before dispatch. Two bored-looking soldiers snapped to attention when Yannick got out of the Jeep. With a minimum of fuss, they soon joined their comrades in the back of the truck.
Yannick rapped sharply on the fortified door. A small panel slid away to reveal a snarling Afrikaner, who said, “Wat is dit?”
“I am Major Patel. The rebels know the gold is still here. There are more than five hundred marching toward the mine. They’re less than fifteen minutes away and heavily armed. I’ve been ordered by Colonel Donatien to get you and the ingots to safety. There’s no time to waste.”
Another Afrikaner put his face up to the panel. “Ek weet nie dit nie jou!” he said.
“I don’t understand Afrikaans. I was sent from Lubumbashi to provide extra security for the mine, but we can’t hold out against five hundred,” Yannick said, stepping back from the door so the Afrikaners could see two rows of perfectly lined-up soldiers. “I’m not risking their lives for you. Are you coming with us or not?”
There was a short, fierce exchange of Afrikaans on the other side of the door. One of the Afrikaners then said in English, “I’m not going to die here, Major. We’re coming with you,” and Yannick heard bolts and padlocks opening.
There were three Afrikaners in what was a sparsely furnished room. One was opening a large safe, another was packing documents in a box, and the third, a brute of a man, eyed Yannick suspiciously. “Show me some identification,” he said.
“We don’t have time. We have to get out.”
“Identification. Now!” the man demanded.
Jesus! The safe’s still not open, and I don’t want to have to blow it. “All right,” he said, slowly reaching into his tunic pocket, as he heard the safe door click open.
“Hurry up.”
“Sorry, wrong pocket,” Yannick said, dropping his hand to his waist and placing the barrel of his pistol in the middle of the man’s forehead. “Is Mr. Glock enough identification for you?”
“Shut the safe door!” the man shouted, but it was too late.
“Bind them, and get the gold loaded,” Yannick ordered.
“Do we strip them?”
“No, we only do that to the soldiers. How many ingots are there?”
“Eight.”
Six million. That’s more than I dared hope for. “Let’s get out of here.”
The convoy stopped at the entrance to pick his two men up. “What will we do with the prisoners?” the driver of the truck asked.
“Remove the soldiers’ bindings on their legs, and have them stand in front of the New Dawn sign,” Yannick said, putting his smartphone in camera mode. “Turn them around. I want them facing me. Oh, they’re great photos. Bind them again, and throw them in the back. We’ll dump them twenty miles down the road.”
As they sped away from the mine site, Yannick emailed the photos to The Congo Daily Times.
Colonel Donatien’s trip was disappointingly uneventful, and he arrived in Lubumbashi just after midday. The rebels hadn’t taken the bait, and he wondered how the president would react. It wasn’t his fault. He had done everything the president asked. He poured himself a cold drink before calling General Gizenga and telling him the mission had failed. Gizenga sounded sympathetic, but there was an underlying cheeriness in his voice. Donatien put the phone down and cursed. He could just imagine Gizenga’s disdainful comments while he relayed the news to the president.
Just before 3:00 p.m., Donatien’s adjutant poked his head in the door, and said, “Mr. Boucher from the New Dawn mine is holding for you, sir. He sounds angry.”
“Put him through,” Donatien said. He might have to take shit from Bodho and Gizenga, but he wasn’t going to cop it from some civilian.
Before Boucher could speak, Donatien said, “We did everything by the book. It wasn’t our fault the rebels didn’t take the bait. I’ve had a long, tiring day, and I don’t want to hear you ranting.”
“What are you talking about? The rebels stole the gold from our depot. They were dressed up like soldiers and driving army vehicles. How did they get those uniforms and vehicles? I have a call into the president. I don’t know what we’re paying him and you for.”
Donatien fought back the bile in his throat. “Bu-but how di-did they know?”
“Someone leaked,” Boucher screeched, “probably one of your men.”
“My-my men did-didn’t know. They thought we were car-carting ingots. It-it mus-must have been someone from th-the mine.”
“Bullshit. I knew, my assistant knew, and the three Afrikaners who work in dispatch knew. None of us talk to or socialize with fucking kaffirs. The leak was from your end. Damn you.”
Donatien was going to respond, but all he heard was the dial tone. He held his head in his hands. There was going to be hell to pay, and he knew who was going to take the blame.
When Yannick Kyenge marched into his camp, he was mobbed. His leadership would never again be questioned or challenged.
That night the drums of the Congo went into a frenzy, telling the story of the imminent return of the great leader and the heroics of his loyal friend.
CHAPTER 44
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JOSEPH’S FATHER’S WORDS RANG IN his ears on the flight back to LAX: “Never show your cards unless someone pays.” Not knowing that Joseph had a copy of Marc Boucher’s hard drive, Sir Richard had contemptuously shown his hand. With what the knight had told him and the emails, Joseph had more than enough information to file a complaint with the Serious Organized Crime Agency but was wary of Sir Richard’s influence. Even if SOCA investigated, he didn’t know whether it had the power to access tax haven bank accounts. Without accessing those bank accounts, there was nothing to prove Thibault and Sir Richard were one and the same. Pondering this, he thought of applying pressure by approaching the media, but knew the British courts were plaintiff-friendly in defamation actions. It was unlikely any media organization would blow the whistle on Sir Richard.
Joseph’s flight landed midafternoon at LAX, and that night, after they’d eaten, he asked his father and Maya whether he could have a word with them in private. “I didn’t want to worry Mom,” he said, before telling them what had occurred in London. “Do you know Sir Richard, Dad?”
“I know of him. Old money. He’s British aristocracy. Other than satisfying your curiosity, I’m not sure you have anything. You have no proof he sent those emails resulting in the deaths of those workers and villagers.”
“I have bank details and account numbers of every transfer to a tax haven. The IRS and SEC can access the details of those accounts. When they do, they’ll find Sir Richard and the names of his partners.”
Frank shook his head. “I admire your passion, Son, but our authorities don’t have the power to investigate a British citizen. I know everything you say is true, but Sir Richard hasn’t broken any U.S. laws. Besides, those bank accounts were probably set up by lawyers and accountants. There may be no connection to him.”
“What about his U.S. partner?” Maya asked.
“We don’t even know his name,” Frank said. “Joseph, you can hardly file a complaint with the IRS and SEC about an American billionaire whose name you don’t know, who you claim is guilty of tax evasion, money laundering, and possibly an accessory to murder. They’ll laugh you out of their offices.”
“What if I approach the media? It’s just the type of story Sixty
Minutes runs.”
“What a great idea,” Maya said. “You can expose the president, the army officers, and the politicians. The people are sick of getting ripped off by their leaders. It might bring the whole nasty regime down.”
“Sixty Minutes won’t touch it,” Frank said. “You’ve got no hard proof, and while our defamation laws are nowhere as stringent as the Brits’, no media organization is going to aid your crusade. Besides, defamation law is complicated. I don’t think there’s anything to stop Sir Richard commencing an action in Britain, despite the defamation taking place in the U.S. Our networks won’t touch it.”
“He won’t sue in Britain or here,” Joseph said. “No way.”
“Yes, but the media doesn’t know that. There’s no way they’ll run your allegations. I’m sorry, Son. It’s over.”
“No,” Maya said, “exposing Sir Richard will bring the government down and improve the lives of millions in the Congo. You can’t drop it.”
“I agree,” Joseph said. “Dad, Sir Richard said he’d hurt those who I loved if I caused any trouble, and he’d break you. If you’re worried, I won’t pursue him.”
Frank paused before saying, “I’ve always told you to do what you think is right. I’m not going to change now. Don’t worry about me.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Joseph said, reaching out and grasping his father’s forearm.
“I still don’t know what you’re going to do.”
“Nor do I,” Joseph said. “Nor do I.”
Before Joseph had left for London, he’d been teaching Moise how to play poker. The boy was a quick learner and loved playing three-handed poker. “Was it cold in England?” he asked, as Joseph dealt the cards.
“No, it was warm, but not as warm as the Congo.”
“Two cards, please,” Maya said.
“None for me.” Moise grinned, making the maximum bet of eight matchsticks.
“Oh, you’re lucky, Moise. I’m out,” Maya said, throwing in her cards.
“Your eight, and I’ll raise you eight,” Joseph said.
Moise’s face dropped. “How did you know I was bluffing?” he demanded.
“You were too arrogant. Too full of yourself. You tried to bully the table, and the fastest way to fix a bully is to up the stakes.”
“Just because he’s not smiling doesn’t mean he’s not joking.” Maya smiled. “Lighten up, honey.”
“Yes, yes,” Joseph said. “Now I know what I have to do. I have to increase the stakes. Thank you, Moise.”
Moise frowned and scratched his head.
“What are you talking about?” Maya asked.
“I have the solution,” Joseph said.
President Bodho and Gizenga were already in the small interrogation room when Donatien arrived at the palace. The Congo Daily Times was on the desk with a photo of the four naked soldiers captioned “our naked army,” with appropriate blackouts, on the front page.
“You messed up my plan,” Bodho said in a scarily calm voice.
“They-they knew. Someone mus-must have leaked,” Donatien replied.
“I’ve thought about it,” Bodho replied. “They could have found out about the three thousand men hidden in the jungle, but how did they know the gold was still at the mine? Who did you tell, Colonel?”
“No one. It must hav-have been one of Bouch-Boucher’s men.”
“The plan was perfect,” Bodho said, “but somehow you two ruined it.”
“I was in Kinshasa,” Gizenga protested. “It had nothing to do with me.”
“You forget, General. You lead an army of one hundred and fifty thousand soldiers. This rebel Kyenge has thrived under your leadership. The army is a laughing-stock. I had a call from a prominent investor in London, to say I had promised I would protect his mines in Katanga. He’s most unhappy.”
“Do you want me to take over in Katanga?” Gizenga asked.
“If memory serves me, you were there when Kyenge created his ragtag gang. I don’t see you doing any better job than the colonel.”
“Mr. President −”
“Shut up, Colonel. I haven’t finished. I’m giving the pair of you ninety days to crush the rebels. If you can’t, I’ll replace you both with officers who can,” Bodho said, as he stood up and opened the door.
After the president had left, Donatien said, “I like him better when he rants and raves. At least I know what he’s thinking. That was nerve-racking.”
Their rivalry now replaced by a joint fear, Gizenga agreed, “You’re right. He’s at his most dangerous when he’s cold. If we can’t bring him Kyenge’s body, he’ll make us privates. Are you sure you didn’t tell anyone about the gold?”
“Positive. The leak came from the mine. I’m certain. Do you have any idea how we’re going to find Kyenge?”
“Yes. The villagers must be tipping him off to our every move. How else could he always be a step in front of us? We’ll take ten thousand men into Katanga and systemically burn their villages. We’ll teach them a lesson they’ll never forget. If he’s the hero they think he is, it’ll smoke him out. When it does, we’ll slaughter him and his followers.”
“I like it.” Donatien grinned.
CHAPTER 45
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FLOYD COFFEY’S CAREER HAD BLOSSOMED since his interviews with Joseph in 2008, and his profile in sports journalism rivaled that of Morley Safer in world affairs. His Sunday night prime-time show on Fox, Sporting Heroes, was a ratings juggernaut.
Floyd didn’t think there was anything unusual when Joseph called to suggest they meet up for coffee. They kept in regular contact and never went longer than a month without catching up. As they sat in their favorite coffee shop sipping lattes, Joseph said, “Great interview with Mayweather. How did you get him?”
“You mightn’t believe this, but his people approached my producer. They wanted to show his softer side. We told them if he came on, it wouldn’t be scripted. I’d be asking the questions, and they’d cover his relationships and convictions. They agreed.”
Joseph laughed. “I thought he was going to knock you out when you asked him why the Australians wouldn’t let him into their country. I didn’t know. Why did he even want to go there? There are no challengers Down Under.”
“They were going to pay him a shitload to fight a few exhibitions, and sign some autographs.”
“Jesus, it’s not like he needs the money.”
“Yeah, I thought the same. I called you last week. You were in London. What was it, business or pleasure?”
“Business. I need to tell you about it.”
After Joseph had finished, Floyd asked, “How come I’ve never heard of this Sir Richard dude?”
“Probably because he has nothing to do with sport, plus he likes to keep a low profile. If I was doing what he’s doing, I’d want to fly under the radar too.”
“But you’ve got no proof.”
“He told me what he was doing.”
“Yeah, and he also said he’d make your life hell if you pursued him, and he’s got the resources to do it. Let’s cut to the chase. What do you want me to do?”
“The London Olympics are just around the corner. I’d like you to interview me. You could ask me whether I’m going to defend my title, then follow up with a question about the reception I received in the Congo.”
“Jesus! Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”
“I’ve bounced it off a few current affairs journalists. They’d love to run with it, but their bosses think it’s poison. They’re scared shitless.”
“No wonder. I don’t know that you’re right when you say our courts are tougher on plaintiffs. You admitted you’ve got no hard evidence linking the English dude to the emails. You’ve got nothing! Of course he’ll sue.”
“No. I can guarantee he won’t. He’ll threaten, and his lawyers will write fearsome letters, but the last place he wants his dirty laundry aired is in a court.”
“I need another cup of coffee,” Floyd s
aid, signaling a waiter. “Short black, two shots, Miss. Anything for you, Joseph?”
“I’ll sit on this.” Joseph frowned, sipping his latte.
“I’d like to help, but as you know my program is on every second Sunday night, and I’ve got guests booked for six months. I don’t see how I can get you on.”
“Floyd, you ran special programs after Drew Brees won the Super Bowl, and when Chris Henry got killed in that truck accident. You can squeeze me in.”
“Yeah, and they were special programs because there were exceptional circumstances. You don’t fit the bill.”
“You don’t think the defending Olympic champion switching from the Congo to Team U.S.A. is exceptional? Name another athlete who has switched countries and won consecutive golds. It’s a huge story.”
“You told me you’re not going to compete in London.”
“I haven’t told anyone else. I might compete.”
“Bullshit! How long has it been since you trained?” Floyd grinned.
“In all the time I’ve known you, have I ever asked a favor? Do this for me, Floyd. Please.”
“I’ll probably get fired, but okay, I’ll do it. Not this Sunday night, the one after.”
“You won’t get fired. It’ll make you bigger than what you already are. After it airs, Sixty Minutes will probably offer you a gig.”
That night Maya snuggled up in bed to Joseph and said, “When do you think you’ll be going back?”
“I don’t know. If I go back now, I’ll get thrown into prison. That won’t help anyone.”
“When you go, I’m coming with you. I’ll finish my degree this year. I’ll do my residency in Kinshasa Mercy Hospital.”
“I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever get back,” Joseph sighed. “If fate had taken a different twist, I’d still be there fighting with Yannick. Who would have thought he’d ever lead a rebel army?”
“You’ll get back,” Maya said, gently stroking his face. “It is your destiny. No, it’s our destiny. Yours, Yannick’s, and mine. We can change the Congo.”
“I hope you’re right.”
