Blood Gold in the Congo

by Peter Ralph

  “I am. Your interview with Floyd will be the first step in getting rid of corruption.”

  “Turn the light off,” Joseph said, kissing her passionately.

  Truckloads of heavily armed soldiers poured into Katanga and almost immediately attacked two villages to the north of Kilwa. They tortured and then killed villagers who refused to reveal anything about Yannick and his freedom fighters. Women and children were gang-raped. When the soldiers finished, they looted the villages and then set them ablaze.

  Word traveled fast and soon reached Yannick. Villages to the south of Kalemie, and to the east of Kamina were also under attack. Yannick knew it was a trap and that the army wanted to draw him out into the open. Other than to avenge villagers, he had gone out of his way not to kill soldiers, preferring to humiliate them, but now they had forced his hand. His fighters would be outnumbered three to one, but they would have the advantages of surprise, rocket launchers, and the jungle.

  A third village to the north of Kilwa – not far from the towns already destroyed – was an obvious next target for the army. Yannick moved swiftly to herd the villagers to the safety of the surrounding jungle. He and fifty of his best fighters, including those with rocket launchers, took up positions in the village. Two hundred hid on either side of the route to the village, and four hundred were a mile to the south. If all went to plan, the rearguard would capture the retreating soldiers as they fled in panic.

  There was nothing discreet about the soldiers, and Yannick could hear the rumble of their trucks in the distance. Mortars landed in and around the village, and the ack-ack-ack of randomly fired machine guns created an explosive cacophony. Yannick put his field glasses to his eyes. The trucks were moving slowly, almost leisurely, and a large contingent of soldiers marched behind them. Those with mortars and small cannons had positioned themselves around a half mile away and were raining shells on the village. Yannick had a dozen men lying at the entrance with rocket launchers. When the first truck was in sight, he said, “Fire one,” and a rocket whooshed past the truck and exploded in the jungle.

  “Fire two,” he yelled, and watched in amazement as the truck disintegrated in a puff of fire.

  Two trucks with turret-mounted machine guns sprayed the village with bullets. Yannick gave the order to fire three, then four. One of the trucks exploded, its machine gun being catapulted twenty yards into the sky. The fifth missile hit a large, old tree and blew it to smithereens. Some of the soldiers started to retreat, and machine guns on either side of them opened up. As Yannick had anticipated, some of the soldiers broke into a run, and then it was a stampede.

  Ten minutes later, the deafening sound of gunfire came from the jungle, and hundreds of soldiers were gunned down. Others stopped, dropped their weapons, and held their hands in the air. By the time Yannick arrived in his Jeep, the rout was complete, and his freedom fighters had rounded up more than a hundred soldiers in a huddle. A young man said, “I’m sorry, sir. Many escaped. Do you want us to go after them?”

  “Don’t worry about them, son, and don’t call me sir. Yannick will do.”

  “Yes, Yannick. What do want us to do with them?”

  Bodies littered the ground, and Yannick fought back a wave of nausea. “Order them to strip, but let them keep their boots. Give them shovels, and tell them to bury their comrades,” he said, taking out his smartphone, and swiping the camera icon. “After they’ve finished, let them go. Gather up their uniforms and weapons and the weapons of the dead. Take them back to the camp.”

  Yannick had never expected such a resounding success but knew unless he moved quickly, he would lose the advantage of surprise. It wouldn’t take long before word of the Kilwa defeat reached the officers in Kalemie, but Yannick surmised they wouldn’t tell their soldiers for fear of demoralizing them. The last thing the regiment would be expecting was an attack mounted from three hundred miles to the south.

  It was dusk when Yannick arrived back at the camp to be greeted by rapturous cheering. He jumped out of the Jeep and held his hands up for silence. “We are going to attack the regiment in Kalemie but only have transport for five hundred. I need volunteers!” he shouted. “We leave in two hours.”

  Another rousing cheer erupted, and a sea of hands rose into the air.

  CHAPTER 46

  ..................

  THE TELEVISION STUDIO HELD FOUR hundred, and there wasn’t a vacant seat to be found. Joseph sat in a leather recliner facing Floyd over a coffee table with a carafe of water and half a dozen glasses sitting on it. The heat from the overhead lights was uncomfortable. Joseph wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “We’re on in one minute,” Floyd’s producer said and then, “Five, four, three, two, one. We’re on.”

  “I’m with a man who many describe as the greatest athlete on the planet. Joseph Muamba, how does that description sit with you?”

  “I’m naturally flattered, but I’m sure fans of Usain Bolt and LeBron James would disagree. It’s subjective.”

  “Did you have a hero when you were growing up?”

  “I think we all did. I dreamed of being Steve Young, but there were better quarterbacks than me. In my opinion, Muhammad Ali is the greatest athlete of all time. I would have loved to see him fight at his peak. He is also a great man, a trailblazer for humanity.”

  “You were something of a boxer yourself.”

  “No, I learned a little self-defense. That’s all.”

  “I heard different,” Floyd said, peering over the top of his spectacles. “I was told you could have been a Golden Gloves champion.”

  “You were misinformed.”

  “I doubt it. Anyhow, let’s not belabor the point. You haven’t competed for over a year. Are you retired? Are you training? Are you going to defend your title in Britain?”

  “The danger of overtraining is peaking too early. Thanks to Greg Foreman, I peaked on those two days in Beijing. I’ve been training lightly,” Joseph lied.

  “Does that mean you’re going to defend your gold medal by competing for the Democratic Republic of the Congo again?”

  “No. I will try out for Team U.S.A.”

  There was a smattering of applause from the audience.

  “It would be a unique achievement winning gold for different countries at consecutive Olympics. Is that what appeals to you?”

  “No. Unfortunately, the government of the Democratic Republic of the Congo is corrupt. The president, the generals, and the politicians have been receiving bribes from Western and Chinese mining companies. There’s not even two thousand miles of sealed roads across the whole country, it’s in terrible condition, and poverty reigns. This in a resource rich country a quarter of the size of the U.S. Those in privileged positions have been the recipients of huge sums of money transferred to bank accounts in tax haven countries. Now that I know the extent of the corruption, I couldn’t possibly compete for the DRC.”

  There was a loud gasp from the audience.

  “Those are serious allegations. Do you have any proof?”

  “I have copies of emails authorizing the transfers.”

  “May I ask how you obtained these emails?”

  “No, you may not, but be assured the proof I have is irrefutable.”

  The audience was in shock. Sports interviews didn’t focus on bribery, corruption, and geopolitics.

  “You recently appeared at a murder trial in Kinshasa. Why were you there?”

  “Seventy-four striking miners and villagers were massacred by the Congolese army at the instruction of a British-owned mining company. I was a witness for the prosecution.”

  “Hold on,” Floyd said, “I happen to know all those on trial were acquitted, and the court found those killed were rebels.”

  “Seven children less than the age of ten were murdered. Would you call them rebels?”

  “There’s collateral damage in all wars. The court found the soldiers not guilty. Surely that brings the legal action to an end.”

  “The court was al
so corrupt. The government laid the charges so the perpetrators could be found not guilty, and thus not have to face a properly convened court. The trial was a travesty of justice.”

  Floyd’s producer was waving his arms and shaking his head.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Double jeopardy. Once acquitted, these murderers need never fear facing charges again. They are free.”

  “I understand your concern, but it appears there is nothing you can do.”

  “The order to commit murder emanated from London. The man who issued it has yet to face court. If the murdered mine workers and villagers are to attain any justice, he must be charged and convicted.”

  “Can you name him?”

  “Yes. Sir Richard Corson-Devlin. He and his partners own the New Dawn Gold Mining Company in Katanga, even though you’d never know it. If you searched the company, you’d find Liberty Investments incorporated in Mauritania owns all the shares. If you searched the ownership of Liberty Investments, you would find countless other companies and trusts, but if it were possible to lift the corporate veil, you’d find Sir Richard and his cronies.”

  Someone sitting close to the stage exhaled loudly, and someone else said, “My God.”

  “Do you know the names of Sir Richard’s partners?”

  “No, but one of them is an American billionaire. If they knew of the order to murder the strikers, then they’re as culpable as Sir Richard.”

  Floyd’s producer was out of his booth and on the edge of the stage. “Go to a station break,” he hissed.

  “How do you know about the American?”

  “Sir Richard told me.”

  “Sorry, but I’m missing something. Why would he tell you?”

  “Because he didn’t think I had any evidence. If I said anything, it would be his word against my word. He’s going to find out it’s a lot more than that.”

  “After Sir Richard made his admissions, why didn’t you take your allegations to the Serious Organized Crime Agency?”

  “Sir Richard told me he controlled the politicians who control SOCA. I realized there was no point in making any claims in the U.K.”

  “What do you think will come of your revelations tonight?”

  “I hope the authorities investigate the matters I have raised and bring the guilty parties to account.”

  “We’ll take a station break and be back soon,” Floyd said.

  Floyd’s producer was immediately on stage. “What are you doing? The phones are ringing off the hook. Don Rankin called, and he’s screaming bloody murder. He told me to close you down if you keep going on with that shit. What’s it going to be, Floyd?”

  “I didn’t realize I’d overstepped,” the gangly interviewer said. “Joseph’s story was compelling. I know the audience was enthralled. Sorry, we’ll focus on Joseph’s defense of his title for the remainder of the interview.”

  “Who’s Don Rankin?” Joseph asked as they walked back on stage.

  “The station’s legal counsel.”

  Forty-five minutes later the interview was over, and Joseph said, “Thanks, Floyd. I know you stuck your neck out for me. I owe you.”

  Waiting just off the stage was a silver-haired man whose red face looked like it would burst. “Oh shit,” Floyd said. “It’s Don Rankin. I’m in for it.”

  “Jesus, Floyd, what are you doing?” Rankin said, glaring at Joseph. “You’re meant to interview sports stars about sports. You let him defame a president, politicians, a foreign army, a court, a knight of the realm, and say our closest ally’s major crime-buster is corrupt. We’re going to get our ass sued off. What were you thinking? You’ll be lucky if you still have a job in the morn−”

  “No one’s going to sue,” Joseph interrupted. “They might jump up and down and get their lawyers to send threatening letters, but they’ll do nothing. Why? Because everything I said was true, and they have no idea what evidence I have. It wasn’t Floyd’s fault. I just got on a roll.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. Floyd knew exactly what was going on. Even if you’re right, which you’re probably not, you’ve created an international incident. Not only that, our companies that have investments in the Congo are going to be falling over themselves apologizing for you in the morning. After they’ve said sorry, they’re going to come after us for letting a lunatic like you have air time.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Rankin. I didn’t think Fox or you would condone oppression and murder in third-world countries. I thought you’d have a sense of justice. I’m sure I’m going to be interviewed by other media outlets. Would you like me to pass on your views?”

  “Don’t twist my words, young man, because I will sue you. Floyd, be in my office at nine o’clock in the morning. We need to discuss your future.”

  As the lawyer stormed out the studio, Joseph said, “I’m sorry, Floyd.”

  “Don’t be, bro, I’m on your side.”

  CHAPTER 47

  ..................

  IT WAS MIDNIGHT WHEN JOSEPH got home, but Maya was still awake. “You were wonderful,” she said, kissing him. “Moise wanted to watch but fell asleep on my lap. Your mom and dad didn’t say much, but I think they’re worried about you. The phone rang off the hook with journalists after the interview was over. Did you get any calls?”

  “I don’t know. I turned my phone off before we started and didn’t want to turn it back on. It can stay off. I’ve had enough media today. I think Floyd might be in trouble with Fox.”

  “They won’t do anything. It’s the highest-rated Sunday night show they’ve had this year. They’ll most likely replay it tomorrow night. Facebook and Twitter are blowing up. There’s enormous support for you, and there’s a Facebook page called ‘Charge Sir Richard Corson-Devlin with murder.’”

  “I better listen to my messages,” Joseph said, pulling out his cellphone. “There’s thirty.” A few minutes later, he grimaced and turned it off.

  “What’s wrong? Was there a nasty message?”

  “They were mainly journalists, but there were calls from George Faraday, and Jack Costigan. They’re furious, particularly Faraday. He wants to know why I’m trying to ruin him.”

  “They’re going to be livid when you leak those emails.”

  “If SOCA, the IRS, and SEC do their jobs, I mightn’t have to use WikiLeaks.”

  “You will. I think you’re going to find Sir Richard and his partners are as powerful as he boasted. I don’t think the authorities are going to act with any enthusiasm. However, once you leak the emails, the pressure from the public will leave them no choice. And, when they read them in the Congo, they’ll bring the government down. Stick to your plan, and do it just before the attacks.”

  Joseph grinned. “You’re an assertive woman.”

  “Ah, a rare smile,” Maya said, massaging his shoulders.

  “That feels good.”

  “I can feel the pent-up tension. Let’s go to bed. I’ll help you relax.”

  Television crews, journalists, and photographers blocked the entrance when Joseph tried to reverse out of the driveway in the morning. He got out of his car and faced a barrage of questions.

  “What evidence do you have to support your claims?” a hirsute, aggressive man asked, shoving a microphone in Joseph’s face.

  “Sir Richard Corson-Devlin called you deluded and said he’s going to sue you, Fox, and Floyd Coffey. Are you worried?” a plump blonde butted in.

  “The State Department’s been critical of you and said if you had concerns, you should have gone through the proper channels. Why didn’t you?” a balding, bespectacled man shouted from three deep in the rabble of journalists.

  Flashing cameras blinded Joseph, and he pushed the thrusting microphones away from his face. He raised his arms and said, “I have nothing to add to what I said last night.”

  “Do you see yourself as a whistleblower?” someone shouted.

  “You’re not likely to be welcome in Britain for the Olympics. Why wou
ld you attack Sir Richard? He’s one of the most generous men in the world,” someone else asked.

  Joseph shook his head, and started to climb back into his car when a petite brunette pushed her way through the crowd and said, “Do you accept responsibility for the riots and shootings in Kinshasa?”

  “What?” Joseph said, turning around.

  “You didn’t know?” she said. “A crowd of forty thousand blocked the entrance to the president’s palace. The army tried to disband them, and the crowd rioted. There have been sporadic exchanges of gunfire, and twenty civilians have been killed or injured. The president’s declared a state of martial law in Kinshasa, not that it’s had any effect. Some soldiers have deserted and joined the rebels.”

  Joseph rolled down his window and said, “Please get out of my way,” as he reversed slowly past the crowd.

  “The ambassador for the Democratic Republic of the Congo in Washington has called you a liar and a traitor,” one journalist shouted as Joseph drove off. “Is that what you are?”

  When Joseph arrived at the office, there was another throng of media waiting at the entrance to the underground parking garage. He kept on driving, parked a block away, and walked briskly back to the office, entering the building by a side door to the foyer. Two of the firm’s partners were waiting by the elevators. One rolled his eyes, and the other looked at the floor and bit his lip. Neither acknowledged him.

  An hour later, Joseph’s father came into his office and sat down at the coffee table, motioning his son to join him. “I couldn’t get out of the driveway until half an hour after you left. I wish you had talked to me before going on that show.”

  “I couldn’t, Dad. I knew you’d try to talk me out of it. I had to do it.”

  “The firm’s copping flak from all directions. We have a lot of wealthy clients who don’t like the idea of the founder’s son turning whistleblower. George Faraday called me at home to tell me he could no longer put deals the firm’s way.” Frank sighed. “I know you don’t like George, but we’ve made significant profits because of our relationship. We’re going to miss those funds. Needless to say, the partners aren’t happy with you.”