Blood Gold in the Congo

by Peter Ralph

  “Do you remember me telling you Faraday couldn’t remember who bought the New Dawn gold mine from him? You’d know from last night that he lied. He and Sir Richard Corson-Devlin are as thick as thieves,” Joseph said. “What am I saying? They are thieves.”

  “Yes, perhaps I just looked the other way because I thought of George as a friend.”

  “Sir Richard called you a pauper and threatened to break you and the firm.”

  “Compared to him I am.” Frank frowned. “I can see you’re worried about me. Don’t be. I have more than $50 million in stocks, bonds, and property. For all his money, he can’t hurt me.”

  “What about the firm?”

  “Yes, he can hurt us. He may have already. George might have gone because of Sir Richard. He may be able to get to other clients, and if he mounts a campaign against you as a whistleblower, we’ll lose others.”

  “No wonder the partners are pissed off at me.”

  “No one can understand why you had to go public. You could’ve told Jack Costigan at the State Department. He would’ve advised you what to do and who to tell.”

  “Dad, Jack knows what happened to those miners and villagers. He was in Kinshasa when they were murdered. It was his men who arranged to get me out of the jungle. One thing drives Jack, and that’s keeping the Chinese out of the Congo.”

  “You’re not finished yet, are you?”

  “Last night was just the start. When the time is right, those emails are going on WikiLeaks.”

  “There’s no other way?”

  “No, Dad, this is the only way I can get justice for those murdered in Katanga.”

  “I admire what you’re doing, Son, but I fear neither of us will have a job for much longer.” Frank laughed. “I’m not worried for myself. I should be retired, but I am concerned about you.”

  “Don’t be. I have big plans.”

  Late in the afternoon, Joseph received a six-page hand-delivered letter from Beaubien & Latham, the most influential law firm in Los Angeles, threatening him with every form of legal hell if he continued to defame Sir Richard Corson-Devlin. The final paragraph demanded that he immediately publish an unconditional apology to Sir Richard in the attached list of U.S., U.K., and African newspapers within forty-eight hours. Failing compliance, the lawyers threatened to mount defamation action for unspecified damages without further notice.

  Joseph smiled and wondered whether Beaubien & Latham and Sir Richard would be so eager to commence litigation once the emails were on WikiLeaks.

  CHAPTER 48

  ..................

  MASS RIOTING BROKE OUT ON the streets of Kinshasa. More than forty thousand furious Congolese surrounded the entrance to the presidential palace chanting for Bodho’s resignation. The president vowed to crush the uprising and instructed the Republican Guard to kill anyone who attempted to enter the grounds. He had established the ten-thousand-man Republican Guard specifically to guard his life, and they were the finest soldiers in the Congo. Much to the chagrin of Gizenga and Donatien, they reported directly to the president.

  When Bodho took a call from an upset Sir Richard Corson-Devlin, the knight complained about paying for protection but not getting any. Bodho explained he was introducing policies to protect mining companies from prosecution for human rights violations. Sir Richard was grateful but expressed concern about the rebel attacks on convoys carrying provisions to the mines in Katanga. The president assured him the army had ten thousand men in Katanga to destroy the rebels. He didn’t mention one of the regiments had been wiped out, or that his troops were bogged down in Kalemie fighting skirmishes with an invisible enemy.

  Anticipating what The Congo Daily Times would print, the president sent the army in to take control of the presses. He also warned the television stations that if they showed or commented on Joseph’s interview, they would lose their licenses.

  Most in the seething crowds had already watched the interview on their cellphones and computers, and when they found the army had taken over the offices of The Congo Daily Times, it only served to fuel their anger.

  “General Gizenga, when the riots die down, I want you to find the leaders and make sure they disappear,” the president instructed. “Without the troublemakers leading them, they are a headless rabble.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Our English friend suggested we throw some dirt back at Muamba. Did you know he bribed an immigration official to forge documents enabling him to kidnap that young boy?”

  “I didn’t.” Gizenga smirked. “But now that I do, I think we should seek his return.”

  Yannick Kyenge’s hopelessly outnumbered fighters in Kalemie fought bravely and managed to prevent a regiment of over two thousand men from plundering villages, by attacking and running. The attacks were sporadic, usually occurring at night or in the early hours of the morning. The soldiers lived in fear of the sound of whooshing rockets. When the freedom fighters fled, they stayed just far enough in front of the soldiers to entice them into the jungle. Once they entered, they rarely got out alive. As Yannick had anticipated, the officers hadn’t told the soldiers of the terrible rout in Kilwa. When they finally found out, a sense of doom pervaded the regiment in Kalemie.

  After four days, Yannick and twenty of his men left Kalemie to return to his camp. The destruction of the villages by the army had led to another three hundred recruits and the surrender of seven soldiers.

  “They say they deserted the army to join us. I don’t trust them,” one of Yannick’s commanders said, shoving a young, well-muscled soldier with his wrists bound, in front of him. “This thug’s name is Alain Bukasa. He’s been doing all the talking.”

  “Why do you want to join us?” Yannick asked.

  “I did not join the army to kill old men, helpless women, and children,” Bukasa said, spitting on the ground. “General Gizenga is a pig. The men have no respect for him.”

  “How widespread is the disrespect?”

  “It is common, but no one speaks of it. The officers have their spies amongst the men. No one dares speak ill of the president or the general.”

  “I like your attitude, but how can I trust you? What can you do for us?”

  “You caught us off guard, and we weren’t expecting rocket launchers. Some of my former comrades ran. They were terrified. Then the rest of the regiment panicked. Your fighters are very brave, but they have no idea how to use their weapons. Without the rocket launchers, we would have slaughtered them. We can teach your fighters how to use rifles, machine guns, grenades, and small cannons. We can turn them into an army,” Bukasa said, his eyes blazing.

  Yannick sensed the young man was telling the truth but wasn’t prepared to trust his instincts. He took out his knife and sliced through Bukasa’s bindings. “You shall be free in the camp, but you will not have any weapons. You will teach my men by telling them or showing them what to do using unloaded weapons. Until I am sure I can trust you, you will not be armed. Remember, if you do anything stupid, you’ll never leave the jungle alive. Go and tell your men.”

  After the soldier had gone, Yannick said, “Have them watched twenty-four hours a day. If they look like they’re causing trouble, kill them. The next time we go into battle, make sure they’re on the frontline. Then we’ll find out whether they can be trusted. If they’re genuine, they’ll be invaluable.”

  Three days after the Fox interview, Joseph had a visit from two IRS investigators, to whom he handed over a copy of the emails and a detailed list of bank transfers. They expressed little enthusiasm, explaining that as there were no American citizens or companies involved, there was little they could do, and they seemed skeptical about the unnamed American billionaire. When they asked Joseph whether there was any mention of the American in the emails and his response was in the negative, they shook their heads in resignation. It was the reaction Joseph had anticipated; he’d had little expectation of anything different from the SEC.

  On the same day, he received another le
tter from Beaubien & Latham, this time four pages, telling him he had not complied with their earlier letter and threatening that unless he did so before Friday, they would commence legal action without further notice. What a waste of paper, he thought. They’re not going to do anything other than threaten.

  On Friday Joseph received the call he had been hoping for. A lady with a distinctly English voice said, “Mr. Muamba, my name is Susan Crennan. I’m with the Serious Organized Crime Agency. They were grave allegations you made about Sir Richard Corson-Devlin and this office. You’ve put a lot of noses out of joint.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “You said you had emails evidencing the purportedly illegal transactions.”

  “Ms. Crennan, there is nothing purportedly illegal. The transactions are without a doubt illegal. The emails and bank transfers prove bribery, tax evasion, money laundering, and murder. Is that enough for you? As far as your office goes, Sir Richard was adamant that there would be no investigation because he had the ears of prominent people.”

  “Well, he’s wrong. When can you come to London to give us your evidence and make a statement?”

  “Not so fast. Can you access bank accounts in the Virgin Islands?”

  “Yes. We can be just as persuasive as the SEC and your Justice Department.”

  “Good. Before I provide you with any information, I want a guarantee that you’ll provide me with the name of the others, particularly the American. There’ll be payments to him or entities controlled by him from the Virgin Islands bank.”

  There was a long pause. “I can’t do that, but we work closely with your authorities. I can undertake to provide copies of what we find to the CIA and Justice Department insofar as it relates to American citizens and corporations. Will that suffice?”

  “Not good enough,” Joseph replied. “I want all the names and confirmation of Sir Richard’s. I can’t bring criminal action, but I can take civil action on behalf of the families shafted by the military court in Kinshasa.”

  Joseph held the phone hard to his ear. He could hear raised voices arguing animatedly before a man said, “Give him the bloody names. The PM’s turning up the heat. He’s desperate to know. If it’s true, he’ll cut Corson-Devlin loose, but if it’s not, he doesn’t want to lose one of the party’s major donors.”

  He could hear Susan Crennan sigh before responding, “Mr. Muamba, if your allegations are valid, we’ll be able to provide the names. Now, when can you come to London?”

  “Sorry. If you want the information, you’ll have to come to LA. I want to make sure you’re serious.”

  There was another long pause before she said, “We’ll see you at 9:00 a.m. on Monday.”

  In London, the entrance to Sir Richard Corson-Devlin’s penthouse was besieged by journalists and television crews. He denied all allegations, called Joseph a lunatic, and said he had instructed his lawyers to commence defamation action against Joseph, Floyd, and Fox. Sir Richard hated publicity and was fuming, but he was also wary, not knowing whether Joseph had any hard evidence to support his allegations. After watching the Fox interview, he had called Marc Boucher and vigorously interrogated him. Boucher told him not to worry. Joseph was bluffing. There was no way he could have gotten his hands on any of their emails.

  Sir Richard’s partners were not so nonchalant and told him that under no circumstances were their names to be disclosed. He was dismissive of their concerns, but his calm façade concealed an annoying uneasiness.

  CHAPTER 49

  ..................

  JOSEPH WAS SURPRISED BY THE coldness of Susan Crennan’s long, bony fingers. She was tall and approximately forty-five, with a face made more severe by her tight, graying bun. The man with her, whom she introduced as Jeremy Spencer, was perhaps ten years younger, taller than his boss, and had a face no less severe. He placed a Dictaphone on Joseph’s desk and said, “We’ll be recording everything.”

  “As you wish. Would you like something to drink before we start?”

  Crennan looked over the top of her black, thick-rimmed spectacles and said, “Thank you. No. We have no time to waste. We’re on an eight o’clock flight tonight. Now, why don’t you tell us all you know?”

  For the next three hours, Joseph related everything that had occurred in the Congo and at the New Dawn mine while Crennan and Spencer peppered him with questions. When he finished, Crennan asked, “Where did you get these emails?”

  “I can’t say,” Joseph replied, “but you should have no difficulty in determining their veracity. I’m sure when you pressure the Virgin Islands banks, they will confirm the transfers in the emails and on the spreadsheet I’ve given you.”

  “But you said that there’s nothing in the emails that confirms the identity of Thibault,” Spencer said, “and Sir Richard didn’t admit anything.”

  “I didn’t mention Thibault. I didn’t want to tip him off to what I had. However, he didn’t try to hide his control of New Dawn. He was quite open. It’s why I know he has partners who he splits the booty with.”

  “Suspecting and knowing are vastly different,” Spencer said.

  “Humor me for a moment. If everything I told you stacks up, what charges will you lay?”

  “Tax evasion, bribery, and money laundering, for starters,” Crennan replied.

  “What? Is that all?” Joseph said, rummaging through the papers on his desk. “Look at this. It warrants a murder charge.”

  Crennan read aloud the email Joseph gave her.

  Marc,

  Evacuate mine immediately. I have spoken to Z, and he will send soldiers to take care of the strikers. I have told him you will make helicopters available and, if need be, vehicles from the mine. Send key personnel to Lubumbashi, and advise others to make their way to Kilwa.

  Thibault

  “It hardly warrants a murder charge,” she said.

  “Forty-nine mine workers and twenty-five villagers were killed as a result of that email. The soldiers flew in on helicopters paid for by New Dawn and chased miners and villagers in vehicles provided by New Dawn. Of course it warrants a murder charge.”

  “Mr. Muamba, I’m a lawyer, so I can say with certainty that ‘take care of’ does not translate into murder, even if mine workers and villagers were murdered,” Crennan said. “If we prove Thibault is Sir Richard, his lawyers will say ‘take care of’ was never meant to mean murder. We can’t hold Sir Richard responsible because the soldiers overreacted. No, on what you’ve told us, we won’t be pursuing murder charges. What was the reaction of the military court when the prosecutor tabled the email?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “We didn’t know who Thibault was then and didn’t want to let Marc Boucher know we had his emails.”

  “It might have helped convict the soldiers. No, on reflection, it wouldn’t have. From what you’ve told me, they were going to be acquitted, no matter how damning the evidence. You were wise not to table the email.”

  “So the most serious charges you’ll lay will be related to white-collar crime.” Joseph frowned. “That’s disappointing.”

  “And we’ll only lay them if we’re 99 percent certain of getting a conviction,” Crennan said. “Mr. Spencer is a forensic accountant. He and his team will be doing most of the grunt work. After he’s finished, I’ll make the recommendation of whether we prosecute. You shouldn’t be too disappointed. If what you say is true, Sir Richard will be looking at ten years’ hard time.”

  “I was holding out for a murder conviction. Then the families of the victims could’ve sued in the United Kingdom for damages.”

  “Sorry, it’s not going to happen,” Crennan said, glancing at her watch.

  “Are your recommendations to prosecute usually accepted, Ms. Crennan?”

  “Yes, but the director general will make the final decision. If it eases your mind, I’ve never had a recommendation rejected.”

  “It doesn’t,” Joseph said. “Sir Richard said he h
as your most powerful politicians in his pocket. Don’t your funds come from the Home Office?”

  “Your fears are unfounded,” Crennan said, getting up from her chair. “If we can make a case, we’ll prosecute. Thank you, Mr. Muamba. We have a plane to catch.”

  When Yannick called, he was elated. “Joseph, my friend, the soldiers have pulled out of Katanga. They left Kalemie with their tails between their legs. More than four hundred soldiers have joined my fighters.”

  “Fantastic. You have proved yourself to be a brave and skilled leader. What about the two regiments in Kamina?”

  “The soldiers razed five villages. Then the villagers, knowing they would die if they didn’t fight back, rose up. It is unbelievable. They randomly attacked the soldiers, always at night, with poison arrows and spears. It reached the stage where the soldiers refused to do sentry duty for fear of having their throats cut, or dying an excruciatingly painful death from poisons for which there is no antidote. Rebel groups have risen up across Katanga.”

  “We don’t want that, my friend. You must go to Kamina and unify everyone under your control. If you can unite them, there’s no reason why you can’t take Lubumbashi. What’s happened to the mines?”

  “They are deserted. Once the soldiers pulled out, the management and staff couldn’t leave fast enough. Northern Katanga is in our hands. I can’t believe it.”

  “Keep your feet on the ground. You’re going to have to feed an army of thousands. Employ those who know how to mine at New Dawn. They’ll be able to produce twenty-five thousand ounces a month and allow you to fund an even larger army. How many of your men are in Kinshasa?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “You need more. The day you take Lubumbashi, we’ll also need to capture and hold N’djili Airport.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, and we must ensure the president’s helicopter doesn’t leave the palace. If he gets across the river to Brazzaville, he’ll be free.”

  “You have to send more men to Kinshasa. Get them on planes while you still can.”