Blood Gold in the Congo

by Peter Ralph

  “And why did you name us?” Gizenga snarled.

  “I told you it wasn’t me!”

  “So the emails aren’t genuine?” Bodho asked.

  “I haven’t looked at all of them. There are thousands.”

  “What about the ones you have looked at?” Bodho asked, his top lip turned up in an ugly sneer.

  Boucher looked down at the floor. “They appear to be genuine.”

  “They appear to be genuine,’” Gizenga mimicked. “I know they’re genuine. I’ve checked the dates and the amounts transferred. The question is, how did they get out into the public?”

  “Sir Richard asked me that. I don’t know. My computer must have been hacked,” Boucher whimpered.

  “I don’t believe you,” Bodho said. “Who paid you? Why did you do it?”

  “I didn’t. If I had, do you think I would’ve stayed in the Congo? It wasn’t me. I promise.”

  “Throw him in a cell,” Bodho said to the soldiers. “It’ll give him some thinking time to come up with the truth.”

  “No, no!” Boucher yelled, as the soldiers dragged him from the room.

  “The baobab tree hasn’t changed in seventeen years,” Maya said, kneeling in the shadow in front of it. “Do you remember we used to say it will be dead next year? It might outlast us.”

  “I don’t think so,” Yannick said. “We’ll know our fate within forty-eight hours. Is there anything else I can do before you leave for Kilwa, Boss?”

  “No, nothing,” Joseph said. “Just remember, no announcements before six o’clock on Wednesday morning.”

  Maya held her hand out, palm down. Yannick put his on top of it, Joseph put his on Yannick’s, and they repeated the process until six hands were stacked. “We’ll never be separated,” she said.

  “Never,” echoed Joseph and Yannick.

  It was dusk when Joseph and his helicopter pilot, Beni, boarded a twin-engine Cessna in Kilwa for the five-hour flight to Kitwit. “How long were you in the army, Beni?” Joseph asked.

  The middle-aged man ran his fingers through his short, graying beard. “Too long. I saw too much death and cruelty. More than twenty years.”

  “Do you have a family?”

  “A wife and three kids.”

  Joseph frowned as he related what he wanted the helicopter pilot to do. “If we fail, you’ll die. I wish I had known you had a family.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Muamba. I knew the risks I was taking when I deserted,” Beni said, a twinkle in his eye. “I can do things with a helicopter that no other pilot in Africa can. I don’t intend to die, and I’m going to make sure I protect my new president, too.”

  “Get some sleep, Beni, and forget the ‘Mr. Muamba.’ Call me Joseph.”

  Except for the airport, Kitwit was asleep. The pilot made a perfect landing and taxied over to a waiting helicopter. “Good luck, Mr. Muamba,” he said.

  As Joseph boarded the helicopter, he said, “It seems everyone knows my plans, Beni.”

  “No, they don’t, Joseph. They all know something’s going to happen, though. Listen to those drums. They’re feverish.”

  It was 1:00 a.m. when the helicopter landed in a clearing on the outskirts of Kinshasa. As Joseph came down the stairs, a familiar voice said, “Welcome home, Mr. President.”

  “Leon, what a surprise. What’s the CIA doing here?” Joseph asked, gripping the humongous man’s hand.

  “Ex-CIA. I’m your chauffeur and bodyguard. One day I want to tell my grandkids I helped free the Congo.”

  “You’re optimistic.”

  “There is dissent in the army. The people are seething. Once you move, they will follow. Get in. I’ll take you to the safe house.”

  Ten minutes later, Leon pulled into the driveway of a barely visible cream brick bungalow. Leon hid the limo in the dense, surrounding foliage, and led the way through bushes to the rear of the house. The back door was open, and the veranda light was on. “Hello, Belvie, hello, Rishi,” Leon said. “Let me introduce you to Joseph and Beni.”

  “Welcome, Mr. Muamba,” Belvie said. “It is an honor to meet you.”

  “Please call me Joseph. I would not be here if it were not for you two. The time you spent training Yannick turned him into the finest general in the Congo.”

  “Yes, we have watched him from afar,” Rishi said. “Who would think he’d never held a revolver two years ago?”

  “Or used a smartphone,” Belvie said. “He has become a superb strategist and tactician. We have much to go over before Wednesday morning. Do you want to do it now, or do you want to get some rest?”

  “Let’s do it now. Tell me how you’ve deployed our forces.”

  “One hundred at the airport. Fifty at the radio and television station, and three hundred on the streets to stir up the crowds.”

  “Make it one hundred and fifty at the airport. I want to make sure that once we’ve taken it, word doesn’t leak out. That means moving fast and shutting down all form of communication, particularly cellphones. Can you make sure that instruction filters down?”

  “Yes,” Belvie said, “but it will leave us short on the streets.”

  “It has to be done,” Joseph said. “Let’s go over the rest of the plan.”

  CHAPTER 55

  ..................

  AT FOUR O’CLOCK ON WEDNESDAY morning, Yannick’s youngest commander and one hundred of his men took control of a quiet Lubumbashi International Airport. A few weary commuters sleeping overnight in the terminal were shocked to have their cellphones taken from them. Other than some angry words, though, the seizure was achieved without incident.

  At the same time, Lubumbashi’s national radio and television office was seized and closed down by fifty freedom fighters. There were less than twenty personnel, who, after having their cellphones taken from them, were locked up in a large office.

  The army barracks were in Lubumbashi’s least desirable area – made so by the drunken antics, rapes, and bashings committed by the soldiers. Yannick carefully positioned more than three thousand of his freedom fighters in the streets around the barracks. Another two thousand formed an outer ring to prevent soldiers from escaping. At 5:15 a.m., with only fifty minutes to sunrise, Yannick gave the signal, and his men moved with blinding speed to disarm the still sleepy sentries.

  By 5:55 a.m., just as Yannick had hoped, he controlled Lubumbashi without firing a shot or losing a life. Thirty minutes later, he appeared on national television to say he had taken Lubumbashi in a bloodless coup on behalf of the Congo’s new president, Joseph Muamba.

  At 1:30 a.m., on the outskirts of Kinshasa, Joseph, Beni, and Leon left the safe house and headed for N’djili. “What a shame the airport and army barracks are both in N’djili,” Joseph said. “We must take the airport without gunfire and ensure no one uses their cellphone to sound the alarm.”

  “Our fighters know what to do. You don’t have to go with Beni. There are those who are far more competent than you with a machine gun. It’s a silly risk. What if they shoot you down? That will end the revolution.”

  “Yes, I do, and what you say is not right. If something happens to me, you will take over, Leon. You have the skills to lead.”

  “Even if what you say is true, the people aren’t going to rise up for me. They love you. You’re their hero.”

  “He’s right,” Beni said. “Without you, there is no revolution.”

  “My mind is made up,” Joseph said. “Now tell me about the airport.”

  “The one hundred and fifty you want at the airport is too many,” Leon said. “It doesn’t open until six o’clock in the morning. There will only be a skeleton staff maintaining it. We will take it without any problems.”

  “Perhaps you are right – but one call on a cellphone, and our plans are up in flames. And don’t forget, we have to hold it. Where are our fighters? I want to talk to the leaders.”

  “Within walking distance of the airport.”

  A cacophony of pounding drums permea
ted every inch of the Congo. Cities, towns, and villages remained awake in anticipation of what the night might hold. At five o’clock in the morning, an ever increasing crowd started to congregate before the entrance to the palace. The Republican Guards manning the gates were alert and on edge. Just before six o’clock, an army helicopter hovered over the entrance, and some in the crowd pulled back, not knowing whether it was going to attack them.

  “Beni, there must be fifty thousand down there,” Joseph said.

  “And look at the streets,” Beni replied. “Thousands more are joining them.”

  “Let’s get it done. Take me around to the back of the palace, and remember, bring it down slowly as if you’re going to land.”

  “I know what to do,” Beni replied. “You only need to take out one rotor.”

  “I’ll take them both out,” Joseph said, cradling an AK-47. “I want to make sure the president has no means of escape.”

  As Beni lowered the helicopter, rifle-toting guards put their hands over their eyes and looked up. Thirty feet from the ground, Joseph opened fire and, in less than twenty seconds, sprayed the presidential helicopter with two hundred rounds. “Climb, climb,” he shouted, as bullets bounced off the fuselage.

  Instead, Beni skillfully maneuvered the helicopter, putting the palace between it and the guards. “Don’t forget the leaflets,” he said, as they flew over the crowd.

  “Did I get the rotors?” Joseph asked as he shoved leaflets out the door.

  “It doesn’t make any difference.” Beni laughed. “You decapitated it. No one’s going to fly that bird.”

  The leaflet had a picture of Joseph with a statement below it, saying he had taken over the presidency and vowed to rid the country of corruption. The bottom line in pronounced bold type called on the people to help him. One of Yannick’s men in the crowd started to chant, “Muamba, Muamba, Muamba,” and soon it drowned out everything.

  “I’ve never seen so many people,” Beni said. “The streets are packed.”

  President Bodho had had a late night and consumed too much alcohol, but the machine gun and rifle fire had awoken him. As he looked at the remains of his helicopter, he asked one of the guards whether they’d been attacked. “No, Mr. President, they just destroyed the helicopter and fled.”

  “What is that chanting?”

  “There is an enormous crowd at the entrance chanting Joseph Muamba’s name.”

  Bodho hurried back into the palace and called General Gizenga but got the busy signal. “Here,” he said, hurling the phone at one of his assistants. “Keep trying until you get the general.”

  As Joseph and Beni approached the airport, they could see flashes of gunfire. Beni landed behind one of the hangars, and they made their way to the terminal where the fighting was taking place. “What’s happening, Leon?” Joseph shouted.

  “The army mounted a counterattack thirty minutes ago. We’re hopelessly outnumbered. We’ve already lost more than twenty men. I’ve called our people in Kinshasa for help.”

  “There are only two hundred and fifty,” Joseph replied. “What help are they going to be? It looks like our bluff has failed. I hate the idea of our people dying for a lost cause. I’m afraid we misjudged, my friend.”

  “Cease fire!” a loud voice over a megaphone shouted, and the soldiers stopped shooting. “Joseph Muamba, my name is Captain Sunga. Look out the window at the southern end of the terminal. I have ten of your men. I will execute them unless you surrender. Come out with your hands above your head by yourself, and I will let them live.”

  “It’s a trap,” Beni said, “don’t go.”

  “He’s right,” Leon agreed.

  “Look at them,” Joseph said, “kneeling on the tarmac with their hands tied behind them. I can’t let them die.”

  “He’s going to kill them no matter what you do. Our reinforcements will be here soon.”

  “Two hundred and fifty.” Joseph frowned. “Look at the truckloads of soldiers pouring in. We’re outnumbered twenty to one. I thought the soldiers would turn. I was wrong.”

  “You have one minute, Muamba. If you’re not out here by then, I’ll kill the first of your rebels.”

  Joseph heard the captain ask someone a question. Then he shouted, “Her name is Junelle, and she’s only nineteen. Do you want her blood on your hands?”

  “I’m coming!” Joseph shouted back. “Beni, Leon, there is no need for you to stay. You can get away by helicopter. Take as many of our fighters as you can.”

  Leon folded his massive arms across his chest and said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Nor me,” Beni added.

  “Thirty seconds,” the captain screamed.

  “I’m coming!” Joseph yelled again.

  The sun was coming up as he left the terminal. When he reached the soldiers, they immediately seized him and manhandled him over to their captain. “The famous Joseph Muamba.” He sneered. “Your fame’s not going to help you now. Get on your knees.”

  “You said you’d let them go.”

  “I lied,” the captain said, punching a number into his cellphone. “They’ll die with you. Damn, General Gizenga’s phone’s busy. You have a few minutes extra to live.”

  Joseph lifted his head and caught the eye of a nervous-looking young corporal. He glanced around and saw hundreds of soldiers surrounding the terminal before he felt a rifle butt slam into the back of his head. His face crashed into the tarmac. “Keep your head down,” a soldier grunted.

  “How many men do you have in the terminal?” the captain snarled.

  Joseph felt blood trickling down his neck but sat upright and defiantly said, “I don’t know.”

  The captain’s boot slammed into his ribs. “It makes no difference. They are all going to die. I’m only letting them live so they can see you beg for mercy before I kill you.”

  “It’s never going to happen,” Joseph said, spitting just in front of the captain’s boots.

  Another boot crashed into his ribs, but he didn’t grunt or show any pain.

  The captain pulled out his cellphone and said, “You have less than a minute to live.”

  CHAPTER 56

  ..................

  Joseph heard the captain say, “Yes, General, I will put it on speaker mode.”

  Then he heard Gizenga’s voice. “You fool, Muamba, you thought you’d come back with your ragtag rebels and overthrow the president. You’ve come back to die.”

  “You’re not at the palace are you, General? When I flew over it an hour ago, the crowd was trying to break down the gates, and the Republican Guards were running. Are you sure the president is still in power?”

  Gizenga laughed mockingly. “I’ve just spoken to him. You’re a liar. Yes, there is a mob at the gates, but the guards have not run, and the president remains in control. Once you are dead, this foolishness will be over.”

  “It won’t make any difference if I die. The people know you stole from them. They know you are guilty of murder. They want retribution. If it’s not me, it will be someone else.”

  “They’re a rabble without leadership. Once you are dead, they’ll come to their senses. If they don’t, a few public hangings will soon bring them into line. Enough talking. Kill him, Captain. Goodbye, Muamba, and good riddance.”

  As the captain withdrew his pistol the doors of the terminal burst open, and Leon came out with his hands above his head. “Stop!” he shouted. “Listen. Listen.”

  The soldiers trained their guns on Leon, and the captain said, “What are you talking about, you fool? Do you want to die with him?”

  “Listen,” Leon said. “Listen!”

  The chant was angry, and it was still a way off. Joseph heard it. They had shouted his name in front of the palace in exultation. Now it was in anger.

  One of the soldiers said, “I can hear it.”

  Leon didn’t need a megaphone. His booming voice carried across the tarmac. “There’s an angry crowd of more than fifty thousand on their
way to the airport. If you kill their president, they will tear you apart from limb from limb. None of you will leave the airport alive. Why do you want to be loyal to a president who has stolen billions from you? Lay down your weapons.”

  Some of the soldiers dropped their eyes while others looked in the direction of the ever increasing crescendo.

  “Shut up! Once he is dead, they’ll lose their enthusiasm,” the captain said.

  “Look at the windows of the terminal!” Leon said. “See those cellphones? They’re videoing every move you and your men make, and uploading it direct to Facebook. They have close-ups of your faces. Are you married, Captain? You might like to call your wife and kids and say goodbye.”

  The first of the open trucks appeared on the road with men shouting and randomly firing rifles into the air while the angry chant increased in intensity.

  The captain rested the barrel of his pistol on the back of Joseph’s head and said, “They’re too late.”

  “No! No!” Leon shouted, charging at the captain.

  “Stop!” the corporal yelled, leveling his AK-47 at Leon.

  “Kill him,” the captain ordered, preparing to pull the trigger.

  Then Leon watched in amazement as the corporal pointed the machine gun at the captain. “No, he is right. Joseph Muamba is our country’s hero. He is honest. He will rid the country of corruption and poverty. Drop your pistol, Captain.”

  “Kill him,” the captain screamed at the other soldiers. “He is a deserter, and you know what happens to deserters.”

  The trucks swung onto the tarmac, and there was a fierce exchange of gunfire. The soldiers looked at each other, not knowing what to do, before one of them said, “I am with Corporal Bilenga.”

  “So am I,” another said, and the others followed.

  As the captain swung his pistol back on Joseph, the corporal fired one short burst that ripped through the captain’s chest. “Untie them,” he said.

  Leon seized the megaphone, and his booming voice carried across the tarmac. “It is over. Your captain is dead. You are outnumbered fifty to one. Cease firing. Celebrate our new president. He will bring honesty and prosperity to our country.”