The American Mission

by Matthew Palmer

  Nduku crossed himself reflexively as he spoke.

  Alex had experience in Sudan negotiating with warlords and their subchiefs. It was always tricky and the consequences for getting it wrong could be severe. When the guerilla approached the jeep, Alex had to open the door to speak. The windows in even semi-armored cars do not roll down. After the air-conditioned comfort of the Land Cruiser, the jungle air was fetid and humid with a pervasive odor of rot and decay.

  “You are the Americans?” The soldier spoke in Lingala rather than French.

  “Yes, we are,” Alex replied in the same language. In his Peace Corps days, Lingala had been the language of choice for communicating across tribal lines. Like most trade languages, it was relatively simple and easy to pick up. Alex’s Lingala was nearly as good as his French.

  “We walk from here. You come alone. No others. No guns.”

  Without looking away from the guerilla, Alex spoke in English to his Pakistani bodyguards. “Boys, I’m going to get out of the car. I want you behind me and to one side. Keep your rifles in your hands but don’t point them at anyone. Keep some distance between yourselves so he can’t target you both.”

  The Hammer of God fighter stepped back when Alex and the UN soldiers got out of the car. The guerilla was built like a wrestler, but he was shorter than Alex. Instead of looking down at the American seated in the Land Cruiser, he now had to look up. It was a subtle shift, but the dynamic was clearly different. Similarly, the Pakistani soldiers visibly under his command meant that, at least as far as the guerilla was concerned, Alex was now armed. Alex leaned forward slightly to underscore the man’s failure to intimidate him with a show of force. “Te,” he said, using the Lingala word for “no.”

  “Let me explain to you how this is going to work. We are here to secure the release of our people from your custody. These are the cars in which we will transport them to safety. Refusing to allow them through indicates to me that Mr. Manamakimba is not serious about reaching an agreement. If that is the case, we should turn around and leave now. If that’s not true, then the cars are coming with us. These men,” he said, inclining his head in the direction of Chaudry and Sharif, “are my personal bodyguards. They will not leave my side. Mr. Manamakimba is expecting us and I believe he would strongly prefer us to be alive.”

  There was a look of uncertainty in the guerilla’s eyes as he wavered between two very different decisions. Grudgingly, he stepped aside and gestured to Alex to follow him. The tightness in Alex’s chest eased as he took a deep, controlled breath. The approach he had chosen had been a calculated risk, but a real one nevertheless.

  The soldier who had only moments ago been threatening Alex stepped into the jungle and emerged riding a Kawasaki dirt bike with a noisy two-stroke engine. Without a word, the guerilla gunned the engine and took off down the riverside road. Nduku followed.

  They bounced down the rutted road for slightly more than a kilometer. Suddenly the jungle opened up on both sides into a wide, flat clearing. Large, dun-colored canvas tents stood in a neat row on the far side of the clearing. The small convoy of white Land Cruisers parked alongside the road. The Americans and their UNSAF minders got out of the cars and stretched surreptitiously to work out the kinks from the long and uncomfortable trip. Nduku stayed behind the wheel. Alex took the opportunity to survey the camp.

  Guerilla fighters were engaged in a variety of tasks. Some were standing guard on the camp perimeter. Some were cleaning their weapons. A few were sleeping in hammocks strung between trees. Many had a faucet, a piece of copper pipe, or some other mundane tool of the plumbing trade hanging around their necks. Most of those carrying guns looked to be adults, but Alex saw a number of children working in the camp. One group, in which the oldest could have been no more than twelve, was cooking a one-pot meal over a sizable fire. Another group was kicking around a soccer ball.

  In the middle of the field, Alex saw the hostages. A quick head count gave him a total of six captives. Most were obviously foreign, but there was one woman who looked Congolese, and Alex suspected that she was Marie Tsiolo. The company’s files had her listed as the second geologist on the survey team. It looked like most of the internationals had survived their ordeal. Let’s hope their luck holds, Alex thought.

  Not far from the hostages, Alex saw Manamakimba sitting in a canvas folding chair next to a flat rock the approximate size and shape of a coffee table. Alex strode purposefully toward the guerilla commander. Slow and steady. You have all the time in the world.

  Yeah, right. Alex looked at his watch. It was 11:15 AM. Keeler would radio their exact arrival time back to the base. Alex had until 5:15 PM to broker some kind of deal. After that, the shooting would begin.

  By prearrangement, Keeler and Viggiano stayed with the vehicles. They had decided to mirror Manamakimba. If the Hammer of God leader came to the table with a bevy of advisers and attendants, Jonah and Rick and the Pakistanis would join Alex to play the same role. If Manamakimba wanted to do the meeting alone, however, Alex would accommodate him. Alex hoped that if he could establish some kind of rapport with Manamakimba, however psychotic he might turn out to be, it would up his chances of winning the release of at least a few of the hostages.

  Manamakimba was dressed in almost identical fashion to the hulking soldier who had escorted them to camp. He was leaning back in his chair with his face turned up toward the sun. His legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He seemed completely at peace. A glass of what looked to be some kind of fruit juice rested on the rock beside him.

  As Alex approached, Manamakimba opened his eyes and stared at him intently. He lifted a single finger and one of the camp boys rushed over and set up another canvas chair so sun-faded it was impossible to tell whether the original color had been orange or yellow.

  Manamakimba stood up and extended his hand. His grip was firm and cool. The Hammer of God leader wasn’t quite Alex’s height, but his charisma was immediately obvious. The eyes behind the delicate-looking glasses were sharp and fiercely intelligent.

  “Welcome, Mr. Ambassador,” Manamakimba began. He spoke in French. “I extend to you my protection and my hospitality for as long as our conversation lasts.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Manamakimba. My name is Alex Baines. I am not the Ambassador, but I am here with the full authority to represent the United States. I am hopeful that we can reach an understanding that avoids further loss of life.”

  Manamakimba gestured for Alex to sit. A camp boy who could have been no more than nine or ten appeared with a second glass of fruit juice, which he set down on the rock next to Manamakimba’s. The boy was dangerously thin and his wide eyes had the yellowed whites that were a warning sign of one or more of the host of tropical diseases to which young people in central Africa were vulnerable: jaundice maybe, or yellow fever, or some kind of parasite. He wore a rusty valve around his neck on a frayed boot lace, a sign of Manamakimba’s favor.

  “I share your desire for a common understanding and a peaceful outcome to this dispute,” Manamakimba continued. “I have something that belongs to you.” He gestured toward the hostages some fifty yards away who were watching them with undisguised interest. “Understandably, you want it back. I am sympathetic. I too have lost something. My country. It is currently in the possession of a group of thieves, murderers, and slavers who call themselves the government of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. They enjoy the support in this conceit of important players in the international system, including the United Nations, the mining companies, and the government of your own country. This support must end.”

  This speech, delivered with poise and practiced smoothness, was not at all what the Agency bio had led Alex to expect from the Hammer of God. He wondered what else the CIA had gotten wrong about Joseph Manamakimba.

  “The first thing I would like to do is to speak with the hostages,” Alex said. “I want to make sure that they
have not been harmed, and I need to assess the extent of their medical needs.”

  “This is not unreasonable,” Manamakimba replied magnanimously. “You may do so. I assure you that they have been well treated in our care.”

  Alex walked over to what remained of the Consolidated Mining survey team. A few of the hostages stood up when Alex approached, but one man remained flat on the ground. Two women knelt at his side, tending to their colleague as best they could.

  As a group, they seemed frightened but not panicky. This was positive.

  “Hello. My name is Alex Baines. I’m from the U.S. Embassy in Kinshasa, and I’m here to discuss with your captors the terms of your release. I promise you that we are doing everything we can to get you out. Can someone give me a quick update on your status? It looks like at least one of you is hurt. Is everyone else okay? Is there anyone missing? Anything you can tell me would be helpful.”

  “Except for Steve, we’re basically in good shape. Steve was shot. The wound has gone septic and he’s in shock.” It was the Congolese woman who spoke up. Her English, he noted, was flawless.

  “Marie Tsiolo, I presume.”

  She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Is this everyone, or were there other team members who might have been taken somewhere else?” Alex asked.

  “No. This is everyone.”

  “Is Jack Karic here?”

  “Jack didn’t make it,” Marie said. “Neither did Wallace Purcell. The Hammer of God killed them both. I’ve been representing us in our conversations with Manamakimba. Temporarily, at least, I suppose that puts me in charge.”

  Alex had read Marie’s personnel file. She was a relative newcomer to the company, and she had one of the thinnest files. Her evaluations had been stellar, however, and it was clear that Consolidated saw her as a rising star. That had made the letter of resignation in her file all the more puzzling. Only three days before heading into the jungle, Marie Tsiolo had given her notice. This was to be her last expedition with Consolidated.

  “What can you tell me about Manamakimba?” Alex asked Marie.

  “He’s complicated,” Marie replied. “Not the mindless killer that the newspapers make him out to be. He’s smart, surprisingly thoughtful, and he seems to believe absolutely in his cause.”

  “What is his cause?”

  “His country. Our country, I suppose. He sees himself as a patriot battling the greed of the mining companies.”

  “Is there anything you can think of that might help me to negotiate with him?”

  “Yes,” Marie replied. “Me.”

  Alex looked at her quizzically.

  “Like it or not, and I assure you I don’t, this team is my responsibility. At this point, Dr. Wheeler’s life is measured in hours. We don’t have a lot of time, and I don’t intend to sit here while you make a hash of the negotiations with Manamakimba.” Looking Alex right in the eye, Marie added in Lingala, “He eats pretty little white boys like you for breakfast.”

  “In that case, he might find that he’s bitten off more than he can chew,” Alex replied in the same language.

  “All the same, you’ll want me with you when you talk to him,” Marie said, shifting smoothly back to English. If she was at all impressed by Alex’s command of Lingala, she hid it well. “I understand him in ways that you cannot.”

  Alex considered this for a moment. Marie had a point. She also had established a relationship with Manamakimba that would take Alex valuable time to replicate, if, in fact, he ever could. As a Congolese, Marie might have credibility with the Hammer of God that Alex could never hope to match. It was unusual for hostages to participate in the negotiations for their own release. As a rule, they had an obvious incentive to overpromise. Marie Tsiolo seemed cool and collected, however, and it seemed a risk that was worth taking.

  “Come on,” Alex agreed. “Let’s go get this done.”

  8

  JUNE 20, 2009

  MANAMAKIMBA’S CAMP

  Marie did not want to give Manamakimba the opportunity to reject her participation in the negotiations, so she sat in the chair the American diplomat had vacated. Manamakimba said nothing, but he gestured to one of his aides and a boy came running over with a third chair for Alex.

  The three negotiators sat facing one another over the flat granite slab that served as a table.

  “I see you brought reinforcements,” Manamakimba observed dryly.

  “Do you have any objection to Ms. Tsiolo’s participation in our discussion?”

  “None whatsoever.” Manamakimba settled back comfortably in his chair. “Are you satisfied with the condition of our guests?” he asked Alex.

  “The guests are not satisfied with their condition,” Marie said before Alex could respond. “My colleague, Steve Wheeler, is dying. His wound has festered. He needs a hospital urgently. I want you to let him go before we discuss terms for the release of the rest of the team.”

  “Many of my children are also sick or injured.” Manamakimba’s expansive gesture implied that he used “children” metaphorically to include all of his Hammer of God fighters. “They have no access to doctors or hospitals. The treatment available to your Dr. Wheeler is no better than what I can offer my own people, but neither is it any worse. Surely you don’t mean to imply that your white friend is somehow more deserving than your African brothers and sisters.”

  “White or black is immaterial to me. What concerns me is the color of his leg. It is red and swollen and cold to the touch. I’m no doctor, but I know enough to recognize gangrene.”

  “I could have the leg cut off,” Manamakimba offered. “Some of my boys have considerable experience with that.”

  I bet they do, Marie thought.

  “He’s too weak. The blood loss would kill him. He needs a hospital and medicine.”

  “What’s one more death in the Congo?” Manamakimba asked. “Millions of our countrymen have died in these wars . . . wars that have been fought at the behest of companies like yours, Ms. Tsiolo. If he dies, Dr. Wheeler will be just one of many victims. If his death serves to advance the cause of liberation for our people, then it is a death more valuable than most.”

  “It will do the opposite,” Alex warned. “I am here to negotiate at your invitation, but if you are serious about reaching a deal that can benefit both of us, then we will have to establish a degree of trust. Ordinarily, that takes time, but it is time that Dr. Wheeler does not have. If you allow him to die under your charge while trying to score debating points, it will make it exceedingly difficult for us to develop any kind of trust or confidence in you. We have made a gesture in agreeing to meet here in your camp. You should reciprocate and let Dr. Wheeler go now. You will still have enough hostages to justify continued negotiations, and you eliminate the risk of losing one of your guests on a timeline that you don’t control.”

  Marie liked that the American was appealing to Manamakimba’s self-interest rather than his humanity. The Congo had a way of hardening one to the suffering of others. Self-interest was timeless.

  “Surely you don’t expect to get something for nothing in the case of Dr. Wheeler,” Manamakimba replied. “Goodwill frankly seems somewhat abstract at this point. Perhaps we could discuss the terms for the professor’s release.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Alex asked.

  “I propose a statement on behalf of Consolidated Mining, the United Nations, and the United States of America accepting responsibility for the violence in eastern Congo . . . and, shall we say, one million dollars to cover the Hammer of God’s expenses.”

  Marie was again struck by the juxtaposition of the high-minded and the venal in Manamakimba’s rhetoric.

  “That seems a bit steep for a single hostage,” Alex observed.

  “Ah, it is good to see that you are not above bartering for lives. You will find that an invaluable attribute
in our country.”

  “Then let’s negotiate in a serious way. What you are asking for is out of the question. Dr. Wheeler has little time. We cannot negotiate on terms that would require messages to be relayed back and forth to Kinshasa, much less to New York or Washington. We need to work with what we have at hand. There are certain commitments I can make now, but only in exchange for Dr. Wheeler’s immediate release.”

  “What would you suggest then?”

  “A straight-up trade. Release Dr. Wheeler and you have my word that I will stay in this camp as your . . . guest . . . until we have reached agreement on a deal that will free all of the members of the Consolidated Mining team. In reality, you’d be trading up. You’d have the same number of hostages, but you’d be giving up a dying man for a healthy one, and a U.S. official at that.”

  “You are not a coward,” Manamakimba offered, after a moment’s reflection. “That is something. But what do I gain by this when I could simply keep you both.”

  “I don’t believe you will do that. You gave us your word that we would have safe passage for these talks, and unless I misjudge you, I think your word is something that you take seriously. I assure you that I take my word seriously as well, and if I offer myself freely as your hostage, it is without intent to deceive.”

  Manamakimba hesitated, then nodded his agreement. It was a good deal and the guerilla leader knew it.

  “Very well. I accept your offer, Mr. Baines.”

  “No,” Marie interrupted. “It is not enough.”

  The two men looked at her. They both seemed somewhat surprised at her intervention. Manamakimba, she noted with irritation, also seemed bemused.

  “You think our American friend values himself too highly?” the Hammer of God asked.