The American Mission

by Matthew Palmer

“I think he sells himself short,” Marie offered. “He is an American diplomat. The local representative of the most powerful country in the world. Surely he is worth more than an old and injured geologist. It is not a fair trade. In addition, Dr. Wheeler is gravely ill and will require care on the trip back to Kinshasa. The two women, Arlene and Charlotte, have been looking after him. Let them go as well and you can keep the American diplomat. Otherwise, I reject your deal as insufficient.”

  Manamakimba laughed. There was nothing malevolent in it. It was a genuine laugh, full of warmth and humor.

  “Two women seems extravagant,” the guerilla leader said. “A man should be satisfied with one good woman. You, Ms. Tsiolo, would be more than enough for any man, I expect. But I am not unreasonable, and I recognize the value that your American friend offers. You may have one of the women to nurse the doctor on his trip back to . . . civilization.” The last word dripped with sarcasm. “They may leave immediately. But you must choose which one it is to be, Ms. Tsiolo. You are their leader. The decision is rightly yours.”

  Marie’s stomach turned over. This was not a responsibility she wanted. Whichever one she picked was likely to survive this experience. The other would share the collective fate of the rest of the team, and Marie was realistic enough to know that their future did not look bright. It was quite literally the power of life and death.

  “How does it feel,” he asked, “to hold the fate of another in your hands? It is true power. Many men become addicted to this. Do not grow to love it overmuch, Marie Tsiolo. Power is a harsh mistress.”

  Marie looked over at what was left of the Consolidated Mining survey team. Steve Wheeler was thrashing in a fever-racked dream. Charlotte lifted his head and cradled it in her lap. She tried to get him to drink from the clean water in her canteen, but the geologist was too dazed to swallow.

  That small act of kindness was enough.

  “Charlotte Swing will go with Steve,” she announced.

  “The blond one?” Manamakimba asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Too bad. I was looking forward to getting to know her better.”

  Manamakimba turned to Alex. “You may have Mr. Wheeler and Ms. Swing. You may take them immediately and then you may take their places . . . as my guest.”

  Alex nodded and left to make the arrangements for their transport.

  Manamakimba looked at Marie with such intensity it was as though he was trying to see inside her.

  “You drive a harder bargain than the American.”

  “I have had more time to take your measure.”

  Marie watched as two UN soldiers and two Hammer of God fighters moved Steve Wheeler onto a stretcher and placed it in the back of one of the Land Cruisers. Charlotte Swing hugged the other members of the team and got into the vehicle. The Land Cruiser pulled out and started down the dirt track toward the UN base. Marie offered a silent prayer to her ancestors for Steve Wheeler.

  When Alex returned, the negotiations began in earnest.

  “Dr. Wheeler and Ms. Swing represent a decent beginning,” Alex said. “Shall we discuss terms for the release of the remaining members of the team . . . and for me, of course?”

  “Shall we? I believe that I have put my terms on the table. Thirty-five million dollars and the withdrawal of all foreign forces from eastern Congo. This applies in particular to the mining interests, but to the UN forces as well. They serve the occupiers and they are not welcome. If you’d prefer to pay in euros,” Manamakimba added, “I can offer you a favorable exchange rate. I’m afraid that I can’t accept Congolese francs.”

  “That’s not a terribly realistic offer, Mr. Manamakimba. Only the UN Security Council can order the withdrawal of UNSAF. I can offer you a meeting with the UNSAF commander. An opportunity to bring your grievances right to the top. Perhaps if you had a chance to observe some of the UN operations, it would help alleviate your concerns. In addition, it might be possible for me to facilitate an amnesty deal with the government if you release the hostages immediately and agree to verifiable disarmament.”

  “Now who’s being unrealistic, Mr. Baines? In this neighborhood, disarmament is death. I will not ask that of my children. I will not trade the soldiers I hold for empty promises.”

  “The people you are holding—me included—are civilians, not soldiers. They are scientists and engineers. They have no part in the war.”

  “That is where you are wrong. The mining companies and the officials who protect them are the essence of this war. They provide both the reason and the means for violence. They are modern conquistadors disguised as free-market capitalists in the service of their lords and masters in Kinshasa, London, New York, Beijing, and Pretoria. I have studied your Western civilization, Mr. Baines.” Manamakimba again made the word derisive. “I am not an uneducated savage skulking through the forest. I studied mechanical engineering at the University of Liège.”

  Marie was not surprised by this. She had concluded early on that the guerilla leader had considerable formal education.

  “I learned many things in Belgium, including the history of my own people. The Kingdom of Kongo was a great empire, but it was built with gold and spears rather than steel and guns. The Belgians made us slaves. We were not even a colony. We were a company, the private company of King Leopold II. The people of the Congo were just so many machine parts. We collected the Belgians’ rubber and dug their copper and slaughtered our elephants for their ivory. Millions of us died. If a village failed to meet its quota, the white officers of Leopold’s enforcers, the Force Publique, took their hands in compensation. Baskets of severed hands flowed back to Europe along with the plunder. When the Belgians finally left, we were so weak and divided that we turned on one another. For the last fifty years, the West has worked to keep us weak so that we might continue to feed their industrial machine.

  “So do not tell me, Mr. Baines, that these are innocent civilians I have in my possession. They are every bit the foot soldiers of the conquerors. Just ask my pretty African sister what her own employer wants to do to her family, her village. Uncle Joseph knows.” Manamakimba pointed a long bony finger at his own chest. “Why don’t you?”

  When Alex looked at her, Marie turned away. Although she could not accept Manamakimba’s methods, his passion and conviction spoke to her. He was certainly right about the way in which the company had betrayed her. She had been naïve.

  “I did not ask you to fight my battles,” Marie told the guerilla leader. “We can take care of ourselves.”

  “Can you now? That is not how it looks from the outside, Ms. Tsiolo. Remember that what is happening to you is only a small taste of what is happening to our country.”

  There was a lull in the conversation as though the participants by mutual consent had paused to consider where they were. It was the American who broke the silence.

  “I appreciate the history of this country and I’m sympathetic to what you’re saying. The Congo and its people have suffered terribly over the last century. If you are looking to educate me, I assure you that you have my complete attention. If you’re looking for justice, this isn’t the way.”

  The guerilla leader had an intense look in his eyes. “Let me show you both something,” he said, as he pulled a small stack of photographs out of a cargo pocket on the thigh of his jungle camouflage pants. “These are pictures of my family. My wife, Serena, our two sons, and our daughter.”

  Marie and Alex leafed through the photographs. Manamakimba’s wife was a graceful woman with a warm and welcoming smile. In one of the pictures, she was standing in front of a small, well-kept house wearing a simple yellow skirt and a cotton T-shirt. She was lovely. The three children stood in a knot on her right side holding hands. They were wearing what looked like school uniforms. The other pictures were of Serena and the children playing in the yard, cooking, and doing other ordinary things. The guerilla leader appe
ared in only one picture. This was a more formal shot, with Manamakimba and his wife sitting on a bench, their children arrayed in an arc in front of them. In the picture, the ruthless Hammer of God looked like nothing other than a proud husband and father.

  “They are beautiful,” Marie said sympathetically, knowing what was coming next.

  “My family is dead. They are all dead. Serena and my daughter, Claire, were killed by Rwandan genocidaires. My sons starved to death. The Rwandans came to fight wars and stayed to make money. It is the same with the South Africans and the Zambians. These are our neighbors, but they are the newcomers. The Europeans and the Americans, they have been at this for a hundred years. I lost my first family. I am not going to lose my second.”

  He motioned to one of the camp boys, who ran over immediately. Manamakimba pulled off the boy’s hat and rubbed his head affectionately. Marie could see a line of bright red welts on the boy’s neck, the unmistakable marker of schistosomiasis, a dangerous, even potentially fatal, parasitic infection. The boy already looked weak and malnourished. He was going to have a hard time fighting back against the parasitic worms burrowing into his lungs and liver. Treatment for the condition was relatively cheap and painless. It was also, Marie was certain, unavailable to the Hammer of God. There wasn’t a pharmacy or a doctor this side of Kisangani.

  “Charlie is sick,” Manamakimba said simply. “It is likely he will die. It is not my intention to allow that.”

  “Nor should it be,” Marie said. “But taking the life of others isn’t going to do this boy any good.”

  Manamakimba said nothing. But he patted Charlie on the head and sent him away.

  • • •

  Four hours later nothing had changed. As the negotiations dragged on, Marie noticed Alex glancing surreptitiously at his watch. She wondered what he could possibly be waiting for. Out here in the jungle, time was an almost meaningless abstraction.

  Meanwhile, the guerilla leader was clearly warming to his theme of the Hammer of God as the real defenders of the Congo, forced into battle against an array of national enemies both foreign and internal. He required little or nothing in the way of feedback to encourage his monologue. “By branding us as criminals and outlaws, the puppet government in Kinshasa has pushed us into a corner. The Hammer of God is my family. They are all I have left. I love them and they love me. I provide for them as a father. I give them food and shelter. There is little enough I can do about medicine, but we care for the sick and injured as well as we are able.”

  “What if we could do something about medicine?” Marie asked impulsively. “What if there was a way that we could provide treatment to your sick and wounded? What might that be worth to you?”

  “It might change things. It depends.”

  Marie thought she saw an opening, but she needed to explore the options privately with the American first.

  “Give us a minute to talk,” she said to Manamakimba.

  “Of course,” the Hammer of God said, rising from his chair. “We have plenty of time.” He looked at Alex as he said this.

  When they were alone, Marie turned to Alex and asked with a fierce urgency, “Is there something you can do to get medical care for the Hammer of God? A doctor and some medical supplies. I think he’d be willing to do a deal if we can come up with the right incentives.”

  “It wouldn’t take much to make a difference,” Alex agreed. “You and I both know what’s wrong with Charlie. Schistosomiasis. It’s easy enough to treat. There’s a State Department doctor in Johannesburg. I could potentially persuade him to offer the Hammer of God his services, but there’s not enough time to set it up now.”

  “What do you mean? Why do you keep looking at your watch? What’s going to happen?”

  Alex told her about the UN rescue operation that was scheduled to get under way in only forty-five minutes. Marie was appalled.

  “This is going to cost a lot of lives,” she observed. “Yours and mine not least among them.”

  “In all likelihood,” Alex agreed.

  “Then we had better close this deal, hadn’t we?”

  “Indeed. And remember, if the shooting starts, get low and flat and stay there.”

  Manamakimba returned and took his seat. One of the camp boys brought fresh glasses of juice and set them on the rock.

  “Well,” Manamakimba asked. “What do you have in mind?”

  “In exchange for the immediate release of all of the hostages, I can offer you the services of Embassy medical personnel for a week to tend your sick and injured,” Alex said. “I can also offer you whatever medical supplies are necessary for him to provide treatment.”

  “Two weeks,” Manamakimba said. “And I want a doctor, not nurses.”

  Marie was encouraged that Manamakimba seemed to accept the basic outlines of the deal.

  “Understood and agreed.”

  “And medicines, whatever is needed.”

  “Also agreed.”

  “Good drugs, not the expired castoffs that some of the missionaries have been trading for souls.”

  “Of course.”

  Manamakimba wasn’t quite finished bargaining. “And one more thing . . .”

  “Yes,” Alex asked cautiously.

  “By releasing you and my other . . . guests, I am taking your commitment to this bargain on faith.”

  “You’ll have to trust that I’ll make good on my word, yes.”

  “I want a token of your commitment up front.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Manamakimba looked over at the line of Land Cruisers parked on the far side of the field. Off the assembly line, they retailed for nearly sixty thousand dollars. Fully armored, the vehicles were worth somewhere in the low six figures.

  “I’ll take one of your jeeps,” Manamakimba said. “I can put it to good use.”

  Alex stood and walked over to the UN convoy. He was back in less than five minutes. Almost casually, he tossed a set of keys to Manamakimba.

  “I threw in half a tank of gas,” he said. “It will take me a little time to arrange for a doctor. How can I get a message to you when I have that set up?”

  Manamakimba reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a short stack of rectangular white cards. He handed one to Alex and one to Marie. The top line read JOSEPH MANAMAKIMBA, and under that COMMANDER, HAMMER OF GOD. There was an eleven-digit satellite phone number in the lower left corner, and a Gmail address. In the upper right corner, a red hammer was superimposed over an outline of the Congo.

  “Call me anytime,” Manamakimba said. “E-mail is hit or miss. There are not many Internet cafés out here.”

  “The Hammer of God has a logo?” Marie asked. This was beyond bizarre, something akin to Al Qaeda advertising for an administrative assistant in the classifieds.

  “Sure. I may have trained as an engineer . . . but I took a couple of marketing classes at university.”

  He turned to Alex. “Now may be a good time call your Pakistani friends in their new helmets and tell them they do not have to die today.” He checked his watch. “You have a little less than half an hour.”

  9

  JUNE 25, 2009

  KINSHASA

  Alex read through his report again, just to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. It didn’t make any sense. Negotiating the freedom of the Consolidated survey team had been an impressive piece of diplomacy, the kind that should make an embassy immodestly toot its own horn in cable traffic back to Washington. Moreover, Alex had spent most of a day talking one-on-one with Joseph Manamakimba, who was himself a Class A intelligence target.

  Alex had written a substantial report on the negotiations with Manamakimba immediately after getting back to Kinshasa, being careful to share the credit for the success with Marie Tsiolo. He worked through the night and by morning had a solid ten-page cable with a comme
nt paragraph at the end that challenged the conventional wisdom of Manamakimba as a simple-minded killing machine.

  Inexplicably, Spence had sat on the report for nearly a week. He knew as well as Alex did that immediacy added punch to any report. A week was a lifetime in diplomacy. Cables that sat around too long lost their edge and their audience back home.

  Finally, and after considerable prodding from Alex, the cable came back from the Front Office. It had a single note on the front in red pen, the color traditionally reserved in U.S. embassies for the Ambassador. Alex read it again, hoping that the words would offer him some insight into the thinking behind the message. “Good report, but I don’t want to stir up a hornet’s nest over this. I’ll back-channel the appropriate people to keep them in the loop.”

  That was it. It didn’t make any sense.

  He allowed himself the luxury of disappointment. In the hard, cold calculus of life in the State Department, the only accomplishments that counted were the ones that people knew about. Saving six lives was obviously the most important thing and that was enormously gratifying, but Alex was also eager to reestablish his reputation in the Africa Bureau. The report he had written would have gone a long way toward doing that. This was true even though Alex had been careful to downplay his own role. The FSOs and intelligence analysts who would have read the cable were experienced enough to understand how it had played out.

  Mark Fong stuck his head into Alex’s office.

  “I’m going down for a cup of coffee. Do you want anything?”

  Alex put the report in his shred-box. In the greater scheme of things, this was no big deal. The Congo was a big, fascinating place. There would be more opportunities.

  “I’ll come with you,” Alex said. “I could use a break.”

  The cafeteria was on the ground floor and looked out onto the Embassy courtyard. French doors opened up onto a patio that held some plastic tables and chairs. It had a definite cut-rate flair, but the coffee was decent. A half dozen or so Embassy staffers were in the cafeteria for a midmorning break. Jonah Keeler was sitting by himself at one of the outside tables, and he motioned for Alex and Mark to join him.