The American Mission

by Matthew Palmer

  What he was doing was extremely perilous. In theory, officers could not be punished for anything they might send in through the dissent channel. It was protected communication between career diplomats and the political leadership of the State Department. In practice, some officers who had made use of this vehicle for “disciplined dissent” had been labeled whistleblowers, traitors who had violated the department’s own unwritten code of omertà. Moreover, Alex’s run-in with Diplomatic Security meant that his career was already on the bubble. Spence’s patronage was one of the few tools Alex could rely on to hold off the security goons who would take personal pleasure in stripping his clearances.

  “Mr. Secretary,” he began. “A single American company, Consolidated Mining, has joined forces with the remnants of the militia responsible for the Rwandan genocide to plunder the rich natural resources of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. The United States government is enabling these activities. Consolidated Mining’s behavior is not only wrong and shortsighted, it is criminal. It is in our interest that the DRC develop as a prosperous, stable, and democratic nation. What is happening in eastern Congo cannot stay secret. Eventually it will be exposed to the world. If we do not change course and launch an investigation into Consolidated’s operations here, we risk being labeled as accomplices to genocide in Africa’s third-largest country.”

  Alex wrote for another two hours, building and honing his argument until it was as clear and compelling as he could possibly make it. While he left nothing out, he was careful not to speculate. He wanted a reasoned argument, not a conspiratorial screed that risked being dismissed as a paranoid fantasy. It was just after midnight when he finished the final draft. He read it over one more time and decided that he was, in fact, satisfied.

  All he needed to do now was hit the “send” button. Within hours, it would be printed and placed in front of the Secretary of State. There was no technical reason to seek anyone’s clearance or authorization to send the cable. He moved the cursor to “send” and paused.

  It was hard to know what impact this cable would have on himself and his mentor, much less on the situation in the Congo. As hard as he had tried to avoid it, it was certainly possible to read the message as accusing Spence of actively supporting Consolidated’s corrosive actions. Didn’t he owe it to Spence to discuss it first? Alex hesitated. It did not seem fair or right to simply blindside the one man who had consistently stood up for him in his darkest times.

  He moved the cursor to a different option: “forward message.” He clicked the icon and entered Spence’s e-mail address. “Let’s discuss tomorrow,” he wrote in the dialogue box.

  • • •

  There was no message from Spence waiting on Alex’s computer when he arrived at the office the next morning. In truth, he had not been certain what kind of reaction to expect. He had prepared himself mentally and emotionally for anger, accusations of disloyalty, or a reasoned effort on Spence’s part to explain why Alex was simply wrong. What he had not anticipated was radio silence, no acknowledgment that Spence had even read the message.

  Unable to concentrate, Alex spent most of the day working in a fairly desultory fashion. At about four, Mark Fong stuck his head in the office.

  “Alex, I just e-mailed you the latest version of the human rights report. It’s due today. Do you mind taking a quick look at it?”

  “No problem,” Alex said, without much enthusiasm. “If it looks okay, I’ll just send it in. No reason to bother the Front Office with it until it’s in final form.”

  “Sounds great. Let me know if you have any questions.”

  The human rights report was a standardized yearly report that embassies all over the world prepared on their countries. The report on the Congo was particularly complex because the ongoing violence had contributed to massive violations of human rights in addition to a staggering loss of life. There was a new section this year on rape as a weapon of war that included gruesome stories and statistics. An hour later, Alex had made a few minor edits and the report was ready to send back to Washington.

  The document was already set up in Cable Express. Once Alex had made his changes and checked that the format was correct, the message was ready to send. He slid the cursor over the “send” button and clicked. Nothing happened. Ordinarily a dialogue box would pop up with a reassuring “Your message has been sent” and a cable number that made it easy to find the message in the database. Alex hit “send” again. This time, an error message appeared. It read, “Code 704.” Alex was familiar with some of the more common error codes for mistakes in formatting or addressing cables. It was a fairly arcane art even for experienced officers, and it was easy to make a minor error that would force the persnickety software to reject the message. Code 704 was a new one, however. Alex checked the formatting of the cable again, but could not find an obvious mistake.

  He picked up his phone and dialed the commo room.

  “Schefultowski,” said a gravelly voice. Drew Schefultowski was the Embassy’s head communicator. He spent all day in a windowless room on the top floor of the chancery surrounded by computers and communications equipment. The commo room was the most sensitive part of the Embassy. There were parts of the facility that were off-limits even to the Ambassador.

  Schefultowski had joined State after twenty years in the Navy. He drank too much, smoked too much, and had a generally curmudgeonly view of life. Alex liked him tremendously.

  “Hey, Drew. It’s Alex. I’m having some trouble with Cable Express that I’m hoping you can help me sort out.”

  There was a long pause before Drew answered.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Uh. Some weird code that I’ve never seen before. 704. Do you know what that means?”

  “Listen, Alex. There’s nothing I can do to fix this. You’ll have to take it up with the Front Office.” Drew sounded distant and uncomfortable.

  “What’s this about, Drew?”

  “Talk to the Ambassador about it, would you?” Schefultowski hung up.

  Alex stared at the receiver, uncertain of what to make of the conversation. Whatever Drew was talking about, it did not sound like a simple technical glitch. A feeling of unease started to creep up his spine. Somewhere he knew the office had a Cable Express operating manual that should include a list of all the codes and an explanation of their meaning.

  After a few minutes of rummaging through his office, he found what he was looking for in the bottom drawer of the safe. It was a bound manual of about a hundred or so pages. There was a picture on the cover of two vaguely attractive people bent over a keyboard who looked extremely happy about something. The appendixes included a list of error codes. Alex looked at 704 in disbelief. He checked the dialogue box on his screen again to make sure that he had the number right. He did. Code 704, the manual said, was for “accounts disabled by administrator.” Alex’s authority to send and receive cables had been suspended.

  His phone rang. It was Spence’s extension.

  Alex picked up the receiver.

  “Spence?”

  “Would you come upstairs, please, Alex. We need to talk.”

  • • •

  Alex knew something was wrong the moment he walked into the Front Office suite. There was a distinct air of tension and Peggy would not make eye contact with him.

  “You can go in,” she said coolly, without looking up from her typing. “They’re expecting you.”

  “They?”

  “Yes.”

  Inside the office, Rick Viggiano and Jonah Keeler were waiting along with Spence and the feckless Deputy Chief of Mission, Bob Jeffries.

  “What’s going on, Spence?” Alex asked.

  “Why don’t you sit down. We have something we need to talk to you about.”

  “Okay.” Alex sat on the couch with Keeler. Spence and Viggiano sat across from them in armchairs. Jeffries sto
od behind Spence with his arms folded across his chest. Viggiano had a black legal briefcase crammed with papers that he set down next to his chair. A conspicuous bulge in his jacket indicated that he was carrying a gun. That was nothing out of the ordinary, at least not for Viggiano. Most RSOs stored their firearms in the safe in their office with a trigger lock securely in place. Viggiano would wear his piece to the swimming pool.

  Spence did not waste time on small talk. “It is my opinion, Alex, that your behavior over the last few weeks has become increasingly erratic. Frankly, I was concerned for you. You have a history of instability, and I was worried that you were getting into something over your head. I asked Rick Viggiano to investigate. This morning he searched your residence.”

  “He broke into my home?” Alex asked, incredulous.

  Viggiano scoffed. “Broke in with the extra key in the admin office if that’s what you mean.”

  “I’m sure you understand,” Spence said pedantically, “that your residence is not your personal property. It belongs to the Embassy and we have blanket authority to search it when the Chief of Mission deems it necessary.”

  “That’s a pretty technical defense for what seems a clear violation of privacy.”

  “And why is privacy so important to you?” Viggiano pressed. “Got something you want to hide, maybe?”

  “No, that’s not the point.”

  “Oh, that is precisely the point.” The former cop pulled a thick buff-colored folder out of his briefcase and laid it on the coffee table between him and Alex.

  “Okay, I’ll bite, Rick. What’s in the file? More notes from my shrink?”

  “Secrets,” Viggiano replied. “But not your secrets . . . our secrets.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Take a look.”

  Alex picked up the folder and opened it. Inside was a half-inch stack of documents. He flipped through them quickly. It was a mix of State cables, Defense Attaché reports, and CIA HUMINT, or human intelligence, reporting. The lowest level of classification that he saw was confidential. There was at least one document that was Secret/NOFORN. The NOFORN stood for “No Foreigners,” meaning that it was sensitive enough that it could not be shared even with America’s closest allies. Most of the documents seemed to have something to do with either Russia or China.

  “I found this in your house,” Viggiano said, clearly relishing the moment. “This file was taped to the underside of a dresser drawer in your bedroom. You know, I wouldn’t have taken you for a boxers guy. I would have thought tighty-whiteys. You are aware, aren’t you, about the rules governing the handling of classified information and the consequences for willful mismanagement of the same?”

  The muscles in Alex’s neck and shoulders tensed and a sudden rush of adrenaline pushed up his heart rate. Alex did not understand what was happening, but he knew that he was in some serious trouble.

  “I know the rules, Rick. But I’ve never seen this file before. I don’t know what’s going on, but if you found this file in my house, then it’s a plant. Somebody put it there.”

  “Now who would want to do something like that?” Viggiano asked innocently.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “What about these?” Viggiano pulled a small, brown leather bag out of the briefcase. He untied the drawstring and emptied it onto the table with a dramatic flourish worthy of a TV detective. The pile of brilliant crystals on the table could only be one thing. Diamonds. Alex was no expert, but it looked like there was an easy half a million dollars in stones, some raw and some cut and polished, sitting on the coffee table.

  “I found these in your sock drawer,” Viggiano continued. “Not the most original hiding place, I gotta tell you. Everyone uses the sock drawer. Like they were the first one to think of it. It’s a stupid place to hide shit.”

  “I didn’t hide anything. I told you—”

  “Alex,” Spence interrupted. “You should think very carefully about what you say next. There’s no point denying the reality of the evidence in front of us. I’m just hoping that you can explain this to me. I’m not going to leap to any conclusions. I want to hear from you what this is about. Are you selling secrets, Alex? To whom? And why? Go ahead and tell me you aren’t. I want to believe that. I’m ready to believe that. But please don’t tell us that we don’t have what we have.”

  “I’m not saying that, Spence. I’m simply saying that none of this is mine.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “The truth. That’s all.”

  “Spence, does this have anything to do with the cable I sent you last night?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Ambassador replied calmly.

  Alex looked to Jonah Keeler for help. The Station Chief did not even acknowledge his glance.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of this eventually,” Spence said, after a few moments of awkward silence. “In the meantime, I can’t have you in my embassy. I’ve asked Mike and Jonah to remove you from your position.”

  “Remove me?”

  “I’m sorry, Alex.”

  “Alex Baines,” Viggiano said. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  • • •

  The RSO tied Alex’s hands behind his back with a yellow plastic strip. As he and Keeler marched him past the secretaries on their way out of the Front Office, Alex felt his face grow red and hot with shame. An armored Land Cruiser was waiting in the Embassy garage with the engine running. Viggiano hustled Alex into the right rear seat. He put his hand on the top of Alex’s head to keep him from resisting, like he had done for thousands of other suspects he had bundled into the back of squad cars in the course of his career. Keeler sat up front with the driver. Viggiano joined Alex in the back.

  It was impossible for Alex to find a comfortable position with his hands tied behind his back. He couldn’t imagine why Viggiano thought he needed the restraints. Alex suspected that it was pure sadism that informed that particular choice.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked.

  “The airport. We’ve got a charter flight just for you and me back to Washington and ultimately federal prison. Don’t worry. It’ll probably be someplace cushy.”

  “What the fuck is this really about? Are you on Saillard’s payroll? Why are you setting me up like this?”

  “Why, I take exception to those insinuations. I am an honest, upright representative of U.S. law enforcement, a simple man doing a difficult job.”

  “Jonah, help me out here,” Alex pleaded. “What is going on?”

  The Station Chief said nothing. He did not even look over his shoulder into the backseat.

  The Land Cruiser pulled out of the Embassy’s underground garage, through the “airlock” at the front gates, and then out into the chaotic Kinshasa traffic. Alex found that it was tolerably comfortable if he shifted to face the window so that he was not putting too much pressure on his wrists and shoulders. He pressed his chin to his chest and breathed in and out in a slow regular pattern.

  At this time of day, the airport was at least an hour from the Embassy. There were only a few roads that led to the airport, and UN peacekeepers manned checkpoints at key intersections to keep the various militia groups from attacking the airfield or international passengers. Embassy cars were usually waved through the checkpoints, but this time the soldiers flagged them over. Alex thought he heard Viggiano curse under his breath.

  The driver had to open the door to speak to the peacekeepers.

  “Hey, Alex,” the soldier said, when he got a look inside the vehicle. “It’s me, Chaudry. Ali is here with me as well.”

  Alex looked up hopefully. These were the Pakistani peacekeepers who had been his bodyguards for the meeting with Manamakimba. Maybe he could use this chance in some way. Viggiano patted hi
s chest and whispered, “You say anything stupid and so help me I will blow your fuckin’ head off right here. Don’t try me.”

  “Hello, Irfan. It’s great to see you.” He did not try to disguise the fact that his hands were bound behind his back.

  Chaudry seemed not to notice.

  “Sorry we had to stop you guys. We got a tip a few hours ago that some bad guys had planted explosives on a diplomatic vehicle. Nothing more specific than that. I’m afraid we are going to need to sweep the car.”

  Ali Sharif appeared with a mirror mounted on the end of a pole with a flashlight clipped about halfway down. The peacekeeper walked around the car holding the mirror underneath and using the flashlight to illuminate the undercarriage. When he reached the front passenger-side door, he froze and gestured for Chaudry.

  “Gentlemen, I’m going to have to ask you to get out of the car, please.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Viggiano muttered to Alex. The RSO got out on the left side of the Land Cruiser. Keeler got out from the front and opened Alex’s door. Alex stepped out and felt a sharp tug on his plastic restraints. He looked down in time to see the Station Chief place a folding knife back into his pocket. He pulled his wrists apart just enough to be certain that the bonds had been cut.

  “Run,” Keeler whispered in his ear. “Run for your life.”

  Alex understood what Keeler was saying, but he found it difficult to grasp. He was not supposed to survive the trip “home.”

  He took a quick look around. They were in a busy market district. On Alex’s side of the car, several square blocks of stalls and kiosks were set up, with traders hawking everything from secondhand clothing to tires to live river shrimp.

  Alex ran.

  He bolted for the marketplace. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Viggiano draw his gun and aim it straight at him in a two-handed grip. Chaudry knocked his arm down just before he fired, and the 9mm slug from the RSO’s Sig Sauer automatic punched a hole in the pavement rather than between Alex’s shoulder blades. Viggiano pushed the Pakistani peacekeeper roughly to one side and ran toward the market. Alex went into a sprint.