The American Mission

by Matthew Palmer

  A crash and an exchange of curses behind him told Alex that Viggiano had run into something, but he did not dare to turn back and look. Instead, he ducked through the shop of a spice merchant, ran down an alley lined entirely with retreaded tires, and popped out inside a courtyard where men sat drinking beer at white plastic picnic tables. Multiple alleyways fed into the courtyard and Viggiano appeared at the far end, having followed a different route to the same destination. Alex dashed across the courtyard for another of the narrow alleys, this one dominated by fruit and vegetable stands. Viggiano ran after him, stumbling over tables, chairs, and beer-drinking patrons who did not quite bother to get out of the way.

  The covered market was sprawling and complex, and Alex took as many quick turns as he could in an effort to shake his pursuer. The concrete floors were cracked and slick with rotten fruit and vegetables. He slipped on a patch of oil on the ground and nearly went sliding into one of the stalls. He stopped to catch both his breath and his bearings. Through a gap in the stalls, Alex spotted Viggiano. The RSO was about three alleyways over, scanning the market in every direction. Alex sank lower to the ground and tried to keep out of Viggiano’s view as he edged closer toward one of the market’s numerous exits. He lost sight of Viggiano in the crowd and made a panicked beeline for the closest way out. Before he could reach the street, the RSO appeared about fifty feet in front of him, blocking his path. Viggiano raised his gun and Alex was torn between giving himself up and making a break for another of the small side alleys.

  Suddenly whistles started blowing, and the market filled with uniformed Kinshasa police, who surrounded Viggiano and forced him to lower his weapon. With the arrival of the cops, merchants began sweeping their goods into boxes and locking up their stalls. Alex seized on the disruption caused by the police to turn his back on the scene and simply walk away. Within a few minutes, he was out of the market and on the streets of Kinshasa.

  He didn’t know where to go; he only knew that he needed to get as far away from Viggiano as possible. Dusk was beginning to settle over the city and Alex was grateful for the concealment it offered.

  It was an oddly dislocating feeling to walk the streets of an African city without the weight and support of the U.S. government and the American Embassy behind him. He had spent his whole career in a protective bubble of diplomatic immunity, Western medicine, money, and the ultimate trump card, evacuation by the U.S. Marine Corps in the event everything went south.

  Now he had nothing. He was homeless, jobless, broke, and alone on the streets of the capital city in a country at war.

  24

  JULY 17, 2009

  KINSHASA

  It was not easy for a tall white man in Kinshasa to be inconspicuous. Europeans were not objects of curiosity in Kinshasa as they were in other parts of the country, but they did stand out. Walking down a side street near the market, Alex passed a pair of uniformed policemen on foot patrol. For the first time in his life, he felt a thrill of fear run through him at the sight of the police. It was a reminder that he was now on the wrong side of the law.

  He turned onto Avenue de la Victoire, one of Kinshasa’s major thoroughfares, and started south. He had no particular destination in mind. He just wanted to keep moving. Although he wanted desperately to run, he knew that would be a mistake. Instead, he willed his jaw to unclench, forced himself to take a few deep breaths, and maneuvered down the crowded sidewalk with as little urgency as he could muster.

  A white UN jeep sped down Victoire at high speed. Alex flinched, certain that they were looking for him. An alley between two crumbling concrete apartment buildings seemed to promise safety, even though it was exactly the kind of place he would have consciously avoided just a few hours ago.

  This late in the afternoon, it was already quite dark in the warren of backstreets. The stench of rotting garbage filled his nostrils. Two feral dogs fought over some scraps of meat. A one-legged and shoeless man lay alongside the wall.

  As creepy as it was, the alley seemed as welcoming a place as any he was likely to find in the city right now. So he pressed himself into the shadows and waited for it to grow dark. With nothing to distract him, he thought back on the events of the day and tried to figure out what the hell had happened to him. Saillard was behind it, he was sure, but it was hard to escape the conclusion that Spence had knowingly cooperated in framing him for espionage. His cable message to Spence was the obvious trigger. It was possible that Viggiano was monitoring his computer. It would have been easy enough for the RSO to do that. Perhaps he had intercepted Alex’s message to Spence last night. The Ambassador might have been telling the truth when he said he never received the draft of Alex’s dissent channel cable. Even as he framed the thought, however, he knew that it stretched credibility. His friend and mentor had set him up.

  A little more than two hours later, Alex edged out of the alley onto Avenue Kabu-Vasu. It was completely dark. The only lights came from the passing cars.

  There was really only one place he could go.

  It would take him hours on foot to get across town to Father Antoine’s church, and the odds of getting mugged along the way were considerably better than even. Kinshasa did not have regular taxis. Instead, an elaborate ride-sharing system had grown up organically, with unmarked cars carrying multiple fares across town, and this often required passengers to change cars several times to get to their destinations. The locals had developed a complex system of hand gestures to signal the gypsy cabs where they wanted to go. Alex had not taken a cab in Kinshasa since he had visited the city in his Peace Corps days, but he still remembered some of the basic signals. He stood on the corner of Avenue de la Victoire and Boulevard du 30 Juin and held three fingers sideways, indicating that he was headed to Kintambo.

  After about fifteen minutes, a beat-up Honda Civic that was missing the passenger-side door pulled up to the curb. There were already two people in the backseat. He negotiated a price with the driver, paying only about twice the going rate for a local. He had to change cars twice to get to where he wanted to go. This was still five blocks from the church, but he did not want the cabdriver to know his destination and he wanted to approach the church on foot on the off chance that it was being watched.

  His watch read ten-fifteen. Antoine would be up, but the boys had a strict nine-thirty bedtime. In this part of Kintambo, the streets were not crowded after dark, and Alex figured that he should be able to spot anyone loitering in front of the church. He could not see any police cars or unmarked vans on the street, but he was painfully aware that he had only the vaguest notion of what he should be looking for.

  When he was satisfied to the extent possible that the church was not under surveillance, Alex walked around the corner and down a side street until he came to a low door built into the wall that surrounded the church compound. One of the bricks alongside the door frame was loose, and he pulled it out to retrieve the key that was kept there. The door opened up behind the stables.

  The priest was awake in his study, and Alex found him with his feet up on the desk eating peanuts and watching MTV South Africa on a small television set perched on the side table.

  “Hello, Antoine.”

  “Alex,” the priest replied with warmth and enthusiasm. “What an unexpected pleasure. Care to join me for peanuts and a little Lady Gaga? I’m learning how to relate to my younger parishioners.”

  “I’d love to.”

  Alex took a handful of peanuts and wolfed them down. He realized that he had not had anything to eat or drink since breakfast. He was famished and parched. Antoine looked at him curiously and handed Alex the bowl. Alex emptied the bowl quickly and helped himself to a bottle of water from the side table. Antoine used the remote to turn off the TV.

  The priest gestured to one of a pair of threadbare chairs on the other side of the desk. Alex sat and Antoine walked around his desk to sit in the chair across from him.

 
“What’s wrong, Alex?” the priest asked.

  “I’m in trouble, Antoine. I need your help.”

  “Tell me.”

  Alex told him everything: his trip with Jonah out to the airport, his suspicions about Henri Saillard and Consolidated Mining, the dissent channel message, and the accusations of espionage and diamond smuggling. When he finished, he rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. He was just about out of gas.

  Antoine reached over and gripped Alex’s arm.

  “You’ve done the right thing. God in His mystery tests even the righteous man. That was the fate of Job.”

  “Job was a man of faith. I am not. Not anymore.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “I need a place to stay tonight. Food. And, if you can spare it, some money.” Alex was embarrassed by this last request. He knew that the church did not have much. But he also knew that he was not going to last long on thirty thousand Congolese francs, which was what remained in his wallet after the cab rides to Kintambo.

  “Don’t worry. You are among friends here. We don’t have much, but what we have is yours.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  • • •

  Antoine did Alex one more favor. He let him use the rectory phone to call Brunswick. The dial-up modem on the computer would not support Skype, so he would have to settle for an old-fashioned phone call. But he needed to hear his daughter’s voice. Alex sat at Antoine’s desk and dialed Maine on the clunky Bakelite rotary phone. He could not remember the last time he had used one of those. His mother answered on the third ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Mom. It’s Alex.”

  “Hi, honey. This is late for you. What time is it over there?”

  “It’s late. Listen, I don’t have much time and I can’t tell you everything, but I wanted you to know that you might be hearing some things about me in the next couple of days. Disturbing things. I want you to know that none of them are true. There have been some . . . misunderstandings here. It might take me a while to get them sorted out.”

  “Alex, what’s going on? What is it?” His mother sounded deeply worried and Alex wished that there were something he could say to ease her concern. He did not want to tell her too much, however. He did not want his family to know anything that might attract the unwelcome attention of diplomatic security.

  “I’m sorry. That’s all I can tell you for now. I’ll call again when I can, and I may have something more to say then. For now, I just want to talk to Anah.”

  “Are you safe, dear? That’s all I need to know.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Alex . . .”

  “Put Anah on, Mom. Please.”

  There was a dull thunk that Alex realized was his mother laying down the receiver. Ten seconds later, his daughter came on the line.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said. “How are you?”

  “I’m good, sweetheart. But I wanted to let you know that I have to go on a trip and I may not be able to call you for a little while.”

  “Where are you going? Will you bring me a present?”

  “I’m not certain where I’m going to have to go just yet . . . and, yes, I’ll get you a present. Sugar, it may take me a while to do everything that I need to do. I’ll call you just as soon as I can, and until then, Grandma and Mrs. Mabinty are going to take good care of you, okay?”

  “Are you all right, Daddy? Is something the matter?” Anah was exquisitely attuned to the emotions of the people around her. Alex suspected it was a skill she had first learned in the enforced closeness of the refugee camp.

  “Everything’s fine, Anah.” He tried to project as much assurance as he could into the lie. “I just wanted to hear your voice and tell you that I love you.”

  “I love you too, Daddy.”

  When he hung up, Alex felt hollow and worn.

  • • •

  There was a spare room behind the chancel, or what would have been called the chancel in a more imposing church building. A set of wooden steps hidden behind a moth-eaten tapestry depicting the martyrdom of John the Baptist led to a small, Spartan room that held a metal cot and a white plastic table with a cheap gooseneck lamp. A mosquito net hung from the ceiling. A small window let in the night air. Although Alex did not ask, he suspected that Antoine used the room to provide one of the Catholic Church’s oldest services: sanctuary. He may have hidden Ilunga’s political allies here or men running from the gangs or the militias. Now Alex was here seeking his own form of sanctuary.

  He stripped off his clothes and hung them on a hook behind the door. Antoine had given him some of his old clothes. They fit after a fashion, and they were at least clean. It occurred to Alex as he was opening the mosquito net covering the bed that this was the night he was due for his once-a-week antimalarial. Moreover, he was not carrying any Zoloft. He would rather deal with a bout of malaria right now than a visit from the black dog. The springs on the cot were shot and the bed squeaked violently when he lay down. He did not mind. Almost immediately, he fell into a deep and untroubled sleep.

  • • •

  What seemed like minutes later, Alex was shaken awake. In the dim light from a flashlight with fading batteries, he saw that his midnight visitor was Jean-Pierre. The boy looked worried.

  “What is it, Jean-Pierre?” Alex asked, sitting up on the cot.

  Jean-Pierre put a finger to his lips.

  “There are men here, looking for you,” Jean-Pierre said softly.

  These were the first words that Alex had ever heard Jean-Pierre speak. Although somewhat raspy from underuse, the boy’s voice was strong and clear. Alex hugged him.

  “I wasn’t sure you could talk.”

  “I didn’t want to,” Jean-Pierre explained. “But I had to . . . for you.”

  “Who’s here, J.P., the police?”

  Jean-Pierre shook his head. “Men from the jungle.”

  Alex knew what this meant. The kind of men who had destroyed Jean-Pierre’s village and murdered his family. Guerillas. Bush fighters. Killers.

  “Genocidaires?” he asked. “Rwandans?”

  “I think so.”

  Alex and Jean-Pierre crept down the stairs. Jean-Pierre moved without making a sound, but the floorboards creaked under Alex’s weight. He hoped the tapestry would muffle the noise. The involvement of Ngoca’s Rwandans in the hunt for him was very bad news. He had suspected that the police would be looking for him, but sending genocidal goons to hunt down an American officer seemed beyond the pale even for a Neanderthal like Viggiano. Alex realized that he had made a mistake in coming here.

  Light was coming in through the thin tapestry. They were too late. The Rwandans were in the church. It was only a matter of time before they found the room and there was no other exit. He and Jean-Pierre were trapped.

  “Jean-Pierre,” Alex whispered, “can you get out and down through the window upstairs?”

  Jean-Pierre was silent for a moment as he visualized the challenge. Then he nodded. “Oui.” The window was too small for Alex, but the slight Jean-Pierre should be able to make it.

  “Then do it. Run and warn the others. Then find a place to hide. Stay away from these men. Do you understand me?”

  “Oui.” Jean-Pierre ran lightly back up the stairs. His departure was like a load of responsibility being removed from Alex’s shoulders.

  He lifted one side of the tapestry and peered into the church. Three gunmen were moving toward the altar. One was walking down the center aisle with his Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. Two others, holding their rifles at the ready, were moving down the narrow aisles along the walls on either side of the double row of pews. There were a few tapestries hanging on the walls, and the gunmen were lifting them with the tips of their rifles as they passed. The churc
h was not especially big, and it would not take long for them to reach the John the Baptist tableau that was the only thing standing between Alex and an untimely death.

  If they caught him in the bolt hole he was in, there was nowhere to go. It was only about twenty feet to the side door and the relative safety of the inky black night. The gunmen were now more than halfway down the nave. Alex could not be certain, but he thought he recognized the man in the middle aisle from the arms deal at the military airfield that he and Jonah had observed. Militia leaders were at the top of the food chain in the Congo, and this one was scanning the rows of pews with an air of barely concealed eagerness.

  Alex steeled himself to make a dash for the door. Maybe if he took them by surprise, he could cover the twenty feet before they could target him. Maybe. Doubtful. The odds were not appealing, but it was still better than waiting to be trapped like a rat. Just as he was about to throw back the tapestry and make a run for it, the doors at the back of the church opened with a crash.

  Father Antoine was standing in the doorway dressed in his full clerical garb. The tall priest made for an imposing figure silhouetted against the darkness outside. He had traded in his cane for a crosier, the shepherd’s crook of a bishop. Antoine spread his arms wide, raising the crozier in his left hand.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” And, in fact, the priest seemed almost preternaturally calm.

  “You will fear me, priest,” the largest of the militiamen snarled in his distinctive Rwandan French. “Tell me, where is the American?”

  Alex slipped quietly out from behind John the Baptist’s beheading. With the gunmen focused on the back of the church, he had a chance to make it to the door unseen.

  “You have misplaced an American?” The priest laughed. “How careless of you. Do not worry. Americans are as common as fruit flies. There must be millions of them. Be patient. I’m sure another one will show up sooner or later.”