The American Mission

by Matthew Palmer

  Only when Marie felt that she had built sufficient support for the idea among the subchiefs and other notables in the valley did she give Alex the go-ahead to call Manamakimba. This took most of a precious day, but Marie knew that there was no other way. She was Principal Chief, not an autocrat. The politics of decision-making in village councils were complex and could not be hurried easily.

  Fortunately, the sat phone had survived Alex’s hard landing without obvious damage. The phone required line-of-sight connectivity with at least one of a number of satellites in low Earth orbit, however, and did not work well indoors. So Marie, Alex, and Katanga sat on cheap plastic chairs in front of Marie’s new home for one final review of their approach to the Hammer of God.

  “Are you sure that your spies will not be able to listen in on this conversation?” Marie asked. “In your movies, they seem to be able to do this pretty easily.”

  “By now, Spence has to know that I have his phone,” Alex admitted. “It depends in part on how deep in the government the Working Group has penetrated. If he has people in the NSA . . . that’s the Signals Intelligence Agency . . . they could track the location of the phone and tap into any calls. But a request to do that has to go through the Station Chief, the guy in charge of CIA operations in Kinshasa. That’s my friend Jonah, and he’s promised to misplace any trace requests that come in for this number.”

  Alex hesitated. “There’s one other thing.”

  “What is it?” Marie asked.

  “I’ve kept the batteries separate from the phone, but once I put them in, the NSA will be able to track it. Cell phones are not only vulnerable to interception, they are also potential targeting devices. Unmanned aircraft launching precision-guided missiles that home in on a specific cell or sat-phone signal are one of the U.S. government’s favorite methods for targeting ‘Persons of Interest’ in some of the wilder parts of the world. I doubt that the Working Group has access to those kinds of capabilities, but it’s a risk.”

  “Then let’s keep this conversation short,” Marie said.

  “Okay. Who’s doing the talking, Chief? You or me.”

  “I’ll do it,” Marie said. “I have something he wants.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Alex inserted the batteries and punched in the eleven-digit number. He set the phone on a stump that served as a kind of table and activated the speakerphone function so that he and Katanga could listen in. There was nearly a minute of dead air before they heard the phone ring on the other end.

  A familiar voice answered.

  “Hello, Ambassador Spencer,” said Joseph Manamakimba. “It’s been a long time.”

  Marie raised an eyebrow and looked at Alex.

  “Mr. Manamakimba, this is Marie Tsiolo. I’m using the Ambassador’s phone, although I must confess that it is with neither his knowledge nor his permission.” There was a nearly two-second delay between each exchange as the signals bounced back and forth across a constellation of satellites.

  “Of course. Excuse me. This number is in my memory and it was the Ambassador’s name that flashed on my screen. I should not have assumed it was him. How are you, Ms. Tsiolo? And thank you again for your assistance in arranging medical care for my many children.”

  “I’m glad that worked out. Our mutual friend from that conversation, Alex Baines, is joining us on this call.”

  “I’m so pleased. Mr. Baines, I’m afraid that you’ll have to tell your Ambassador that I remain uninterested in his proposition.”

  “What proposition is that?” Alex asked.

  “You really don’t know?” Even through the tinny speakers Manamakimba’s amusement was plain.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Now that’s interesting. Maybe you are as naïve as you seem.”

  “Almost certainly. So what was the proposition?”

  “To take over the enforcer role from the Rwandans. It seems they’ve started to negotiate for more than what Consolidated Mining considers the market rate for industrial murder.”

  “The Ambassador and I have parted ways over this very issue,” Alex said.

  “I see. Congratulations, Mr. Baines. Welcome to the real civilized world. Where are you calling me from? Kinshasa?”

  “Busu-Mouli,” Marie replied.

  “So your employers have not yet stripped your valley to bedrock? That’s good news.”

  Marie was again struck by Manamakimba’s powerful intelligence and the depth of information he possessed. The guerilla leader had a network of informants that any clandestine service in the world would have been proud of.

  “Not yet, but that may well happen in the near future. My people are in grave danger. I think you know that. I think you have known that for some time.” Marie paused. What she had to say next was not easy to say, although she knew it was necessary. “Joseph, we need your help.”

  The Hammer of God laughed.

  “Of course you do, Marie, more than you realize. I would be happy to discuss this matter with you, but not over the phone.” It seemed that Joseph Manamakimba shared Alex’s reservations about satellite phones.

  “Can we meet somewhere in person then? I’m afraid that we are under some time pressure.”

  “As luck would have it, I’m not far from Busu-Mouli. No more than half a day upriver.”

  “We can be there tomorrow.”

  Manamakimba gave Marie the exact coordinates. The fancy GPS unit that Keeler had given Alex converted the coordinates into a location on a map almost instantly. Marie knew the place. By the expansive standards of the Congo, it was right next door.

  • • •

  Three boats left Busu-Mouli well before dawn for the trip upriver to Manamakimba’s camp. If all went well, they would be coming back with full loads of men and equipment. Marie and Alex were in the lead vessel, a thirty-foot converted tugboat that was named Nkongolo after the first mythical Luba king. The other two vessels in the flotilla were essentially barges with motors mounted awkwardly on the sterns. They steered like wallowing pigs. The only thing that kept them from running aground repeatedly was their captains’ knowledge of the river, its shifting sandbanks, and the idiosyncrasies of its currents.

  Marie stood alongside Alex in the bow of the Nkongolo drinking strong black tea sweetened with honey. The early morning sun was just beginning to burn away the swirling mist that all but obscured the river. As the boat rounded a bend, Alex nudged her gently in the ribs and pointed to the near bank.

  A black panther stood immobile on the shore of the river. Its fur glistened in the morning light. The big cat betrayed no fear, and Marie suspected that it might never before have seen a human being. This was the deep jungle. Humans made no more mark on the jungle here than the Nkongolo made on the river. Within moments of their passage, the Congo, both river and jungle, erased any memory of their ever having been there.

  “It’s an omen,” Marie decided.

  “Good or bad?”

  “Good. Very, very good.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  • • •

  The Nkongolo and its escort of lumbering barges plied the waters of the Congo for another eleven hours. They passed a few settlements along the way, but nothing that could reasonably be considered a town. Marie saw a fifteen-foot crocodile slide from the riverbank into the water. About noon, she watched a lone figure pole a pirogue loaded with trade goods of some sort downriver. She could only guess how long the boatman had been traveling and how far he still had to go.

  It was late afternoon by the time they reached their destination. Manamakimba and the Hammer of God had taken over an abandoned village on a spit of land where the Congo was joined by another of its countless minor tributaries. The Nkongolo tied up alongside a pier made of floating logs with boards nailed across them to make a rough walkway. Marie
and Alex hopped out of the boat and onto the pier. Their weight immediately sank the logs below the level of the river. They waded ashore through muddy water that rose to their knees accompanied by two of Jean-Baptiste’s guardsmen.

  Charlie, the young boy who had suffered from schistosomiasis, was waiting for them. He looked healthy. The rash that had covered the left side of his face was gone. His eyes, no longer yellow and jaundiced, sparkled with life. A short copper pipe hung around his neck from a leather cord as a talisman.

  “You look good, Charlie,” Marie said in Lingala. The boy smiled broadly, clearly pleased that she remembered his name.

  “The doctor gave me some pills,” he replied in the same language. “I feel much better now. So do the others.”

  “Can you take us to Mr. Joseph?”

  “Of course.”

  The Hammer of God fighters were busy with the mundane tasks of camp life. Some men were cooking a communal meal over an open fire, while others gathered wood or fetched water from the river. Two men were trying to cut steaks from a forest deer that had apparently been killed by large-caliber machine-gun fire. Another man was smoking strips of what was euphemistically known as “bush meat,” a catchall term for primates of just about any type. The animal in question looked like a monkey, but it might have been a juvenile chimpanzee. It was hard to tell. Either way, Marie was glad they had brought their own food. There were a few elderly women helping out around the camp, but for the most part the Hammer of God was an all-male affair.

  Manamakimba greeted them warmly, clapping Alex on the shoulder as though they were old friends and kissing Marie on the cheek. With a nod and a gesture, he sent Charlie to join a group of boys playing soccer with a ball that had been patched so many times that Marie wondered if there was actually any leather underneath the duct tape.

  “Welcome to the temporary home of the Hammer of God,” Manamakimba said with theatrical grandiosity.

  “I love what you’ve done with the place,” Marie replied. Many of the buildings still bore the marks of recent violence, including bullet holes and scorch marks. Manamakimba ignored the implied criticism.

  “You should have seen it when we arrived,” he said. “There were at least one hundred corpses rotting in the sun. It took my men almost two days to bury the bodies.”

  “Genocidaires?” Alex asked.

  “Yes. One day they weren’t here. The next they were everywhere. It’s as though they were sent here.” Manamakimba gave Marie a keen look.

  In village style, they sat on the ground on reed mats and drank bitter tea that Manamakimba himself prepared over a small fire. For a while they talked about nothing in particular, another important part of negotiating in Africa. After they had finished their tea, Manamakimba got to the point.

  “So to what do I owe the pleasure of your company? How can I be of service to you two . . . and to Chief Tsiolo, of course?”

  “I am Chief Tsiolo now,” Marie replied.

  “I’m sorry,” Manamakimba said, understanding immediately what this meant. “People across the valley spoke highly of your father. They saw him as a man who would stand up to the Ngocas of the world. I have no doubt that his daughter has inherited his steel as well as his copper.”

  “We’ll find out,” Marie said grimly.

  Alex briefed Manamakimba on what they knew about the impending attack by Innocent Ngoca and the Front and the anticipated air support to be provided courtesy of Consolidated Mining and the mercenaries at Executive Solutions. Marie explained their need for air defenses and the CIA’s understanding that Manamakimba and the Hammer of God had access to Russian-built SAMs.

  “When we last met,” she added, “you told us about what the genocidaires did to your family, to your wife and your daughter. I am offering you the opportunity for a measure of revenge.”

  “That will not bring them back.”

  “No,” Marie agreed. “Revenge is not for the dead. It is for the living.”

  Manamakimba made another pot of tea. He was quiet for some time, deep in thought.

  “This is a nice village,” he said finally. It seemed something of a non sequitur, but Marie believed that she understood the direction the guerilla leader’s thoughts were taking him. It was a thread that she had sensed running through the negotiations that had freed her and her mining company colleagues from captivity.

  “It’s a fine place,” Manamakimba continued, “but it can be no more than a temporary refuge for us. We have few women and most of us have no real skills beyond fighting. We are not farmers or carpenters or mechanics or doctors. My children deserve better than to live like nomads. We need a place where we can live in peace, a place where the people will embrace us and give my children a chance for a new beginning. Do you know of such a place, Ms. Tsiolo?”

  This is what Marie had expected, what she had anticipated Manamakimba would ask in exchange for his support. The Hammer of God needed a home and Manamakimba wanted that home to be in Busu-Mouli. It would not be an easy thing, Marie knew, to integrate this band of warriors used to having its way through force into the more settled and structured village life. It was a gamble she was prepared to take, but not without conditions.

  “Help us defend our village,” she said, “and we will share it with you. We will teach your men and boys to farm and fish and to mine copper ore from the hills. Your boys may court our girls and marry them if they are willing. Provided,” and here her voice turned steely, “provided that you accept me as your chief and swear that you will use violence only in defense of our valley and only under my direction.”

  “I would be a master of my domain,” Manamakimba replied, “rather than a servant in yours. Give me land in the valley on which to build our homes and I will lend you the strong right arm of the Hammer of God to defend what is ours.”

  Marie did not approve of his choice of pronouns or his evident reluctance to use her title. She could only hope that the gap between her demands and Manamakimba’s desires could be bridged.

  “I would no sooner cede my land to the Hammer of God than I would to Consolidated Mining. The land of my ancestors is not for sale or exchange. There can be only one Principal Chief in Busu-Mouli. That role cannot be shared and I will not midwife the birth of a two-headed beast. My terms are nonnegotiable. If you cannot accept them, we will take our chances with the genocidaires and their mercenary allies.”

  Manamakimba’s face was impassive as he considered what she had said.

  “And what is my place in this order?” he asked. “Am I to be a goatherd or a laborer in your mines?”

  “Neither,” Marie answered. “You are a leader of rare gifts. You will remain a leader should you choose to join us. This does not mean that you will not labor. In Busu-Mouli, we all work for our food and our freedom. There will be a place of honor for you at my table of counselors. But there can be no confusion over who is the Principal Chief. Now do we have a deal?”

  There was a tense silence and Marie was all but certain that Manamakimba was going to reject her conditions. Her fallback plan was to negotiate the purchase of one or more of the Hammer of God’s surface-to-air missiles. She was about to put this proposal to Manamakimba when the paramilitary commander laughed. His laughter was warm and inclusive rather than derisive.

  “I can see that you are your father’s daughter . . . and a chief in your own right. Very well. I agree to your terms . . . my chief.” And Joseph Manamakimba, the most feared warlord in eastern Congo, even if mistakenly so, got on one knee and bowed before Marie Tsiolo, Principal Chief of Busu-Mouli. He took her hand and pressed it to his forehead. And just like that, Marie Tsiolo had an army.

  • • •

  Marie was anxious to get back, but the sun was setting. So they decided to spend the night and leave as soon as there was enough light to navigate by. The Congo is the deepest river in the world. At certain points, it is well ove
r two hundred feet to the bottom of the river. In other places, however, shifting sand bars make night navigation treacherous, especially on unfamiliar stretches of the river. If they ran aground, they might have to unload the boats in order to free themselves. That could take half a day or more and they could not take that risk.

  That evening, Manamakimba gathered his clan. Altogether, there were no more than eighty of them, including fighters with their odd assortment of neckwear, the camp followers, and a handful of men and boys too old or too young or too injured to be of much use. It was a small army, but they were battle-hardened and confident, and they trusted their leaders. This was a rare and precious thing, and it made them formidable. When Manamakimba told them of their new home, there were cries of joy from the rank and file. Not a few grown men wept. One by one, the men and boys of the Hammer of God knelt before Marie Tsiolo and pledged their fealty. One more battle, they hoped, and they could finally lay down their guns.

  Inevitably, there was a feast: antelope roasted over piles of glowing coals, and potatoes wrapped in banana leaves and baked in the ash at the edge of the fires. It was a chief’s job to provide for his people, and from the Nkongolo’s stores Marie contributed salted fish, peanuts, and—most important—palm wine. Manamakimba was a teetotaler, but most of his lieutenants took the opportunity to get rip-roaring drunk. A pair of drums was retrieved from somewhere in the Nkongolo’s hold and the boat crew from Busu-Mouli danced with the Hammer of God guerillas well into the night.

  At about two in the morning, Alex and Marie took a couple of mosquito nets from the boat and hung them up in one of the huts so they would not have to sleep in the Nkongolo’s dirty hold. There were plenty of empty buildings. Even so, and without discussing it at all, they shared a hut, curled up on the floor in thin blankets while the party continued. The rhythmic noise of the drums was oddly soothing and they soon dropped off into a deep and dreamless sleep.