The American Mission

by Matthew Palmer

  “Fair enough,” Marie agreed.

  “So how do we do this thing?” Alex asked.

  Keeler pulled a government-issue ballpoint pen out of his suit pocket and reached for a dry cocktail napkin. “Here’s what we need to do,” he began.

  And on the back of a bar napkin, they began to sketch out a workable plan for revolution.

  34

  AUGUST 28, 2009

  KINSHASA

  We’re getting close, Albert,” Alex said confidently. “We just need another couple of days to make sure all the pieces are in place.” Alex, Ilunga, and Keeler had just left a planning meeting with key lieutenants and were walking to the car that would take Ilunga to a student rally at the University of Kinshasa. Ilunga’s new personal assistant, a twenty-something engineering student at the university named Pascal, walked two steps behind, talking animatedly on one of the three cell phones he carried on his belt. In only a few short weeks, Ilunga had begun to acquire some of the trappings of power and privilege.

  “What I’m most concerned about,” Alex continued, “is the media. State-run TV is going to back Silwamba without question. That’s still the single most important and influential source of news, especially in the big cities. Seizing the station is an option, but the risk of violence is high. I want to give this one some more thought.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ilunga replied. “I can take care of RTNC.” This was the acronym for Radio-Télévision Nationale Congolaise, the only truly national station in the country. “I’ve put the word out to the Brotherhood.”

  “It’s not clear to me how that’s going to take care of the problem.”

  Ilunga shrugged. “Just don’t worry about it. RTNC is not going to be an issue. I’m more concerned about Silwamba’s personal guard force. If the Black Lions come out of their barracks and fight for Silwamba, I’m afraid that many people could be killed.”

  “Don’t worry about the Lions,” said Alex, deliberately echoing Ilunga’s own vague assurances about the RTNC. “I think I’ve got a solution to that problem.”

  Ilunga looked at him shrewdly. “Do I want to know what your solution is?” he asked.

  “Probably not.”

  “Then I won’t ask. Just make sure the Lions stay in their den.”

  They walked through the front gate and turned right down the tree-lined Rue Lukengu. Ilunga’s car, a dark blue Peugeot, was new, purchased with some of the money that Keeler had made available to the movement. Alex’s diamond money was nearly exhausted and the influx of CIA cash was welcome, but Alex could not help wondering what strings that assistance might come with.

  Ilunga moved to the door closest to the curb and his young aide scurried around to the other side of the car. The driver was just about to open the door for Ilunga when Keeler yelled “Stop! Halte!” Everyone froze in an almost comical tableau.

  “What is it, Jonah?” Alex asked.

  Keeler pointed at the hood of the car. “Do you see that?”

  There was a small loop of wire, no more than an inch across, sticking out of the seam where the hood joined the body of the car.

  “That doesn’t belong there,” Keeler continued.

  “Is it a bomb?”

  “Maybe. Albert, step away from the vehicle, please.”

  Ilunga complied. Like a good aide-de-camp, Pascal stayed close to his principal.

  Keeler took a closer look at the wire loop.

  “You,” he said to the driver, after a moment’s inspection. “I’d like you to open the hood, please . . . but do not, under any circumstances, start the car. Do you understand me?”

  The driver nodded in the affirmative, his eyes wide.

  When the driver pulled the latch on the inside, Alex turned away instinctively, half expecting the car to blow up in a violent Hollywood-style explosion. Nothing happened. The hood popped up half an inch and stopped. Keeler explored the area under the front of the hood with his fingers, looking for something out of place. When he was satisfied, he disengaged the latch and allowed the hood to swing open on its springs. Alex could see immediately that there was a device on top of the engine block that was not part of the car. A greasy brick of what he suspected was plastic explosive was packed alongside the fuel pump. Copper wires coated with plastic in various colors connected the bomb to the starter, but one of the wires had come loose and had been caught in the small loop that Keeler had seen on the outside of the car.

  “It looks like someone was in one hell of a hurry,” Keeler explained. “They didn’t have time to do a good job. With this loose wire, I’m not even sure this thing would have gone off.”

  “It’s still a pretty serious attempt on Albert’s life,” Alex observed. “It looks like our friends at Consolidated Mining have found a stand-in for Viggiano.”

  “But one who is not so experienced, perhaps,” said Ilunga, who had abandoned the visibly shaken Pascal to join them in inspecting the bomb.

  “Looks like it,” Keeler agreed. “Viggiano was an asshole, but he was a competent asshole. If he was still alive, we’d most likely all be dead.”

  “Even so, they will come back and try again,” Alex commented. “They only have to get lucky once.”

  “Agreed.” Keeler looked searchingly at Ilunga. “I think we need to accelerate the timetable for the operation.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Do you have plans for tomorrow?”

  35

  AUGUST 29, 2009

  7:50 AM

  KINSHASA

  François Mwambe glanced nervously at his watch. It was ten minutes before eight. He was sitting where he sat every morning at this time, in the Senior Producer’s chair for RTNC’s influential morning news show Wake Up, Kinshasa! The eight o’clock news program was the most watched show in the city. François understood that this had less to do with the show’s seamless production values than it did with the extraordinarily beautiful newsreader, Adrienne Ngambe.

  On the studio floor, Adrienne was already sitting behind the anchor desk with the hair and makeup people fussing over her. She was, Mwambe thought, absolutely stunning. She was also, he knew, a real bitch who would run over her own mother to advance her career. Cameras two and three centered in on Adrienne from different angles, and her perfect face appeared in stereo on François’s monitor. Her lips were moving as she reviewed the material for the morning newscast, but François kept the sound turned off. He found her voice irritating.

  The RTNC systems were highly automated. When it came to propaganda, Silwamba insisted on only the best. They ran the show with only two producers, François and his assistant. Bosco Lumala was the cousin of a senior official in the Ministry of Information. Although he had gotten the job through family connections, Bosco was a hard worker and was learning to be a competent producer. He had also proven to be a good colleague. François felt bad about what he was about to do to him.

  At seven-fifty-five, François looked up from studying the monitor. “I stayed out too late last night, Bosco. I’m afraid I’ll pass out halfway through the show. Would you mind getting me a cup of coffee.”

  “Sure. Two sugars?”

  “You know it.”

  The young assistant producer stepped out of the booth and started down the hall toward the break room, where an aging Italian machine produced execrable coffee. François locked the door behind him. From his briefcase, he produced a CD and dropped it into a slot on the console. At eight o’clock on the dot, the Wake Up, Kinshasa! logo appeared on the screen accompanied by the program’s theme song, an amped-up bass line intended to convey a sense of urgency and immediacy. It was François’s responsibility to cue the feed for Adrienne’s morning news brief. Later in the program, she would do a stand-up in front of a map of Central Africa as she reported on the weather. It was primarily an excuse to show off her magnificent legs.

  This morni
ng, however, instead of hitting the green button that would have broadcast Adrienne’s beautiful face to Kinshasa’s eight million people, François pressed a black button on the other side of the console. The Wake Up, Kinshasa! logo was replaced by a close-up of Albert Ilunga.

  “My fellow citizens,” Ilunga began. “Now is our hour . . .”

  François touched his chest. Through the thin layer of cotton, he could feel the ridges of a circular scar no more than two inches across.

  It took security more than half an hour to break through the thick steel door of the producer’s booth.

  • • •

  Athanase Bononge came by his nickname honestly. Everyone called him Sparky, largely because he spent a good portion of every day hunched over a massive bong smoking low-grade, jungle-grown cannabis. Sparky hosted a popular syndicated radio show specializing in cutting-edge AfroPop. His heavy pot habit gave him a distinctively raspy voice that was instantly recognizable across the country. He was also a regular in the Congo’s popular gossip magazines. His long dreadlocks and the aviator sunglasses he was never without gave him a look that was nearly as famous as his voice. Unsurprisingly, Sparky was a night owl and his show ran from eleven to one or two in the morning as the mood struck him. But when Sparky suggested to the suits at Radio Kinshasa that he’d like to try his hand as a morning DJ, it seemed like a no-brainer. It was a one-off show that would be broadcast live by Radio Kinshasa affiliates across the country. After that, Sparky would return to his late-night ways.

  “Good morning, Congo. I know that those are words you never expected to hear from me. And I’ll admit that it came as something of a surprise to me that there are two eight o’clocks in a day. Who knew? We’ll still be playing some of the finest contemporary African music and exploring the music scene in our very own capital city, but I’d like to begin with one of the most powerful pieces of music that I have heard in a very long time. I think that all of my listeners know what I mean.”

  Sparky cued up a recording of Melina singing at Ilunga’s rally in front of the parliament building. Even removed from the emotions of the moment, it was a powerful and stirring song. It was also an unmistakable political statement.

  When the song had finished, Sparky spoke to the more than two million Congolese across the country listening to his show. “The days of corruption and oppression are at an end. Take to the streets, my brothers. Take back our country. President Ilunga is taking power today. Be a part of this. Meet him in the streets. I’ll be there and we can share the moment.”

  The owners and managers of the radio station did not actually listen to their own programs. Sparky’s political discourse went unnoticed by management for a good fifteen minutes. Then they scrambled to shut him down, but it was too late. Whatever damage he was going to do had been done. “How is it possible,” one of the executives asked, “that Sparky Bononge would turn out to have a social conscience?”

  36

  AUGUST 29, 2009

  12:00 PM

  KINSHASA

  It began as a trickle and became a stream and then a flood. Ilunga’s hard-core supporters were the first on the streets, wearing white and waving homemade banners. They were soon joined by thousands more. Some came because they had supported Ilunga in the last election. Some came because they were angry. Some came because they were curious. By noon, their ranks had swelled to the tens of thousands as the Congolese people, weary of oppression, corruption, and cronyism, took to the streets of the capital. The scene was repeated in Kisangi, Goma, and other cities across the country.

  Alex was heartened to see a large number of police officers among the demonstrators, not seeking to control the protests but to join them. Historically, the enormous unknown in “people-power” revolutions was whether the security services were prepared to fire on their own citizens in defense of the status quo. Where they were, as in Turkmenistan, the revolutions faltered and died. Where they were not, as in Serbia or Georgia, the protestors could—and often did—prevail. The police were solidly behind Ilunga. The army, however, was still a question mark. The significant presence of clergy on the streets was also a good sign. Ministers and priests were tremendously influential in this deeply religious society. From his vantage point at the Victory Monument, Alex saw the Archbishop of Kinshasa, who had been a close friend of Father Antoine’s, marching down Avenue Kasavubu in his scarlet robes.

  Street musicians, food vendors, and small children mingled with the protestors and the demonstrations began to take on a festival atmosphere. Having set everything in motion, Ilunga and his advisers did little to try to direct or control the protestors. The demonstrations grew organically, and inevitably they began to respond to the magnetic pull of the presidential palace. Starting from different parts of the city, thousands of ordinary Congolese converged on Silwamba’s grand residence.

  “It’s a beautiful sight,” Marie said to Ilunga. Pascal and Giles had set up a de facto command post at the Victory Monument, complete with maps, a dozen cell phones, and a networked laptop. The monument was less than a kilometer from the palace. It was also slightly elevated on an artificial hill, which gave them a good overview of the protests. It was an impressive scene.

  “It is,” Ilunga agreed. “But I’m still worried about the Black Lions.” He turned to Alex. “Do you think they’ll come out of the barracks?”

  “No way to know,” Alex replied.

  “We’re ready for them if they do,” Marie said reassuringly.

  “What’s the next step?” Ilunga asked.

  “Now you get down off this hill and join your people in the streets. Lead them.”

  Ilunga nodded, his features set in a look of grim determination. “Walk with me, Chief Tsiolo.”

  37

  AUGUST 29, 2009

  2:37 PM

  KINSHASA

  The Angel of Death adjusted her skirt. Yesterday Annette Cartwright had been on assignment in Johannesburg when she had gotten a tip from a source she trusted that something big was about to go down in Kinshasa. She and her crew were on the late plane that night.

  Her producer had found a spot on a rooftop with a panoramic view of the crowded and chaotic street scene in front of the presidential palace. Annette used a pocket mirror to check her hair and makeup. She straightened her back, looking into the camera with the deadly serious expression universal among foreign correspondents.

  Her producer stood behind the cameraman and held up his hand, signaling that the anchor in Atlanta was about to cue their story.

  “We go live in three . . . two . . . one . . .” He lowered his hand in a cutting motion.

  “Good afternoon from Kinshasa. As many as a hundred thousand Congolese supporters of opposition leader Albert Ilunga are marching on the presidential palace, demanding the immediate resignation of President Silwamba. So far the demonstrations have been peaceful, and the police and the army have been letting the protestors march. Ilunga’s support has been building rapidly in the few short weeks since he reemerged, seemingly from nowhere, to stake his claim to the presidency on the basis of an election six years ago that he is widely believed to have won.”

  “Annette, can you give us a sense of the mood in the capital? Is the Silwamba administration worried?” The baritone voice of Jim Gregory on the anchor desk in Atlanta sounded tinny through her earpiece.

  “Well, Jim, at least among Ilunga’s supporters there’s a definite sense of optimism. They feel that this is their moment. These demonstrations are simply enormous. I’ve never seen anything like this in all my years covering Africa. It’s still early, but I’d have to say that the Silwamba administration is facing its most serious test ever.”

  “Thanks, Annette. And now to Afghanistan, where coalition forces are continuing a major push into the Kandahar region . . .” The Angel of Death switched off her earpiece.

  Then Annette Cartwright turned and looked out at t
he still-growing mob on the streets below. For a moment she allowed herself to observe the scene not as a reporter but as a human being.

  “Give ’em hell, Albert,” she said.

  “What did you say, Annette?” her producer asked.

  “Nothing.”

  38

  AUGUST 29, 2009

  2:58 PM

  KINSHASA

  The President of the Republic was a mean drunk. Silwamba picked up the cut-glass tumbler half full of Johnnie Walker Blue on the rocks and threw it at the head of the messenger. Colonel Nkongo of the Black Lions did not duck. He simply shifted his weight almost imperceptibly and let the heavy glass sail harmlessly past his head. There was nothing he could do, however, to dodge the cloud of expensive whiskey that soaked his face and chest.

  “How did you let things get to this point?” Silwamba screamed. “I am surrounded by disloyal incompetents and fools!”

  Nkongo said nothing. This was far and away the safest course of action. On his best days, Silwamba had a hair-trigger temper and a penchant for violence. Nkongo had once seen him beat a man to death with a bottle of scotch, and then drink the scotch. As commander of the Black Lions, however, it was Nkongo’s duty to advise the President on his personal security. The crowd gathered in front of the palace was nonviolent so far, and the forward observers had not seen any weapons among the demonstrators. But, as Stalin had once observed, quantity has a quality all its own, and the sheer numbers gathered in front of the palace represented a clear and present danger to the President. It was Nkongo’s job to guard this man, as repugnant as he might find him. The commander of the Black Lions was nothing if not professional.

  “You are useless to me, you idiot! I don’t know why I waste my breath talking to you.”

  Silwamba picked up a red phone on his desk. There were no buttons on the phone, no way to dial an outside number. It was serviced by a dedicated operator on call to the President twenty-four hours a day.