The American Mission

by Matthew Palmer

  “Captain, I trust that you know how to use this.”

  Zola nodded. He did not, however, take the gun.

  “Take this rifle, Captain, and shoot Albert Ilunga.”

  Zola did nothing.

  “Shoot him!”

  Zola stood stock-still and looked out into the middle distance. Nkongo stepped forward as though to take the rifle away from Silwamba. The President raised the gun in a menacing fashion and Nkongo stepped back. He had no doubt that Silwamba stored the gun fully loaded.

  “Goddamn you. Never send a boy to do a man’s job. I will kill him myself.”

  Silwamba was visibly drunk and it took him a moment to get one of the side windows open so that he would have a clear field of fire. It was not more than five hundred meters to the target. For Zola or any other experienced sharpshooter, it was not a difficult shot. Even sober, Silwamba would have had a difficult time. Since the President was drunk, Zola did not fear too much for Ilunga’s safety. But even if he missed his target, he was going to hit somebody. There were simply too many people in the plaza. When he squeezed the trigger, someone was going to die.

  Silwamba raised the Dragunov to his shoulder and lined up his shot. He took time with his aim, but Zola could see his arms shaking. The President was so drunk it was a wonder he could stand, let alone shoot.

  The two shots were like thunder. For a moment Zola blinked . . . not certain if he could believe what he had just seen. Colonel Nkongo had drawn the pistol at his belt and the President of the Republic was dead.

  42

  AUGUST 29, 2009

  5:58 PM

  KINSHASA

  The ring tone, a snippet of King Kester Emeneya’s “Everybody,” indicated that the call had come in from a specific number. It was the agreed-upon signal. The two men standing on the corner of Kasavubu and Rue de Lisala walked casually down the street until they reached the headquarters of Consolidated Mining. Each man had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The straps on the bags were taut. Whatever they were carrying was heavy. The windows at street level were smoked glass. This both helped keep the interior cool and lent the operation an aura of mystery. Reaching into the bags, the two men pulled out lengths of iron pipe that they threw at the windows, shattering them into thousands of smoke-colored fragments. The men then pulled four grenades from their bags and tossed them through the window into the lobby of the building. The grenades did not explode, but they quickly filled the lower level of the building with thick, acrid smoke. Before the security guards could even make it outside, the attackers were gone.

  Inside Consolidated Mining’s headquarters, alarms were blaring and emergency lighting tried to cut through the smoke that was now filling the building. The Head of Security ordered the building evacuated. It was all done according to standard procedures . . . which were available on the company’s intranet site and easily accessible to anyone logged on to the Consolidated Mining system.

  • • •

  The crowd in front grew quieter when the great doors of the palace swung open and two soldiers wearing black berets that marked them as Lions marched confidently down the steps. One of the soldiers was carrying something under one arm. They stopped at the base of the flagpole in the circle and lowered the gaudy gold and white flag that was Silwamba’s personal banner. There was an almost eerie silence as the crowd waited to see what would happen next. The two soldiers fixed another flag to the ropes, and when the crowd saw the blue and gold flag of the Democratic Republic of the Congo ascending the pole, they broke into loud and rapturous applause. “Ilunga is President!” they shouted.

  Standing proud and straight, the two soldiers opened the gates to the palace and let the flood of people onto the grounds.

  “And there you have it, Renee,” Annette said, as her cameraman captured the spectacle for a global audience. “The Silwamba government has fallen. Albert Ilunga has taken power. And we await the reaction of world leaders to these stunning developments.”

  “Thank you, Annette . . . and now over to Jim Stevens for an update on world sports . . .”

  • • •

  From the Victory Monument, Alex and Jonah had an unobstructed view of the flag-raising that signaled the change in government. An enormous wave of relief swept through Alex’s body. The people had spoken and Ilunga was their choice. Internationally, the fact that the movement had been nonviolent would make it possible for the United States, Europe, and leading African nations to embrace the new government.

  A helicopter flew in low over the crowd as though it was looking to land. Alex recognized the Bell 222 that he had seen on the roof of the Consolidated Mining building. As the helicopter banked over the crowd, Alex had a clear view inside the cockpit. Henri Saillard was at the controls.

  Instead of landing, the helicopter made a single pass over the crowd and circled the presidential palace. Then Saillard flew out over the Congo River in the direction of Brazzaville.

  Jonah Keeler pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and started to dial a number. He dialed by touch, his eyes fixed on the helicopter. It was a long sequence of numbers, longer than was necessary for a simple call. Keeler’s intention suddenly seemed clear.

  “Don’t do it, Jonah,” Alex said forcefully, reaching for the phone just as the Station Chief hit the green “transmit” button. Halfway across the Congo River, where the water depth was greater than one hundred feet, Henri Saillard’s helicopter exploded in a bright ball of flame. It was later rumored that a fortune in diamonds was scattered on the riverbed along with the wreckage of the Bell and the unrecovered body of Henri Saillard. The currents on that stretch of the river were especially treacherous, however, and the bottom was a ten-foot bed of silt. Those few treasure hunters who tried were never able to prove that the rumors were true.

  43

  SEPTEMBER 9, 2009

  KINSHASA

  Getting out of the Foreign Service was a damned sight easier than getting in. It had taken nearly a year and a half from the day Alex took the first written exam until the day he took the oath of office as an FSO. Getting out had taken about five minutes with the Embassy Management Counselor. He had signed half a dozen forms, turned in his badge and his hard drive, and handed over the keys to his house. His RAV4 sat in the Embassy lot, stripped of its diplomatic plates. After eight years of service to the United States, Alex was on his own.

  He had no regrets about leaving the Service. The events of the last few months had changed him, and there was simply no going back to the life he had once thought was all he wanted. Alex was pleased, however, that he was leaving on his terms. Shortly after Silwamba’s fall, Spence had been recalled to Washington for “consultations.” It was understood that he was never coming back to Kinshasa. Meanwhile, the charges against Alex had not only been dropped, they had disappeared. As far as official Washington was concerned, nothing that had happened had ever happened. The director of the Africa Bureau’s executive office had even called to ask if Alex wanted to throw his hat in the ring for the Deputy Chief of Mission opening in Tanzania. It was surprisingly easy to turn down this plum assignment. He had plans that did not include the Department of State, and he was eager to embrace the future. Before he could do that, however, there was one more stop to make. His fixer, Leonard, had insisted on driving him.

  “You know, there’s a certain irony in this,” Leonard observed, as he forced his aging Citroën laboriously through Kinshasa’s tangled traffic. “God alone knows that I would rather be living in California than the Congo . . . and I suspect that you would be happier here. Man plans, God laughs.”

  “I reckon you might be right about that. I don’t really know what’s going to happen to me next, but I do know that it’s going to be my decision and not Uncle Sam’s.”

  They pulled up to the gate in front of the presidential palace.

  “Security won’t let me park here,” Leonard said. “I’ll
wait for you in the lot across the street. Give the old man my regards.”

  “Thanks, Leonard. I appreciate this. You’ve been a good friend when I needed a friend.”

  The guard at the gate seemed unimpressed when Alex told him that he had an appointment with the President. But his name was on the right lists and he was buzzed through the small pedestrian entrance next to the larger gate that admitted vehicle traffic. He walked around the circle to the massive front steps. The Congolese flag flying on the flagpole at the center of the circle was just one concrete example of the changes that were under way in the city. The palace itself felt like a very different place. On his first visit, the building had seemed empty and lifeless. Now it was bustling with government officials and staff, visitors, and even, Alex was amused to note, what looked like a tour group. That was definitely not something you would have seen under Silwamba.

  A harried-looking receptionist behind a desk at the far end of the lobby apologized because the President was running late. She asked Alex if he would mind waiting in the salon on the second floor.

  “It won’t be for long,” she assured him. “I’m sorry to ask this of you. The President has been overscheduled today, I’m afraid.”

  The waiting room was across the hall from the President’s private office. It was spacious and well appointed with comfortable chairs and tables stacked with newspapers and magazines. There were two other people in the room. One of them was Jonah Keeler. Alex focused on the second man in the room. He recognized him immediately. Garret Lockhart was the head of Africa operations for Altera Natural Resources. ANR was one of the largest minerals-and-mining companies on the continent. Consolidated’s success at the political game had kept ANR frozen out of the valuable Congo concessions, but Saillard’s death and Ilunga’s rise to power had stripped the company of its primary patrons. The Congo was once again wide open for competition.

  Lockhart was a large, beefy Texan whose homespun aphorisms disguised a nimble mind and a deep knowledge of Africa. He was based out of ANR’s regional headquarters in Johannesburg but traveled widely. His fluent French and Portuguese had never quite lost the twang of West Texas and Lockhart liked it that way. For his audience with Ilunga, the mining executive was wearing a four-thousand-dollar Italian suit and cowboy boots. It was the boots rather than the suit that seemed like an affectation.

  ANR was part of a family of companies that included Altera Petroleum. It was Altera that had won the rights to explore for oil and gas in Western Sudan after the genocide in Darfur. Although only a second-tier player in the energy industry, Altera had outmaneuvered a number of the major multinationals to claim the prize. There had been rumors of payouts to senior Sudanese officials, but nothing could be proven. Now ANR’s Senior Director for Africa was here with Jonah Keeler to see the new President of the Congo. A number of disconnected pieces began to snap together in Alex’s mind. He did not at all like the shape that was emerging.

  Jonah seemed completely at ease and not at all concerned about the conclusions Alex might draw from his apparent partnership with Lockhart.

  “Hello, Alex,” Keeler said with genuine warmth in his voice. “I trust you know Garret Lockhart.”

  “By reputation. What the hell is going on here, Jonah?”

  “Garret, would you excuse us for a few minutes?” Keeler asked his companion.

  Lockhart obliged without complaint, tipping a thankfully imaginary cowboy hat in Alex’s direction before leaving them alone in the waiting room. Keeler pointed at the chair Lockhart had been occupying. Alex did not sit down.

  “What’s this about?” he asked again. “I’m getting the idea that you have not been straight with me about the people you represent.” Alex kept his cool, but the undercurrent of tension in his voice was unmistakable.

  “I have twenty-five years with the CIA. Straight’s not really our thing.” Keeler smiled.

  “Tell me more about the people you work with in Washington, the ones who have been trying to take down the Africa Working Group. They’re not really so different in their goals, are they?”

  “Nope, not really. They’re more like rivals to the Working Group than mortal enemies, I’m afraid. Mind you, we like to think of ourselves as a little more subtle and a little less brutal than our competitors. The Working Group had some class-A talent, but they got greedy.”

  “You used me. You used me to destroy your competition and open the door to your friends at ANR. And you almost got me killed in the process.”

  Keeler rose and stood at the window looking out on the plaza in front of the palace. It was crowded as always, but nothing like it had been in the heady days and hours leading up to Silwamba’s demise. The Station Chief was quiet for a moment as he considered his response.

  “That wasn’t my intention. I did hope that I could use you to get Spence and Saillard and the rest of the Working Group off balance. I thought that if I could get the Working Group to overreact, we could take advantage. Turns out, though, that you’re a resourceful little bastard. I can’t really blame Saillard or Viggiano for misjudging you, but Spence really should have known better.”

  “So you hung me out as bait.”

  “I helped you. You were the one who came to me about Busu-Mouli. You wanted information and I helped you get it. You were the one who wanted to know what Consolidated Mining was doing in eastern Congo and I helped you see that. You came to me to help you plan a coup and I helped you with that too. Let’s not forget who the demandeur was in this relationship. Your interests and mine happened to coincide, that’s all.”

  Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

  “You put the Busu-Mouli file in Spence’s safe, didn’t you?” Alex said. “You broke into the safe before I got there and left it for me to find.”

  Keeler shrugged.

  “We have a source in Executive Solutions, so we knew what was coming. I wanted you to know it too, so I wrote up a letter describing the arrangements and left it for you along with a couple of satellite shots I ordered up from Langley. It was all true. It just wasn’t real. I figured you’d go looking for answers there. If you hadn’t done it yourself, I was going to make contact with you and steer you in that direction. You did it all on your own, though. I’ve got to hand it to you.”

  “That’s pretty self-serving, Jonah.”

  “And if I hadn’t left that file for you, your girlfriend would be dead right now and every building in her village burned to the ground. Is that really the way you would prefer things?”

  “No. You’re right about that.”

  “Listen, Alex, most of what I told you is true. We and ANR really do look at things differently than the Working Group. Most of us aren’t old Cold Warriors, for one thing. We’re younger, more flexible, more business oriented. We can do a lot of good in the countries we operate in, and all we want in return is a certain level of preferential treatment from the powers that be. That’s all. If you’re not greedy, there’s enough to go around for everyone.”

  “Except the people.”

  “There’s something for them too. We build clinics and schools. We try to contribute to the societies we operate in. It’s part of our long-term approach.”

  Keeler stepped closer to Alex. It was a gesture of intimacy, but it also seemed somewhat mannered, like another tip from the Agency’s training manual “How to Win Friends and Influence Them to Betray Their Country.”

  “Alex, I think there’d be room for someone like you in our organization. You’re smart and connected, and you know this continent better than just about anyone else in government. You could do great things with us . . . meaningful things. You could stay with State if you want or, if you prefer, Garret would be more than happy to find a place for you at ANR. Marie too, I suspect. Good mining engineers are in high demand right now. Consolidated was a rotten organization. We’re not like that. We’re different.”

&
nbsp; “Is that what you’re going to tell Albert?”

  “Hey, he’s just moved up from double-A ball to the major leagues. He’s going to need some friends to help him learn the game. We’re ready to do that for him. Plus, he owes me. I saved his life after all.”

  Alex was suddenly certain that Jonah had planted the bomb in Ilunga’s car himself and left a loose wire that he could conveniently and dramatically “spot” just in time. He was equally certain that the CIA man would never own up to that particular stunt.

  “Albert is not like Silwamba, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s not looking for an easy score. I don’t think you’ll find him corruptible.”

  “We’ll see . . . You know what they say about power.”

  • • •

  The door opened and Lockhart entered, accompanied by the aide who had shown Alex to the waiting area.

  “The President is ready for you,” the aide said to Keeler.

  “Thank you.”

  Alex stepped between Jonah and door.

  “One last thing, Jonah.” Alex kept his voice low to keep the exchange private. “The Sudan. You told me the Working Group was behind what happened in Darfur.”

  “No. That’s not correct. I told you that they might have been.”

  “But they weren’t, were they? Altera Petroleum got those contracts. You were behind that. Everything you just told me was bullshit.”

  Keeler’s smile reminded Alex of a crocodile’s.

  “You figure it out, kid. I gotta go. The head of state is waiting for us. My offer’s still good. You know how to reach me.”

  The door closed and Alex was alone in the waiting room. The room felt oppressively hot. There suddenly seemed no point in his meeting with Ilunga. Albert would know soon enough what he was dealing with and he would make the decisions he had to make.

  Alex walked down the hall and down the stairs to the lobby. He stopped at the reception desk to tell the scheduler that he had been called away for an emergency and would be back in touch to reschedule the meeting. Then he walked out into the tropical heat.