Death in the Congo: Book 5 in the Dan Stone series

by David Nees

  “In Africa, everyone helps each other. Otherwise we could get nothing done. We have a common spirit,” Santu said with pride in his voice.

  “Until you start killing one another in the name of some ideology,” Marcus said.

  “Or tribal loyalty,” Dan said.

  “Yes, that too. It is our shame,” Santu said, conceding the point.

  The day wore on. Dan got stuck, once in a dry, powder-filled hole and once in a mud hole. All three men had to get out and push after stuffing the recovery tracks as far as they could go under the wheels. Dan would drive forward with the rear wheels climbing up on the serrated tracks. They would give the traction needed to move forward. The second time, it took a while for them to locate one of the tracks which had been driven deep into the mud under the water.

  “Do we get extra pay for all this manual work?” Roland asked. Everyone was muddy and making a mess inside the Toyota. “Seems like you’re the only clean one here. How about you push the next time and I’ll drive?”

  “Hell no. This seat’s clean. I’m not going to let anyone get it dirty.”

  “I’ll find us a hotel in Tshikapa, one with good showers,” Santu said.

  “Have to wash out my clothes as well. I doubt they’ll dry though in this humidity.”

  “We’ll tie them on the Toyota and the wind’ll dry them,” Marcus said.

  Chapter 9

  ___________________________________

  T shikapa, the capital of the Kasai Province, had a population of just over half a million people and boasted an airport. They had been driving steadily to the south-east for two days. The city was located on the Kasai River, with an economy driven by diamond mining.

  After hours of driving, they approached the town, Dan and the others could see evidence of recent conflict. There were clusters of huts, little villages, seen from the road, burned out and abandoned. Many people walking along the road did not look healthy or well-fed.

  “What happened here?” Dan asked Santu.

  He was quiet. Finally, he spoke in a soft voice. “Rebels. They killed the locals, raided villages for their food. They steal from the local plantations so the people do not have enough to eat. Then the people go to the city to find help. But there is little help.

  “No relief aid from the government?”

  “Hah!” Santu exclaimed with an angry look. “No money. It all goes into the minister’s pockets. These people have no power, so they can’t hurt those in power. Why should the powerful stoop to help when there are larger problems? People die every day. This is the Congo. This is Africa!”

  This time Roland had no clever comment. Everyone could see Santu was troubled by seeing first-hand the evidence of what he knew about only from the news in Kinshasa.

  “What did these rebels hope to accomplish?” Dan asked.

  “It started out as a land dispute between local families who control the land around the city and new people who came in. As I understand the Mbawu family enlisted militiamen who attacked, not only the surrounding countryside, but the town itself. They even attacked the property of the Catholic Church in their murderous adventure.”

  “To gain…what?” Dan asked.

  “Control. Wealth. Food resources. It’s always something like that.”

  Santu’s face looked sad as Dan watched him in the mirror.

  It had been ten hours of slow going, creeping over the rough, ungraded road, when they entered the town. Santu led them to the Hôtel Paradis de Tshikapa, which was touted as the best, but it was full. They next drove two blocks to the Hotel Paradis, which was also full.

  “We’re striking out,” Dan said.

  “How many more options do we have?” Marcus asked.

  “Not many,” Santu said. He flagged down a pedestrian, and in French, asked about hotels in the area. The man gave directions to a place two blocks from the river.

  The Hôtel Tshia-Muntu de Tshikapa was picturesque but rundown. It also seemed overpriced, but since it was the last choice, Dan paid the money. When they got to their rooms and turned on the lights, cockroaches scattered. Roland gingerly lifted a corner of the mattress. There were no fleas to be seen.

  “Just cockroaches,” he muttered. “They’ll be around after we’re long gone.”

  “Cockroaches and mosquitos,” Santu said. “But at least you won’t have to set up your tent.”

  The beds were draped with mosquito nets indicating that the sealing around the windows was not mosquito-proof and they would be attacked that night.

  Tshikapa, with its diamond mines, had developed a dense collection of satellite phone communications. The three hotels had restaurants, but Santu said they would be overpriced and recommended they go out on the town and dine at one of the local eateries.

  “So I can get the runs again?” Roland asked.

  “No, you will adjust. Soon your stomach will be strong like mine.”

  “Hah. I think you just want revenge for my trick on you.”

  Santu led them down the main street. They finally found a local restaurant that looked busy.

  “A good sign,” Santu said.

  “Let’s hope so. Just steer us to the safe part of the menu,” Roland said.

  Back at the hotel, Dan called Jane. Washington, DC was six hours behind the DRC, so he expected her to be at her desk in Langley.

  “Jane here,” she said after answering the call.

  “It’s me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Tshikapa, Democratic Republic of the Congo.”

  “You’re on the way to Goma, I take it.”

  “Give that lady a gold star.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Just a travel adventure so far.”

  “No problems?”

  “Only with the roads, the food, the hotels, the language—you do know they speak more than French here. Other than that, and some rebel atrocities, things are fine.”

  “Sounds attractive. Not many tourists in Tshikapa I take it.”

  “No. You should know, though, that we took on a fixer. A local from Kinshasa. He speaks both French and English along with Lingala and Swahili, which he says they speak in the East.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “You there?” Dan asked.

  “I’m here.”

  “That’s going to complicate things for you. When you do what you were sent to do, he’ll know you’re not who you say you are.”

  “That may be true, but my instinct is that he is going to be an asset to the mission. Not only helping to navigate the local scene, but for something deeper. I can’t put my finger on it, but I had a strong sense I should bring him along. And that hasn’t changed.”

  Jane signed. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I usually am. And this mission is made of so many parts. It’s pretty complicated, as you even admitted. I’m going to need all the resources I can muster.”

  “How long before you get to Goma?”

  “Not sure. Santu, he’s the fixer, says the road gets worse the further we go. We got stuck twice. Not sure how we’ll navigate worse, but we’ll muddle through.”

  “Well, call me when you get there. You’ll need to get on top of the situation before you act. We’ll work together to get some understanding of the players.”

  “It seems pretty chaotic from where I stand at the moment.”

  “That’s because you don’t know who the operators are, the ones making things happen. Once you know that, you’ll better see how the situation will play out.”

  She hung up and Dan climbed inside his mosquito netting and lay back on the bed.

  Later that night Marcus came in and went right to the bathroom. Dan could hear his distress from the uncomfortable sounds coming through the door.

  “Got you as well?” he asked as Marcus came out.

  “You’re next on the list. Maybe we all have to go through this once.”

  “Don’t put too much hope in that. I think Santu
was being kind by saying that. I only hope Goma has better restaurants.”

  Chapter 10

  ___________________________________

  T he next day the four men left early, eager to get out of Tshikapa. They headed north-east now, aiming more directly towards Goma. There was no pavement and quickly the road deteriorated into an ungraded two-track that presented an off-roading challenge. Numerous trucks, with their load piled high as always, labored along. Dan hung back, not finding any places where he could pass. And even if he could, he didn’t think he could go much faster than the behemoths in front of him.

  “How far can we go today?” Marcus asked, turning around to Santu in the back seat with Roland.

  “If we don’t get badly stuck, we can make it to Mbuji-Mayi, about half-way to Goma. It’s a larger city than Tshikapa. Healthier, and I think, more fun there.”

  “I’m for more fun,” Roland said. “Last night was depressing.”

  “Mosquitos get to you?” Marcus asked.

  “Not bad. I was talking about the people in the town—there seemed to be so much sadness in the air.”

  “We are a country full of sadness,” Santu said. “But we are a people who love joy. That is why we try not to think about the sadness, the corruption, that keeps our country from progressing.

  “We are the wealthiest country in the world in terms of resources,” he said proudly. “But we don’t know how to develop it for ourselves. First the white man colonized us. That Belgian king, Leopold. He killed millions of us and treated the country like he owned it—”

  “Actually, he did. Or at least the Europeans thought he did,” Dan said.

  “And after him, the French helped us. They also plundered our country, but they loved us. They didn’t cut off our limbs and kill us. That’s why we love the French.”

  Dan smiled but didn’t respond. Santu had his own perspective and his history. He wasn’t going to argue with him.

  “And now…the Chinese,” Santu said. “They are like a leopard who sneaks up on you in the night, in the jungle. You think you are safe, but then they pounce and take your life.”

  “But don’t they invest? Build roads, bridges?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes, and take over the mining. Just like the colonial whites. And we haven’t yet paid the price for all their help.”

  “Yeah,” Dan said. “My company also doesn’t think the Chinese are doing right by your country. That’s why they sent me to arrange better mining deals.”

  “And you will be better? You will not be greedy and want all the money for yourselves? Leave us in poverty after you take our wealth out of the ground? Tell me, what will we have left then? Should we then sell you the trees and vines and brush that grow in the jungle? Do you want that as well?”

  Dan turned back to the road, not answering. Santu’s dislike of the Chinese could be helpful, but, as Dan was coming to see, Santu had a healthy disdain for all outsiders who wanted to develop the DRC. He had witnessed so much exploitation.

  “Santu,” Marcus said after some long moments of silence. “Some of this is on your government. You already spoke about how much corruption is going on. If things were run more honestly, maybe your country wouldn’t be so mired in poverty, maybe there would be better roads than this one. For God’s sake, this is the main road from Kinshasa to Goma, linking all these towns along the way.”

  Santu didn’t answer, but turned his head to the window and to stare at the passing scene.

  *

  It was two days later. General Zhang received the call to come to the outpost of Joseph Mputu. The helicopter took them to the same field, and Mputu’s men led him on the two-hour trek to the rebel leader’s headquarters.

  After sitting down and sharing a glass of whiskey, General Mputu got right to the point.

  “I will work with you. I can help you acquire more holes from the local miners. But I won’t turn over my mines to you. We will work together to develop them once I see how your plans work. But I keep ownership.”

  General Zhang listened with an impassive face. He expected this reaction. Mputu needed the mines to continue his money flow. The ADF, his rival for power, also used mining for some of its income, but it had additional money coming from the Middle East. Those extra resources presented a challenge for Mputu.

  “You keep ownership, General Zhang said. “It will be on the papers like it is now. But I don’t propose to provide the development for free, nor the refining, which is where the big profits come from. Now you get the smallest part. The Rwandans get a larger part—much larger. And the brokers who finally sell the refined mineral get the largest part.”

  He leaned forward to make his point. “I’m offering to put all that—mining, refining, brokering the mineral—under my control. As a partner with me, it will be under your ownership as well.”

  Mputu stared at the Chinese General. Zhang could see no hint of how he felt. He didn’t fool himself into thinking Mputu liked him. He would consider Zhang as a means to an end. Not unlike how Zhang thought of the warlord.

  “You speak of ownership for me—part ownership. But you speak of control for yourself. ‘My control’ you said. Your French is good enough to make the distinction.”

  “Maybe I didn’t say it correctly—”

  “No, I think you said it correctly. We will sign a contract that lets me see how well you do before I take the next step you want. We will see how you ‘control’ things in your plan. In the meantime, I will work to bring more miners under our control. Maybe you will be able to show me how you will get the officials to help make your dream a reality.”

  There was more discussion on side issues, with Zhang agreeing to help upgrade weapons for Mputu. He was on the front lines in the struggle against the ADF, even as the UN tried to suppress the Muslim group. Mputu expressed his disdain for the UN’s efforts and how much time they spent in their compound or patrolling a village already pacified.

  After a lunch of fish stew followed by more whiskey, General Zhang hiked back to the helicopter for the flight back to his estate. He would proceed. He understood that Mputu would work to gain additional leverage by getting more of the artisanal miners under his control, not Zhang’s. Still, he had the start of a collaboration down on paper, signed by both men. It was the beginning. Mputu had a limited view of the overall mission. He didn’t understand the full scope of Zhang’s plans—to corner the world’s supply of rare earth minerals and establish leverage over the West—the US and Europe.

  The next day he sent an invitation to Dieu Merci Bakasa, the Deputy Minister of the Interior, to meet with him in the Beautiful Earth Resources offices.

  Dieu arrived promptly at noon. He wore an expensive suit that didn’t quite fit him. He had on designer, or fake designer, glasses. Expensive leather shoes which, Zhang thought, must take quite a beating from the dirt roads, completed his outfit. Two beautiful assistants, Goma girls, brought lunch. Dieu leered at them throughout the time they were serving the food.

  “You like my assistants?” Zhang asked when the women retreated.

  Dieu smiled. “They are very beautiful, like my mistress.”

  “Where is your wife?”

  “She is back in Kinshasa. She does not like it out here, thinks it’s uncivilized.” He shrugged. “It’s okay. I send her money, she’s happy, and I get to spend time with a young, good looking mistress who works very hard to please me.” He took a drink of the wine Zhang had provided. “She is very enthusiastic.” He winked. “Wears me out sometimes. I see the doctor for potency medicines to keep up with her desires.”

  Zhang smiled. He didn’t think much of men who talked about their women, except for men of equal stature. That was not a position he considered Dieu to be in. “Many men would envy you…this problem.”

  “Indeed. I am lucky. Pleasant wife and kids at home. It is comfortable there. She is an excellent cook. And here, lots of good sex, which helps lower my stress.” He took another drink. “If one doesn’t get sex,
one gets ill. Just ask any man of medicine, even the village doctors know that.”

  “Let’s talk about mining,” Zhang said.

  Bakasa put down his glass and his face turned serious.

  “I need you to arrange the paperwork so I get official approval for taking control of the artisanal mining operations.”

  “I can’t be involved in that, I already told you.”

  “You don’t have to be involved. I’ll convince the miners. I just need you to make things official, put your stamp on it, as you say.”

  “It is dangerous. I already told you.”

  “That’s why I’m willing to pay well for your making these acquisitions official. I don’t want the miners coming back and saying I stole their claims. The proper paperwork will keep that from happening.”

  “You pay them well, no?”

  Zhang nodded. “But they must not get greedy.”

  Bakasa looked thoughtful for a moment. “I have many expenses, both here in Goma and back in Kinshasa…”

  “I am thinking of a weekly payment, like a retainer, perhaps. Because I never know when I would need your services.”

  “We have to be discrete.”

  “You will tell me where to deposit the money. Open a separate account that is private.”

  Dieu nodded. Then looking up, he asked, “How much?”

  Zhang stared hard at the minister, calculating his greed against his desire to not lose the deal being offered.

  “One million CF per week. That’s over five hundred Euros.

  Dieu Merci Bakasa tried to look calm, but Zhang could see his agitation. He was probably adding it up and saw small fortune being earned each month.