The American Mission (18 page)

“What makes you think that?” Alex asked gently.

“Because Ilunga has one of these.” The priest pulled open his shirt with his right hand to show Alex a raised scar on his chest in the shape of a perfect two-inch circle.

J
ULY
9, 2009

K
INSHASA

T
he massive armored Cadillac with the Stars and Stripes flying from each front corner pulled into the circular drive in front of the presidential palace. An honor guard of Congolese paratroopers in jungle camouflage and black berets snapped to attention. These were members of the Black Lions, Silwamba's own praetorian guard. There were persistent rumors in Kinshasa that in addition to providing for the President's security, the paratroopers also took an active role in eliminating his political rivals.

A single massive flagpole dominated the center of the circle. Rather than the Congolese flag, the giant cloth flapping in the breeze was the President's personal flag. It featured an outline of Silwamba's profile framed by a pair of stylized Kalashnikovs and surrounded by a gold disk that was unmistakably a halo.
Even by regional standards,
Alex thought,
this is a bit over the top
. The Black Lions were flying the national flag. One of the soldiers held a large Democratic Republic of the Congo flag on a polished mahogany pole. The flag was electric blue
with red and yellow stripes at a diagonal and a single gold star in the upper left. To Alex, it looked oddly futuristic, like some Hollywood image of a flag of an imaginary galactic federation. In honor of the visitors, a second soldier displayed a considerably smaller American flag.

The Caddy, known affectionately as the Dragon to the Embassy community, stopped in front of the stone steps leading up to the massive metal doors of the palace. A reception committee was waiting on the lower steps. An attendant in a red jacket and white gloves opened the door of the Cadillac and Ambassador Spence exited at a deliberate pace. Alex hustled around from the other side of the car and stood on Spence's right about half a step back as the Ambassador greeted the President's Chief of Protocol.

“Welcome, Mr. Ambassador. It has been too long since you had the occasion to visit us. President Silwamba is looking forward to today's meeting.”

“Thank you, Minister,” he began, as the Chief of Protocol in the DRC system was formally a part of the President's Cabinet. “We're grateful that the President was able to make time in his schedule on such short notice.”

The Embassy had received a cable from Washington two days earlier instructing the Ambassador to seek an urgent meeting with the Congolese government at the highest possible level to deliver a message on a U.S.-led initiative to establish a new sub-Saharan security organization focused on counterterrorism. All of the embassies in Africa had received the same instructions, and there was something of a competition among the U.S. missions in the Africa bureau to see who had the best access. The posts that came in the earliest and at the highest level would be acknowledged as the winners of this informal contest. Two days to get a meeting with the President of your country was the gold standard, and Spence was demonstrating to his colleagues across Africa that he was a force to be reckoned with.

The Chief of Protocol led Spence and Alex up the red-carpeted
stairway. The entryway was lined with marble and onyx, and the stairs were flanked by sweeping balustrades that ended in a spiral at the base. Their footsteps echoed against the marble walls as they climbed to the second floor. French doors at the top of the stair's led to the presidential suite, and President Silwamba was there to greet the Ambassador.

“Spence, my friend,” he said, enfolding the Ambassador in a bear hug. President Silwamba was Spence's height, but he must have outweighed him by at least 150 pounds. His thick neck lopped over his collar and threatened to blow out the buttons of what looked to Alex like an extremely expensive hand-tailored shirt. The dark suit he wore was almost certainly Savile Row. The silk tie and shoes were Italian. The watch on his wrist was a Rolex Oyster, the timepiece of despots. Even in a five-thousand-dollar suit, the corpulent Silwamba bore more than a passing resemblance to Jabba the Hutt.

“It's good to see you, Mr. President. It's been too long. Let me introduce my new Political Counselor, Alex Baines.”

“Yes, I heard about what happened to young Mr. Wells. My sympathies to his family.”

“Thank you. I'll pass that along.”

“Where are you coming from, Mr. Baines?” Silwamba's gaze was baleful, like that of a cobra contemplating a potential meal.

“My last assignment was in Conakry, Mr. President.”

“Wonderful. Then Kinshasa is something of an upgrade for you, no?”

“More than you know, sir.”

“Is this your first time in my country?”

“No, sir. I was a Peace Corps volunteer in the Goma region about ten years ago.”

The President's eyebrows shot up at that. “And what did you think of the girls there?” he asked in the copper-belt Swahili common to eastern Congo.

“They are very pretty, Mr. President,” Alex replied in the same
language. Along with Lingala, he had picked up a fair amount of the pidgin Swahili that was one of the region's many trade languages.

“I'm going to keep an eye on you, young man,” Silwamba said, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Alex was not certain whether he should read that simple statement as a compliment or a threat.

Silwamba introduced his “plus-one” for the meeting, a young Congolese diplomat on loan to the presidential staff. In diplomatic parlance, meetings were defined as the principal plus whatever agreed-upon number of advisers, notetakers, and bag carriers would be let into the room.

The President ushered them through a set of heavy wooden doors into his private office, a large room with a sweeping view of the grounds and pictures of himself decorating every wall. There were photographs of Silwamba delivering a speech, meeting with the premier of China, and receiving a bouquet of flowers from a young girl. There were oil paintings of the President staring contemplatively off into the middle distance and even one of him in full military uniform riding a white charger.
It was good to be the king,
Alex thought,
up until the day when it wasn't
. Few of Silwamba's predecessors had died in bed, and maybe half of those had simply been sleeping when they were murdered.

Alex and Spence sat down on a plush couch covered in soft brown leather. Silwamba and his notetaker sat in matching chairs on the other side of a heavy marble-and-mahogany table. Two attractive young women in uniforms that would not have looked out of place at a Catholic prep school served tea from silver trays and glided off wordlessly.

After a few minutes of broad-brush conversation about Congolese politics and the fighting in the east, Spence turned the conversation to the purpose of the meeting.

“Mr. President, my government has instructed me to ask for this meeting in order to preview our proposal for a new partnership between the United States and sub-Saharan Africa in the ongoing struggle against terrorism and violent extremism. As you know, some of the
first shots in what became the global war on terror were fired not far from here in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam. The bombing of our embassies in Kenya and Tanzania took 212 lives, the vast majority of them African. Terrorism has been decoupled from territory, and terrorist cells will infect any state too weak to defend itself. We are in the process of driving Al Qaeda out of Central Asia, and we know for a fact that they are looking for an alternative home. Bin Laden lived in Khartoum before the Sudanese ultimately kicked him out. Al Qaeda's new leadership might well be looking to return to Africa.”

Silwamba nodded thoughtfully. Or sleepily. Alex was not entirely sure which.

“The United States would like to propose a standing body in the African Union devoted exclusively to counterterrorism and focusing on sub-Saharan Africa. The U.S. would provide intelligence support to the organization and work on developing a coordinated response to the threat of terrorism incorporating all elements of state power: diplomatic, intelligence, military, political, and economic. We are prepared to provide fifty million dollars in seed money to support the start-up costs of this organization. We hope that Kinshasa will back this initiative in Addis and encourage other sub-Saharan member states to do the same.” The African Union was headquartered in the Ethiopian capital of Addis Ababa, which nearly everyone referred to as Addis.

Spence had done a solid job laying out the U.S. position, even if it did not seem to Alex that his heart had been in it. The Ambassador had been good but not as brilliant as he had been so often in the past. By diplomatic protocol, Spence had made his presentation, and it was now the President's turn to respond. After that, the two men could ask each other any questions they might have and call it a day.

“Mr. Ambassador,” Silwamba began, after taking a moment to sip his tea and adjust his collar, which was pinched between two rolls of fat on his neck. “Thank you for the proposal. We will give it the
consideration it deserves. Terrorism is a terrible scourge that must be wiped out without mercy.”

Silwamba evidently considered that this discharged his obligation to respond to Spence's proposal. He looked expectantly at Spence.

“Oh, yes. Alex, would you excuse me for a moment. There are some issues I'd like to discuss privately with the President.”

“Of course, Mr. Ambassador.” Alex and Silwamba's plus-one both rose and left the room. The young Congolese diplomat continued through the French doors and, Alex supposed, back to his office to write up an account of the meeting in which the President was sure to feature as the star. Alex took a seat in a wingback chair in the anteroom and waited for Spence to conclude whatever private business he might have with the President. This was extremely unusual. Spence had never before asked him to leave a meeting, and for the life of him, Alex could not imagine what it was he needed to discuss with Silwamba one-on-one. Doubtless, Spence would tell him when they got back to the Embassy.

One of the efficient and beautiful young women who had served tea in the President's office reappeared with a smaller tray and left a glass on the side table. Alex sipped the tea and mulled over the problem in front of him: What to do about Busu-Mouli. He had tried to talk to Spence about it, but the Ambassador had made it clear that his goal was getting the village to cooperate with the mining company rather than vice versa. While Alex understood all of the arguments, he had reached a different conclusion. Embassies were supposed to support the business interests of important American companies. Nevertheless, he was confident that Embassy Kinshasa was on the wrong side of this conflict. There was simply no way that bulldozing the Mongala Valley was in the best interests of the United States, no matter how much copper ore was in the ground. The money that greased the skids for the big business deals underpinned the fundamentally corrupt political system in the
Congo. This promoted instability, retarded long-term development, and ultimately made the Congo a harder place to do business. There had to be a better way. He needed to make Spence see that. Maybe if he could see him outside the office, sit down together for a drink like they had done in the old days. The days before Darfur.

The sound of the French doors opening snapped Alex out of his reverie. Henri Saillard walked in wearing a natty pin-striped charcoal suit and carrying a black crocodile-skin briefcase in his right hand.
What the hell is he doing here?
Alex wondered. He had considered Saillard a bit foppish before, even prissy, but now he saw him as cold, calculating, and manipulative. Saillard, for his part, was all smiles to see Alex, and he came over to shake his hand.

“Mr. Baines, I have not had the opportunity to thank you properly for the good work you did in negotiating the freedom of my colleagues. Consolidated Mining is grateful to you, and I am in your debt.”

“Just doing my job,” Alex replied coolly.

“And doing it extremely well. Let me know when you have had enough of government service. I promise you that we pay much better.”

“I have no doubt.”

“I would welcome a chance to hear about your visit to Busu-Mouli and your meeting with the village leadership. My organization is quite anxious to get started on the project.”

“There are some issues related to your plans for the village and the valley that I'd like an opportunity to discuss with you as well.”

“Excellent. Are you free for lunch tomorrow by any chance?”

“That would be fine.”

“Wonderful. Let's say one o'clock at Le Caf' Conc'.”

Alex knew the place. It was perhaps the most expensive restaurant in Kinshasa.

“I'll be there.”

“Superb. Well, I must be off. I'll see you tomorrow.” And with that, the head of Consolidated Mining's central Africa operations opened the
door to the President's private office and let himself in.
What the fuck?
Certainly Spence's private business with Silwamba was not connected to Consolidated Mining.
Was it?

Alex worried this over in his mind for the next fifteen minutes, trying to ignore the kernel of anger he felt at Spence for shutting him out of the conversation. When the doors to the private office finally opened, Alex stood up like a shot. Silwamba, Spence, and Saillard came out of the office laughing at some private joke. Saillard, Alex noticed, was no longer carrying the briefcase. Whatever was in it, he had left it behind. The only question was whether Saillard conducted business in dollars, euros, or Congolese francs.

Alex, Spence, and Saillard walked out together. Saillard's silver Mercedes S-Class was parked behind Spence's Cadillac. The red-jacketed attendants opened the doors for them.

They rode back to the Embassy in silence.

•   •   •

T
hat afternoon Alex asked Peggy for some time in the Ambassador's schedule. Spence had half an hour starting at six before he had to get ready for a reception at the Dutch Ambassador's villa in Gombe. Alex spent the intervening hours working on his report to Washington. It was a short cable, he reasoned, as he had missed what had undoubtedly been the most interesting part of the conversation.