The American Mission (19 page)

Spence was sitting behind his big oak desk reading Alex's report of their meeting with President Silwamba when Alex walked into the Ambassador's office a few minutes after six.

“Good report, Alex,” he said, signing his initials in the upper right corner indicating that the message was okay to transmit. He put the cable in his out-box. “What can I do for you this evening?”

“I'd like to know what happened today at the presidential palace.”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you and the President have to discuss that needed to be
kept from me, and what the hell . . .” Alex paused to make sure that his anger did not dictate his next sentence. “What was Henri Saillard doing there?”

Spence did not seem surprised at Alex's obvious irritation.

“Silwamba and I had some private business to discuss. If I wanted you to know what it was, I wouldn't have asked you to leave. As for Saillard, I didn't invite him. The President did. It was just as much a surprise to me as it was to you. He wanted to talk over the terms of Consolidated's copper concessions in the south and east. It seems the President doesn't believe that his treasury is being adequately compensated. Saillard had drawn up a new proposal with terms slightly more favorable to the government. He left the contract there for the government's lawyers to look over. It was all perfectly innocuous.”

“Spence, I have to tell you that I don't trust Saillard. I think he's crooked and potentially dangerous.”

“How so?” Alex's mentor seemed more amused than concerned by the suggestion.

“He and the company are up to their eyeballs in Congolese politics. You don't get the kinds of favorable trade terms in this country that Consolidated has without buckets of under-the-table money. On top of that, Saillard has been spinning us something fierce. We know for a fact that he lied about the Hammer of God attack on the Consolidated survey team as being a one-off event. There have been a whole series of attacks that he elected not to share with us. That kind of information could have been critical in the negotiations. He lied about how long he had known about the copper deposits near Busu-Mouli, and he neglected to tell us that he and the company had reneged on a deal to develop the site in partnership with the village. The villagers negotiated that deal in good faith.”

Spence said nothing, and Alex knew that he was being given enough rope to hang himself with.
The hell with it
.

“We are on the wrong side of history here, Ambassador. I've seen what the villagers in Busu-Mouli have been able to accomplish on their own. It's truly impressive. With just a little help from the outside, it could be a new model for sustainable and environmentally responsible development. If Consolidated Mining's not interested, we should be. This is exactly the kind of project that the Agency for International Development has been looking for in central Africa. We should be backing the village in this, not the mining company. What they're doing may be good for Consolidated's quarterly report, but it's a disaster for the Congo.”

He decided to stop there. He had already crossed a number of likely red lines.

Spence seemed lost in thought for a moment as though he was digesting what Alex had to say.

“I agree with you that Henri is something of a slippery character,” Spence offered finally. Alex knew full well what he was doing. It was Spence, after all, who had taught him to begin a disagreement by picking out something benign that the other person had just said and agreeing with it wholeheartedly. It was disarming.

“And I certainly wouldn't want him to marry one of my girls,” he continued. “But the company he represents is a major American enterprise that employs thousands of people and provides our country with the raw materials we need to maintain our nation's extremely expensive standard of living. I appreciate that what Consolidated wants to do in Busu-Mouli is unappealing, but it's really no different than what a dozen coal companies do every day in West Virginia. That kind of environmental damage should be reserved only for the most valuable and important deposits. Busu-Mouli, regrettably, sits atop one of them.

“This isn't a case of one standard for America and one for Africa. If this deposit were in the Adirondacks, the mining companies would be doing exactly the same thing. Look. Our goal . . . our mission . . . is to advance the interests of the United States. It's not always terribly pretty.
But it pays the bills that allow us to continue to operate as a great nation that accomplishes great things. So I understand where you're coming from. I really do. I just don't agree with you.”

“Spence, there's something about all this that doesn't look right,” Alex insisted. “Saillard has unprecedented access to the mission and to you personally.”

“Be careful where you take this, Alex.” There was a hint of warning in the Ambassador's tone.

“Just look at the facts. I've never heard of someone without a clearance being let into the Bubble. He has too much influence over not only what we do but how we do it. On policy, he has us pushing a plan that most Americans would find abhorrent. There's a chance here to partner with the local community and develop the resources in a sustainable way. We should be jumping on this opportunity rather than pushing the villagers to abandon their homes. We're better than this, Spence.”

“Are you certain this doesn't have anything to do with an attractive mining engineer who has undue influence over certain parts of this embassy?”

Alex flushed but kept his cool. Sykes must have reported on him back up his chain.
Either that,
he thought,
or Consolidated has a spy in Busu-Mouli
.

“I don't think so. I think this is about trying to do the right thing.”

Alex had never seen Spence angry. He had seen him shout and badger, but he had always been under control and always in the service of a calculated aim. Now he saw him angry.

“Goddamn it, Alex. Don't get all high and mighty with me. I've been trying to do the right thing in Africa since you were in goddamn grade school. I've sweated blood for this continent and its people, and I will not have my motives impugned by a psychologically fragile subordinate, even if I do look on him as family.

“I saved your ass and your career when DS was ready to throw you on the scrap pile. I think I deserve a little respect from you as the
beneficiary of my efforts, and I think, damn it, that I deserve the benefit of the doubt.”

Alex realized that he had taken this issue as far as he could—and then some. It was time to get out.

“I understand. Thank you, Ambassador. I appreciate your time.”

J
ULY
10, 2009

K
INSHASA

L
e Caf' Conc' was the kind of place that was redolent of European empires. Dark wood paneling and lush carpeting contributed to a quiet, subdued atmosphere while white-gloved waiters attended to the needs of a clientele that included diplomats, business executives, senior government officials, and, inevitably, spies. It was an establishment that prided itself on grace and discretion. As he stepped into the cool interior of the restaurant, Alex glanced at his watch and half expected it to tell him that it was 1892 rather than five minutes after one o'clock.

The maître d' informed him that Monsieur Saillard was already waiting at the table. Saillard rose when they approached and he shook Alex's hand. He was wearing a bespoke light gray double-breasted suit with an expensive-looking tie and silver cuff links. His hair was gelled securely into place. Alex was dressed more casually in a blazer and tan slacks.

“I'm so glad you could make it today,” Saillard said, as they took their seats. “We have much to talk about.” Their table was tucked back in the corner of the main dining room, affording them privacy for the conversation.

“I suppose we do.”

“But let us order first. If you haven't tried it, the chateaubriand is magnificent.”

There were no prices on the menu. Le Caf' Conc's clientele did not need that information. Alex ordered a simple fillet of sole and a salad. Saillard went for the chateaubriand with the crab soup and a side of caviar. He also ordered a bottle of vintage Bordeaux that by itself probably exceeded Alex's representational allowance.
Corporate guys lived well.

The waiter uncorked the bottle at the table and offered Saillard a small taste. The mining executive nodded his approval.

“Tell me about your adventures with Mr. Manamakimba,” Saillard began, after the waiter had filled their glasses with the excellent wine. “I'm so grateful that you were able to get all of our people out safely.”

Alex offered a brief description of the negotiations with Manamakimba.

“It's odd, though,” Alex observed. “From what you told us, you seemed persuaded that this was a random event. That there was no pattern in the Hammer of God's targeting Consolidated's interests in the east. But that doesn't seem to be the case. I came away from my time with Manamakimba believing that he had chosen his target very carefully.”

Saillard seemed unconcerned by this. “Well, it is impossible to know what happens in the mind of a man as brutish as Mr. Manamakimba. I assure you, however, that our operations in eastern Congo—which are very important to my company—are quite secure.”

“And what about your plans for Busu-Mouli? Has your thinking on this changed at all on the basis of my reports?”

“I'm afraid not. We do appreciate your recommendations, of course. But you are asking us to surrender significant profits in a difficult economic environment. Our first responsibility, of course, is to our shareholders.”

“On its website, Consolidated Mining trumpets its commitment to corporate social responsibility. This seems like a golden opportunity to put that principle into operation.”

“If it were a minor find, I would agree with you. If all that we were looking at was a small deposit of low-grade ore, we would be more than pleased to provide some surplus or refurbished equipment, take a few pictures for the website, and . . . what is that expression you Americans are so fond of . . . give something back? It's quite charming really, if a tad self-aggrandizing.”

The waiter brought Alex's salad and Saillard's soup. The Belgian tucked his napkin into his collar to avoid staining his tie.

“As I understand it from the Tsiolo family, you did more than decide to decline assistance. You reached an agreement with the village and then pulled out when you realized how much money there was to be made there.”

Saillard shrugged. “That's one way of looking at it, I suppose. Another is that the company adapted its position in light of new information that came onto the market. It's normal business practice really.”

“That may be true, but I also believe it represents the triumph of short-term thinking over long-range strategic planning. Look, Henri. We both know that the Silwamba government is fragile. Consolidated enjoys a privileged position for the time being, but you risk losing that position when political change comes to the Congo. If you have a different and less exploitative relationship with the people of this country, your longer-term position will be more secure.”

“You may be right. And I can see how you were so effective in persuading Mr. Manamakimba to cooperate. It is a calculus that revolves around just how much profit Consolidated Mining can make in the
Congo before the political climate changes in a way fundamentally inimical to our interests. We have . . . crunched, is that the right word? . . . crunched the numbers, and as a matter of business, we are quite confident that our decision here is the correct one.”

“And what if the villagers refuse to leave?”

“If we have the necessary government approvals to take possession of the land, we will take possession of the land.” A few drops of crab soup fell off his spoon and stained the napkin.

Alex looked at him quizzically.

“The government's reach outside of Kinshasa is pretty shaky. It's unlikely you could get the police to enforce a court order.”

“Out there,” Saillard observed, “the law operates quite differently. We do have ways of exercising our rights in eastern Congo, and we have considerable experience in dealing with the unique challenges.”

One waiter removed the empty salad and soup plates, and a second server delivered the main course. Next to Saillard's steak, the waiter placed a small silver dish of caviar and a plate of toast points. Alex took a bite of the sole without really tasting it. He thought through what Saillard had just told him. The threat of violence was implicit, but it was there.
Just how far was Consolidated Mining prepared to go in pursuit of profit?
It was worth pressing a few buttons, Alex decided, to gauge the reaction.

“Henri, I appreciate that Consolidated Mining has very specific interests in eastern Congo and, in particular, Busu-Mouli. You are an American company, and we owe you a measure of support. At the same time, I represent the United States, and our interests as a nation are significantly broader than yours as a corporation. Tying ourselves too closely to your venture in Busu-Mouli risks undercutting long-term U.S. interests in Congo. I'm going to recommend to the Ambassador that we cease acting as Consolidated Mining's representative in this matter. Ultimately, of course, it will be the Ambassador's decision, but that will be my recommendation. How's the steak?”

Saillard's knuckles tightened on the wooden handle of the steak knife, and for a brief moment it looked like he might be ready to cut into something other than chateaubriand.

“I'd think very carefully before doing anything so rash,” he said, abandoning all pretense of bonhomie. “I understand that your position in your own service is not absolutely secure. I would hate to see a promising career snuffed out before it had really even begun.”

While it was infuriating, Alex was not surprised that Saillard had access to information about his struggles with Diplomatic Security. He suspected that Viggiano was the source.

They finished the meal largely in silence. Saillard did not suggest that they linger over coffee.

•   •   •

A
lex stayed late at the Embassy that evening to finish up some paperwork. At about eight o'clock he went to the cafeteria to get a Snickers bar out of the vending machine. Jonah Keeler was sitting at a table by himself nursing a cup of coffee.

“I hear you've been making some waves.”

“News travels fast.”

“Not as fast as gossip. Listen. A little friendly advice. You watch your ass. There are folks in this city—hell, in this embassy—who would like to see you go down. Don't give them the opportunity.”

“Thanks, Dad. I'll be careful.”

“I'm serious, boy. You have no idea what you are getting into.”

“No,” Alex agreed. “But I'm starting to.”