The American Mission (30 page)

Without breaking stride, Alex slung his AK-47 off his back. The State Department had taught him to shoot in the two-day “crash and bang” course mandated for all diplomats going to high-threat posts, but he had minimal experience with the AK-47. Manamakimba had advised him to keep it on semiautomatic. Full auto burned through ammunition too quickly.
To hell with Manamakimba's advice
. Alex thumbed the safety on to full auto. He rounded a corner at high speed and suddenly found himself completely exposed in the open field. The
darkness saved him. The buildings behind him obscured his silhouette, while the Night Hawk afforded him a clear view of the battlefield in front of him.

“Marie,” he shouted again. “Watch behind you.”

She did not seem to hear him and Alex raised his rifle and started firing wildly in the general direction of the attackers, howling like a lunatic. He felt detached from the experience of battle, as if it were happening to someone else. Everything seemed to unfold in slow motion. Alex saw one of the attackers stand up and point a rifle in his direction, zeroing in on the muzzle flashes. He saw his own rounds traverse the target, dropping the Rwandan to the ground.
That's for Antoine, you son of a bitch.
The defenders turned at the sound of the gunfire and were soon taking well-aimed shots at the attackers. Through the scope, Alex recognized Jean-Baptiste among the defenders.

Alex continued his mad dash, reaching the attackers' position at about the same moment that he ran out of ammunition. It had not taken more than fifteen seconds for him to burn through the entire clip.
Maybe Manamakimba had a point.
He still had the advantage of the Night Hawk. And he swung the assault rifle by the straps at the next
genocidaire
who tried to stand. Through luck more than skill, the heavy stock crashed into the man's forehead and the Rwandan fell unconscious. The other invaders, who believed they were under attack by a much larger force, broke and ran for the jungle. Alex thought it was all over, but when he turned back toward Marie, he found himself nearly face-to-face with Innocent Ngoca. The
genocidaire
leader had his rifle leveled at Alex's midsection. A malevolent smile played across his face. The green glow of the starlight scope made it look even more sinister, almost like a Halloween mask. For all practical purposes, Alex was already dead.

Suddenly he was thrown to the ground and he could both hear and feel a hail of bullets flying over his head in both directions. Ngoca collapsed to the ground, but so did Jean-Baptiste, who had just saved Alex's
life by forcing him out of the line of fire. The leader of the village guard lay on his back a few feet from Alex. Blood dripped down one corner of his mouth and the bullet hole in his chest was making a horrifying sucking sound. Alex dropped his useless rifle and went to Jean-Baptiste's assistance. It was quickly apparent even to Alex's untrained eye that there was little that could be done for the guardsman. Jean-Baptiste knew it as well. He tried to speak, but could not. Instead he reached up and pressed the tips of his fingers to the circular scar on Alex's chest. Then his hand fell limply to the ground.

•   •   •

A
moment later, Marie knelt in the dirt next to Alex and put her hand on Jean-Baptiste's bloody chest. Tears blurred her vision. She had not loved Jean-Baptiste the way he had loved her, but he had been her friend. The entire village would mourn him, assuming that they survived the night.

Just then, she heard the distinctive thrumming sound of rotor blades. There were two deadly Rooivalks in the sky over the village. The navigation lights were lit, giving the helicopters the air of giant prehistoric insects. Red fingers of light, tracer fire, reached out from the twin chain guns mounted just under the canopy. Whatever the beams of light touched, they destroyed. Marie saw three Hammer of God fighters literally cut in half by the chain guns.
Why didn't the missile teams fire?

Almost as soon as she was able to form the thought, she heard a waterfall-like roar and watched a bright white line arc into the sky from a nearby rooftop until it connected with one of the helicopters buzzing over the river. At first, the Igla seemed to have no effect on the Rooivalk, which turned its chain gun on the offending missile team, killing both men and shattering the platform from which Alex had been monitoring the battle just a few minutes before. Then the South African gunship slipped to the right and pitched backward. The chain guns
fired their red tracers wildly into the sky. The Rooivalk spun once in a complete circle before dropping tail first into the river.

Two more Igla missiles shot into the night sky, bracketing the other Rooivalk. The first missile narrowly missed the helicopter, but the second destroyed the back half of the tail. The gunship limped out of the fight with the pilot struggling to maintain flight stability. The helicopter dropped low to the river and flew off at speed.

Disheartened by the loss of air support, the Rwandans started looking for their exit. Small groups of fighters broke and ran for the tree line, pursued by elements of the village guard and the Hammer of God. As many as half of the retreating
genocidaires
were shot in the back. Marie would gladly have shot them all.

J
ULY
24, 2009

B
USU
-M
OULI

O
n the day after the battle, Marie Tsiolo buried her dead. Busu-Mouli had survived the night, but at a terrible cost. Twenty-two villagers were dead and another nine injured, two of them so badly that they were likely to die. Marie knew every one of them. Some had been her playmates growing up. One had been her lover. Others had been mentors or teachers. Some were young enough that she had been a mentor or teacher to them. Those deaths were the hardest to bear. The Hammer of God had lost another eleven men and boys. Marie did not know their names, but she was their chief and she grieved for them. The invaders had lost even more. There were some fifty bodies scattered through the village and the surrounding fields. At least two more were entombed in their helicopter at the bottom of the Mongala River.

The village cemetery was too small to accommodate all of the bodies. At Marie's direction, Mputu and his sons organized work crews to
gather the dead and dig their graves. Alex worked alongside Mputu, digging into the rich black earth with a dull spade.

In her anger, Marie had wanted to dump the bodies of the Rwandans into the river or gather them in a pile and burn them. It was Manamakimba who dissuaded her. These were simple soldiers, he argued, not leaders or commanders. Born into other circumstances, they might well have grown to be good men. Moreover, the village could ill afford the risk that the ghosts of the
genocidaires
would return to haunt Busu-Mouli. Still, Marie felt there had to be some distinctions made. The defenders would each get their own grave and marker, but she had Mputu dig a single long trench for the bodies of the Rwandans.

By midafternoon the work was done. Mounds of earth in neat rows served as mute testament to the costs of Busu-Mouli's defense. At the base of each mound was a wooden plaque with the name of the deceased. Later, the families would carve more elaborate grave markers. For now, however, the goal was simply to remember the dead. As Chief, it was Marie's obligation to lead the burial ceremony.

The ceremonial clothes and jewelry that her mother and grandmother had worn before her were kept in a storehouse and so had survived the fire that had destroyed her home. At the bottom of the trunk, Marie found something that first made her smile and then brought tears to her eyes. It was a small wooden doll that she had played with as a child. The doll wore a dress made from scraps of the same material her grandmother had used to make the ceremonial gown Marie had come in search of. Her father had carved the doll from a block of rosewood. She remembered her mother sewing the dress, her nimble fingers making perfect stitches as she worked by lamplight.

Marie was not long past playing with dolls when her mother had died from some nameless fever. Her mother's absence was a dull but persistent ache. The loss of her father was still fresh and raw. For a moment she felt utterly alone. Marie was only now beginning to grasp the essential loneliness of life as a chief. Her father had borne that burden
effortlessly. Marie felt less than worthy. She gently placed the doll back in the trunk.
I have not forgotten
, she promised silently, as she closed the heavy lid.

Two of the older village women helped her dress. They braided her hair in a traditional Luba pattern and bound it with a copper chain secured by a gold pin in the shape of a bird. A band of entwined copper and gold sat high on her forehead. Earrings of glass and clay beads and beaten copper disks framed her face. Her dress was made of rich red and black cloth with gold trim that left both her throat and arms bare.

When Marie emerged from her borrowed home, she looked less like a chief than a queen. She stood tall before her people, and she was not unaware of the effect she had on the villagers and Hammer of God fighters who stood in a loose semicircle around the grave site. Alex was there and at that moment she knew that he found her beautiful. That pleased her. Some of the injured were there as well, including Katanga, who sat on a carved wooden chair with his leg heavily bandaged. He had lost a lot of blood and a piece of his thigh, but he would live.

When Marie spoke, her voice was clear and strong, but it also betrayed the anger and profound sadness barely contained beneath her cool exterior.

“My people,” she began, and her words took in the Hammer of God as well as the villagers. “We have suffered a terrible loss. Too many of our fathers and brothers, our friends and neighbors, have died defending their homes and families. Their spirits have gone to the next world, from where I am sure they will do everything in their power to keep us from harm. We honor their sacrifice by living. We honor our ancestors by surviving and prospering and remembering their names and their lives and what they surrendered in our defense. This is our burden and we embrace it joyfully, for we are all of us one people.”

And Marie sang the opening verse of the Kasala, the lyrical death song of Luba tradition. The mournful call and response of the Kasala invited the village to grieve together as a community for the fallen.
Manamakimba and those of his warriors who knew the Tshiluba language joined in the singing.

The Kasala ended with a long plaintive note that resonated with all of the hope and sadness of the moment. That note, many of the Luba believed, would reach across to the spirit world and serve to comfort the dead. Almost as soon as the echo from the last note had died away, the drumming began. A dancer stepped forward in an elaborate costume made of raffia palm fiber and bark. He wore an oversize round mask painted ochre and red with a beaten copper border and wild raffia hair streaming behind. Marie recognized the dancer as Mputu. As an addition to his traditional costume, Mputu wore what looked like a showerhead around his neck, a gift from Manamakimba. Two of his sons were the drummers, beating out complicated rhythms on drums made of large gourds with goatskins stretched taut over the tops and bound with rawhide straps.

By ones and twos, as the spirits moved them, the mourners joined in, purging their negative emotions in the ecstatic, transportive experience of communal dance. Marie, Alex, and Manamakimba danced alongside the others, and it was nearly dark before the drumming stopped and the mourners started back to their homes, clustered in family groups. Marie had asked prominent families to temporarily “adopt” members of the Hammer of God into their households to speed their integration into Busu-Mouli, and she made sure that everyone had a home to go to.

Marie needed sleep. Just as she was thinking of making her own exit, Alex touched her lightly on the arm and indicated with a nod of his head that he would like a private word. They walked over to the well in the village square and rested on a mahogany log that had been there as a kind of bench as long as Marie could remember. The moon rising just above the tree line cast long shadows on the ground.

“That was a beautiful ceremony,” Alex told her.

“Thank you.”

“I'm sorry about Jean-Baptiste.”

“So am I. He was a good man.”

“He saved my life at the price of his own. He's the second man to do that this week.”

“Jean-Baptiste died defending his village,” Marie protested. “He would have considered that an honor.”

“It's still not safe to be around me. I came back to Busu-Mouli because I needed to warn you about the attack. Now my presence here is nothing but a danger to you and the village. I need to leave. The sooner the better.”

“Where will you go?” asked Marie.

“Into the heart of darkness.”

Marie smiled. “I've read Conrad. This is the heart of darkness. You're on the very stretch of river where Kurtz lost his mind.”

“That was Marlow's heart of darkness. Mine is somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Kinshasa.”

•   •   •

A
lex made plans to leave. It was not as straightforward as it seemed. For one thing, Busu-Mouli was a long way from Kinshasa and there were no airports or major roads anywhere nearby. For another, he was a fugitive and he had no way of knowing how wide a net the Embassy might have cast. At a minimum, there would be a reward. It was Uncle Sam's standard MO.

Air travel was too risky and overland was too slow. The river itself was his best bet. He learned from Mputu that the
Nkongolo
would be traveling downriver in the morning with a load of copper for trade. It could take him as far as Mbandaka. From there, he could get a commercial ferry to Kinshasa.

He was packing his meager belongings when Marie walked into the house where he was staying. She had traded in her ceremonial dress for work clothes and steel-toed mining boots.
Even dressed like a laborer
,
Alex thought,
she was still extraordinarily beautiful.

“I'm going with you.”

“To Kinshasa?” Alex asked.

“Yes.”

“Why would you want to do that, Chief? Your responsibilities are here.”

“My responsibilities are to my people, who will never be safe until the mining company and its political proxies are brought to heel. Ngoca is dead and we have hurt the Rwandans badly, but they will be back. I can sit here and wait for that day, or I can go with you and try to finish this. The snake has a head and that head is in Kinshasa.”

“Who will be in charge when you are gone? Manamakimba?”

“No. That would be putting the fox in charge of the henhouse. Katanga is well enough to serve as Acting Chief until I return.”

“The mine?”

“Mputu can take charge of it. He knows as much as most mining engineers by this point. I have confidence in him.”

“I don't know how long this will take.”

“This is the Congo, Alex. We have learned to be patient. Our most important resource is not copper or coltan; it is time.”

•   •   •

A
t least they would travel in style. Marie had the
Nkongolo
scrubbed clean from top to bottom and a fresh coat of paint applied to cover the fishy odor that had worked its way deep into the timbers of Busu-Mouli's most riverworthy craft. As a finishing touch, Mputu had cut the letters of the boat's name out of a thin sheet of copper and hammered them into the wood on the stern. His oldest son had carved a
turtle head from iroko wood and mounted it on the bow. In the stories, Lolo Ina Nombe, the founding ancestress of the Luba clan, often appeared in the form of a turtle. The
Nkongolo
was now, Mputu averred, fit to transport a chief.

Most of the village was there to see them off. Katanga, who was sitting on a stool with his injured leg elevated, had brought Marie a gift—a flat, oblong object wrapped in an embroidered cloth that looked antique. Marie took the gift from her uncle with reverence.

“Where did you find the time, Almost Father?” she asked.

“I have not had so much to do over the last few days,” Katanga said, looking pointedly at his leg. “I needed to find some way to keep busy.”

Marie unwrapped the gift. It was a dark wooden panel with convex sides about two feet long and one foot across. It was elaborately carved, with cowry shells, clay beads, and bits of polished metal set into the wood. Marie gasped for joy at the sheer beauty of the object.

“Thank you, Uncle. I will treasure this. Keep it safe for my return.” And she bent to hug her last surviving relative close.

“What is it?” Alex asked.

“A
lukasa
memory board,” Mputu explained. “We use them to record the history of our people. This one that Katanga has carved tells the story of the defense of Busu-Mouli. The figure in the middle represents Marie. You are there as well, as am I, Manamakimba, Jean-Baptiste, and others. It is a magnificent tale.”

Alex could see the artistry in the
lukasa
, but he could not see what Mputu was describing.

“How can you tell what it says?”

“Some of us have learned to read the
lukasa
. I know how. Marie knows.” Mputu turned and looked him hard in the eye. “Someday . . . maybe . . . you will as well. Take care of her.”

“You know I will,” Alex promised.

•   •   •

T
heir first day on the river was uneventful. The captain, a weathered old man named Philippe, was a skilled and experienced pilot. It was almost like a pleasure cruise. Alex and Marie spent most of the day on the fantail talking. That night they tied up at a communal pier a little more than one hundred miles downriver from Busu-Mouli that served as a rendezvous point for traders. The river here was wide and flat and calm, almost like a lake. Philippe had cousins at a small settlement about a twenty-minute walk from where they had tied up. Marie gave him leave to visit, with the proviso that he be back by sunrise. She and Alex ate fish stew and watched the sun go down as they drank Primus beers that had been cooled in the river.

Alex had strung on the fantail a pair of hammocks that they used as chairs, and they sipped their beers as the sky turned from red to purple and the waters of the Congo River from brown to black. A night heron flew over the boat and lit in the shallows, where it could hunt for frogs and small fish. As the sky grew darker, the jungle grew louder. The deceptively deep calls of the tiny tree frogs mixed with the higher-pitched trills of the cicadas and the chattering of a troop of mangabey monkeys.

“Anah would love this,” Alex said. “I wish she were here to see it.”

“I hope that she visits Busu-Mouli soon. Since my father made you a citizen of Busu-Mouli, that makes Anah one of us as well. She will be most welcome.”

“She would like that.”

Marie lit a lamp hanging from a hook on the bridge. It cast an orange glow that just barely offered enough light to read by. She used a screwdriver from the
Nkongolo
's tool kit to open another pair of beers and settled back into her hammock directly across from Alex.