The American Mission (31 page)

“So what's your plan?” Marie asked. “I realize I should have asked this question before we left, but I was afraid that I might not like the answer.”

“I need to find proof of my innocence.”

“What about proof of Consolidated's guilt?”

“I expect that they will be one and the same.”

“How are you going to do it?”

“I'm not entirely certain yet, but I have some ideas. And I think I have some allies. Do you remember Albert Ilunga?”

Marie smiled ruefully at that. “Of course I do. The only vote I've ever cast was for him as President. I even took a break from my studies to work on his campaign. For a brief moment it looked like the Congo would have a future, and many of us believed that Ilunga was the man who could lead us there. We won that election fairly, and as far as I'm concerned, he is the duly elected President of the Congo. But when the election was stolen from him, I stopped paying attention to politics. It just seemed as if one group of jackals was trying to outmaneuver another group. I haven't heard anything about Ilunga for years. I wasn't even certain if he was still in the country.”

“Well, Ilunga has been keeping a low profile, but I'm not sure that he's given up on playing a political role.” Alex told her about his meeting with Ilunga and Ilunga's membership in the Brotherhood of the Circle.

They sat in silence for some time as Marie thought over what he had told her.

“And what will you do about your Ambassador?” she asked finally. “You do accept that he's involved in something . . . wrong.” The word seemed wholly inadequate. “Evil,” she corrected herself.

Alex looked stricken.

“Spence's role in this is the hardest thing for me to get my mind around. He was more than just my mentor. In some ways, he was like a father to me.”

“A father who framed you and set you up for murder?”

“I hope that there's another explanation for that, but I agree that it's hard to see one. I owe him so much. When I was at my lowest point after the Sudan, Spence stood up for me. He was the only one.”

“What happened to you in the Sudan, Alex? What did you see that had such an effect on you?”

Alex closed his eyes and told her the story. It was the first time he had spoken about the Sudan to anyone other than Dr. Branch. Even Spence didn't know the whole story. As he spoke, the past broke through the walls that he had carefully constructed to separate it from the rest of his life. It rushed forward and tried, as it had tried before, to consume him.

After Alex finished, it took some time for the arid desert to fade from his mind and be replaced by the humid jungle night. He had been running from the trauma of the events at Camp Riad for the better part of three years. In the lamplight, Alex could see that Marie was crying.

She reached across the narrow gap between them to take Alex's hand. Her fingers were calloused from working in the mine, but they were gentle and she stroked the back of his hand, offering him the simple comfort of human touch. Impulsively, Marie leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth, softly and questioningly. His fierce response was a definitive answer to her unspoken question. He reached one hand up behind her head and held her tightly as his lips and tongue explored her mouth.

Abruptly, Marie pulled away. She touched Alex's cheek with the back of her hand.

“Are you sure you are ready for this?” she asked.

“No. I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything. But I'm willing to take a risk.”

Marie stood and moved to sit beside him on the hammock.

J
ULY
31, 2009

K
INSHASA

T
he port at Kinshasa was unbelievably chaotic. The
Nkongolo
's captain expertly piloted the fishing boat through the congested waterway and moored at a pier on the edge of the marina. They hoped to remain relatively inconspicuous as they looked into the question of how high a profile Alex had as a fugitive. In penance for his status as an alleged criminal mastermind, Alex stayed belowdecks on the
Nkongolo
while Marie went into the city to look around. He did not relish the idea of a day in the ship's hold. The smell of fish was beginning to work its way through the layer of fresh paint.

Philippe bought a stack of local papers and news magazines at a kiosk near the entrance to the port, and Alex spent the afternoon thumbing through them. There was no mention of the fight at Busu-Mouli. Neither was there anything about the incident at the UN roadblock. Alex allowed himself to hope that Viggiano and Saillard had decided to keep everything under wraps. This hope was crushed when Marie returned from her surveillance mission with several samples of a
“wanted” poster that she said was posted prominently around the town. The picture of Alex was from his embassy ID. It was not a particularly good photo, but it was good enough. So was the reward of ten thousand dollars offered for information leading to his arrest. Perversely, Alex was somewhat put out that he did not rate a larger amount. The money was likely coming out of some kind of unaccountable slush fund, either the Embassy's or the mining company's. Ten thousand dollars might well be the largest amount they could offer out of pocket. It was still an awful lot of money for the Congo.

“So what do you think we do about it?” Alex asked.

“I think we need to change your looks, as much as that pains me . . . because you are exceedingly cute.”

“How about a nose job? Maybe some Botox.”

“Or silicon breasts and a platinum blond wig.”

“I prefer my idea.”

“I'm sure.”

Instead of plastic surgery, Marie cut Alex's hair short and dyed it black before styling it to look more European. He had not shaved since leaving Busu-Mouli, and a week's worth of growth would help to hide the line of his jaw. A beard, a new hairstyle, and a pair of sunglasses was not, Alex knew, much of a disguise. Using the small mirror in the
Nkongolo
's head, he compared his new look with the picture on the wanted poster. His best defense was almost certainly the low resolution of the embassy ID photo.

“You still look cute,” Marie offered, and because Philippe was on deck, she took the opportunity to kiss him. The physical part of their relationship was still new enough that each kiss was a discovery.

“You ready to hit the town tonight?” Alex asked, sliding the back of his hand affectionately across her bare upper arm.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I'd like to take you to a friend's place. Introduce you.”

“What friend?”

“Albert Ilunga.”

“I'd like that.”

•   •   •

W
ith a price on his head that was more than most locals could hope to make in a lifetime, Alex was a marked man. Money, however, was a shield as well as a sword, and he still had a small war chest from the diamonds he had sold before parachuting into Busu-Mouli. Marie did the shopping. For three thousand dollars in cash, she bought a midsize Mitsubishi Carisma with patched seats and a balky transmission.

They waited until after eleven to make their move, on the theory that traffic would be light enough so they would not have to stop but not so light that they risked attracting unwelcome attention from late-shift cops looking for a shakedown and a bribe. Marie parked as close as possible to the
Nkongolo
. Alex tried to look unconcerned on the short walk to the car. He felt foolish wearing sunglasses in the dark, but he was hardly the first hipster or gangster to affect them as fashionable evening wear. There were few other cars on the street and even fewer streetlights. Although Marie drove carefully, she still felt the muscles in her back tense when they drove past a police car idling on a side street like some kind of ambush predator. There were no sirens and no lights, however, and within twenty minutes they had reached Ilunga's villa and the headquarters of the Freedom Coalition. They left the car in the alley alongside the building.

There was a guard at the gate to the villa.

“Good evening, brother,” Marie said, as they approached the elderly man sitting impassively on a small stool. He looked them over carefully, but his expression betrayed neither interest nor concern at their presence.

“Good evening,” he offered grudgingly.

“We are here to see President Ilunga,” Marie said, and Alex saw the
guard's expression shift slightly at her use of the title earned but never claimed.

“It is late, madame. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“It is most urgent. I assure you that he will want to see us.”

The guard was now staring at Alex, who recognized him as one of the men who had been learning how to read when he had visited with Father Antoine. Alex took off his sunglasses.

“You recognize me, don't you?” he asked. “I remember you as well. You know that I am a friend to both Antoine and Ilunga.”

“You have friends,” the elderly man replied, “and enemies too, it would appear.”

“You've seen the posters?”

“We all have. Mr. Ilunga said you might return and that you should be admitted. He is still awake. I'd suggest you try the kitchen. The President likes to eat late.”

The gate was opened, and Alex and Marie stepped in off the street.

•   •   •

A
s the guard had suggested, they found Albert Ilunga in the kitchen eating a sandwich. The kitchen was simple but clean and spacious enough to feed the center's sizable resident population. There were two oversize refrigerators and a six-burner stove. The man who might have been President sat alone on a bar stool alongside a wooden countertop peninsula. He was wearing jeans and a faded blue work shirt. A single light fixture hanging over the counter illuminated the room.

Ilunga did not seem surprised to see them.

“Hello, Alex,” he said, wiping mustard from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. He stood up. “You are most welcome. I'm sorry about Antoine. I know he was a close friend.”

“To both of us,” Alex replied.

“Are you going to introduce me to your charming companion?”

“Albert Ilunga, Allow me to present Marie Tsiolo, Principal Chief of the village of Busu-Mouli.”

Ilunga kissed her hand.
“Enchanté
.
”

“Mr. President,” Marie said simply.

“So you were one of my supporters, it would seem.”

“I still am. It should be you in the presidential palace, not Silwamba. If it were so, then my village would be safe.”

“What is happening to your village?” Ilunga motioned to them to take a seat, and the three of them sat on bar stools around the countertop. He listened attentively as Marie told him about Consolidated Mining's plan to plunder her valley.

There was a brief silence as Ilunga weighed the implications of her story. “Yours is not the first such report I have heard about the nature of this company and its connections with the government. This is a very serious problem. We will discuss it further. But first, can I offer you something to eat?”

Alex realized that he was famished. Ilunga made them each an overstuffed sandwich with thick slices of ham and Swiss cheese. Pickled radishes and cold beer completed the meal.

“I've seen some not terribly flattering pictures of you around town,” Ilunga said to Alex. “You've made quite the impression in the short time that you've been back in this country. I congratulate you.”

“Yeah. I suppose I've made more of a splash than I had planned.”

“You can judge a man by his enemies. By that measure, you are doing quite well.”

Ilunga finished his sandwich and took a swig from his beer.

“So I don't suppose that you've come all this way just to tell me the story of your village,” he said, raising one eyebrow and offering Marie a slight smile. When he smiled, the lines on his face smoothed and he looked years younger.

“No,” Marie agreed. “We have come to ask for your help.”

“My help? I can offer you shelter and a sandwich, but what else do you think I can do to help you?”

“You can take what belongs to you by right and become president of this country,” Marie said.

Ilunga shook his head ruefully. “That was a long time ago—”

“Nonsense. It was six years ago. Everyone remembers what happened. I came back from South Africa to work for your election. I believed in you. It's not too late to reclaim what was lost . . . what was taken.”

“Thank you for what you did. The Freedom Party was a great movement. But we underestimated both the strength and the ruthless character of our opponents. That mistake cost me three years in prison. Now I do this. I help the veterans of our wars. For now, this is the best way I can help my country.”

“You can help your country,” Marie insisted, “by getting rid of Silwamba.”

“Someday I may get back into politics, but that day, I'm afraid, is not today.”

“Why not?”

“It's too soon. We are not ready.”

“Really?” Alex asked. “Then what's with the armory in the basement?”

Ilunga seemed somewhat embarrassed.

“I have a small collection of firearms downstairs . . . for contingencies,” he explained to Marie with a shrug.

“How small?”

“Not so small, perhaps.”

“What are the guns for, Albert, if not to support your political movement?” Alex asked.

“I lost the presidency to a man who could command guns, who could put armed men loyal only to him onto the streets. I had nothing similar. I will not let that happen again. Next time . . . when the time
comes . . . I will be ready.” Ilunga fished a pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket and offered it first to Alex and Marie. When they declined, he lit a cigarette and turned over the bottle cap from his beer to use as an ashtray.

“Let me tell you something of my home,” Marie implored. “There are nearly four thousand people in my valley who look to me for security and prosperity. I can give them prosperity. Our soil is rich and there is copper in our hills. Security, however, is beyond me. I have done what I can, but if I cannot break the hammerlock that Consolidated Mining has on this government, my people will never be safe. Only you are in a position to do this.”

“It's not that simple,” Ilunga protested.

“Isn't it?”

“We are not yet strong enough. I do not have the resources I need. For now, this is my work. I can do more good here with these men than I can in prison . . . or dead. Over time, perhaps, we will grow strong enough to challenge the established order.”

“Hardly the most courageous position that you've adopted, Mr. President. I had expected more from you.”

Alex had been sipping his beer and observing the exchange between Marie and Ilunga. Now he decided to step in before it got out of hand. Ilunga was still their best hope for finding a way to put pressure on Silwamba, Consolidated Mining, and the U.S. Embassy.

“Albert, there is more going on that Marie hasn't yet told you about. It is bigger than the mining company and it threatens the future not only of this country but this continent.” It was clear that Alex had captured Ilunga's interest. As he explained what he knew about the Africa Working Group and the hold this shadowy organization had on U.S. Africa policy, Ilunga seemed to grow both sadder and more thoughtful. When Alex finished, his resistance to the idea of taking up the political banner again seemed weaker, but not yet dead.

“Politics is not cheap in the Congo,” he observed. “I have some
sponsors who support the work of this institution, but not nearly enough funds to mount a credible challenge to Silwamba.”

“When we met the last time,” Alex said, “you told me that God would provide when the time came to take on Silwamba.”

“Yes. I still believe this.”

“Well, He sometimes moves in mysterious ways.”

Alex pulled the leather bag of diamonds from his pocket and dumped the stones on the countertop. Even uncut and unpolished, they caught the light and glowed with a warm internal fire.

“That should just about cover the costs.”

Ilunga, his eyes wide, did not argue.

“So what would you propose we do?” he asked. “The next round of so-called elections is more than two years away. And that will likely be just another farcical rerun of Silwamba's ‘referendum' on his rule. He won't allow anyone to stand against him on a level field.”

“You don't need to run against him,” Marie replied. “You've already been elected. Silwamba is a usurper with no legitimacy. What we need to do is to persuade the public and the world to recognize the victory that you've already won.”

“Can that work?”

“It's been done before,” Alex said. “Student demonstrators in Serbia brought down the MiloÅ¡ević regime. Something similar happened in the Tulip Revolution in Kyrgyzstan. I think it's a pretty good place for us to start.”

“Take the initiative,” Marie implored. “Get the regime responding to you.”

Ilunga picked up one of the larger diamonds and held it up to the lights hanging over the counter. It was the size and shape of a cherry. Small rainbows appeared on the countertop as the crystal refracted the light from the lamp. He took a drag on his cigarette. The blue-gray smoke did nothing to dim the brilliance of the stone.

“Very well,” he said finally. “Let's get to work.”

Although her face remained impassive, Marie squeezed Alex's leg tightly under the counter.