The American Mission (35 page)

“I'm truly sorry about the way this developed. I didn't want it to come to this. Viggiano was insistent that we had to get you out of the country and this seemed the easiest way. Secretary Rogers is an amateur and a sanctimonious ass. He wouldn't understand what we are doing here and how we are advancing the interests of the United States. I know it hurt, Alex, but there was never any intention on our part to follow through on the espionage charges. After a few weeks, they would have gone away. You would have lost your clearances, of course . . . and your access to the dissent channel, but nobody was talking about killing you.”

“Even if you cut me out of the department, what was to stop me from going to the
New York Times
?”

If Spence's look of sorrow was an act, it was an impressively convincing one. “Let's face it. You don't have a lot of credibility at this point. I don't think any serious journalist would touch your story. The only thing that would happen if you did that would be that the espionage charges would likely resurface, only this time in a more public and permanent way.”

There it was. The threat. No negotiation was complete without one. Diplomats talked in terms of incentives and disincentives, carrots and sticks. They were abstract, value-neutral terms. At least until they were applied to you.

“I don't think I was ever going to make it to Washington,” Alex insisted. “Whatever you thought was going to happen, I'm pretty confident that Viggiano intended to kill me and dump my body in the jungle.”

“Oh, don't be so fucking dramatic, Alex. You're not that important.”

“What about Julian? Did Viggiano kill him?”

“No. That was an accident.” Spence leaned forward in his chair, the picture of sincerity. “Julian worked for me, Alex. For us, I mean. He was a member of the Africa Working Group. He had been for more than a decade. Julian was an integral member of the team here in Kinshasa. We didn't kill him. We needed him. I know that you have qualms about
our methods, but the Working Group is operating in the best interests of the United States.”

“What are those interests? Mass murder? Civil war? Genocide?”

“Grow up. Sub-Saharan Africa is a basket case. I've been working here for the better part of my adult life and it is, I am sorry to say, beyond salvation. It is, however, rich in energy resources and minerals that our country needs. If we don't secure access to them, the Chinese will; and, like it or not, we are engaged in a global struggle for power and influence with Beijing. I want our side to come out on top. If the Chinese lock up the rights to coltan in the Congo or palladium in Zambia or the deep-water oil of Equatorial Guinea, what do you think that means for our economy and our society?”

“Tell me one thing. Darfur. Did you do that? Was the Working Group behind Al-Nour and the Janjaweed? I need to know.”

The Ambassador looked genuinely sympathetic.

“I know what happened there was hard on you. It was a bad situation and we were all called on to make difficult choices. You had your instructions and you carried them out as was expected of you. If you want to blame someone, blame the intel analysts who said there was no danger that the Janjaweed would attack the camp. Blame the policy makers who made promises that they couldn't or wouldn't keep. It's not the first time that's happened. It's not the last. And it's not your fault. I'm sorry that I wasn't there when you needed me. You've been like a son to me and I've tried to be like a father to you. So believe me when I tell you that I had nothing to do with what happened to you in Sudan. I would never do something like that to you.”

Alex wanted that to be true, but he no longer knew what to believe.

“Sudan was hard. And I'll have to live with what happened there. But there's still a chance here to do what's right and I'm going to see it through to the end.”

“With Ilunga? He had his moment, but he's the past, not the future.”

“I wouldn't be so sure. This country is hungry for change. For peace. I think Ilunga can deliver that and I think the Congolese will be with him.”

“It's not going to go down like that. Silwamba is too well entrenched. There's still time to fix this. Come back with me. We can work this all out.”

“It's too late for that, Spence.”

“What makes you think I won't report you to the police? You're a wanted man after all.”

“I don't think the police would do anything. They're largely on Ilunga's side. The army . . . maybe. But Ilunga's men are pretty heavily armed and I don't think Silwamba wants to start a firefight with CNN's new golden boy. No, I think I'll take my chances on that one.”

Spence nodded, his expression respectful.

“You really think you can beat me?” There was no hint of anger in his voice. The experienced and worldly U.S. Ambassador seemed more bemused than anything else.

“I don't need to. This is not about you and me. You're on the wrong side of history. That's all there is to it.”

Spence stood. “I supposed that's it then.”

Alex rose. They did not shake hands. They exchanged no more words. There was nothing more to say.

A
UGUST
19, 2009

K
INSHASA

A
lex had gotten used to the rustling of the bats. It was oddly soothing in some ways. At least it meant that he was not completely alone in the dusty shell of the construction site. He had spent more than a week listening in on Consolidated Mining's sat-phone conversations. Once a day he reconfigured the system to allow for Skype calls to Anah. So far no one had shown up at the family home to accuse Alex of either espionage or diamond smuggling. This was an enormous relief. His daughter was still enjoying herself, but she had also made it clear that she was eager to be reunited with her father. At one point Alex tried to broach the idea that Anah might need to start the fourth grade in Brunswick. She was having none of it. Alex knew that he would have to revisit this issue soon. It was unlikely that Ilunga's revolution would be so accommodating as to fall in line with the school calendar.

He had already learned a great deal about Consolidated's operations. The company was a sprawling conglomerate with interests in
everything from nickel smelters in Siberia to iron mines in Australia to South African gold and diamond mines. Many of the conversations related to complex financial instruments designed as hedging strategies against swings in volatile commodity prices. Some of it he understood; much of it was simply too arcane. The most interesting conversations had been between Henri Saillard and Grover Jackson in New York. Jackson, Alex had learned from a quick Google search, was Consolidated's head of global operations. This was one of those fuzzy titles that offered only a vague sense of what the person in the position actually did. What Jackson seemed to do was solve problems, and he had come to look on the Congo as a problem.

In particular, the head office was growing worried about Ilunga's political movement and the threat he posed to the pliant and cooperative President Silwamba. Since the rally in front of the parliament building, Ilunga had continued to gain strength. His protests now drew tens of thousands to the streets and the international media outlets had sent their heavyweights to Kinshasa to cover the power struggle. Jackson was planning to come out to Kinshasa to see for himself what was happening and Saillard had been trying to stonewall him, coming up with increasingly flimsy excuses for why it was a bad time for a visit. The dates and the excuses kept changing. Alex kept notes. The more useful conversations he recorded directly onto his laptop's hard drive.

So far there had been no smoking gun. Late in the afternoon of his eighth day of electronic eavesdropping, however, Alex listened in on a conversation between Saillard and Jackson that changed everything.

At four-fifteen, he heard the long series of beeps that indicated someone in the company was placing an international call. The hacker program told him that the call originated from Saillard's extension. A moment later it informed him that the call was being placed to Grover Jackson's office. Alex perked up and activated the subroutine that would
record the conversation to a specific file on the hard drive labeled “Jackson-Saillard.”

The secretaries took a moment to establish the availability of their respective bosses and then connected the call.

“Hello, Grover.” Saillard's voice was as smooth and oily as ever, but Alex thought that he detected a small hint of tension. “Thank you for taking my call.”

“Always a pleasure, Henri.” Grover's tone made it clear that it was anything but.

“I have a rather delicate matter that I need to discuss with you.”

“Of course. Is this something that should wait until I get out there at the end of the month? We seem to have a great deal to discuss.”

“No, I'm afraid this issue is rather more urgent than that and appears to require some action on our part that really should be approved at your level.”

“Ilunga?” Jackson offered.

“Well, yes. I'm afraid that his challenge to Silwamba is more serious than we had anticipated. The man has been out of politics for years, and it seemed reasonable to conclude that he was something of a spent force. For whatever reason, that has not proven to be the case. His support is growing rapidly. The President is starting to panic and I believe that he is considering martial law. That would be disastrous from our perspective. It would likely trigger a call for UN sanctions and possibly one of those divestment movements that made it so difficult for us to operate in South Africa under apartheid.”

“Are you thinking about the Uzbekistan model?” Jackson asked somewhat skeptically.

There was a long pause.

“I am,” Saillard offered finally.

Alex felt the muscles in his shoulders tense and he leaned forward slightly as though that might help him to hear better. He reviewed what
he remembered of the failed “Cotton Revolution” in Uzbekistan. A democratic opposition movement with a charismatic leader named Ibrahim Alijevic had threatened to unseat the Moscow-backed Limonov government. The opposition movement, keying off of labor unrest in the country's cotton industry, had adopted a strip of white cotton cloth as its symbol, and tens of thousands of protestors had paraded in the streets of the capital city. Just when it appeared that Limonov would join the growing list of ex-dictators in exile in Russia, Alijevic died. The official cause of death was a heart attack, but it was widely believed that he had been poisoned by the Russian security services. There had been no autopsy.

“Uzbekistan was extremely expensive,” Grover reminded Saillard. “And extremely risky. Are you sure this is necessary?”

“I'm afraid so. But I also believe that we can do this for much less than the Uzbek operation cost. We had to bring in outside talent there and the Russians had us by the balls. I think this situation can be managed with local assets.”

“Local? Surely you don't mean Silwamba's people.”

“Of course not. They'd make a public hash of it. I'm thinking of our . . . partners.” Saillard's choice of words was careful and deliberate.

“Really. Do you think they're up for something like that?”

“Some of them appreciate the value of direct action . . . on occasion, that is. I wouldn't want to make a habit of it.”

“Have you talked to Silwamba about this?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Don't. That clown couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it.”

“So you agree then?”

There was another long pause while Jackson weighed the options.

“I don't like this,” he said finally.

“Neither do I. But I do believe it is the best of an unpleasant set of
options. Letting Ilunga take power would undermine everything that we've worked to achieve here.”

There was yet another long silence.

“Do you need to seek approval from the board?” Saillard prompted. It was a clever move, Alex suspected, to challenge Jackson by making the decision a test of his authority.

“No,” the global ops chief replied. “I agree that this is necessary. Talk to the ‘partners' and make the arrangements. But Henri . . . I'm not at all happy that you let things get to this point. We need to have a serious discussion about recent developments when I get out there at the end of the month. Anything that threatens our position in the Congo threatens our control of the coltan trade and that is something that the company cannot accept.”

“I look forward to it,” Saillard replied in his smarmiest tone.

Alex was certain that he had just heard Henri Saillard and Grover Jackson negotiate the assassination of Albert Ilunga. This development reordered his priorities. Alex's immediate goal was no longer proving his innocence, it was saving the life of a friend. He unhooked the laptop from the receiver. He slipped the phone into his pocket and powered off the computer. Tucking the laptop under his arm, he turned to leave and froze.

Rick Viggiano was standing in the doorway, his Sig Sauer automatic in his right hand.

“I really wish that you hadn't heard that,” the RSO said. The menace in his voice was unmistakable.

It was instantly clear to Alex what Saillard had meant by “our partners.” Viggiano was going to kill Ilunga. He did not doubt for a moment that the RSO was capable of what the intelligence services referred to euphemistically as “wet work.”

“And I wish you hadn't found me,” Alex replied. “Looks like we're both shit out of luck.”

“I have a couple of questions that I need to ask you now, smartass. Answer me nice and I'll kill you quick. Otherwise, I'm afraid this is going to hurt.”

“How did you track me here?” Alex asked. He knew the answer to that. Consolidated Mining's technical staff had found the satellite shunt. It was pretty easy to figure out from the direction the dish was pointing where the receiver was likely to be located. He was simply stalling for time.

“You misunderstand the nature of our new relationship. I ask you questions and you fucking answer them. Dick me around and I will demonstrate this by shooting you in the kneecap.” Viggiano seemed cool and unhurried.

“Why don't we start,” Viggiano continued, “with the laptop. Give it up.” He held out his left hand at waist level to receive the laptop and simultaneously elevated the Sig Sauer to point directly at Alex's chest. “Move slow,” he suggested unnecessarily.

There was about a fifteen-foot gap between them. Alex stepped forward, holding the laptop low in his right hand. He moved with exaggerated caution even as he rapidly reviewed the options. Viggiano's clearly articulated intent to kill him had a substantial impact on the risk-reward calculus. As he approached, he looked over Viggiano's shoulder, hoping to fool the RSO into believing that the cavalry had arrived. The old Newark street cop did not fall for it, but it may have distracted him just enough as Alex swung the laptop up as suddenly and as violently as he could. The heavy HP smashed into Viggiano's gun, which discharged almost simultaneously. Alex fully expected to feel the punch of a 9mm round in his chest. Instead, the laptop disintegrated in a cloud of plastic, metal, and glass as the slug tore through its insides.

The gun went skittering across the floor to the corner of the room. Rather than try to bull past Viggiano and escape through the door, Alex turned and threw himself out the window. The scaffolding on the outside had been only partially disassembled. It was about an eight-foot
drop to a layer of wooden planks that had served as a workspace when this had been an active construction site. He landed hard. The fall knocked the wind out of him, and the ribs he had injured parachuting into Busu-Mouli screamed in protest. He scrambled painfully to his feet and stumbled along the narrow planks to put as much distance between himself and Viggiano as possible. The row of planks was only about three feet wide and the drop on the far side was five stories straight down. A series of green nylon sheets intended to keep the sun off the workers hung loosely from the scaffolding. The light coming through the sheets was green and sickly. A bullet whined past his head and ricocheted off a piece of scaffolding with a metallic ping. There was no side-to-side movement possible on the planks. Alex could only run straight ahead and he felt like a sitting duck. A sudden heavy thud behind him signaled the RSO had jumped down to join him on the planks. The scaffolding wobbled from the force of his landing. Alex looked over his shoulder. Viggiano was crouched low and bringing the handgun up into a firing position. He was no more than twenty feet away and could hardly miss from that distance.

Without thinking about it, Alex stepped off the plank and dropped. As he fell, he grabbed for one of the nylon sun shades. The sun-damaged material ripped clean through, but it held long enough to allow him to swing onto the row of planks one story down. He looked around wildly. There were few windows on this level. Finally, he spotted an opening about thirty feet away that had been only partially bricked up and he clambered through it. The scaffolding continued to shake as Viggiano climbed down.

The room Alex had climbed into opened onto a center atrium. There was little light at this level, only what came in through a few holes that were waiting for ventilation shafts and power and sewer lines to be installed. The interior was dark and gloomy. A broad walkway ran in an oval around the atrium. The inside of the oval was hollow and dropped down four stories. It was a fairly typical shopping center setup intended
to create the illusion of open space and give shoppers a view of the multiple layers of stores in the building. No doubt the workers would have added a guardrail around the walkway if they had finished construction. Now, however, the core of the building was just empty space with nothing guarding against a forty-foot fall. The stairwell was on the other side of the building. Alex looked across. It was about a fifteen-foot jump from where he was to the opposite walkway. Too far, he decided, even with a running start. The alternative was to run all the way around the walkway to reach the entrance to the stairwell. He could hear Viggiano behind him starting to scramble through the opening in the wall.

Alex took off. He wanted to be on the far side before Viggiano made it inside. He was only slightly more than halfway to the stairs when a piece of the concrete wall exploded three feet from his head. Small pieces of the wall grazed his cheek and concrete dust clouded his vision.
Shit.
Fortunately, Viggiano seemed uncertain about whether he wanted to shoot Alex or run him down and question him. The RSO was trying to do both, so he was shooting on the run in the dark. In movies, the good guys always seemed to be able to do this effortlessly, but Alex remembered from his “crash and bang” training just how difficult it was to fire on the move with a handgun. He had a good chance of making the stairs. Two more wild shots sped past. Alex heard them hit concrete, but nothing came as close to hitting him as Viggiano's previous shots had.

He reached the stairs and started down them three at a time. The stairwell was unfinished and open to the outside. Viggiano was close now, maybe fifty feet behind him. Alex heard the squeaks and rustles of the bat colony as he ran past and retained enough presence of mind to slow down as he crossed the landing covered in the slippery guano. Viggiano was not as careful. The RSO took the landing at full speed. His right leg went out from under him as his foot slipped on the oily bat shit. His arms windmilled wildly and he fought to regain his balance. The pistol went flying out of his hand into the darkness of the building's interior. Viggiano did not stand a chance. He had built up too
much momentum, and Alex watched the man who had tried twice to kill him hurtle headfirst into the air.