The American Mission (38 page)

A
UGUST
29, 2009

12:00
PM

K
INSHASA

I
t began as a trickle and became a stream and then a flood. Ilunga's hard-core supporters were the first on the streets, wearing white and waving homemade banners. They were soon joined by thousands more. Some came because they had supported Ilunga in the last election. Some came because they were angry. Some came because they were curious. By noon, their ranks had swelled to the tens of thousands as the Congolese people, weary of oppression, corruption, and cronyism, took to the streets of the capital. The scene was repeated in Kisangi, Goma, and other cities across the country.

Alex was heartened to see a large number of police officers among the demonstrators, not seeking to control the protests but to join them. Historically, the enormous unknown in “people-power” revolutions was whether the security services were prepared to fire on their own citizens in defense of the status quo. Where they were, as in Turkmenistan, the revolutions faltered and died. Where they were not, as in Serbia or
Georgia, the protestors could—and often did—prevail. The police were solidly behind Ilunga. The army, however, was still a question mark. The significant presence of clergy on the streets was also a good sign. Ministers and priests were tremendously influential in this deeply religious society. From his vantage point at the Victory Monument, Alex saw the Archbishop of Kinshasa, who had been a close friend of Father Antoine's, marching down Avenue Kasavubu in his scarlet robes.

Street musicians, food vendors, and small children mingled with the protestors and the demonstrations began to take on a festival atmosphere. Having set everything in motion, Ilunga and his advisers did little to try to direct or control the protestors. The demonstrations grew organically, and inevitably they began to respond to the magnetic pull of the presidential palace. Starting from different parts of the city, thousands of ordinary Congolese converged on Silwamba's grand residence.

“It's a beautiful sight,” Marie said to Ilunga. Pascal and Giles had set up a de facto command post at the Victory Monument, complete with maps, a dozen cell phones, and a networked laptop. The monument was less than a kilometer from the palace. It was also slightly elevated on an artificial hill, which gave them a good overview of the protests. It was an impressive scene.

“It is,” Ilunga agreed. “But I'm still worried about the Black Lions.” He turned to Alex. “Do you think they'll come out of the barracks?”

“No way to know,” Alex replied.

“We're ready for them if they do,” Marie said reassuringly.

“What's the next step?” Ilunga asked.

“Now you get down off this hill and join your people in the streets. Lead them.”

Ilunga nodded, his features set in a look of grim determination. “Walk with me, Chief Tsiolo.”

A
UGUST
29, 2009

2:37
PM

K
INSHASA

T
he Angel of Death adjusted her skirt. Yesterday Annette Cartwright had been on assignment in Johannesburg when she had gotten a tip from a source she trusted that something big was about to go down in Kinshasa. She and her crew were on the late plane that night.

Her producer had found a spot on a rooftop with a panoramic view of the crowded and chaotic street scene in front of the presidential palace. Annette used a pocket mirror to check her hair and makeup. She straightened her back, looking into the camera with the deadly serious expression universal among foreign correspondents.

Her producer stood behind the cameraman and held up his hand, signaling that the anchor in Atlanta was about to cue their story.

“We go live in three . . . two . . . one . . .” He lowered his hand in a cutting motion.

“Good afternoon from Kinshasa. As many as a hundred thousand
Congolese supporters of opposition leader Albert Ilunga are marching on the presidential palace, demanding the immediate resignation of President Silwamba. So far the demonstrations have been peaceful, and the police and the army have been letting the protestors march. Ilunga's support has been building rapidly in the few short weeks since he reemerged, seemingly from nowhere, to stake his claim to the presidency on the basis of an election six years ago that he is widely believed to have won.”

“Annette, can you give us a sense of the mood in the capital? Is the Silwamba administration worried?” The baritone voice of Jim Gregory on the anchor desk in Atlanta sounded tinny through her earpiece.

“Well, Jim, at least among Ilunga's supporters there's a definite sense of optimism. They feel that this is their moment. These demonstrations are simply enormous. I've never seen anything like this in all my years covering Africa. It's still early, but I'd have to say that the Silwamba administration is facing its most serious test ever.”

“Thanks, Annette. And now to Afghanistan, where coalition forces are continuing a major push into the Kandahar region . . .” The Angel of Death switched off her earpiece.

Then Annette Cartwright turned and looked out at the still-growing mob on the streets below. For a moment she allowed herself to observe the scene not as a reporter but as a human being.

“Give 'em hell, Albert,” she said.

“What did you say, Annette?” her producer asked.

“Nothing.”

A
UGUST
29, 2009

2:58
PM

K
INSHASA

T
he President of the Republic was a mean drunk. Silwamba picked up the cut-glass tumbler half full of Johnnie Walker Blue on the rocks and threw it at the head of the messenger. Colonel Nkongo of the Black Lions did not duck. He simply shifted his weight almost imperceptibly and let the heavy glass sail harmlessly past his head. There was nothing he could do, however, to dodge the cloud of expensive whiskey that soaked his face and chest.

“How did you let things get to this point?” Silwamba screamed. “I am surrounded by disloyal incompetents and fools!”

Nkongo said nothing. This was far and away the safest course of action. On his best days, Silwamba had a hair-trigger temper and a penchant for violence. Nkongo had once seen him beat a man to death with a bottle of scotch, and then drink the scotch. As commander of the Black Lions, however, it was Nkongo's duty to advise the President on his personal security. The crowd gathered in front of the palace
was nonviolent so far, and the forward observers had not seen any weapons among the demonstrators. But, as Stalin had once observed, quantity has a quality all its own, and the sheer numbers gathered in front of the palace represented a clear and present danger to the President. It was Nkongo's job to guard this man, as repugnant as he might find him. The commander of the Black Lions was nothing if not professional.

“You are useless to me, you idiot! I don't know why I waste my breath talking to you.”

Silwamba picked up a red phone on his desk. There were no buttons on the phone, no way to dial an outside number. It was serviced by a dedicated operator on call to the President twenty-four hours a day.

“Get me the goddamn American ambassador,” he shouted into the receiver. “And you,” he said, looking at Nkongo. “You . . . get me a drink.”

Nkongo walked over to the bar and poured a generous measure of Johnnie Walker Blue into a crystal tumbler that matched the one lying in pieces on the other side of the room. He added a handful of ice from the bucket and set it down on a coaster on Silwamba's desk. As he did this, Nkongo touched the handle of the M9 Beretta pistol in his belt holster, just to remind himself that he was a soldier and not a valet.

The President drained half of the glass in a single swallow. When he set it back down, he missed the coaster by at least six inches. Although the air conditioner in the office was turned to an aggressively cool setting, Silwamba was perspiring heavily. It was hard to tell whether that was from the booze or the fear. The President loosened his Hermès tie and undid the top button of his sweat-stained collar. A third chin that had been kept prisoner under the collar leaped out to freedom. Almost contemptuously, Silwamba pointed at the extension on the side table, inviting Nkongo to pick it up and listen in.

A click indicated that the call had gone through.

“Mr. President, you are connected to Ambassador Spence,” said the voice of the operator.

“Spence? That prick Ilunga is marching on the palace.” Silwamba was now slurring his words badly. “There are a hundred thousand lowlifes on the street in front of my house, Ambassador. My own soldiers are too scared to let go of their dicks. I need the cavalry. Marines, Green Berets, SEALs, I don't give a shit, but I want your boys in here now to straighten this all out. They can work with the Lions on the details. They'll need helicopters and tanks. You have my permission to shoot as many of those assholes as is necessary.”

“Mr. President, I'm sorry, but it doesn't work like that. I cannot snap my fingers and call up a brigade of Marines. That's our President's decision, and frankly, I don't see anything like that happening. Politically, it would be . . . controversial . . . at best. I'm afraid that you will have to rely on . . . indigenous assets to manage your security challenges.”

“What do you fucking mean I'm on my own? After all the business we've done together, you take a walk when things get tough? Is that how it's going to be?”

“From what my people are telling me, the demonstrators are not violent. If you feel you are in imminent danger, however, you may want to think about Switzerland. That's where most of your funds are in any event, and I'm sure our Swiss friends would welcome you for an extended stay in your villa on Lake Constance.”

“I don't want the Swiss Guard in their fucking pantaloons.” Silwamba was now shouting into the receiver. “I want the U.S. fucking Army here to protect me.”

“That's not going to happen, Mr. President. The United States military is not coming to the rescue. You need to think about other options.”

Silwamba hung up. He drained his glass.

“Call out the regular army,” he said to Nkongo. “And get me another fucking drink.”

A
UGUST
29, 2009

3:35
PM

K
INSHASHA

P
rivate First Class Issama Bangala loved his Soviet-era armored personnel carrier, the BMP-1, a clumsy but powerful piece of Eastern Bloc machinery. Sergeant Kabila was the BMP commander and his superior, but it was Issama who controlled their movements.

As commander, Kabila stood in the center hatch, from where he could see everything. The gunner sat in the turret to his left. The BMP-1 mounted a 73mm automatic cannon that packed a considerable punch. The driver's chair was just in front of the commander's seat. Issama looked out through a periscope viewing block that gave him a slightly fish-eyed window on the world. In the crew compartment behind them, eight soldiers sat with their knees touching and AK-47s propped muzzles-up on the floor.

Ordinarily, there was nothing Issama liked better than driving his BMP. Today, however, he would have been happy to stay on base and
play cards rather than politics. At Kabila's behest, Issama pulled the BMP out of the shaded staging area and onto the road that ran from the main gate through the middle of the camp. A dozen BMPs were lined up on the road with their engines running. Clouds of diesel smoke choked the air. Issama's seat was made of steel. He had wedged a small pillow into the back of the seat that helped cushion the jolts somewhat, but it was still far from a comfortable ride.

By good fortune, Issama's BMP was first in line. This meant that they would not have to breathe in the dust of the BMPs in front of them. It would take at least twenty minutes to reach the palace. The poor loser at the end of the line would spend the entire trip cloaked in the dust of a dozen thirteen-ton killing machines.

“All right,” Kabila said from the turret. “Let's move out.” It was clear to Issama from the flat tone in the commander's voice that he was no more enthusiastic about this mission than Issama was.

Issama engaged the engine and gave it just enough power to move forward at a sedate five kilometers an hour. As they approached the gate, however, he saw something through his view block that forced him to brake. An eighteen-wheel flatbed truck loaded with cement blocks pulled up sideways in front of the gate and stopped. The driver turned off the engine and jumped out of the cab. Without so much as a backward glance, he ran off into the alleyways of the city. Almost immediately, another heavily laden truck pulled up alongside the first and parked. At least ten more heavy trucks followed, boxing in the gate and trapping the BMPs inside their own base.

Issama waited for orders. Kabila got on the radio and called in their situation to the base commander. It took a long time for the commander to make a decision. Finally, word came over the radio with instructions for the BMPs.
Stand down. Return to the staging area
. It was with a degree of relief that Issama pulled his BMP under the canopies, where the armor was parked out of the sun.

Some of the soldiers returned to their leisurely afternoon pursuits. Others, including Issama, huddled around a shortwave radio listening to the news on the international Radio Sans Frontières. Many of the soldiers sensed that they were on the cusp of an historical event. But whatever happened today in Kinshasa, it would not involve the 15th Mechanized Brigade. Issama was not at all unhappy about that.

•   •   •

T
he team was small, only ten men, but they were veterans of the fighting in the bush. And while half of them were missing significant parts, including one man with both a prosthetic arm and a wooden leg, they were disciplined and experienced. This counted for considerably more than being of sound body. They were all armed, but they kept their rifles on safety and they were under instructions to fire only in self-defense.

Paul Mbane, a skinny thirty-year-old who had spent half his life under arms, was in command. Mbane's left sleeve was rolled up to his shoulder and pinned off. The Freedom Coalition had taught him to read and write, and helped him find a job in a shop owned by one of Ilunga's supporters. He would have had no compunction about killing for the man who had given him a new lease on life. But that was not his mission.

A truck pulled up in front of the state-run Telecom Congolaise in Kinshasa's Kintambo district. Mbane and his “squad” dismounted. The two private security guards at the main gate with pistols in their belts were only too eager to surrender their sidearms and make themselves scarce. Mbane led one team of five to the President's office. A second team took control of the central telephone exchange. Confronted by a team of heavily armed men, the president of the national telecom, an ally of Silwamba, was surprisingly gracious. Other than holding him, Mbane and his men made no demands of the telecom executive. Everything was calm and orderly. No one was hurt.

That scene was played out across the city at carefully chosen locations: TV and radio stations, newspapers, and government office buildings.

Paul Mbane did not know it, but it was all straight out of the CIA's playbook.