The American Mission (39 page)

A
UGUST
29, 2009

4:10
PM

K
INSHASA

I
want you to exercise judgment,” Colonel Nkongo told his second in command.

Captain Azarias Zola saluted smartly, but it was clear that he was not entirely certain what to make of this ambiguous instruction.

“The President's decision-making is growing increasingly . . . erratic,” Nkongo explained. “This unit has a proud reputation and every man in it earns the honor of being a Lion every day. We are the President's guard, but we are also the guardians of our traditions. I will not have this unit or its members stained with accusations of dishonorable or criminal behavior.”

“Yes, sir.” Zola understood what Nkongo was saying to him. The Lions had received orders to arrest Albert Ilunga for treason and subversion. This would require moving through a crowd of tens of thousands of Ilunga's supporters, seizing him, and then making their way back through the same crowd carrying Ilunga in shackles. With armor
support and hundreds of disciplined troops in full riot gear, the mission was straightforward. With the fifty soldiers that Zola could deploy, no matter how superbly trained they might be, the most likely outcome was a massacre of civilians that would focus the disapproving attention of the world on the Black Lions and its commanders.

Zola was a leader of men. He took no small pride in that, and if he had a weakness it was that pride. At six-foot-four and two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, the captain was an imposing physical figure. But it was the force of his personality and the strength of his will that allowed him to lead men such as these. The Lions were precise on the parade ground, but they were not a ceremonial force. They fought. Their claws were bloody as well as sharp.

In the concrete barracks building, the Lions were getting ready for their mission. They donned body armor and Kevlar helmets. Zola had instructed the men to carry nothing larger than a Kalashnikov or a shotgun. He would not use machine guns or rocket-propelled grenades in the crowded plaza. As always, the men were thorough in their preparations. Even so, Zola detected an undercurrent of unhappiness that was a potentially serious concern. The Lions did not welcome this mission.

The barracks were located in a largely residential area half a mile from the presidential palace. The narrow one-lane street that led from the barracks to the palace was closed to all but official vehicles. This was the only route to the palace from the barracks. It was contrary to good security practices, but the President preferred to keep his Lions close at hand rather than basing them at a more secure facility farther out. On most days, the route was a lively pedestrian street with a vibrant market scene. When Zola led his soldiers out of the barracks, however, the street was nearly deserted. The metal shutters and grates that secured the shops in the evening were pulled down and locked tight. This activated Zola's internal-threat radar. He scanned up and down the street, but did not see anything else out of the ordinary.

The captain led from the front, setting a quick pace that would bring them to the plaza in less than ten minutes. At about the halfway mark, Zola saw a man standing alone in the middle of the street. He was armed, but he held his Kalashnikov in his left hand with the barrel pointed at the ground. Even if Zola had not recognized his face, the brass kitchen faucet around his neck would have marked him as a member of the feared Hammer of God. Joseph Manamakimba stood between the Lions and their designated target. With a clatter of metal, shutters on either side of the street swung up on their rails, and thirty men and boys from the Hammer of God rushed out to stand behind their leader. All wore at least one magical talisman around their necks and all were armed.

Manamakimba smiled broadly in welcome.

“Brave Lions,” he said loudly enough for all of Zola's men to hear. “Go back to your den. Today is not a day for hunting. Today is a day for change. By sunset you will have a new president, one worthy of respect and the service of such fine men.”

“We have our orders, Joseph Manamakimba. We will pass.”

“Whose orders? The orders of a tyrant, a thief, and a murderer? You are better than that, Captain Zola.”

Zola considered his position. In addition to the soldiers deployed at street level, the Hammer of God had placed two .30-caliber machine guns on second-story balconies. If Zola's troops tried to bull their way through the Hammer of God forces, the machine guns would rip them apart with enfilading fire. Even if the Lions won the fight, they would be so badly cut up that they would have almost no chance of carrying out their primary mission. And while Zola hated to admit this to himself, part of him agreed with Manamakimba. Silwamba had done nothing admirable in an office he held but did not deserve.

For a moment the two sides stood poised on the point of conflict. Then, with a hand signal, Zola turned his forces around and marched them back in the direction of the barracks. He did not look back at
Manamakimba and the Hammer of God. He was uncertain as to whether this was the right course of action, but there was no going back from this decision. The Black Lions had taken sides.

•   •   •

T
he humidity was doing brutal things to her hair, and Annette Cartwright thought about covering it with a head scarf. It was not a particularly good look for her, however, so she quickly brushed her hair out and freshened her makeup. While she was not completely satisfied with her appearance, her story was hot. Over the course of the day, the crowds in front of the presidential palace had swelled to hundreds of thousands.

“What's this bit for again?” she asked her producer.

“CNN International. Renee is anchoring.” Renee Maksimova was an Oxford-educated Russian and one of a bevy of young attractive women the cable station had hired in an effort to hold on to viewers who were getting more and more of their news online. Annette had never met Renee, but she disliked her on general principle.

“And we go live in three, two, one . . .”

“Good afternoon, Renee. Here in Kinshasa, the pressure on the Silwamba government continues to build. We estimate that there are now more than a quarter million people crowding the plaza in front of the presidential palace demanding Silwamba's immediate resignation. Opposition leader Albert Ilunga has made an appearance and will be addressing the crowd. His primary challenge will be to maintain control of his own supporters and to keep this situation from becoming violent. Serious violence here could bring the Congo's wars home to the capital for the first time, and the fighting that has plagued eastern Congo could take root here as well. Ilunga has to be sensitive to this challenge even as he continues his efforts to topple the weakening Silwamba administration.”

The cameraman swung the lens away from Annette and focused
in on the flatbed truck that served as a platform for the speakers. Ilunga was climbing the stairs to the stage accompanied by an attractive Congolese woman whom Annette recognized from earlier rallies. A source had told her that she was a tribal chief from the east and that she had Ilunga's ear. Annette made a mental note to seek her out for an interview.

“Renee, it looks like Ilunga is ready to speak. Let's hear what he has to say.”

“Silwamba,” he shouted into the microphone, the speakers carrying his voice clearly to the crowd gathered in the plaza while CNN carried it live around the world. One of Giles's more advanced students was part of the team that had taken over RTNC, and he was patching the CNN feed into the RTNC broadcast. Across the country, Congolese citizens with no access to international news were able to listen to Ilunga's speech via the CNN feed.

“Silwamba,” Ilunga continued. “You are trapped like a rat in that grotesque palace of yours. You command nothing. You rule nothing. We the people have taken power. Come out, Silwamba, and the people will be merciful. Do not think that you can wait us out. For we have waited long enough . . .”

A
UGUST
29, 2009

5:45
PM

K
INSHASA

P
resident Silwamba threw a heavy crystal ashtray at the three-thousand-dollar plasma television in his office. The glass shattered and the picture of his hated rival went dark. That did not solve his problem because he could see Ilunga and his growing mob of supporters through the picture window in his office. He could even hear the taunting of the crowd as they called for him to step down. Nkongo and Zola stood ramrod straight on the carpet in front of his desk.

“I send you out to do the simplest damn job and all you come back with are excuses. I asked you to arrest one unarmed little man and you can't even do that. You two are a disgrace.”

“Mr. President,” Colonel Nkongo said. “The risk of civilian casualties and the unexpected appearance of the Hammer of God in the city made the costs of the operation too high. We regret that we could not carry out your instructions in this instance, and we urge you to consider evacuating the city.”

“Evacuate?”

“Yes, sir. We have a helicopter on call, ready to ferry you to a military airfield and a Gulfstream standing by with a flight plan for Switzerland. At this point, Mr. President, this is the best available option.”

“I will not hand my country over to that rabble. If you cannot take him alive, I want him dead.”

Silwamba walked around his desk and stood looking Nkongo right in the eye. The whiskey smell of Silwamba's breath was almost overpowering and his eyes were bloodshot and angry.

“I asked you if you understood me, Colonel.”

“Yes, Mr. President, but the Black Lions cannot support you in that. We have our sworn duty to you, but we also have sworn an oath to our country. We have found the balance between these responsibilities. I urge you to take our advice and evacuate . . . sir.”

On the wall next to the broken television, there was a gun rack. Silwamba selected a wicked-looking Russian Dragunov sniper rifle and held it out for Zola.

“Captain, I trust that you know how to use this.”

Zola nodded. He did not, however, take the gun.

“Take this rifle, Captain, and shoot Albert Ilunga.”

Zola did nothing.

“Shoot him!”

Zola stood stock-still and looked out into the middle distance. Nkongo stepped forward as though to take the rifle away from Silwamba. The President raised the gun in a menacing fashion and Nkongo stepped back. He had no doubt that Silwamba stored the gun fully loaded.

“Goddamn you. Never send a boy to do a man's job. I will kill him myself.”

Silwamba was visibly drunk and it took him a moment to get one of the side windows open so that he would have a clear field of fire. It was not more than five hundred meters to the target. For Zola or any other
experienced sharpshooter, it was not a difficult shot. Even sober, Silwamba would have had a difficult time. Since the President was drunk, Zola did not fear too much for Ilunga's safety. But even if he missed his target, he was going to hit somebody. There were simply too many people in the plaza. When he squeezed the trigger, someone was going to die.

Silwamba raised the Dragunov to his shoulder and lined up his shot. He took time with his aim, but Zola could see his arms shaking. The President was so drunk it was a wonder he could stand, let alone shoot.

The two shots were like thunder. For a moment Zola blinked . . . not certain if he could believe what he had just seen. Colonel Nkongo had drawn the pistol at his belt and the President of the Republic was dead.

A
UGUST
29, 2009

5:58
PM

K
INSHASA

T
he ring tone, a snippet of King Kester Emeneya's “Everybody,” indicated that the call had come in from a specific number. It was the agreed-upon signal. The two men standing on the corner of Kasavubu and Rue de Lisala walked casually down the street until they reached the headquarters of Consolidated Mining. Each man had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The straps on the bags were taut. Whatever they were carrying was heavy. The windows at street level were smoked glass. This both helped keep the interior cool and lent the operation an aura of mystery. Reaching into the bags, the two men pulled out lengths of iron pipe that they threw at the windows, shattering them into thousands of smoke-colored fragments. The men then pulled four grenades from their bags and tossed them through the window into the lobby of the building. The grenades did not explode, but they quickly filled the lower level of the building with thick, acrid smoke. Before the security guards could even make it outside, the attackers were gone.

Inside Consolidated Mining's headquarters, alarms were blaring and emergency lighting tried to cut through the smoke that was now filling the building. The Head of Security ordered the building evacuated. It was all done according to standard procedures . . . which were available on the company's intranet site and easily accessible to anyone logged on to the Consolidated Mining system.

•   •   •

T
he crowd in front grew quieter when the great doors of the palace swung open and two soldiers wearing black berets that marked them as Lions marched confidently down the steps. One of the soldiers was carrying something under one arm. They stopped at the base of the flagpole in the circle and lowered the gaudy gold and white flag that was Silwamba's personal banner. There was an almost eerie silence as the crowd waited to see what would happen next. The two soldiers fixed another flag to the ropes, and when the crowd saw the blue and gold flag of the Democratic Republic of the Congo ascending the pole, they broke into loud and rapturous applause. “Ilunga
is
President!” they shouted.

Standing proud and straight, the two soldiers opened the gates to the palace and let the flood of people onto the grounds.

“And there you have it, Renee,” Annette said, as her cameraman captured the spectacle for a global audience. “The Silwamba government has fallen. Albert Ilunga has taken power. And we await the reaction of world leaders to these stunning developments.”

“Thank you, Annette . . . and now over to Jim Stevens for an update on world sports . . .”

•   •   •

F
rom the Victory Monument, Alex and Jonah had an unobstructed view of the flag-raising that signaled the change in government. An enormous wave of relief swept through Alex's body. The people
had spoken and Ilunga was their choice. Internationally, the fact that the movement had been nonviolent would make it possible for the United States, Europe, and leading African nations to embrace the new government.

A helicopter flew in low over the crowd as though it was looking to land. Alex recognized the Bell 222 that he had seen on the roof of the Consolidated Mining building. As the helicopter banked over the crowd, Alex had a clear view inside the cockpit. Henri Saillard was at the controls.

Instead of landing, the helicopter made a single pass over the crowd and circled the presidential palace. Then Saillard flew out over the Congo River in the direction of Brazzaville.

Jonah Keeler pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and started to dial a number. He dialed by touch, his eyes fixed on the helicopter. It was a long sequence of numbers, longer than was necessary for a simple call. Keeler's intention suddenly seemed clear.

“Don't do it, Jonah,” Alex said forcefully, reaching for the phone just as the Station Chief hit the green “transmit” button. Halfway across the Congo River, where the water depth was greater than one hundred feet, Henri Saillard's helicopter exploded in a bright ball of flame. It was later rumored that a fortune in diamonds was scattered on the riverbed along with the wreckage of the Bell and the unrecovered body of Henri Saillard. The currents on that stretch of the river were especially treacherous, however, and the bottom was a ten-foot bed of silt. Those few treasure hunters who tried were never able to prove that the rumors were true.