The American Mission (40 page)

S
EPTEMBER
9, 2009
K
INSHASA

G
etting out of the Foreign Service was a damned sight easier than getting in. It had taken nearly a year and a half from the day Alex took the first written exam until the day he took the oath of office as an FSO. Getting out had taken about five minutes with the Embassy Management Counselor. He had signed half a dozen forms, turned in his badge and his hard drive, and handed over the keys to his house. His RAV4 sat in the Embassy lot, stripped of its diplomatic plates. After eight years of service to the United States, Alex was on his own.

He had no regrets about leaving the Service. The events of the last few months had changed him, and there was simply no going back to the life he had once thought was all he wanted. Alex was pleased, however, that he was leaving on his terms. Shortly after Silwamba's fall, Spence had been recalled to Washington for “consultations.” It was understood that he was never coming back to Kinshasa. Meanwhile, the charges against Alex had not only been dropped, they had disappeared. As far as official Washington was concerned, nothing that had
happened had ever happened. The director of the Africa Bureau's executive office had even called to ask if Alex wanted to throw his hat in the ring for the Deputy Chief of Mission opening in Tanzania. It was surprisingly easy to turn down this plum assignment. He had plans that did not include the Department of State, and he was eager to embrace the future. Before he could do that, however, there was one more stop to make. His fixer, Leonard, had insisted on driving him.

“You know, there's a certain irony in this,” Leonard observed, as he forced his aging Citroën laboriously through Kinshasa's tangled traffic. “God alone knows that I would rather be living in California than the Congo . . . and I suspect that you would be happier here. Man plans, God laughs.”

“I reckon you might be right about that. I don't really know what's going to happen to me next, but I do know that it's going to be my decision and not Uncle Sam's.”

They pulled up to the gate in front of the presidential palace.

“Security won't let me park here,” Leonard said. “I'll wait for you in the lot across the street. Give the old man my regards.”

“Thanks, Leonard. I appreciate this. You've been a good friend when I needed a friend.”

The guard at the gate seemed unimpressed when Alex told him that he had an appointment with the President. But his name was on the right lists and he was buzzed through the small pedestrian entrance next to the larger gate that admitted vehicle traffic. He walked around the circle to the massive front steps. The Congolese flag flying on the flagpole at the center of the circle was just one concrete example of the changes that were under way in the city. The palace itself felt like a very different place. On his first visit, the building had seemed empty and lifeless. Now it was bustling with government officials and staff, visitors, and even, Alex was amused to note, what looked like a tour group. That was definitely not something you would have seen under Silwamba.

A harried-looking receptionist behind a desk at the far end of the lobby apologized because the President was running late. She asked Alex if he would mind waiting in the salon on the second floor.

“It won't be for long,” she assured him. “I'm sorry to ask this of you. The President has been overscheduled today, I'm afraid.”

The waiting room was across the hall from the President's private office. It was spacious and well appointed with comfortable chairs and tables stacked with newspapers and magazines. There were two other people in the room. One of them was Jonah Keeler. Alex focused on the second man in the room. He recognized him immediately. Garret Lockhart was the head of Africa operations for Altera Natural Resources. ANR was one of the largest minerals-and-mining companies on the continent. Consolidated's success at the political game had kept ANR frozen out of the valuable Congo concessions, but Saillard's death and Ilunga's rise to power had stripped the company of its primary patrons. The Congo was once again wide open for competition.

Lockhart was a large, beefy Texan whose homespun aphorisms disguised a nimble mind and a deep knowledge of Africa. He was based out of ANR's regional headquarters in Johannesburg but traveled widely. His fluent French and Portuguese had never quite lost the twang of West Texas and Lockhart liked it that way. For his audience with Ilunga, the mining executive was wearing a four-thousand-dollar Italian suit and cowboy boots. It was the boots rather than the suit that seemed like an affectation.

ANR was part of a family of companies that included Altera Petroleum. It was Altera that had won the rights to explore for oil and gas in Western Sudan after the genocide in Darfur. Although only a second-tier player in the energy industry, Altera had outmaneuvered a number of the major multinationals to claim the prize. There had been rumors of payouts to senior Sudanese officials, but nothing could be proven. Now ANR's Senior Director for Africa was here with Jonah Keeler to see the new President of the Congo. A number of disconnected pieces
began to snap together in Alex's mind. He did not at all like the shape that was emerging.

Jonah seemed completely at ease and not at all concerned about the conclusions Alex might draw from his apparent partnership with Lockhart.

“Hello, Alex,” Keeler said with genuine warmth in his voice. “I trust you know Garret Lockhart.”

“By reputation. What the hell is going on here, Jonah?”

“Garret, would you excuse us for a few minutes?” Keeler asked his companion.

Lockhart obliged without complaint, tipping a thankfully imaginary cowboy hat in Alex's direction before leaving them alone in the waiting room. Keeler pointed at the chair Lockhart had been occupying. Alex did not sit down.

“What's this about?” he asked again. “I'm getting the idea that you have not been straight with me about the people you represent.” Alex kept his cool, but the undercurrent of tension in his voice was unmistakable.

“I have twenty-five years with the CIA. Straight's not really our thing.” Keeler smiled.

“Tell me more about the people you work with in Washington, the ones who have been trying to take down the Africa Working Group. They're not really so different in their goals, are they?”

“Nope, not really. They're more like rivals to the Working Group than mortal enemies, I'm afraid. Mind you, we like to think of ourselves as a little more subtle and a little less brutal than our competitors. The Working Group had some class-A talent, but they got greedy.”

“You used me. You used me to destroy your competition and open the door to your friends at ANR. And you almost got me killed in the process.”

Keeler rose and stood at the window looking out on the plaza in front of the palace. It was crowded as always, but nothing like it had
been in the heady days and hours leading up to Silwamba's demise. The Station Chief was quiet for a moment as he considered his response.

“That wasn't my intention. I did hope that I could use you to get Spence and Saillard and the rest of the Working Group off balance. I thought that if I could get the Working Group to overreact, we could take advantage. Turns out, though, that you're a resourceful little bastard. I can't really blame Saillard or Viggiano for misjudging you, but Spence really should have known better.”

“So you hung me out as bait.”

“I helped you. You were the one who came to me about Busu-Mouli. You wanted information and I helped you get it. You were the one who wanted to know what Consolidated Mining was doing in eastern Congo and I helped you see that. You came to me to help you plan a coup and I helped you with that too. Let's not forget who the
demandeur
was in this relationship. Your interests and mine happened to coincide, that's all.”

Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

“You put the Busu-Mouli file in Spence's safe, didn't you?” Alex said. “You broke into the safe before I got there and left it for me to find.”

Keeler shrugged.

“We have a source in Executive Solutions, so we knew what was coming. I wanted you to know it too, so I wrote up a letter describing the arrangements and left it for you along with a couple of satellite shots I ordered up from Langley. It was all true. It just wasn't real. I figured you'd go looking for answers there. If you hadn't done it yourself, I was going to make contact with you and steer you in that direction. You did it all on your own, though. I've got to hand it to you.”

“That's pretty self-serving, Jonah.”

“And if I hadn't left that file for you, your girlfriend would be dead right now and every building in her village burned to the ground. Is that really the way you would prefer things?”

“No. You're right about that.”

“Listen, Alex, most of what I told you
is
true. We and ANR really do look at things differently than the Working Group. Most of us aren't old Cold Warriors, for one thing. We're younger, more flexible, more business oriented. We can do a lot of good in the countries we operate in, and all we want in return is a certain level of preferential treatment from the powers that be. That's all. If you're not greedy, there's enough to go around for everyone.”

“Except the people.”

“There's something for them too. We build clinics and schools. We try to contribute to the societies we operate in. It's part of our long-term approach.”

Keeler stepped closer to Alex. It was a gesture of intimacy, but it also seemed somewhat mannered, like another tip from the Agency's training manual “How to Win Friends and Influence Them to Betray Their Country.”

“Alex, I think there'd be room for someone like you in our organization. You're smart and connected, and you know this continent better than just about anyone else in government. You could do great things with us . . . meaningful things. You could stay with State if you want or, if you prefer, Garret would be more than happy to find a place for you at ANR. Marie too, I suspect. Good mining engineers are in high demand right now. Consolidated was a rotten organization. We're not like that. We're different.”

“Is that what you're going to tell Albert?”

“Hey, he's just moved up from double-A ball to the major leagues. He's going to need some friends to help him learn the game. We're ready to do that for him. Plus, he owes me. I saved his life after all.”

Alex was suddenly certain that Jonah had planted the bomb in Ilunga's car himself and left a loose wire that he could conveniently and dramatically “spot” just in time. He was equally certain that the CIA man would never own up to that particular stunt.

“Albert is not like Silwamba, you know.”

“I know.”

“He's not looking for an easy score. I don't think you'll find him corruptible.”

“We'll see . . . You know what they say about power.”

•   •   •

T
he door opened and Lockhart entered, accompanied by the aide who had shown Alex to the waiting area.

“The President is ready for you,” the aide said to Keeler.

“Thank you.”

Alex stepped between Jonah and door.

“One last thing, Jonah.” Alex kept his voice low to keep the exchange private. “The Sudan. You told me the Working Group was behind what happened in Darfur.”

“No. That's not correct. I told you that they might have been.”

“But they weren't, were they? Altera Petroleum got those contracts. You were behind that. Everything you just told me was bullshit.”

Keeler's smile reminded Alex of a crocodile's.

“You figure it out, kid. I gotta go. The head of state is waiting for us. My offer's still good. You know how to reach me.”

The door closed and Alex was alone in the waiting room. The room felt oppressively hot. There suddenly seemed no point in his meeting with Ilunga. Albert would know soon enough what he was dealing with and he would make the decisions he had to make.

Alex walked down the hall and down the stairs to the lobby. He stopped at the reception desk to tell the scheduler that he had been called away for an emergency and would be back in touch to reschedule the meeting. Then he walked out into the tropical heat.

As he had promised, Leonard was waiting for him.

“You ready?” he asked. Alex's bags were in the backseat of the Citroën. He had three hours before his flight.

“Yeah. Let's go. There's a girl I've been dying to see.”

EPILOGUE

O
CTOBER
12, 2009

A
mazingly enough, the satellite phone still worked. At some point, someone in the State Department's administrative offices would realize that no one could account for the phone, and they would stop paying the bills. The department's budgeting process was so fragmented and incoherent, however, that that day could be a long time coming. Alex would keep using the phone until it stopped working, giving thanks for once for the inherent inefficiencies of government.

He was sitting in the shade of his porch with a cold beer perched precariously on the railing. It was all new construction and the wood still smelled of sap and sawdust. For the first time since Darfur, he felt at peace. The dreams were not gone, but they came less frequently and were less intense. Psychologically and emotionally, he was in a good place. Still, he had deliberately been putting off this conversation. It would be painful, but it was something that he felt he had to do.

The number that he dialed was familiar. The phone connected with an Inmarsat-3 satellite in geosynchronous orbit that bounced the signal
to an Intelsat satellite crossing over North America that beamed the signal down to an earthbound receiver. Three seconds after Alex hit the “call” button, a phone rang in the library of an eighteenth-century farmhouse on Maryland's eastern shore. Ambassador Spencer answered after only three rings.

“Hello, Alex. I've been expecting your call. Of course, my caller ID just identified you as me . . .”

“That's all I ever wanted to be.”

“I understand. I'm sorry that I disappointed you in the end. That's only supposed to happen with the children you raise. Not the ones you choose for yourself later in life.”

Although he had steeled himself for this exchange, Alex struggled to keep the catch out of his voice.

“I've been trying to understand why you did this, not just to me but to yourself. I don't know that either of us is ever really going to know the answer. You're a better man than that. I hope that you're willing to try to prove it. There's a lot of life ahead of you in which to make amends.”

“That's kind of you. But I don't believe that I've ever felt quite so . . . old.”

Alex had spent several vacations with Spence and his family at their farm in Oxford, Maryland. It was right on the Chesapeake Bay, with a big sloping lawn that led down to the water. From the back porch, you could see the sunset over the bay. For a man such as Spence, however, for whom the exercise of national power had been his whole life, retirement was simply a short prelude to death. The word had gone out in foreign policy circles in Washington that Spence had been forced out because of some mysterious malfeasance on his part. It did not take more than that for the invitations to seminars and soirees to stop coming. Spence was not only out of government, he was also out of public life and there was no immediate prospect of rehabilitation. No matter
how beautiful the surroundings, Alex knew that this would gnaw at the soul of his former friend and onetime mentor.

“Spence, there's something I need to ask you. Were you part of the decision to kill me? Did you agree to that?”

The pause was considerably longer than the two-second satellite delay.

“I had nothing to do with that,” Spence said finally. “I hope you believe me and I know that you have every right not to. I agreed with the others that we needed to get you out of the Congo and back to the States. But that's all. The espionage charges were a placeholder. They would have kept you out of circulation for a while. Then they would have gone away. It was Viggiano and Saillard who had other ideas. I thought I was in control of the operation, but it turned out that it was in control of me. You're as much family to me as my own girls. If that slippery bastard Keeler told you that Viggiano was acting on my orders, that's another of his damn lies. He's Agency. It's a habit. They lie even when it's easier to tell the truth.”

“Thanks. I needed to know.”

“Did you get the news about Al-Nour? He's dead. The Sudanese killed him. It looks like he had become too much of a liability.”

“It doesn't really matter, does it?”

Alex felt nothing at learning of the death of the man whom he had seen murder his daughter's grandfather. This surprised him somewhat. Al-Nour's death would make no difference in Darfur. Someone else would take his place. The problem was the system that created and rewarded men like Al-Nour. That system was bigger than all of them and that system had not changed.

“I heard from those few of my ‘friends' who will still talk to me that you left the Service. I was sorry to hear that. You're a hell of a diplomat. I know that Mother State will take you back in a heartbeat. I hope you'll change your mind about that.”

“It's too late. I'm done with that life and there's no going back. I'm ready for what comes next.”

“Are you going into business?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Consulting?”

“No, Spence. I'm going into the mining business . . .”

•   •   •

A
lex hung up. From the porch, he could look out over almost the entire village of Busu-Mouli and admire the progress the villagers had made in rebuilding from the battle with the
genocidaires
. Since Manamakimba and the Hammer of God had come to Busu-Mouli, the various rebel groups still battling in the bush had given the town a wide berth. The village was peaceful and growing more prosperous as the mining operation had become more efficient and productive. Alex had been a part of that. He and Mputu were constantly tinkering with the equipment while Marie managed the overall mining operation. It was the most satisfying work that he had ever done.

In the village square, some kids were playing soccer with one of the new balls that Alex had brought with him from Kinshasa. Charlie and Jean-Pierre were among them. Anah had been kicking the ball around with the boys earlier. Now she was sitting under a nearby mango tree playing with a wooden doll that Marie had given her. The doll had a head of coarse goat hair and a beautiful dress that looked like the one Marie had worn to the funeral after the battle with the
genocidaires
. The three children, all newcomers to the village, had become close friends. Charlie lived with Manamakimba and his new girlfriend, a local Busu-Mouli girl. Jean-Pierre lived with Alex and Marie, sharing a room with Anah. He was family now. The Luba adoption ceremony had been a simple affair, but the party that followed had lasted for two days.

Alex sipped his beer and watched the children playing. The sheer exuberance of the game was a reason to feel joy. Anah put her doll down
and rejoined the soccer game. He looked at his watch. Marie and Mputu were expecting him at the mine in a little less than an hour. They were planning to test some new commercial-grade equipment that they had picked up for a song when Consolidated Mining had been forced to liquidate its operations in eastern Congo. It was good, solid gear that should make it possible for them to reach much deeper into the hills. The irony was icing on the cake. He decided to join Anah and the boys for some soccer before heading up to the mine. Even if he was a little late, Alex was sure that Marie would not mind. After all, they had plenty of
time.