The American Mission (6 page)

“And how's my goddaughter?” the Ambassador asked. He and Anah had not spent much time together, but it was Spence who had pulled the strings with the immigration service that had put the adoption on a fast track. A certain senior official in Homeland Security who
owed Spence an enormous but unspecified favor had taken over the case and had been exceptionally generous in his interpretation of the government's requirements for documentation. “Uncle” Spence never forgot Christmas or Anah's birthday, and he kept a framed picture of her in his office alongside pictures of his own girls.

“She's perfect.”

“School's going well?”

“Yep. She's pretty much caught up with her peer group, and she finishes third grade next week. Kids adapt very quickly. From the way she talks now, you'd never know that she didn't speak a word of English or French three years ago.”

After a few more minutes catching up on their surrogate Foreign Service family and trading news about mutual friends who had drifted off to the far corners of the globe, Spence arrived at the point of the call.

“So, I understand you may have a job offer pending from our friends at Centrex.”

“As it so happens, I do. I'm just about to send the letter accepting the position. I expect to be finished up here in about three weeks or so. I'm also assuming I have you to thank for the opportunity, Spence. So thank you. It means a lot to me. Your support through every step of this has meant a lot. I'm grateful.”

“It's been my pleasure to help out where I could,” Spence replied. “Truth is, though, I'm actually calling to ask you to tear up the letter you wrote Centrex and come work for me in Kinshasa.”

“What happened? Did your consul get dengue fever or did your motor pool supervisor come down with beriberi?”

“I'm serious. I don't know if you heard about what happened to my Political Counselor, Julian Wells.”

“No, I'm somewhat out of the news loop here.” Alex knew Julian Wells by reputation as a hard charger on his way up in the Africa bureau hierarchy.

“Julian, I'm sorry to say, was lost in a helicopter crash in central
Congo three days ago. He was on the way back from negotiating with one of the rebel groups about the terms of transit for a UN aid convoy when the helicopter went down. We don't even know the exact location of the crash site.”

“I'm sorry to hear about that. I didn't know Julian myself, but we certainly had friends in common. They spoke highly of him.”

“He was a good man. And we will miss him. Heartless as it may sound, however, we must also replace him. There's too much going on right now in the Congo that's too important, and Julian's deputy is just too green to take over. Alex, you know more about this country than just about anyone else in the Service. You've got the Peace Corps experience in eastern Congo that no one can match. I want you to come to Kinshasa as my Political Counselor. The AF bureau sent me a list of available candidates, including some good officers, but I want you.”

“I'm not sure what good I can do for you without a security clearance,” Alex replied. “I couldn't even read my own reports.”

“Things change, Alex, sometimes for the better. Do you remember Evelyn Calder?”

“Sure.” Calder was the U.S. Ambassador in Ethiopia and a longtime friend of Spence's.

“Well, she is taking over as Senior Director for Africa at the National Security Council. With Evelyn at the White House and that ass Gifford she's replacing out of government service and looking for a K Street paycheck, my own level of influence has been kicked up several notches. On top of that, Congo is moving up the radar screen in Washington, and AF is desperate to fill this job fast. If I call in a few markers . . . and maybe write a few IOUs . . . I think I can get DS to approve your appeal. You'd get your clearances back, and you can come work for me. What do you say?”

“What about Anah?”

“No problem. You don't think I'd bring my goddaughter into harm's way, do you? The fighting is all in the east. Kinshasa is no more dan
gerous than Conakry. And the international school is very good. The oil and mining companies see to that. They have kids to educate too.”

Alex didn't need to ask any more questions. Centrex had offered him a good job, but that's all it was—a job. Spence had just offered him the chance to return to something he loved, cutting-edge diplomacy and peacemaking. The Political Counselor job was traditionally the number three position in an embassy after the Ambassador and the Deputy Chief of Mission. In addition to being the Ambassador's chief adviser on all political issues in the country, the Counselor had an important role in shaping U.S. policy and engaging local authorities, journalists, politicians, diplomats, and opinion leaders of all stripes to advance American interests. It was a complex, fascinating, and utterly engaging set of responsibilities.

The Congo was a huge account, and engulfed in a fast-moving war involving troops from half a dozen countries. It was also a country that Alex both loved and feared for. In truth, it wasn't even really a choice.

“When do you need me?” Alex asked.

“On the morning flight.”

J
UNE
16, 2009
S
OMEWHERE
ALONG
THE
A
RUWIM
I
R
IVER

T
he first intimation Marie had that there was anything wrong was a red hole about the size of a five-rand coin that appeared in the center of Faido Omokoko's chest. The expedition's head of security grunted as though he had been struck in the solar plexus with a fist rather than a rifle bullet before he crumpled to the ground. For just a moment the jungle was absolutely still. Then came the distinctive stuttering cough of an AK-47. Armed men appeared as if from nowhere along the length of the mining company column that stretched back several hundred meters from Marie's position in the vanguard.

Marie threw herself flat to the forest floor and crawled as deep as she could into the brush at the base of an enormous umbrella tree. The thorny vines and tall undulating tree roots afforded poor cover, but it was better than nothing. The shooting was not random. Every man with a rifle was gunned down in short order. Faido was the only one who was truly a friend, but Marie had come to know some of the other
security guards as well and felt a familiar mix of sadness and anger as she watched from her hiding spot. Although this was not the first time she had seen men die, it never got easy.

To her untrained but experienced eyes, the militants seemed disciplined and precise, not like some of the other private armies laying waste to the Congo. Most of the soldiers had tools or pieces of pipe or what looked like faucets hanging around their necks. Talismans of some sort, she supposed.

In a few short minutes, it was all over. Marie saw Jack Karic crying in pain and fear as one of the assailants pressed a rifle barrel into the back of his neck and forced him to his knees. The soldiers herded the surviving team members together into a tight group that would be easier to control.

Marie clung to the faint hope that the thin foliage would camouflage her from the guerillas. She had little doubt what they would do to her and the other women on the team. Eastern Congo was rightly regarded as the rape capital of the world. Her right hand crept down to the razor-sharp jungle knife in a sheath strapped to her calf.

It didn't take long for the soldiers to spot her. One man trained a shotgun on her while two others pushed through the thorny branches and grabbed her ankles. Marie reached back for her knife and slashed ineffectually at the hands holding on to her boots. The soldiers pulled hard and dragged her roughly out from under the bush. She scraped painfully over the ground. One of the men grabbed the hand holding the knife and pinned it to a rock, forcing her fingers open. The blade fell to the ground.

Strong hands gripped the back of her field jacket and lifted Marie to her feet. She felt hands run quickly over her body, not in preparation for sexual assault but rather a quick pat down for concealed weapons. Grabbing her arms from behind, the soldiers frog-marched her toward a group of four older men who she suspected were the officers.

A slim man with close-cropped hair, gold-rimmed spectacles, and
an air of authority stepped forward and turned to face her. His features were delicate. It was the face of an aspiring poet or art student.

Marie felt a stab of icy fear. She recognized her captor. This was Joseph Manamakimba. Of all of the Congo's many warlords, Manamakimba was the most infamous. It was his reputation for callous violence that made his first words so surprising.

“Do not worry, African sister,” he said in a gentle, almost soothing voice. His French was smooth and elegant. “I know what you fear and it is not to be. You will find that we are not monsters. We cherish our sisters.” Manamakimba gestured to the foot soldiers holding her arms and they released her.

“But not your brothers,” Marie said. “You made my friend Faido's wife a widow today.” Her speech was rushed and hurried, a function of the adrenaline still coursing through her system.

“I am sorry about your friend, Marie Tsiolo. He was armed and therefore a danger to my boys. My first duty is to them. His death was regrettable, but it was also unavoidable. In the meantime, I beg you not to worry. You will not be harmed.” Manamakimba's smile was genuine, but there was a glint of the predator in his eyes.

“How do you know my name?”

“Uncle Joseph knows many things. I have many friends in interesting and unusual places who see things of interest to me and help me understand what is happening to our country. I assure you that I do not mean to do you harm.”

While her situation was still precarious, Manamakimba's promise that she would not be violated loosened a knot that had been tightening in her stomach. Marie knew too many Congolese women who had suffered abuse at the hands of the guerillas. Those who survived were never the same. To her chagrin, Marie recognized what she was feeling as something akin to gratitude.

“What about my friends?” Marie looked over at Charlotte and Arlene.

“If you so wish it, sister, we will extend to them the same courtesies and protections as to you.”

“I wish it.”

“Very well.” Manamakimba turned and began shouting out orders in Lingala. One of them was to bury the bodies of the dead. This small gesture of respect was another surprise.

Marie surveyed what was left of the team. Steve Wheeler was hurt with what looked like a bullet wound to his left leg.

Wallace Purcell was dead. He had twisted his knee the day they had set out from Sifa's village, and for the last three days, he'd been walking with the aid of a tree branch. In the shadows, it was likely that one of the guerillas had mistaken it for a rifle. Now he lay on his back with his jaw slack and his eyes lifeless. He had been shot in the throat. As she watched, two of the guerillas picked up Purcell's body and carried it into the jungle to be buried alongside the company's hired guns.

Marie was one of seven people the Hammer of God had taken hostage and the only Congolese. In theory, Jack Karic was in charge, but one look at him was enough to tell Marie that someone else was going to have to step up. Karic was sitting on a rock with his knees drawn up to his chest and a wide-eyed look of panic on his face. No doubt this was Jack's first experience with violent death. He was not dealing with it well.

The injury to Steve Wheeler was the first priority. The wounded took precedence over the dead.

“Let me take a look at your leg,” Marie said, as she knelt to examine the injury. A stray bullet had carved a deep gash in his thigh. It was bleeding profusely and looked painful, but it did not appear life threatening. “I've seen worse. You should be all right if we can keep the wound from getting infected. How do you feel?”

“Like someone has just laid a hot poker across my leg,” Wheeler replied through gritted teeth.

“Do we have the medical kit?” she asked the group. “Steve's injury needs to be cleaned and dressed.”

“We've got nothing,” Mike Tanner answered. “The medical supplies were with the porters, and they've disappeared along with all the gear.”

Marie turned to one of the young paramilitaries standing guard over the group.

“We need bandages and medicine for our friend,” she said in Lingala.

The young man looked at her silently and then shook his head. Alongside the tools in her backpack, Marie kept a change of clothes. She ripped a cotton shirt into strips and used it to bandage Wheeler's leg. The shirt was not sterile, but it was at least clean. The tough New Zealander sat still and quiet as Marie wrapped his leg. Beads of sweat on his forehead were the only indication of just how much pain he was in.

With the one immediate task accomplished, Marie was uncertain about what they should do next. Someone should probably say something, however, and it might as well be her. At least she knew the identity of their captors. Drawing herself up to her full height, she tried her best to project a confidence she did not feel.
Come on, damn it
, she thought,
you are the daughter and granddaughter of chiefs
. Her father would know what to do and what to say. He was a natural leader. Had he not been born a chief, he would have died one. That was just the kind of man he was. His blood ran in her veins, of course, but despite all her professional accomplishments, Marie had never felt that she measured up.

She cleared her throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, for lack of a better opening line. “Let me share with you the little I know about the people who are apparently holding us hostage.” Marie made a sweeping gesture with her right hand, taking in most of the guerillas. “This is the Hammer of God, and that,” she said, pointing discreetly at Manamakimba, “is Joseph Manamakimba. He has promised me that he has no intention to hurt us beyond what he has already done. The important thing now is to stay
calm, stay together, and stay alive.” She decided not to tell them that Manamakimba had known her name.

The surviving members of the survey team looked at her wordlessly. Some were clearly in shock; some seemed on the edge of making the foolish choice to run.

“Marie.” It was Sven Norlund who broke the silence. “Did our new friend give you any indication of what he was after?”

“He didn't say. It may be about money. If the Hammer of God is trying to extort money from the company, then Manamakimba has a financial incentive to keep us alive.”
At least until the ransom is paid,
she added silently.

Norlund's question seemed to open the floodgates, and suddenly nearly every member of the team was clamoring with questions, all except Karic, who was staring blankly into the middle distance.

“Hold on,” said Marie. “Let's take things one step at a time and let's get ourselves organized. If Manamakimba decides to move us, we had better be ready. Charlotte, do we have any kind of communications gear?”

“Not a thing. We had a sat phone and two iridium handsets, but the soldiers took those. We're down to smoke signals and ESP.”

“What about food and water?” Marie asked.

Among them, the Consolidated team had about ten full canteens of water and enough food to last two or three days at the most. They had just finished dividing the supplies equally among those left alive when Manamakimba returned. With a completely neutral expression, he looked over the preparations the team had been making. He also took a long look at Jack Karic. He seemed to know who he was.

“We have wounded,” Marie said. “We need bandages, medicine, and clean water.”

Manamakimba shrugged. “If I had these things, I would share them with you. Alas, I do not.” The Hammer of God cocked his head and gave her an appraising look. “You have done well, little sister. Make
sure your flock is ready to go in five minutes. We are moving on to camp. There will be no stragglers. I will personally shoot those who can't keep up.”

Her flock?
Marie had no desire to be thrust into any kind of leadership position. Having started down the road, however, there seemed no way to undo the new order of things on the survey team.
Welcome to upper management
.
Hell of a way to get a promotion.

•   •   •

T
he next twenty-four hours were a blur, a forced march through the jungle with no food and little water.

After the first six hours, older and weaker members of the team started to flag from both the physical and psychological strain. Steve Wheeler hobbled along on a makeshift crutch. Each step was excruciatingly painful. The bandage on his leg was already soaked through with blood.

Although she was relatively young and in good shape, the forced march was taking a toll on Marie as well. Her legs and back ached, and her face was swollen from insect bites. Exhaustion coupled with the jungle's enervating humidity was slowing her thinking, and she could almost feel her brain turning to mush. It was getting hard to form coherent thoughts. Marie wanted desperately to lie down and close her eyes.
Just for thirty seconds
, she lied to herself.

After ten hours, Arlene Zimmerman tripped over a root and landed in a heap at the foot of a fig tree. She began to cry, as much, Marie understood, out of fear and frustration as out of pain. One of the soldiers pointed his rifle at her and looked at Manamakimba for orders. The rebel leader turned toward Marie with a questioning look on his face.
What are you going to do?
he seemed to be asking. Marie didn't know the answer. She walked over to the soldier pointing the gun at Arlene and pushed the point of his rifle up into the air. “That won't be necessary, child,” she said in Lingala. In truth, the soldier was probably in his
early twenties, hardly a child by the standards of a typical Congolese guerilla outfit. Marie was doing what she could, however, to establish that she was in charge of this situation. Next she reached for Arlene, taking her face in her hands and then holding the elderly scientist's head against her breast. Marie stroked her short gray hair. “It's okay, Arlene,” she said. “We're gonna make it. It's just another ten minutes. It's okay. You can lean on my shoulder till we get there. It's just a little farther.” None of this was true, but that hardly seemed important.

For lack of anything better to say, she repeated her reassurances in French and Lingala. Arlene spoke neither language, but Marie was speaking as much to the guerillas as to the American.
You do not need to kill her
was the message she hoped to send.

When Marie turned Arlene's face up to her own, the American's eyes were red and filled with tears, but she was once again in control. “Thank you, Marie,” she said, before rising to her feet and retrieving the branch she had been using as a walking stick.

Jack wasn't so lucky. He had never recovered from the shock of the initial assault. The expedition's nominal leader could be utterly ruthless in negotiating a contract, but he had no experience with physical violence. At about the twelve-hour mark, Jack Karic sat down to die.