[African Diamonds 01.0] The Angolan Clan

by Christopher Lowery

  “I’ll confirm it with Henriques for Thursday. He told us that he’s ready to leave with Manuela immediately after the shipment.” Nick was making notes.

  “How’s he getting out?”

  “He didn’t tell us and we didn’t ask him. I think it’s better like that.”

  Charlie said, “I’m not keen on these arrangements being made on the phone. It would blow the whole business out of the water if that shit, Gomez, gets wind of this.” He turned to Nick. ‘What do you think Maggie would say if we asked to use her phone as a contact number? Not even COPCON would dare to piss off the Australian Embassy.”

  “No sweat, as she’s always saying.” Nick laughed. “Maggie’s always hankered after a job as an Australian spy, now’s her chance. I’ll talk to her when we get home. Good idea.”

  “OK, that’s great. If she agrees, we’ll make our calls from her apartment until this is sorted. Charlie was thinking ahead. “What about the next part, Olivier? Lisbon to Geneva sounds easy, but how do we actually do it?”

  “I’d rather say nothing until we have the merchandise safely here. I have the beginnings of a plan I think we can organise with my brothers. But let’s take it a step at a time.”

  Maggie was happy to help, her apartment was at their disposal. She didn’t bug Nick for any details, but she knew their time together was coming to an end, so he told her that he would soon be leaving Portugal. It was only fair, she was a marvellous woman and he would miss her.

  She was relieved to hear that he planned to leave. “My contract’s up in August,” she told him. “It’s time to take Alan home to Melbourne. I was worried about breaking it to you.”

  After that, they spent every night together, making the most of their remaining time. They had always known that the separation was inevitable, but it would be a difficult break. Maggie was a real brick, a pragmatic Australian girl, who knew the rules of engagement.

  On the Monday, Olivier made calls from her phone, booking a TAP flight to Luanda on Wednesday morning, returning on Friday morning. Nick set up the arrangements with Henriques to pick them up at the far end of the car park, next to where the campers were installed. He transmitted the details to Alberto, who confirmed he was set to go. He was arriving late at night, so there was little chance that they would be spotted in the dark.

  Nick also called Mario at APA. He was closing the office at the end of the month, after paying off the remaining workers. The last few months of business had been very profitable and their longstanding employees would receive generous bonuses. After ten years in the job, Mario could hardly bear to watch it all go to waste but he knew there was no alternative. He’d already sent his family to Lisbon the previous week. Just another few more days of this hellish existance to endure and he could join them. He agreed to Nick’s request and promised to be at the airport at the agreed time. He didn’t ask any questions. If this was the last service he could perform for the Bettencourt family he would be happy to comply.

  That afternoon, Olivier told Charlie that he had to make a quick trip to London. “I’m going tonight and I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. Something I need to sort out before I go down to Angola. Look after the shop for me, OK?”

  Jorge Gomez received a call from his contact at TAP on Monday evening. Olivier de Bettencourt had booked a return flight to Luanda, leaving on Wednesday morning, returning on Friday morning. This is it, he thought to himself. I’m going to catch the bastards redhanded this time.

  He informed Tavares that he was going back down to Luanda and got his approval to catch a military flight on Tuesday evening. Cryptically, he told his boss, “I said I’d bring the Bettencourt family and their sidekicks to you on a plate. Well, get the champagne ready.”

  Charlie bought a leather briefcase with a flap over, fastened by three locks. Two side fastenings were operated with a key, and the central one with a four digit combination code. It was strong and capacious, like a lawyer’s briefcase. He entered a combination in the central lock and placed it in the office at home.

  On Tuesday evening, Olivier returned from London and came over to the house to eat. Nick, Maggie and Alan were already there. While the women were preparing supper, Charlie gave the briefcase to Olivier with a set of keys and a slip of paper with the combination.

  They went to sit on the terrace with a beer. “I’ve put the house up for sale, not that it makes any difference these days.” Olivier shook his head. “I just wanted to show that we’ve finally thrown in the towel and we’re leaving the country. It might take the heat off for a few days at the bank, give us time to get things done.”

  Charlie nodded in agreement. “I’ve let it be known that we’ve given up the lease on this place for July 31st. Let’s hope that those communist bastards in the bank spread the news around. ‘Two more capitalists forced to leave the country!’ The Nationalisation Committee is going to be pissed off, running just another bankrupt company. No more kudos in it for them.”

  “Seriously, Charlie, this is a pretty risky endeavour for everyone. If it works, we’ll be in great shape when we kick off the business in Geneva and you and Nick will have earned a bigger chunk of share capital. On the other hand, if something goes wrong, and I can think of a dozen things that might, Alberto might be OK, but Henriques and I’ll definitely be in the shit and maybe you two as well. I haven’t told Cristina or my family. It’ll be time enough if it works out. I just told them I’ll be out of contact for a day or two, handling some business in Angola.”

  He took a sip of beer. “If anything goes wrong, I mean, if I get into trouble, I want you to tell Cristina and the family yourself, if you’re able. I don’t want you to tell them about this deal, it’s better if they don’t know. Just say I was in Angola, closing off business arrangements before leaving. OK with you?”

  Charlie murmured his understanding. The future Duque de Santiago de Compostela had to avoid bringing shame on his family. It was more or less the same story he’d told to Ellen.

  Olivier reached inside his inside pocket and handed him an envelope, letter size. “I’ll collect this from you when I get back. Alternatively, open it and inform my family. Please don’t show it to anyone else, anyone at all.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Wednesday - Friday, June 25th - 27th, 1975

  Luanda; Ambrizete, Angola

  Luanda airport was in indescribable chaos. The building was filled to overflowing with thousands of people trying to find a way out of the country. Men, women and children were standing, sitting, kneeling or lying in the middle of the chaos, by now many of them crying and wailing, their hands held out, begging for anything they could get, money, food, anything. UN officials were bustling about the terminal, organising a group of passengers on another emergency flight for Lisbon, the fifth that day.

  Olivier once again asked himself how his country could have come to such a pass. To stand by and permit this humanitarian nightmare to occur. To walk away from their once most productive and stable African possession, rich with every conceivable kind of resource, and see it reduced to a shambolic, war-torn hell-hole. And then, as the coup de grâce, to hand it over to the Russians and Cubans, knowing full well that they would destroy all hope of a normal life for its citizens for the foreseeable future. He couldn’t comprehend it at all.

  The soldiers at immigration were inspecting every bag and parcel, body searching many passengers and generally demonstrating their importance. The mass of people pressing around was an advantage, the immigration officials checked his VIP papers and waved him through to the arrivals hall, where Mario was waiting to meet him. They drove to his apartment and Olivier spent the night and the next day there, not going outside at all, for fear of inviting trouble. The plan was too important to screw up now.

  Alberto’s military flight arrived just after eleven on Thursday night. The Angolan bodyguard had informed his master that the Bettencourt family had finally given in to the inevitable and were pulling out of Angola. He told Cunhal that Olivier h
ad arranged for him to meet the boss of Sociedade Mineira de Angola. After delivering the documents to Agostinho Neto’s adjutant, he was going to see the mine owner and try to get him to agree to continue running the production if they got the MPLA to guarantee protection.

  Cunhal had agreed to his request without hesitation. He had condoned Alberto’s friendship with the APA people in the hope of just such an eventuality. The diamond mining business could be an immediate funding source, but almost all qualified workers were fleeing the country. If Alberto could help them to take over a profitable, operating mine, they could fund a lot of activities, including some special bonuses for the right people.

  During his time as a soldier, Alberto had been trained to grab any sleep he could, when he could. He had thrown some blankets across the hard metal seats of the converted Boeng B727 and managed to catnap for part of the almost twelve hour flight. Now, it felt as if every bone in his body was aching. He pulled himself together and washed his face in the lavatory wash basin before climbing painfully down the aircraft steps. He was wearing his major’s uniform and carrying the documents for Neto in Charlie’s briefcase. A jeep, waiting by the side of the runway took him to the airport building where an army captain saluted and showed him into the small office adjacent to the arrivals door. As usual, Neto’s adjutant was waiting for him and they quickly exchanged files of papers, shook hands and separated.

  Alberto went back outside then came in through the arrivals door to walk along the empty corridor towards the immigration desk. He suddenly felt a shiver of apprehension. He hadn’t been through immigration into his own country for several months, always meeting at the outside office before returning quickly to Lisbon.

  He turned the corner into the entrance to the arrivals hall and stopped in shock. Beyond the immigration desk the whole space was a solid mass of stinking humanity of all races and genders. Europeans, Africans, men, women, old people, children and babies. Every one of them seemed to be shouting, screaming or crying. Hanging onto everyone who went by in any kind of a uniform; soldiers, aircraft crew, aid helpers, even mechanics and baggage handlers.

  He walked towards the desk, trying to block out the sight and sound of the seething mass of misery that lay ahead of him.

  One of the soldiers at immigration recognised the figure of Cunhal’s tall bodyguard limping toward him and whispered excitedly to the others. The soldiers and immigration officials stood to attention and saluted, shouting, “Welcome to a hero of the revolution.” The officials casually looked at his papers and cheered him through without searching his case. A couple of soldiers manhandled people out of the way to clear a path for him and he emerged from the building into the torrid heat of the night.

  At the exit, one of the soldiers asked him, “Is your driver waiting, or can we take you somewhere?”

  Before he could formulate an answer, an attractive young woman walked up to him and kissed him on the lips. “Alberto, how are you my dear?”

  He shrugged to the soldiers as Manuela led him across to the car park.

  “I don’t think he needs any help from us tonight,” the soldier said to his comrade.

  “But I think he might in the morning!” the other replied with a lewd smile.

  Alberto whispered to Manuela, “Sra. d’Almeida, I presume. Obrigada.”

  “Prazer, Alberto. The others are over here.”

  He hung on to her arm as she steered him through vehicles, tents and families to the end of the car park, trying not to look at the thousands of people milling about in the chaos around them. His mind was too stunned to cope with the stark reality of what his regime had created.

  Olivier fell into step beside them. “Bom noite, amigo, how are you feeling?”

  “I’m absolutely knackered, to tell you the truth. Twelve hours in a military plane and you can’t wait to become a civilian.”

  Henriques was waiting with the Transit van in the darkest corner of the car park and after introductions, they climbed in, Manuela and Alberto on the back seat to give the bodyguard more room for his long legs. “Get some sleep on the way. It’s a five hour drive, minimum.”

  Olivier hadn’t been down for some time and was astonished at the increase in the number of soldiers and roadblocks. They were flagged down by a military unit, with armoured cars and a tank, deploying at a large intersection about ten kilometres north of the capital. Several jeeps and trucks were overturned at the side of the road. They could see bodies lying beside the wreckage and, as they waited, a truck arrived and the soldiers started loading the bodies, throwing them up over the tailgate.

  “God almighty! What the hell’s going on here, Henriques?”

  “It’s what I told Charlie and Nick.” The soldier with the red flag waved them on and the mine owner picked his way carefully through the remaining vehicle parts and debris on the road. “The MPLA are finally ready to kick the FNLA out of the north-western territory. There’s been new fighting around here for the past couple of days. The Portuguese are pulling out and the MPLA are moving up towards the border and clearing everything out of their way, so they’ll be in Ambrizete in a day or two. Then they’ll join up with the unit that’s already there and push up to the border and we’ll be fucked like an impala by a water buffalo. We’re down to the wire, we’ve got to get things done now or we’ll be too late. It’s time to get out.”

  Alberto said nothing, he was too confused by conflicting emotions to speak. He lay back on the seat and tried to sleep. Memories flooded through his mind.

  He was ten years old, running around his parent’s small farm outside of Luanda. He fell in a stream and his mother pulled him out, slapped him across the head then kissed it better.

  He was fourteen, at school, listening to the children of wealthy Portuguese landowners talking about their holidays in exotic sounding foreign places and ordering their negro servants to carry their bags and serve their lunches.

  He was thirty, standing for the photographer under a baking sun with his new bride, Inês, wondering what the future held for them in Angola, under Portuguese occupation.

  He was thirty-five, secretly providing information to the Angolan Communist Party and planning to save his country from the Portuguese fascist occupation.

  He was thirty-eight, proudly sitting in clandestine discussions with the cream of Angola’s intellectual radicals, convinced that the MPLA really was the road to independence.

  He was forty, helping Álvaro Cunhal, the infamous leader of the Portuguese Communist Party to escape in a submarine to Russia, to start a war by proxy in his homeland.

  He was fifty, sitting in a shitty little apartment in Moscow, reading Karl Marx, attending brain dead communist conferences and dinner parties and wondering if he would live long enough to see his country emerge from the shackles of colonialism.

  He was fifty-five, in Lisbon, twelve months after the revolution of the carnations, watching crowds of starving workers looting, rioting and burning cars and buildings in the streets outside his comfortable apartment.

  Alberto could still see, hear and smell the panic and fear of the seething masses of his fellow Angolan citizens at Craveiro Lopes Airport. Desperate to get out of their country, his country, before they were consumed by the onslaught of civil war.

  What happened? He asked himself. Where did we go wrong? This is not independence. This is not democracy. This is just madness. I want no more part of this murderous conspiracy. Then he realised, I have to get these diamonds out. So Inês and Raffa and I can start again, before it’s too late.

  After a short while he fell into a dreamless sleep. He was a soldier. He’d taken his decision, now he had to execute it.

  This time it took them less than five hours to get to the mine. The weather was good, the road was fairly clear, apart from a continuous line of refugees trudging along the roadside, and they met no rebel units, neither FNLA nor MPLA.

  Joaquim was waiting at the blockhouse to let them into the compound. He saluted and they drove i
nside and parked the van. It was four in the morning but they didn’t have time to waste, not even to sleep. The military flight was leaving at eleven and Olivier’s plane was at midday, so they would have to catnap on the return drive and on the flight. Henriques would drive Alberto back and then Manuela and Olivier would follow later, to avoid any chance of them being seen together.

  Charlie had prepared a simple form of agreement, spelling out the deal. Henriques read it through and signed it without question. “So, we’re partners now. Let’s get out of this shithole and make a fortune in a new country.” He poured a glass of whisky for each of them and they toasted their new partnership. “To Angolan diamonds, without Angola.”

  Alberto didn’t react to this provocation. Amazing what the promise of a fortune can do to your principles, reflected Olivier. He had no idea what was going through the Angolan’s troubled mind.

  Henriques went through the sorting plant to a windowless, single story concrete construction with a massive, iron bound door. It was fastened by three bolts with large padlocks attached. He unlocked the padlocks and entered the building alone with the briefcase. When he returned, it was impossible to tell that the diamonds and cash were inside it.

  Olivier locked the case with both the key and the code and passed it to Alberto with the key and a scrap of paper with the digits.

  “Boa sorte, Alberto. Good luck, I’ll see you in Lisbon.”

  Before Alberto could reply, the door burst open.

  They all turned in shock at the sound. In the doorway stood Jorge Gomez, flanked by two Portuguese soldiers, each carrying submachine guns.

  “What the fuck?” Henriques stared with astonishment at the three men. Manuela stood in a daze, frozen to the spot by this nightmarish interruption.

  Olivier looked at Alberto in disbelief. This little bastard had followed them here, all the way from Lisbon. He must really hate our guts, he thought to himself.

  Gomez shut the door behind them and the two soldiers took up positions at either end of the room, their weapons trained on the bewildered group.