The American Mission

by Matthew Palmer

  The maître d’ informed him that Monsieur Saillard was already waiting at the table. Saillard rose when they approached and he shook Alex’s hand. He was wearing a bespoke light gray double-breasted suit with an expensive-looking tie and silver cuff links. His hair was gelled securely into place. Alex was dressed more casually in a blazer and tan slacks.

  “I’m so glad you could make it today,” Saillard said, as they took their seats. “We have much to talk about.” Their table was tucked back in the corner of the main dining room, affording them privacy for the conversation.

  “I suppose we do.”

  “But let us order first. If you haven’t tried it, the chateaubriand is magnificent.”

  There were no prices on the menu. Le Caf’ Conc’s clientele did not need that information. Alex ordered a simple fillet of sole and a salad. Saillard went for the chateaubriand with the crab soup and a side of caviar. He also ordered a bottle of vintage Bordeaux that by itself probably exceeded Alex’s representational allowance. Corporate guys lived well.

  The waiter uncorked the bottle at the table and offered Saillard a small taste. The mining executive nodded his approval.

  “Tell me about your adventures with Mr. Manamakimba,” Saillard began, after the waiter had filled their glasses with the excellent wine. “I’m so grateful that you were able to get all of our people out safely.”

  Alex offered a brief description of the negotiations with Manamakimba.

  “It’s odd, though,” Alex observed. “From what you told us, you seemed persuaded that this was a random event. That there was no pattern in the Hammer of God’s targeting Consolidated’s interests in the east. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. I came away from my time with Manamakimba believing that he had chosen his target very carefully.”

  Saillard seemed unconcerned by this. “Well, it is impossible to know what happens in the mind of a man as brutish as Mr. Manamakimba. I assure you, however, that our operations in eastern Congo—which are very important to my company—are quite secure.”

  “And what about your plans for Busu-Mouli? Has your thinking on this changed at all on the basis of my reports?”

  “I’m afraid not. We do appreciate your recommendations, of course. But you are asking us to surrender significant profits in a difficult economic environment. Our first responsibility, of course, is to our shareholders.”

  “On its website, Consolidated Mining trumpets its commitment to corporate social responsibility. This seems like a golden opportunity to put that principle into operation.”

  “If it were a minor find, I would agree with you. If all that we were looking at was a small deposit of low-grade ore, we would be more than pleased to provide some surplus or refurbished equipment, take a few pictures for the website, and . . . what is that expression you Americans are so fond of . . . give something back? It’s quite charming really, if a tad self-aggrandizing.”

  The waiter brought Alex’s salad and Saillard’s soup. The Belgian tucked his napkin into his collar to avoid staining his tie.

  “As I understand it from the Tsiolo family, you did more than decide to decline assistance. You reached an agreement with the village and then pulled out when you realized how much money there was to be made there.”

  Saillard shrugged. “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. Another is that the company adapted its position in light of new information that came onto the market. It’s normal business practice really.”

  “That may be true, but I also believe it represents the triumph of short-term thinking over long-range strategic planning. Look, Henri. We both know that the Silwamba government is fragile. Consolidated enjoys a privileged position for the time being, but you risk losing that position when political change comes to the Congo. If you have a different and less exploitative relationship with the people of this country, your longer-term position will be more secure.”

  “You may be right. And I can see how you were so effective in persuading Mr. Manamakimba to cooperate. It is a calculus that revolves around just how much profit Consolidated Mining can make in the Congo before the political climate changes in a way fundamentally inimical to our interests. We have . . . crunched, is that the right word? . . . crunched the numbers, and as a matter of business, we are quite confident that our decision here is the correct one.”

  “And what if the villagers refuse to leave?”

  “If we have the necessary government approvals to take possession of the land, we will take possession of the land.” A few drops of crab soup fell off his spoon and stained the napkin.

  Alex looked at him quizzically.

  “The government’s reach outside of Kinshasa is pretty shaky. It’s unlikely you could get the police to enforce a court order.”

  “Out there,” Saillard observed, “the law operates quite differently. We do have ways of exercising our rights in eastern Congo, and we have considerable experience in dealing with the unique challenges.”

  One waiter removed the empty salad and soup plates, and a second server delivered the main course. Next to Saillard’s steak, the waiter placed a small silver dish of caviar and a plate of toast points. Alex took a bite of the sole without really tasting it. He thought through what Saillard had just told him. The threat of violence was implicit, but it was there. Just how far was Consolidated Mining prepared to go in pursuit of profit? It was worth pressing a few buttons, Alex decided, to gauge the reaction.

  “Henri, I appreciate that Consolidated Mining has very specific interests in eastern Congo and, in particular, Busu-Mouli. You are an American company, and we owe you a measure of support. At the same time, I represent the United States, and our interests as a nation are significantly broader than yours as a corporation. Tying ourselves too closely to your venture in Busu-Mouli risks undercutting long-term U.S. interests in Congo. I’m going to recommend to the Ambassador that we cease acting as Consolidated Mining’s representative in this matter. Ultimately, of course, it will be the Ambassador’s decision, but that will be my recommendation. How’s the steak?”

  Saillard’s knuckles tightened on the wooden handle of the steak knife, and for a brief moment it looked like he might be ready to cut into something other than chateaubriand.

  “I’d think very carefully before doing anything so rash,” he said, abandoning all pretense of bonhomie. “I understand that your position in your own service is not absolutely secure. I would hate to see a promising career snuffed out before it had really even begun.”

  While it was infuriating, Alex was not surprised that Saillard had access to information about his struggles with Diplomatic Security. He suspected that Viggiano was the source.

  They finished the meal largely in silence. Saillard did not suggest that they linger over coffee.

  • • •

  Alex stayed late at the Embassy that evening to finish up some paperwork. At about eight o’clock he went to the cafeteria to get a Snickers bar out of the vending machine. Jonah Keeler was sitting at a table by himself nursing a cup of coffee.

  “I hear you’ve been making some waves.”

  “News travels fast.”

  “Not as fast as gossip. Listen. A little friendly advice. You watch your ass. There are folks in this city—hell, in this embassy—who would like to see you go down. Don’t give them the opportunity.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ll be careful.”

  “I’m serious, boy. You have no idea what you are getting into.”

  “No,” Alex agreed. “But I’m starting to.”

  19

  JULY 10, 2009

  BUSU-MOULI

  The mine and smelter had become Marie’s obsession. Copper was money, and money was what Busu-Mouli needed if the village was to have any chance of survival. She was more skeptical than her father that Alex could deliver Consolidated Mining, no matter how sincere he might be. She understood the
scale of the challenge better than her father. Consolidated Mining was an enormous operation, and it was so thoroughly intertwined with the government in Kinshasa that it was hard to tell where the one stopped and the other began.

  Only money, Marie believed, could change the calculus and potentially save the village. With money, the Tsiolo clan could engage in the same kind of influence-seeking that now threatened to destroy the village. Money would also buy the weapons the villagers could use to defend themselves. The central government exercised little effective control outside the major cities. Kinshasa could cede Busu-Mouli to Consolidated Mining, but the company would still have to muster sufficient force to take control in fact as well as in law.

  Marie stood facing the rock wall at the business end of the main shaft. She ran her fingers over the rough stone surface, tracing the outline of the chalcopyrite and malachite veins visible in the rock. The yellowish chalcopyrite glistened like gold as it reflected the light from the mining lamp hanging from a hook on the wood-reinforced ceiling. The malachite deposits were a smooth, deep green that spoke of copper riches reaching far back into the earth.

  The men who worked at the face of the shaft did their best to follow the twisting veins of copper as they wound their way through the mountain. There was an art to it, however, and Marie had an almost intuitive feel for which path the veins would follow that her male compatriots could not match. The rock was a living thing that would whisper its secrets to you if you were open to its message.

  “Slant the tunnel to the left and angle it down another ten degrees,” she finally said to the shift supervisor, a muscular twenty-two-year-old named Yves who looked like he could have been cut from stone himself.

  Marie could not be absolutely confident in the guidance she had given Yves, and her instructors at the Witwatersrand School of Mining in Johannesburg would have been horrified by her methodology, but so far she had been right more often than she had been wrong. Yves and his work crew hefted their picks and prepared to attack the rock face. A pile of wicker baskets stood along the wall, ready to be filled with the raw ore and carried up to the surface. Marie clapped Yves on the shoulder and made her way up the shaft toward sunlight and fresh air. The rank air here at the deepest part of the shaft had left her slightly light-headed.

  She had been underground for only about two hours and it was already early evening. Even so, the colors of the outside world seemed shockingly vivid in comparison to the muted hues of the subterranean. Marie stood at the mouth of the tunnel breathing in the sweet, clean air. She took a swallow of water from the canteen on her hip and headed down the narrow mountain track to the smelter. Katanga was there, overseeing repairs to the furnace.

  Her uncle had proven to be indispensable to the operation. He was organized, dedicated, and inspiring to the younger villagers, whose labor, freely given in support of Busu-Mouli’s future, made what they were doing possible, even mildly profitable. For now, the proceeds from the sale of copper ingots were sunk back into the mine, with a small percentage diverted to support Jean-Baptiste’s village guard. Eventually, the profits from the mine would be used to improve the quality of life for all of the inhabitants of the valley. If Marie had her way, that day was coming soon.

  She retrieved several rolls of schematic diagrams from her office in the back room of the smelter and spread them out on a table near the rock crusher. The crusher was silent for now, as a broken furnace had created a bottleneck that was being felt back up the line of production. The crusher itself was in good working order, and Marie was pleased that Alex’s design suggestions had resulted in a more reliable and efficient machine. She liked the American’s mechanically inclined mind. He made things with his hands that made a difference in the real world. For Marie, that meant something.

  She weighted the corners of the oversize diagrams with pieces of copper ore scavenged from the floor. Then she called for Katanga to come offer his opinion.

  “I’m worried about B shaft, Uncle,” Marie said, pointing to the place on the diagram that had drawn her attention. As they had advanced into the mountain, the main tunnel had sprouted several branching side shafts that tracked different veins of copper ore. B shaft had been a problem from the beginning. The ore was of lower quality and the surrounding rock was soft and brittle. A cave-in had injured two miners three days earlier, one of them seriously, and Marie was no longer sure if B shaft was worth the cost.

  “What about adding more reinforcements?”

  “We can try, but there are already so many beams in place that it’s difficult to move. Even so, the ceiling is unstable. If we keep digging that vein, eventually we are going to have a major cave-in. Boys will die. I’m thinking that we close down B shaft and shift the focus to C. We can keep things going at the main face as well, and we should have enough raw ore to keep us in business. Assuming, of course, that you and Mputu can get the furnace fixed.” She smiled at Katanga to show that no criticism was intended.

  Katanga took no offense.

  “Don’t worry. A few more hours and we will be back to normal. Even with the problem with the furnace, the smelting operation is still able to stay ahead of the miners. Your American boyfriend did us a real favor in helping us to redesign the crusher.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Marie said automatically.

  “That’s not what Jean-Baptiste thinks.”

  “Jean-Baptiste is an arrogant—” Marie didn’t finish the sentence. She and Katanga froze as the frantic clanging of a bell cut through the conversation. The village bell was reserved for emergencies. The sudden chatter from an AK-47 confirmed her worst fears. Busu-Mouli was under attack.

  Since the earlier attempt by the genocidaires to burn down the smelter, Marie had installed a gun rack on the wall near her office. She took a Kalashnikov off the rack and slipped the heavy Zastava pistol into her belt. Katanga took an AK-47 for himself that he slung over his shoulder. He held a machine pistol in his beefy right hand. Some of the other men, including Mputu, armed themselves as well.

  Marie took charge.

  “Uncle, if these are genocidaires, they probably put in upstream and took the Lisala road. That means they will have to pass right through the village. I’ll take Mputu and his sons and see if we can circle around them on the goat track to the north. I’d like you to take the rest of the boys and guard the path along the riverfront. If they make it to the smelter and burn it down, we’ve lost the village whether or not we win the battle.”

  Through their work on the mine together, Katanga had gotten used to taking orders from his niece.

  “Very well, Marie. But remember that what you just said about the smelter applies to you as well. Without you, we are lost. Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  There was another burst of automatic-rifle fire followed by the crack of aimed shots and an explosion that might have been a rocket-propelled grenade.

  “Mputu,” Katanga said, turning to the village’s chief mechanic. “Keep her alive.”

  The mechanic nodded his acceptance of the charge. In the lamplight, beads of sweat gleamed on his bald head.

  Katanga led a group of five armed men out the door and down to the river. Other than the river itself, there were only two paths leading to the smelter. Katanga’s team would cover one, and Marie and Mputu would take the other. A roundabout route connected the smelter to the mining area and back to the village, but it was a lengthy path that followed the easiest terrain. A steeper, rockier goat path served as a shortcut and this was the track Marie intended to use.

  Mputu insisted on leading the way, and Marie did not try to argue. To make doubly certain that he was making good on his promise to Katanga, Mputu instructed his oldest son, Kikaya, to shadow Marie and protect her with his life.

  Scanning the jungle on either side, alert for danger, they moved carefully along the narrow trail until they reach
ed the edge of the village. The sun had set and the deep twilight shadows made it hard for Marie to get a sense of the scale of the fighting. At least two houses were burning. She could see defenders scattered in small groups returning fire that was coming from the direction of the Lisala road.

  Busu-Mouli was essentially a crossroads. One road, really no more than a wide path in parts, ran east-west and led down to the river and then up through the hills around the village. The north-south axis led to the Lisala road, Busu-Mouli’s primary overland connection with the outside world. To the south, the road came to a dead end on the far side of the farmland that stretched for the better part of half a mile from the last house in the village. The Chief’s house was set on a small rise toward the southern end of town, but the real heart of the village was the well at the center of the crossroads.

  Marie could see that small teams of villagers were spread in a loose arc at the northern end of town. Occasional bursts of gunfire from attackers hidden in the jungle kept the defenders in place, but this was not yet a determined assault.

  Jean-Baptiste, surrounded by a phalanx of armed young men, had taken up a position by the well in the center of town. Marie crouched as she ran across the open ground between the jungle and the minimal cover afforded by the well. She anxiously anticipated the whine of bullets, but no shots were aimed in her direction.

  “Jean-Baptiste,” she said breathlessly, when she reached his side. “Where’s my father?”

  “On his porch with the damn shotgun. I told him to stay inside. And what the hell are you doing here? You should have stayed with the smelter.” Baptiste was dressed in olive drab fatigues with a pistol strapped to one thigh and a machete strapped to the other. His Kalashnikov leaned carelessly against the well.