The American Mission

by Matthew Palmer

  “Take a look.” The hacker pointed to the next landing and Alex saw a large colony of bats clinging to the wall. They were restlessly stretching their wings in anticipation of the falling darkness. The stairs above were slick with nearly half an inch of guano. There was something unsettling about the way the bats moved on the walls. These were small common brown bats. Some of their fruit-eating cousins had three-foot wingspans. Alex shuddered slightly at the thought. Jean-Pierre was utterly unfazed by the bats and carried his small box of gear past the colony without breaking stride.

  They exited the stairwell on the fifth floor. They set the boxes down while Alex looked for the best place to set up. This floor was probably intended for office space rather than retail. It lacked any kind of broad central corridor. A corner office that Alex suspected had been earmarked for one of the project’s muckety-mucks offered the best line of sight to the Consolidated Mining building.

  There was still some material left on-site from when the developers had called a halt to construction. Alex and Giles built a table from abandoned scaffolding and scrounged a couple of empty crates to sit on.

  “What are we doing here?” Jean-Pierre asked, as he helped unload the boxes of electronics.

  “We’re going to do a little spying,” Alex answered.

  “That’s cool.” Jean-Pierre did not have a problem with that. There were no moral absolutes in his world, only friends and enemies.

  Alex explained each step to Jean-Pierre as he and Giles set up the gear.

  “This is a satellite telephone.” Alex handed the phone to Jean-Pierre. “It works a little bit like the TV dish that you and I worked on at the church. But instead of cartoons, this picks up conversations. We’re going to listen in on the phone calls of our friends at Consolidated Mining and see what we can learn.”

  “Show me how it works,” Jean-Pierre replied.

  It took nearly two hours to build the system that Alex and Giles had designed. It was a Rube Goldberg device that included a broken-off car radio antenna on radial legs made of wire coat hangers, a commercial satellite tuner, and Giles’s backup laptop, a clunky but serviceable Hewlett-Packard. Linking up the hardware and software had taken longer than they had anticipated and the system had more steps to it than Alex was comfortable with. None of the steps were especially complicated, however. There was no reason it should not work as promised. Just in case, Alex asked Jean-Pierre to push the power button on the laptop. This was for luck. Given all that the boy had been through and somehow survived, someone somewhere was looking out for him. The system booted up normally. For the next ten minutes, however, nothing happened. Alex was about to reboot and try again when the electronic sound of numbers being dialed came over the sat phone’s speaker. The computer identified the number being dialed as Consolidated Mining’s corporate headquarters in New York. After three rings, someone picked up on the other end.

  “Mr. Jackson’s office, may I help you?”

  “Hello, Darlene, it’s Yvonne in the Kinshasa office.” Alex recognized the voice of the mining company’s receptionist. “I just want to confirm the proposed travel dates for Mr. Jackson’s visit.”

  The conversation was inconsequential. But its significance was clear. Alex had penetrated Consolidated Mining’s security. He had a direct line into their internal communications. Now, like a fisherman, he would have to be patient and wait for a big one to bite.

  31

  AUGUST 14, 2009

  KINSHASA

  When the CNN camera crew arrived, Marie knew that they had something going. Their reporter was not a local stringer or even the chief Africa correspondent from Nairobi. It was Annette Cartwright, the news network’s “Angel of Death.” The perky blond reporter was doing a stand-up in front of the parliament buildings where some eight thousand Ilunga supporters had gathered for the fifth straight day of marches. Nearly all of the demonstrators were dressed in white. This had been Alex’s idea. Ilunga was now leading a “color revolution” similar to the Orange and Rose revolutions that had brought down corrupt kleptocracies in Ukraine and Georgia or the yellow “People Power” movement in the Philippines.

  The world was starting to take notice of the challenge to Silwamba’s rule. Annette Cartwright’s presence in Kinshasa was proof of that. Cartwright had made her reputation in Iraq and Afghanistan as a tough-minded war reporter, but she had also covered natural disasters, famines, and bloody revolutions around the world. Wherever the perfectly coiffed Cartwright went, you could be pretty sure that something dramatic—and most often terrible and frightening—was happening. Her colleagues had bestowed the Angel of Death nickname in envious recognition of her flair for disaster. It was a responsibility she took seriously.

  Marie knew that she needed to get Ilunga on global TV to win the kind of international patronage that could step up the pressure on Silwamba. Cartwright would want an interview with Ilunga, and Marie would make sure that she got one. In the meantime, however, she had a rally to run. A chunk of the money from the sale of Alex’s diamonds had gone to the purchase of a flatbed truck outfitted with a high-quality PA system. Awilo Longomba, a popular soukous musician and longtime Ilunga supporter, was entertaining the crowd with a selection of songs from his latest album. Longomba had been in self-imposed exile in Paris for the last five years. His return to Kinshasa was a mark of how far they had come. There was room on the truck for the full eight-piece band. Large white banners draped over the cab proclaimed ILUNGA IS PRESIDENT.

  It was Ilunga’s movement, but Marie was the ringmaster. She decided the timing and target for each day’s march, and built the program that would keep people both entertained and politically engaged. As Longomba was winding up his set, Marie was reviewing the next events. She carried a clipboard with a detailed schedule, which together with the Bluetooth headset linked to her cell phone and her “Ilunga” T-shirt made her look a little like a roadie at a rock concert. A former senior Congolese army general was scheduled to speak next in support of Ilunga. This was an important endorsement. While Ilunga had found strong support among the police, the army was still largely pro-Silwamba. Too many of Ilunga’s supporters had fought with the militias that had battled the national army in the bush for the better part of the last decade. The Congo was still divided against itself and there was a palpable strain of bitterness and resentment that ran through the society.

  It was already starting to grow dark. In addition to a PA system, Marie had purchased lights that had been set up around the square to illuminate the stage. She made a quick call to one of her assistants and the lights came on. The effect was dramatic. Marie hoped that it looked half as good on television. Longomba finished playing to loud applause.

  The general, an infantry officer who wore his olive drab fatigues rather than the fancy dress uniform dripping with medals favored by many of his colleagues, was good but not great. He spoke too long and Marie sensed that the crowd was growing somewhat restless. The next event on the schedule was a young singer from Goma who had written a song about Ilunga. Marie was worried that it might be too slow or amateurish, and she was tempted to drop it from the program. One of her assistant producers called with the same concern.

  “Do you want us to cut the girl?” he asked. “We don’t want to lose the crowd.”

  Marie hesitated. The young woman had come a long way for this and she had come highly recommended by people in Goma whom Alex knew and trusted.

  “Let her sing,” Marie said. “But tell her to keep it to one song.”

  The girl, whose name was Melina, was heart-stoppingly beautiful. A black acoustic guitar hung from a strap around her neck in the colors of the Congolese flag. She stepped up to the microphone and one of the assistant producers cut all but one of the lights, leaving her marooned in an island of light. She strummed a few chords and her fingers began picking out a plaintive but powerful melody. Then she started to sing and for the thousands gathered in
the park in front of the National Assembly building, it was as though time had stopped. A silence like a physical thing settled over the crowd and Melina sang of the pain and loss of war and the promise of their champion, their savior, who had come to deliver his people from injustice.

  When Melina finished, the crowd was absolutely still. Then the sound of a single person clapping pierced the veil that seemed to have descended over them and triggered a wave of applause and cheers that was part a celebration of a spectacular talent and part a gauntlet thrown at the feet of Silwamba. Ilunga himself stepped up on the stage to embrace her. He turned to the crowd and raised a fist in defiance. Eight thousand fists shot into the air in response.

  Near the far end of the crowd, on a raised platform that afforded a clear view of the stage, Annette Cartwright whispered to her cameraman. “Please tell me that you got that.”

  “Every note.”

  “Get it on the website. Now.”

  Within hours, the download of Melina singing her paean to Ilunga and Ilunga’s own rousing defiance had gone viral. It was a brand-new ballgame.

  • • •

  With Melina’s performance, Ilunga’s movement gained an overnight international following. It had all the pieces: a charismatic leader, identifiable bad guys, the visually powerful symbol of thousands of people dressed in white, and, as colorful backdrop, a conflict that had claimed more lives than the Holocaust. Foreign ministers in important capitals started asking questions of their Africa bureaus. Embarrassed bureaucrats who knew nothing about Ilunga or the Freedom Coalition sent hurried cables to their embassies in Kinshasa. Embassy officials, who knew little more, did what they do best. They picked up the phone.

  The morning after the CNN broadcast, Ilunga’s Freedom Coalition offices were flooded with calls from embassies and Western news outlets looking for a piece of the great man’s time. The UK, French, and South African embassies called to invite Ilunga to dine with their ambassadors. Reuters, the Washington Post, and Süddeutsche Zeitung wanted interviews. Marie deputized Giles to handle the calls and he held the curious at bay with vague promises to arrange something at some time in the future. Shortly after lunch, however, he took a call that flummoxed him. Mark Fong called from the American Embassy. Ambassador Spencer was hoping that Monsieur Ilunga might be available for a meeting. As soon as he hung up, Giles called Alex. Twenty minutes later, he, Marie, and Ilunga were gathered around the kitchen counter, drinking bituminous coffee and weighing the options.

  “I don’t like it,” Marie insisted. “The foreigners are a big part of the problem here.” She looked apologetically at Alex. “I don’t see them being part of the solution. We need the press, but the embassies are a waste of time. We shouldn’t have anything to do with them, particularly the Americans.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you,” Ilunga said. “But I’d like to hear what our friend Alex has to say. In many ways, this concerns him more than it does either of us.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the French or the South Africans,” Alex replied. “They don’t bring anything to the party. I do think, though, that you should see Spence.”

  “Why? I don’t have anything in particular that I’d like to say to him.”

  “No . . . but I do.”

  • • •

  Giles called back Mark Fong and offered the Most Honorable Ambassador Spencer an appointment for the next day at four. There were some ground rules. It was to be a one-on-one meeting. The principals would meet alone, with no notetakers. In addition, the American Embassy was requested not to share the fact of the meeting—or its contents—with any of the other diplomatic missions in Kinshasa. Everyone wanted time with President Ilunga, Giles explained, and they were making an exception for the Americans. It would not do to have this widely known. Fong accepted eagerly.

  • • •

  There was a stark contrast between the ostentatious way Ambassador Spencer had arrived at Silwamba’s office and the subdued, almost furtive manner of his visit to Ilunga’s house. Instead of the armored Cadillac flying its miniature American flags, a black Lincoln pulled up to the front gate and parked. The police escort was minimal, a single unmarked car. Even so, when he stepped out of the backseat, Spence was every inch the proconsul, the local representative of the most powerful nation in the history of humanity. His crisp blue suit and red tie projected strength and confidence. His hair was expensively styled and his conservative wingtips were polished to a mirrored shine. As Ilunga had demanded, he was alone.

  One of the residents, a veteran named Claude, met the Ambassador on the steps and showed him to the room that Ilunga had designated for the meeting. It was a classroom that had been reconfigured into a diplomatic salon, complete with two overstuffed chairs, throw rugs, and a coffee table made of inlaid mahogany. The chairs were threadbare and the carpets were worn, but it set the right tone of seriousness. As he had been instructed, Claude seated Spence in the chair farthest from the door. This chair had three inches cut off the legs to make it slightly uncomfortable and to put its occupant at a level just below the host. Alex had suggested it to Ilunga, as he had suggested making Spence wait as a way of making clear whose time was more valuable. Claude brought Spence a cup of tea that he served from a silver tray balanced precariously on the stump of what had been his right hand. The tea was tepid and too sweet to be anything other than an annoyance. Spence knew all of these techniques. He had taught many of them to Alex. All the same, Alex knew that they would rankle.

  Ilunga arrived twenty minutes after the appointed meeting time, resplendent in a traditional flowing boubou robe and matching headdress. The white linen robe was crisp and the creases were sharp. Subtle gold embroidery highlighted the richness of the fabric. He looked like a head of state. Alex was one step behind Ilunga to his right, filling the role of aide-de-camp. He was wearing the same expensive suit that he had used to bluff his way into the Consolidated Mining building. A diplomat’s uniform.

  If Spence was surprised to see Alex, he concealed it well. The Ambassador rose, somewhat awkwardly Alex thought, from his shortened chair to shake hands with Ilunga.

  “Thank you for making time to meet with me today, Mr. Ilunga,” he said.

  “You are welcome in my home,” Ilunga replied magnanimously.

  Spence turned to Alex and extended his hand.

  “Hello, Alex. You look well.”

  “You too, Ambassador.”

  “I see you’ve found a new employer.”

  “I’m just a consultant, really. Working pro bono for the time being.”

  “Mr. Baines really is a most excellent adviser,” Ilunga chimed in. “You should have taken better care not to lose him.”

  “My loss, your gain.”

  “I do apologize,” Ilunga said, “but I’m afraid a pressing matter that requires my immediate attention has arisen. Mr. Baines has my proxy. I’m sure that he will be able to satisfy your curiosity about our little movement. I am sorry, and I do hope you understand.”

  “Of course. I’m sure the demands on your time are extraordinary. Thank you for making Alex available. We have some catching up to do in any event.”

  Ilunga bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him. Alex took the host’s seat. Spence lowered himself onto his chair.

  “Nice touch,” the Ambassador said, patting the armrest. “Your idea?”

  “Hey, I learned from the best.”

  The two Americans, teacher and protégé, sized each other up. Spence sipped the sickly sweet tea to show he did not give a damn about the little mind games, but he could not help shifting his position in his uncomfortably low seat.

  “Alex, I’m surprised to see you here. And I’m pleased that you’re alive. I was concerned. Maureen was worried sick. Are you ready to come in out of the cold? I’m sure that we can work everything out.”

  “You tried to kill me, Spence.
That undermines the trust level somewhat.”

  “Nobody tried to kill you. But you had broken the law and violated your oath; we had no choice but to take you in. I’ll support you, but there are serious consequences for what you did. You know that.”

  “Spence, it’s just you and me here. Please cut the crap. I know about the Working Group. I know about Rwanda. Don’t you talk to me about breaking my oath. Come on, Ambassador. For once, be straight with me.”

  Spence reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a device about the size and shape of a cell phone. He pressed a few buttons and studied the screen before setting it down on the coffee table, where it hummed with a slight high-pitched whine. The LiDSS, which stood for Listening Device Screening System, was the latest tool in the counterintelligence arsenal. It was extremely high-end technology. Alex had heard about it, but he had never seen one before. He knew that Spence had used it to first screen the room for hidden listening or recording devices and then set it on an active mode that transmitted ELINT, or electronic interference, designed to counter any system that the passive search might have missed. Alex took this as a positive sign that Spence was, in fact, willing to talk.

  “I’m truly sorry about the way this developed. I didn’t want it to come to this. Viggiano was insistent that we had to get you out of the country and this seemed the easiest way. Secretary Rogers is an amateur and a sanctimonious ass. He wouldn’t understand what we are doing here and how we are advancing the interests of the United States. I know it hurt, Alex, but there was never any intention on our part to follow through on the espionage charges. After a few weeks, they would have gone away. You would have lost your clearances, of course . . . and your access to the dissent channel, but nobody was talking about killing you.”

  “Even if you cut me out of the department, what was to stop me from going to the New York Times?”

  If Spence’s look of sorrow was an act, it was an impressively convincing one. “Let’s face it. You don’t have a lot of credibility at this point. I don’t think any serious journalist would touch your story. The only thing that would happen if you did that would be that the espionage charges would likely resurface, only this time in a more public and permanent way.”