The American Mission

by Matthew Palmer

  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

  OCTOBER 12, 2009

  Amazingly 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 . . .”

  • • •

  Alex 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.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  THE DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO: THE REAL STORY

  This is a work of fiction. None of the main characters in the story are real, although I do think the world would be a better place if there were more Albert Ilungas in it and fewer Silwambas. What is not fiction, alas, is the immense suffering that has been inflicted on the people of the Democratic Republic of the Congo over the last twenty years. The Rwandan genocide was the precipitating event that triggered the First Congo War (1996–1997). During and immediately after the g
enocide, more than a million people from Rwanda crossed into what was then Zaire as refugees. Among them were many of the perpetrators of the violence in Rwanda: the genocidaires. Rwandan forces crossed the border to battle genocidaire militia groups and the conflict widened, ultimately involving troops from half a dozen countries. The Congo is a baroque cathedral of violence.

  The First Congo War was followed quickly by the Second Congo War, which began in 1998. By the time it ended (at least on paper) in 2003, more than five million people were dead, most of them from disease and starvation. The official end of the war brought neither peace nor prosperity to the country, which had changed its name from Zaire to the Democratic Republic of the Congo in 1997. Violence, hunger, and disease still claim an estimated 45,000 lives a month. Nearly three million people have died as a direct or indirect consequence of fighting and political unrest since the signing of the so-called Global and All-Inclusive Agreement on Transition in the DRC. A massive multibillion-dollar UN mission in Congo has done little to provide peace and security.

  Cross-border trade in what came to be known as conflict minerals—including gold, diamonds, tungsten, and coltan—fueled the fighting in the Congo. The country’s vast mineral wealth gave all of the parties to the violence, Congolese and foreign, both the motive and means to keep fighting. One recent study estimated that armed militia groups control more than half of the mines in the Congo’s eastern region. The mines often rely on forced labor, with miners—including children—working shifts up to forty-eight hours long under dangerous conditions. The militiamen use casual violence and rape as tools to control the civilian population.

  As of this writing, the DRC is once again under threat of a wider war. M23, a rebel group based in the eastern province of North Kivu, seized control of the city of Goma and its one million inhabitants. The M23 is a relatively new group, but the scenes of widespread fighting in the DRC’s wild northeast are all too familiar.

  This is necessarily a shorthand sketch of an incredibly complicated and deeply saddening situation. There are numerous resources available, however, for readers who would like to learn more about the DRC’s tragic modern history—www.refugeesinternational.org and www.crisisgroup.org are good places to begin. For those who would like to take a deeper look at Congolese history, I recommend the incomparable King Leopold’s Ghost by Adam Hochschild.

  Readers looking to do something to help the people of Congo can consider making contributions through one of the reputable international aid agencies operating in the country. Caritas, CARE, the International Committee of the Red Cross, and Oxfam International are just four of the many organizations active in providing relief and development assistance to those in need. Ultimately, of course, the people of that beautiful but embattled country need more than aid. They need a chance.

  A disclaimer: The views expressed here are my own and do not necessarily represent those of the U.S. Department of State.