Congo Inc

by In Koli Jean Bofane

  “I am your managing director. I oversee Salonga National Park.”

  “That’s what my nephew said, which is why I wanted to meet you. Let me show you something.” Old Lomama unwrapped what he had in his lap and placed the leopard’s skin on the desk.

  “And this is?” Bizimungu asked, somewhat surprised.

  “This is Nkoi Mobali.”

  Then Old Lomama told Kiro Bizimungu about the sad fate of the great leopard. If Commander Bizimungu was a true leader, it was his duty to protect pillars of society such as Nkoi Mobali, his duty to try to understand what might have made the warthogs flee to find themselves so far from their own habitat. Had they fled from telecommunication poles? Could there have been some dangerous global warming that drove them to seek the coolness in the forest of the Ekonda? What were these rays the antenna sent forth that caused an animal not to respect the good order of things anymore and take the liberty to do just about anything, even kill a leopard like Nkoi Mobali? Couldn’t anyone see that even someone as worthy as his nephew had been diverted from his duty because of the waves the tower emitted?

  And the old man explained how the warthogs had turned mad because of the antenna. He showed the holes their jaws had made in the big cat’s skin. He added that perhaps he was old, that maybe he knew nothing about anything, but, still, he was noticing that the laws ruling the world today were a great deal more merciless than the laws of the forest he’d known before. At the speed things were going, it would no longer be just warthogs eating leopards, but people would end up devouring each other one day as well.

  Kiro Bizimungu listened carefully to the old man and thanked him for recognizing the importance of the situation. “I still have many people to see, I need to find out more. I have to visit the ministers of the Environment, Telecommunications, and of Scientific Research.”

  Since he had finished making his pitch, the uncle rolled up the skin again and stood up. “Isookanga, I’ll leave you here with your friend. I have things to do. Don’t move, I’ll take a taxi. First I’m going to the UN office. People should know that Nkoi Mobali is dead and that his body was viciously mutilated. Commander, sir, I’m very pleased to have spoken with you. If you should come through Ekanga, do come and see me. You’ll have no trouble finding me.” And he left the room, the parcel under his arm.

  “He’s a tough one, your uncle,” Bizimungu said, almost in a whisper. “Is he always like that?”

  “Often worse. The old man talks too much. And when he talks, you’d think he’s hoping the trees will grow even faster. It’s incredible, Old One.”

  “All right, then. You have anything to say to me? About our last conversation? Your uncle didn’t tell you anything new?”

  “I have something better.” Isookanga pulled his seat closer to the desk. “Imagine, Old One, I have an associate, he’s Chinese.”

  “You, you have a Chinese associate?”

  “Didn’t I tell you I’m working as an internationalist?”

  “Go on.”

  “So my associate has a CD-ROM that lists all the minerals in Congo.”

  “Little One, you actually have that? But it’s what I’ve been looking for since … Bring it to me right away. I’ll pay.”

  “Right away isn’t possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Everything is written in Chinese; it needs to be translated.”

  “So? Your associate can do that, can’t he?”

  “Yes, but I have to work out a French version on Photoshop, and that will take a little time. And I also have to talk to him, make sure he’s all right with selling it to you.”

  “Little One, bring it here. I’ll pay a thousand dollars in cash.”

  “Two thousand, and I’ll convince him to sell it to you.”

  “Have no fear. Translate it and come back with your friend.”

  They exchanged a few more words about those narrow-minded spirits who understood nothing about science, technology, and money, and then Isookanga went back to his business. He had to corner Zhang Xia to finalize this transaction.

  Wang Lideng went back several times more to see Gong Xiyan. Each time, he refused the tea she offered him while his questions became increasingly more intrusive. What had she been doing on such and such a date? Whom did she see on a particular day, and what was she up to with this or that friend in a given place? She always answered, never hid anything, but it did make her understand that Public Safety was keeping a close eye on her, determined to check her comings and goings.

  That specific afternoon, the man spoke even more harshly. He demanded additional proof of Zhang Xia’s presence in Kinshasa, but all she could supply were printouts of the emails she had already provided before.

  “These documents are meaningless!” he flung at her. “I’m beginning to lose patience with you. You’re hiding the truth about your husband’s activities, Madame. I won’t let you go on like this. You must know that the business he’s involved in is extremely serious. We’ve arrested his associate, this Liu Kaï you claim you hardly know. And yet, to the best of our knowledge, he and your husband are the chief administrators of Eternal Dragon. They’ve used this company to take advantage of the government’s programs and have gotten their hands on very important funds intended for the creation of certain enterprises, primary of which are those dealing with energy, infrastructure building, and the supply of raw materials.

  “Your husband and Liu Kaï understood that, but Eternal Dragon made the mistake of beginning its activities in Chongqing, where I’m the one who makes sure the law is applied. We think they left for Congo to escape their responsibilities but had to come back for reasons we don’t yet know. For now, only Liu Kaï is under lock and key and has admitted everything. Your husband ought to follow his example, and we’ll see to it that their entire network is brought down. There still are a few cancers spreading rot though some branches of Chongqing’s autonomous city government, Madame.”

  Gong Xiyan felt numb, rendered powerless by a threat whose existence she hadn’t even known about until very recently. Zhang Xia had never told her anything about Eternal Dragon’s activities. In the modest living room the interrogation continued. The director of Public Safety and the young woman were sitting as usual—she in a corner of the sofa and he at right angles to her in the armchair. Despite the sternness he conveyed, this time was a first, for Director Wang had accepted the tea she was serving. During his previous visits a smile would sometimes escape from him, but this day his brows remained set in an imperturbable frown. The man was observing her from behind his glasses and sensed her profound dismay, her composure notwithstanding. Her head was down and she was once again avoiding eye contact. It was almost painful. It created a terrible tension in him; the only thing that could have appeased him would have been the possibility of looking deep into her eyes—he was perfectly well aware of it. Every now and then, their knees touched briefly and the director would feel a shiver run through the young woman.

  “But, Madame, to obtain these funds, some people, unfortunately, resort to fraud and to corrupting functionaries. They facilitate the acquisition of subsidies, and the money is then divided among them. Within the scope of our campaign to clean this up, many have already been arrested. Surely you have heard about the trials that have recently taken place. The Chongqing government has decided to put a definitive stop to this kind of behavior. Too bad for your husband.”

  Gong Xiyan didn’t know what to think. Why had Zhang Xia never told her anything, and what was he still hiding from her now? Indeed, she told herself, the whole business must be extremely serious if the chief of police was coming to her in person to lead the investigation.

  “I’m only trying to help you, Madame,” he whispered.

  Gong Xiyan turned to the police officer. Through the reflection of his glasses she couldn’t see his look, but something she couldn’t put her finger on made her feel that he seemed to be softening. Hearing what the director had revealed to her, she felt she was
losing ground. Her knee leaned against his for just an instant, and that brought her unexpected reassurance. Through that moment of their bodies’ physical contact, it was as if her consternation had passed over to him to be mitigated there. Without raising her head, her eyes passed over his broad torso, which was leaning toward her. The man’s chest looked like an impenetrable wall, but at the same time, paradoxically, she felt the urge to rest against it, if only for a moment. She moved her knee away from his. The room was silent. The warning lights of the electronic devices—television set, converter, the computer screen in sleep mode—were watching them, gently blushing without blinking. On various pieces of furniture, framed photographs were speechlessly staring at the strange couple, avoiding each other’s gaze as best they could.

  Wang Lideng continued: “There’s nothing more I can do for your husband. As soon as the agents of my division get hold of him, he will be incarcerated. As for you, if you persist in remaining silent, I can only consider you as an accomplice and treat you accordingly.”

  Gong Xiyan leaned her head forward, her long hair covering her graceful profile. She did not respond. It lasted for a while. Wang Lideng breathed softly. She turned her face toward him. Her eyes were glistening behind a touching liquid veil, which managed to throw the director of Public Safety completely off balance. That very same instant a single tear rolled to the edge of the woman’s eyelid and slid in slow motion onto her velvety cheek. It was as if a giant screen were illuminated right before Wang Lideng’s face and the images of Gong Li in cinemascope in The Forbidden City assaulted the brain and entire being of Chongqing’s chief of police. Before him he saw the empress, her routed army, its captains on their knees—awaiting their execution—and the emperor, triumphant, haughty, staring at the empress, whose passionate look expressed both resignation and sublime defiance.

  Emotions surged up and submerged him, literally like a tsunami. He should never have become personally involved in this Eternal Dragon business, he told himself. Without premeditation, his trembling hand moved between the woman’s knees. He felt something like a vise tightening abruptly around his right hand. He pushed on and right away the pressure stopped. As if slipping into a furnace of silk and heat, his fingers advanced to stop a little beyond the hem of her skirt. Wang Lideng wouldn’t be able to say exactly what happened next. Outside in the distance, on the horizon, Chongqing’s metropolis raised its skyscraper columns, which appeared behind a translucent screen, turning yellow from the microparticles of mercury and sulfur, from the various excretions that infused the hot, moist air of the Szechuan summer.

  1. “Luck is nothing.”

  2. “Isookanga Wounded Love.”

  3. Agence France Presse.—Tr.’s note

  4. The Schengen visa allows one to travel throughout the Schengen area; this consists of twenty-six countries, twenty-two of which are part of the EU, the other four are part of the EFTA states.—Tr.’s note

  5. Alcohol made of manioc and corn.

  6. In Greek mythology, the fifty Danaids killed their husbands on their wedding night and were then condemned to carry water in a sieve for all eternity. It refers to the futility of any task that can never be completed.—Tr.’s note

  7. FARC stands for the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, one of the world’s richest guerilla armies.—Tr.’s note

  8. Slogan of the shégués.

  9. “As long as the youth isn’t dead, don’t laugh about him.”

  GAME OVER!

  游戏结束！

  A phone call wouldn’t do. Discussing Kamituga legitimately would require at least a one-on-one conversation. Chiara Argento was sitting across from her boss, the assistant secretary general of peacekeeping operations. She had been waiting for telephone data for months. By calling on the State Department, especially when it concerned a criminal inquest, that should theoretically be easy to obtain. But, in fact, nothing was simple. They talked about defense secrets, about the greater interest of the United States, about noninterference in the domestic politics of a partner country. Chiara Argento had to go up six floors to try to unravel this tangled web.

  “How are you, Miss Argento? We really haven’t had any time to see much of each other lately. Files, files, and more files … You wanted to talk to me about that horrifying drama in Kamituga?”

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Secretary. I am missing a crucial element: the record of communications between Kiro Bizimungu and Commander Bob on the day of the massacre. I’d also like to know who else had any telephone contact with them, on that day as well as the preceding ones. Is that so difficult?”

  “It’s not a matter of difficulty, Miss Argento, but in the scope of Africom,1 all of the region’s telecommunications are picked up by the satellite antenna of Mount Karisimbi, which, unfortunately, is located in Rwanda. Consequently, we need to go through the authorities of that country. That’s where it gets stuck; they stop short at giving us that information.”

  “Don’t we have any way of forcing them?”

  “Yes, we do. But the Americans need them for other things. They provide them with assistance for certain missions—in Darfur, for example. They’re very useful, you know; the Rwandans are the foothold for the Americans in Africa, just as Congo once was.”

  “Let’s give them something in exchange.”

  “Like what?”

  “Satellite images of the Hutu positions of the FDLR, for instance, that would be useful to them. They’ve been looking for them for how long now? Ten, fifteen years? Suggest that they offer Rwanda a non-permanent seat on the Security Council, or have them promise to make Rwanda the fifty-first state of the Union. What do I know? Make them some sort of offer.”

  “You’re awfully persistent, Miss Argento.”

  “Not persistent, just conscientious.”

  The assistant secretary general gave a short laugh. He held out his hand to the young woman. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.

  Responding to his gesture, she got up.

  Since that conversation, Chiara Argento’s progress had moved ahead almost as she wanted it to. It still took some time, but in the end she had the information she’d requested, and its analysis was enlightening. Kiro Bizimungu and Commander Bob had definitely been in touch right before and right after the massacre, just as she’d imagined. Hence, she could easily back up the indictment from Mariama Fall, the public prosecutor of the International Criminal Court. By studying the data, one noticed that if one trusted the relay records, in addition to the two allegedly guilty parties, another phone call had been made from an unknown number within the same perimeter as the MONUSCO command. Chiara was sure there was a conspiracy between the Blue Berets and Mirnas. She had enough information to push ahead with the tightening of the net. They now had to influence the Congolese government.

  “Celio?” she said, the phone glued to her ear.

  “Yes,” a somewhat shaky voice answered.

  “I must speak with Mr. Kiamba. Right now. Let’s hope he’s done what he had to do. I have complete confidence in you here, but don’t forget that if your contacts don’t work, we’ll have to start from scratch. I need some confirmation from Kinshasa. Is that possible?”

  Chiara Argento wanted to know where things stood with the capture of Bizimungu. The operation required the implementation of a joint UN-DRC military intervention. And some people were dragging their feet. She didn’t understand the apathy holding back the Congolese leaders just when it was time to neutralize those individuals who were destructive to them. True enough, the ramifications were endless and so complex that the whole thing resembled an immense game of jackstraws threatening to collapse if the right little stick wasn’t moved. Everyone was linked by acceptable or unacceptable activities: small arrangements between friends, or worse, between enemies. In short, everyone had everyone else by the balls in this country.

  The phone rang.

  “I’m connecting you to Kinshasa, to the presidency,” her Congolese colleague said.

/>   “Thank you, that was fast. Hello, Mr. Kiamba? How are you? Yes, I’m calling for news. J-1? All right. So I can count on you? Good-bye.”

  Chiara hung up. A shiver ran down her spine. The ball was now rolling. The next night, Kiro Bizimungu would be neutralized and sent off to the ICC—as long as it went without a hitch and there were no escapes, of course. All she had to do now was give the green light and a UN plane would be waiting on the tarmac of Ndjili to carry out the transfer to The Hague.

  There was one more person Chiara had to call. She picked up the phone. “I would like to speak with Mrs. Mariama Fall, please. Madame Prosecutor? Yes, this is Chiara Argento.”

  Though it was late after she’d made a few calls and written a report, Chiara felt perfectly fine, something that hadn’t happened in a long time. The Kamituga file was practically closed. More than a year’s work. She noticed the adrenaline running through each capillary of her body. A delicious feeling. She had lost some friends along the way. Some had rejected her because of her obduracy. The UN was going to be dragged through the mud, that was certain. According to elements in the investigation Mariama Fall had in hand, significant sums of money had passed through Waldemar Mirnas’s accounts, considering what a peacekeeping officer earned. They had already been blocked, according to the public prosecutor. The Lithuanian was done for. Chiara wanted to relax, finally let herself go. Her glance fell quite logically on the telephone on her desk. She picked it up and dialed a number. As it was ringing, Chiara became aware of the long lament of a ship’s siren on the East River, which was shimmering softly in the dark, like a fragment of the Milky Way.

  “Celio?” she heard herself say. “Igor Stravinsky. Does that appeal to you?” she asked. “What are you doing tonight?”

  Her voice was low. There was a silence. “No, just asking. No, everything’s fine. Good night. See you tomorrow, Celio.”

  And she hung up. There wouldn’t be any concert this evening. In any case, she wasn’t going by herself. Her nervous system would simply have to adjust to it. Why had she called him? Chiara decided to walk a little and then take a taxi home, find some peace of mind and be back in the comfort of her Park Avenue apartment again.