The American Mission Page 18

  The Chief of Protocol led Spence and Alex up the red-carpeted stairway. The entryway was lined with marble and onyx, and the stairs were flanked by sweeping balustrades that ended in a spiral at the base. Their footsteps echoed against the marble walls as they climbed to the second floor. French doors at the top of the stair’s led to the presidential suite, and President Silwamba was there to greet the Ambassador.

  “Spence, my friend,” he said, enfolding the Ambassador in a bear hug. President Silwamba was Spence’s height, but he must have outweighed him by at least 150 pounds. His thick neck lopped over his collar and threatened to blow out the buttons of what looked to Alex like an extremely expensive hand-tailored shirt. The dark suit he wore was almost certainly Savile Row. The silk tie and shoes were Italian. The watch on his wrist was a Rolex Oyster, the timepiece of despots. Even in a five-thousand-dollar suit, the corpulent Silwamba bore more than a passing resemblance to Jabba the Hutt.

  “It’s good to see you, Mr. President. It’s been too long. Let me introduce my new Political Counselor, Alex Baines.”

  “Yes, I heard about what happened to young Mr. Wells. My sympathies to his family.”

  “Thank you. I’ll pass that along.”

  “Where are you coming from, Mr. Baines?” Silwamba’s gaze was baleful, like that of a cobra contemplating a potential meal.

  “My last assignment was in Conakry, Mr. President.”

  “Wonderful. Then Kinshasa is something of an upgrade for you, no?”

  “More than you know, sir.”

  “Is this your first time in my country?”

  “No, sir. I was a Peace Corps volunteer in the Goma region about ten years ago.”

  The President’s eyebrows shot up at that. “And what did you think of the girls there?” he asked in the copper-belt Swahili common to eastern Congo.

  “They are very pretty, Mr. President,” Alex replied in the same language. Along with Lingala, he had picked up a fair amount of the pidgin Swahili that was one of the region’s many trade languages.

  “I’m going to keep an eye on you, young man,” Silwamba said, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Alex was not certain whether he should read that simple statement as a compliment or a threat.

  Silwamba introduced his “plus-one” for the meeting, a young Congolese diplomat on loan to the presidential staff. In diplomatic parlance, meetings were defined as the principal plus whatever agreed-upon number of advisers, notetakers, and bag carriers would be let into the room.

  The President ushered them through a set of heavy wooden doors into his private office, a large room with a sweeping view of the grounds and pictures of himself decorating every wall. There were photographs of Silwamba delivering a speech, meeting with the premier of China, and receiving a bouquet of flowers from a young girl. There were oil paintings of the President staring contemplatively off into the middle distance and even one of him in full military uniform riding a white charger. It was good to be the king, Alex thought, up until the day when it wasn’t. Few of Silwamba’s predecessors had died in bed, and maybe half of those had simply been sleeping when they were murdered.

  Alex and Spence sat down on a plush couch covered in soft brown leather. Silwamba and his notetaker sat in matching chairs on the other side of a heavy marble-and-mahogany table. Two attractive young women in uniforms that would not have looked out of place at a Catholic prep school served tea from silver trays and glided off wordlessly.

  After a few minutes of broad-brush conversation about Congolese politics and the fighting in the east, Spence turned the conversation to the purpose of the meeting.

  “Mr. President, my government has instructed me to ask for this meeting in order to preview our proposal for a new partnership between the United States and sub-Saharan Africa in the ongoing struggle against terrorism and violent extremism. As you know, some of the first shots in what became the global war on terror were fired not far from here in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam. The bombing of our embassies in Kenya and Tanzania took 212 lives, the vast majority of them African. Terrorism has been decoupled from territory, and terrorist cells will infect any state too weak to defend itself. We are in the process of driving Al Qaeda out of Central Asia, and we know for a fact that they are looking for an alternative home. Bin Laden lived in Khartoum before the Sudanese ultimately kicked him out. Al Qaeda’s new leadership might well be looking to return to Africa.”

  Silwamba nodded thoughtfully. Or sleepily. Alex was not entirely sure which.

  “The United States would like to propose a standing body in the African Union devoted exclusively to counterterrorism and focusing on sub-Saharan Africa. The U.S. would provide intelligence support to the organization and work on developing a coordinated response to the threat of terrorism incorporating all elements of state power: diplomatic, intelligence, military, political, and economic. We are prepared to provide fifty million dollars in seed money to support the start-up costs of this organization. We hope that Kinshasa will back this initiative in Addis and encourage other sub-Saharan member states to do the same.” The African Union was headquartered in the Ethiopian capital of Addis Ababa, which nearly everyone referred to as Addis.

  Spence had done a solid job laying out the U.S. position, even if it did not seem to Alex that his heart had been in it. The Ambassador had been good but not as brilliant as he had been so often in the past. By diplomatic protocol, Spence had made his presentation, and it was now the President’s turn to respond. After that, the two men could ask each other any questions they might have and call it a day.

  “Mr. Ambassador,” Silwamba began, after taking a moment to sip his tea and adjust his collar, which was pinched between two rolls of fat on his neck. “Thank you for the proposal. We will give it the consideration it deserves. Terrorism is a terrible scourge that must be wiped out without mercy.”

  Silwamba evidently considered that this discharged his obligation to respond to Spence’s proposal. He looked expectantly at Spence.

  “Oh, yes. Alex, would you excuse me for a moment. There are some issues I’d like to discuss privately with the President.”

  “Of course, Mr. Ambassador.” Alex and Silwamba’s plus-one both rose and left the room. The young Congolese diplomat continued through the French doors and, Alex supposed, back to his office to write up an account of the meeting in which the President was sure to feature as the star. Alex took a seat in a wingback chair in the anteroom and waited for Spence to conclude whatever private business he might have with the President. This was extremely unusual. Spence had never before asked him to leave a meeting, and for the life of him, Alex could not imagine what it was he needed to discuss with Silwamba one-on-one. Doubtless, Spence would tell him when they got back to the Embassy.

  One of the efficient and beautiful young women who had served tea in the President’s office reappeared with a smaller tray and left a glass on the side table. Alex sipped the tea and mulled over the problem in front of him: What to do about Busu-Mouli. He had tried to talk to Spence about it, but the Ambassador had made it clear that his goal was getting the village to cooperate with the mining company rather than vice versa. While Alex understood all of the arguments, he had reached a different conclusion. Embassies were supposed to support the business interests of important American companies. Nevertheless, he was confident that Embassy Kinshasa was on the wrong side of this conflict. There was simply no way that bulldozing the Mongala Valley was in the best interests of the United States, no matter how much copper ore was in the ground. The money that greased the skids for the big business deals underpinned the fundamentally corrupt political system in the Congo. This promoted instability, retarded long-term development, and ultimately made the Congo a harder place to do business. There had to be a better way. He needed to make Spence see that. Maybe if he could see him outside the office, sit down together for a drink like they had done in the old days. The
days before Darfur.

  The sound of the French doors opening snapped Alex out of his reverie. Henri Saillard walked in wearing a natty pin-striped charcoal suit and carrying a black crocodile-skin briefcase in his right hand. What the hell is he doing here? Alex wondered. He had considered Saillard a bit foppish before, even prissy, but now he saw him as cold, calculating, and manipulative. Saillard, for his part, was all smiles to see Alex, and he came over to shake his hand.

  “Mr. Baines, I have not had the opportunity to thank you properly for the good work you did in negotiating the freedom of my colleagues. Consolidated Mining is grateful to you, and I am in your debt.”

  “Just doing my job,” Alex replied coolly.

  “And doing it extremely well. Let me know when you have had enough of government service. I promise you that we pay much better.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “I would welcome a chance to hear about your visit to Busu-Mouli and your meeting with the village leadership. My organization is quite anxious to get started on the project.”

  “There are some issues related to your plans for the village and the valley that I’d like an opportunity to discuss with you as well.”

  “Excellent. Are you free for lunch tomorrow by any chance?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “Wonderful. Let’s say one o’clock at Le Caf’ Conc’.”

  Alex knew the place. It was perhaps the most expensive restaurant in Kinshasa.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Superb. Well, I must be off. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that, the head of Consolidated Mining’s central Africa operations opened the door to the President’s private office and let himself in. What the fuck? Certainly Spence’s private business with Silwamba was not connected to Consolidated Mining. Was it?

  Alex worried this over in his mind for the next fifteen minutes, trying to ignore the kernel of anger he felt at Spence for shutting him out of the conversation. When the doors to the private office finally opened, Alex stood up like a shot. Silwamba, Spence, and Saillard came out of the office laughing at some private joke. Saillard, Alex noticed, was no longer carrying the briefcase. Whatever was in it, he had left it behind. The only question was whether Saillard conducted business in dollars, euros, or Congolese francs.

  Alex, Spence, and Saillard walked out together. Saillard’s silver Mercedes S-Class was parked behind Spence’s Cadillac. The red-jacketed attendants opened the doors for them.

  They rode back to the Embassy in silence.

  • • •

  That afternoon Alex asked Peggy for some time in the Ambassador’s schedule. Spence had half an hour starting at six before he had to get ready for a reception at the Dutch Ambassador’s villa in Gombe. Alex spent the intervening hours working on his report to Washington. It was a short cable, he reasoned, as he had missed what had undoubtedly been the most interesting part of the conversation.

  Spence was sitting behind his big oak desk reading Alex’s report of their meeting with President Silwamba when Alex walked into the Ambassador’s office a few minutes after six.

  “Good report, Alex,” he said, signing his initials in the upper right corner indicating that the message was okay to transmit. He put the cable in his out-box. “What can I do for you this evening?”

  “I’d like to know what happened today at the presidential palace.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What did you and the President have to discuss that needed to be kept from me, and what the hell . . .” Alex paused to make sure that his anger did not dictate his next sentence. “What was Henri Saillard doing there?”

  Spence did not seem surprised at Alex’s obvious irritation.

  “Silwamba and I had some private business to discuss. If I wanted you to know what it was, I wouldn’t have asked you to leave. As for Saillard, I didn’t invite him. The President did. It was just as much a surprise to me as it was to you. He wanted to talk over the terms of Consolidated’s copper concessions in the south and east. It seems the President doesn’t believe that his treasury is being adequately compensated. Saillard had drawn up a new proposal with terms slightly more favorable to the government. He left the contract there for the government’s lawyers to look over. It was all perfectly innocuous.”

  “Spence, I have to tell you that I don’t trust Saillard. I think he’s crooked and potentially dangerous.”

  “How so?” Alex’s mentor seemed more amused than concerned by the suggestion.

  “He and the company are up to their eyeballs in Congolese politics. You don’t get the kinds of favorable trade terms in this country that Consolidated has without buckets of under-the-table money. On top of that, Saillard has been spinning us something fierce. We know for a fact that he lied about the Hammer of God attack on the Consolidated survey team as being a one-off event. There have been a whole series of attacks that he elected not to share with us. That kind of information could have been critical in the negotiations. He lied about how long he had known about the copper deposits near Busu-Mouli, and he neglected to tell us that he and the company had reneged on a deal to develop the site in partnership with the village. The villagers negotiated that deal in good faith.”

  Spence said nothing, and Alex knew that he was being given enough rope to hang himself with. The hell with it.

  “We are on the wrong side of history here, Ambassador. I’ve seen what the villagers in Busu-Mouli have been able to accomplish on their own. It’s truly impressive. With just a little help from the outside, it could be a new model for sustainable and environmentally responsible development. If Consolidated Mining’s not interested, we should be. This is exactly the kind of project that the Agency for International Development has been looking for in central Africa. We should be backing the village in this, not the mining company. What they’re doing may be good for Consolidated’s quarterly report, but it’s a disaster for the Congo.”

  He decided to stop there. He had already crossed a number of likely red lines.

  Spence seemed lost in thought for a moment as though he was digesting what Alex had to say.

  “I agree with you that Henri is something of a slippery character,” Spence offered finally. Alex knew full well what he was doing. It was Spence, after all, who had taught him to begin a disagreement by picking out something benign that the other person had just said and agreeing with it wholeheartedly. It was disarming.

  “And I certainly wouldn’t want him to marry one of my girls,” he continued. “But the company he represents is a major American enterprise that employs thousands of people and provides our country with the raw materials we need to maintain our nation’s extremely expensive standard of living. I appreciate that what Consolidated wants to do in Busu-Mouli is unappealing, but it’s really no different than what a dozen coal companies do every day in West Virginia. That kind of environmental damage should be reserved only for the most valuable and important deposits. Busu-Mouli, regrettably, sits atop one of them.

  “This isn’t a case of one standard for America and one for Africa. If this deposit were in the Adirondacks, the mining companies would be doing exactly the same thing. Look. Our goal . . . our mission . . . is to advance the interests of the United States. It’s not always terribly pretty. But it pays the bills that allow us to continue to operate as a great nation that accomplishes great things. So I understand where you’re coming from. I really do. I just don’t agree with you.”

  “Spence, there’s something about all this that doesn’t look right,” Alex insisted. “Saillard has unprecedented access to the mission and to you personally.”

  “Be careful where you take this, Alex.” There was a hint of warning in the Ambassador’s tone.

  “Just look at the facts. I’ve never heard of someone without a clearance being let into the Bubble. He has too much influence over not only what we do but
how we do it. On policy, he has us pushing a plan that most Americans would find abhorrent. There’s a chance here to partner with the local community and develop the resources in a sustainable way. We should be jumping on this opportunity rather than pushing the villagers to abandon their homes. We’re better than this, Spence.”

  “Are you certain this doesn’t have anything to do with an attractive mining engineer who has undue influence over certain parts of this embassy?”

  Alex flushed but kept his cool. Sykes must have reported on him back up his chain. Either that, he thought, or Consolidated has a spy in Busu-Mouli.

  “I don’t think so. I think this is about trying to do the right thing.”

  Alex had never seen Spence angry. He had seen him shout and badger, but he had always been under control and always in the service of a calculated aim. Now he saw him angry.

  “Goddamn it, Alex. Don’t get all high and mighty with me. I’ve been trying to do the right thing in Africa since you were in goddamn grade school. I’ve sweated blood for this continent and its people, and I will not have my motives impugned by a psychologically fragile subordinate, even if I do look on him as family.

  “I saved your ass and your career when DS was ready to throw you on the scrap pile. I think I deserve a little respect from you as the beneficiary of my efforts, and I think, damn it, that I deserve the benefit of the doubt.”

  Alex realized that he had taken this issue as far as he could—and then some. It was time to get out.

  “I understand. Thank you, Ambassador. I appreciate your time.”

  18

  JULY 10, 2009

  KINSHASA

  Le Caf’ Conc’ was the kind of place that was redolent of European empires. Dark wood paneling and lush carpeting contributed to a quiet, subdued atmosphere while white-gloved waiters attended to the needs of a clientele that included diplomats, business executives, senior government officials, and, inevitably, spies. It was an establishment that prided itself on grace and discretion. As he stepped into the cool interior of the restaurant, Alex glanced at his watch and half expected it to tell him that it was 1892 rather than five minutes after one o’clock.