The American Mission (37 page)

“You had that conversation recorded on the hard drive?” Keeler asked.

Alex confirmed that he had.

“Fuck!”

Alex also explained to Keeler the circumstances surrounding Viggiano's death. “In a way, ‘accidental slip and fall' isn't that far from the truth. I certainly didn't kill him. Which didn't stop him from coming damn close to killing me. I will admit that I'm not exactly sorry he's dead. The guy was dirty. I just hope that his being dead doesn't wind up making it harder for me to clear my name.”

Keeler polished off his Jack and Coke and signaled the server for another.

“So what can I do for you? You asked for the meet.”

“If we had time, I think we could succeed in ousting Silwamba purely through political pressure and installing Ilunga. But we're running short on time. Even with Viggiano out of the picture, Consolidated Mining has the resources and the contacts to kill Ilunga. That would obviously put something of a damper on the movement.”

“So you're thinking that you need to push the pace a bit?” Keeler asked. “Are you talking about a coup?”

“A bloodless one,” Marie interjected. “We want a change of government, not a civil war.”

“I wanted to see you, Jonah, because we need your advice. I suspect that you've had more experience with this kind of thing than I have.”

Keeler nodded. “Mozambique in '93, Côte d'Ivoire in 2002.”

“That was us?” Alex was genuinely surprised. In the Ivory Coast a kleptocratic pro-Russian dictator had been swept aside in a surprise putsch that had installed a kleptocratic pro-American, or at least pro-ExxonMobil, strongman. There had been no hint of Agency involvement in those developments.

“Hey, we can keep a few secrets.”

“So is there a set of instructions for this kind of thing?”

“More a collection of generally accepted principles.”

“How would you apply them to these circumstances?”

“I have some ideas.”

“A moment,” Marie said. “Before we take this further, I need to ask a question. I know that you have helped Alex. I know he considers you a friend. But you work for the American CIA. Why would you want to help us in this?”

“If Alex has told you about the Africa Working Group, then I expect he's also told you that there are other factions contending for influence over policy that have very different views and different priorities. I happen to represent one of those groups that sees tremendous positive potential in Africa. We need to invest here, not just extract. So we want the same things. I wouldn't have thought to go to Ilunga to try to bring about change, but I'm happy as hell that you did. Now that you've come this far, I want to help you finish this and get it done right. Does that seem fair?”

“Fair enough,” Marie agreed.

“So how do we do this thing?” Alex asked.

Keeler pulled a government-issue ballpoint pen out of his suit pocket and reached for a dry cocktail napkin. “Here's what we need to do,” he began.

And on the back of a bar napkin, they began to sketch out a workable plan for revolution.

A
UGUST
28, 2009

K
INSHASA

W
e're getting close, Albert,” Alex said confidently. “We just need another couple of days to make sure all the pieces are in place.” Alex, Ilunga, and Keeler had just left a planning meeting with key lieutenants and were walking to the car that would take Ilunga to a student rally at the University of Kinshasa. Ilunga's new personal assistant, a twenty-something engineering student at the university named Pascal, walked two steps behind, talking animatedly on one of the three cell phones he carried on his belt. In only a few short weeks, Ilunga had begun to acquire some of the trappings of power and privilege.

“What I'm most concerned about,” Alex continued, “is the media. State-run TV is going to back Silwamba without question. That's still the single most important and influential source of news, especially in the big cities. Seizing the station is an option, but the risk of violence is high. I want to give this one some more thought.”

“Don't worry,” Ilunga replied. “I can take care of RTNC.” This was the acronym for Radio-Télévision Nationale Congolaise
,
the only truly national station in the country. “I've put the word out to the Brotherhood.”

“It's not clear to me how that's going to take care of the problem.”

Ilunga shrugged. “Just don't worry about it. RTNC is not going to be an issue. I'm more concerned about Silwamba's personal guard force. If the Black Lions come out of their barracks and fight for Silwamba, I'm afraid that many people could be killed.”

“Don't worry about the Lions,” said Alex, deliberately echoing Ilunga's own vague assurances about the RTNC. “I think I've got a solution to that problem.”

Ilunga looked at him shrewdly. “Do I want to know what your solution is?” he asked.

“Probably not.”

“Then I won't ask. Just make sure the Lions stay in their den.”

They walked through the front gate and turned right down the tree-lined Rue Lukengu. Ilunga's car, a dark blue Peugeot, was new, purchased with some of the money that Keeler had made available to the movement. Alex's diamond money was nearly exhausted and the influx of CIA cash was welcome, but Alex could not help wondering what strings that assistance might come with.

Ilunga moved to the door closest to the curb and his young aide scurried around to the other side of the car. The driver was just about to open the door for Ilunga when Keeler yelled “Stop!
Halte!”
Everyone froze in an almost comical tableau.

“What is it, Jonah?” Alex asked.

Keeler pointed at the hood of the car. “Do you see that?”

There was a small loop of wire, no more than an inch across, sticking out of the seam where the hood joined the body of the car.

“That doesn't belong there,” Keeler continued.

“Is it a bomb?”

“Maybe. Albert, step away from the vehicle, please.”

Ilunga complied. Like a good aide-de-camp, Pascal stayed close to his principal.

Keeler took a closer look at the wire loop.

“You,” he said to the driver, after a moment's inspection. “I'd like you to open the hood, please . . . but do not, under any circumstances, start the car. Do you understand me?”

The driver nodded in the affirmative, his eyes wide.

When the driver pulled the latch on the inside, Alex turned away instinctively, half expecting the car to blow up in a violent Hollywood-style explosion. Nothing happened. The hood popped up half an inch and stopped. Keeler explored the area under the front of the hood with his fingers, looking for something out of place. When he was satisfied, he disengaged the latch and allowed the hood to swing open on its springs. Alex could see immediately that there was a device on top of the engine block that was not part of the car. A greasy brick of what he suspected was plastic explosive was packed alongside the fuel pump. Copper wires coated with plastic in various colors connected the bomb to the starter, but one of the wires had come loose and had been caught in the small loop that Keeler had seen on the outside of the car.

“It looks like someone was in one hell of a hurry,” Keeler explained. “They didn't have time to do a good job. With this loose wire, I'm not even sure this thing would have gone off.”

“It's still a pretty serious attempt on Albert's life,” Alex observed. “It looks like our friends at Consolidated Mining have found a stand-in for Viggiano.”

“But one who is not so experienced, perhaps,” said Ilunga, who had abandoned the visibly shaken Pascal to join them in inspecting the bomb.

“Looks like it,” Keeler agreed. “Viggiano was an asshole, but he was a competent asshole. If he was still alive, we'd most likely all be dead.”

“Even so, they will come back and try again,” Alex commented. “They only have to get lucky once.”

“Agreed.” Keeler looked searchingly at Ilunga. “I think we need to accelerate the timetable for the operation.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Do you have plans for tomorrow?”

A
UGUST
29, 2009

7:50
AM

K
INSHASA

F
rançois Mwambe glanced nervously at his watch. It was ten minutes before eight. He was sitting where he sat every morning at this time, in the Senior Producer's chair for RTNC's influential morning news show
Wake Up, Kinshasa!
The eight o'clock news program was the most watched show in the city. François understood that this had less to do with the show's seamless production values than it did with the extraordinarily beautiful newsreader, Adrienne Ngambe.

On the studio floor, Adrienne was already sitting behind the anchor desk with the hair and makeup people fussing over her.
She was
, Mwambe thought,
absolutely stunning
. She was also, he knew, a real bitch who would run over her own mother to advance her career. Cameras two and three centered in on Adrienne from different angles, and her perfect face appeared in stereo on François's monitor. Her lips were moving as she reviewed the material for the morning
newscast, but François kept the sound turned off. He found her voice irritating.

The RTNC systems were highly automated. When it came to propaganda, Silwamba insisted on only the best. They ran the show with only two producers, François and his assistant. Bosco Lumala was the cousin of a senior official in the Ministry of Information. Although he had gotten the job through family connections, Bosco was a hard worker and was learning to be a competent producer. He had also proven to be a good colleague. François felt bad about what he was about to do to him.

At seven-fifty-five, François looked up from studying the monitor. “I stayed out too late last night, Bosco. I'm afraid I'll pass out halfway through the show. Would you mind getting me a cup of coffee.”

“Sure. Two sugars?”

“You know it.”

The young assistant producer stepped out of the booth and started down the hall toward the break room, where an aging Italian machine produced execrable coffee. François locked the door behind him. From his briefcase, he produced a CD and dropped it into a slot on the console. At eight o'clock on the dot, the
Wake Up, Kinshasa!
logo appeared on the screen accompanied by the program's theme song, an amped-up bass line intended to convey a sense of urgency and immediacy. It was François's responsibility to cue the feed for Adrienne's morning news brief. Later in the program, she would do a stand-up in front of a map of Central Africa as she reported on the weather. It was primarily an excuse to show off her magnificent legs.

This morning, however, instead of hitting the green button that would have broadcast Adrienne's beautiful face to Kinshasa's eight million people, François pressed a black button on the other side of the console. The
Wake Up, Kinshasa!
logo was replaced by a close-up of Albert Ilunga.

“My fellow citizens,” Ilunga began. “Now is our hour . . .”

François touched his chest. Through the thin layer of cotton, he could feel the ridges of a circular scar no more than two inches across.

It took security more than half an hour to break through the thick steel door of the producer's booth.

•   •   •

A
thanase Bononge came by his nickname honestly. Everyone called him Sparky, largely because he spent a good portion of every day hunched over a massive bong smoking low-grade, jungle-grown cannabis. Sparky hosted a popular syndicated radio show specializing in cutting-edge AfroPop. His heavy pot habit gave him a distinctively raspy voice that was instantly recognizable across the country. He was also a regular in the Congo's popular gossip magazines. His long dreadlocks and the aviator sunglasses he was never without gave him a look that was nearly as famous as his voice. Unsurprisingly, Sparky was a night owl and his show ran from eleven to one or two in the morning as the mood struck him. But when Sparky suggested to the suits at Radio Kinshasa that he'd like to try his hand as a morning DJ, it seemed like a no-brainer. It was a one-off show that would be broadcast live by Radio Kinshasa affiliates across the country. After that, Sparky would return to his late-night ways.

“Good morning, Congo. I know that those are words you never expected to hear from me. And I'll admit that it came as something of a surprise to me that there are two eight o'clocks in a day. Who knew? We'll still be playing some of the finest contemporary African music and exploring the music scene in our very own capital city, but I'd like to begin with one of the most powerful pieces of music that I have heard in a very long time. I think that all of my listeners know what I mean.”

Sparky cued up a recording of Melina singing at Ilunga's rally in front of the parliament building. Even removed from the emotions of
the moment, it was a powerful and stirring song. It was also an unmistakable political statement.

When the song had finished, Sparky spoke to the more than two million Congolese across the country listening to his show. “The days of corruption and oppression are at an end. Take to the streets, my brothers. Take back our country. President Ilunga is taking power today. Be a part of this. Meet him in the streets. I'll be there and we can share the moment.”

The owners and managers of the radio station did not actually listen to their own programs. Sparky's political discourse went unnoticed by management for a good fifteen minutes. Then they scrambled to shut him down, but it was too late. Whatever damage he was going to do had been done. “How is it possible,” one of the executives asked, “that Sparky Bononge would turn out to have a social conscience?”