The American Mission (9 page)

In the middle of the field, Alex saw the hostages. A quick head count gave him a total of six captives. Most were obviously foreign, but there was one woman who looked Congolese, and Alex suspected that she was Marie Tsiolo. The company's files had her listed as the second geologist on the survey team. It looked like most of the internationals had survived their ordeal.
Let's hope their luck holds,
Alex thought.

Not far from the hostages, Alex saw Manamakimba sitting in a canvas folding chair next to a flat rock the approximate size and shape of a coffee table. Alex strode purposefully toward the guerilla commander.
Slow and steady. You have all the time in the world
.

Yeah, right
. Alex looked at his watch. It was 11:15
AM
. Keeler would
radio their exact arrival time back to the base. Alex had until 5:15
PM
to broker some kind of deal. After that, the shooting would begin.

By prearrangement, Keeler and Viggiano stayed with the vehicles. They had decided to mirror Manamakimba. If the Hammer of God leader came to the table with a bevy of advisers and attendants, Jonah and Rick and the Pakistanis would join Alex to play the same role. If Manamakimba wanted to do the meeting alone, however, Alex would accommodate him. Alex hoped that if he could establish some kind of rapport with Manamakimba, however psychotic he might turn out to be, it would up his chances of winning the release of at least a few of the hostages.

Manamakimba was dressed in almost identical fashion to the hulking soldier who had escorted them to camp. He was leaning back in his chair with his face turned up toward the sun. His legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He seemed completely at peace. A glass of what looked to be some kind of fruit juice rested on the rock beside him.

As Alex approached, Manamakimba opened his eyes and stared at him intently. He lifted a single finger and one of the camp boys rushed over and set up another canvas chair so sun-faded it was impossible to tell whether the original color had been orange or yellow.

Manamakimba stood up and extended his hand. His grip was firm and cool. The Hammer of God leader wasn't quite Alex's height, but his charisma was immediately obvious. The eyes behind the delicate-looking glasses were sharp and fiercely intelligent.

“Welcome, Mr. Ambassador,” Manamakimba began. He spoke in French. “I extend to you my protection and my hospitality for as long as our conversation lasts.”

“Thank you, Mr. Manamakimba. My name is Alex Baines. I am not the Ambassador, but I am here with the full authority to represent the United States. I am hopeful that we can reach an understanding that avoids further loss of life.”

Manamakimba gestured for Alex to sit. A camp boy who could have been no more than nine or ten appeared with a second glass of fruit juice, which he set down on the rock next to Manamakimba's. The boy was dangerously thin and his wide eyes had the yellowed whites that were a warning sign of one or more of the host of tropical diseases to which young people in central Africa were vulnerable: jaundice maybe, or yellow fever, or some kind of parasite. He wore a rusty valve around his neck on a frayed boot lace, a sign of Manamakimba's favor.

“I share your desire for a common understanding and a peaceful outcome to this dispute,” Manamakimba continued. “I have something that belongs to you.” He gestured toward the hostages some fifty yards away who were watching them with undisguised interest. “Understandably, you want it back. I am sympathetic. I too have lost something. My country. It is currently in the possession of a group of thieves, murderers, and slavers who call themselves the government of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. They enjoy the support in this conceit of important players in the international system, including the United Nations, the mining companies, and the government of your own country. This support must end.”

This speech, delivered with poise and practiced smoothness, was not at all what the Agency bio had led Alex to expect from the Hammer of God. He wondered what else the CIA had gotten wrong about Joseph Manamakimba.

“The first thing I would like to do is to speak with the hostages,” Alex said. “I want to make sure that they have not been harmed, and I need to assess the extent of their medical needs.”

“This is not unreasonable,” Manamakimba replied magnanimously. “You may do so. I assure you that they have been well treated in our care.”

Alex walked over to what remained of the Consolidated Mining survey team. A few of the hostages stood up when Alex approached, but
one man remained flat on the ground. Two women knelt at his side, tending to their colleague as best they could.

As a group, they seemed frightened but not panicky. This was positive.

“Hello. My name is Alex Baines. I'm from the U.S. Embassy in Kinshasa, and I'm here to discuss with your captors the terms of your release. I promise you that we are doing everything we can to get you out. Can someone give me a quick update on your status? It looks like at least one of you is hurt. Is everyone else okay? Is there anyone missing? Anything you can tell me would be helpful.”

“Except for Steve, we're basically in good shape. Steve was shot. The wound has gone septic and he's in shock.” It was the Congolese woman who spoke up. Her English, he noted, was flawless.

“Marie Tsiolo, I presume.”

She nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Is this everyone, or were there other team members who might have been taken somewhere else?” Alex asked.

“No. This is everyone.”

“Is Jack Karic here?”

“Jack didn't make it,” Marie said. “Neither did Wallace Purcell. The Hammer of God killed them both. I've been representing us in our conversations with Manamakimba. Temporarily, at least, I suppose that puts me in charge.”

Alex had read Marie's personnel file. She was a relative newcomer to the company, and she had one of the thinnest files. Her evaluations had been stellar, however, and it was clear that Consolidated saw her as a rising star. That had made the letter of resignation in her file all the more puzzling. Only three days before heading into the jungle, Marie Tsiolo had given her notice. This was to be her last expedition with Consolidated.

“What can you tell me about Manamakimba?” Alex asked Marie.

“He's complicated,” Marie replied. “Not the mindless killer that the newspapers make him out to be. He's smart, surprisingly thoughtful, and he seems to believe absolutely in his cause.”

“What is his cause?”

“His country. Our country, I suppose. He sees himself as a patriot battling the greed of the mining companies.”

“Is there anything you can think of that might help me to negotiate with him?”

“Yes,” Marie replied. “Me.”

Alex looked at her quizzically.

“Like it or not, and I assure you I don't, this team is my responsibility. At this point, Dr. Wheeler's life is measured in hours. We don't have a lot of time, and I don't intend to sit here while you make a hash of the negotiations with Manamakimba.” Looking Alex right in the eye, Marie added in Lingala, “He eats pretty little white boys like you for breakfast.”

“In that case, he might find that he's bitten off more than he can chew,” Alex replied in the same language.

“All the same, you'll want me with you when you talk to him,” Marie said, shifting smoothly back to English. If she was at all impressed by Alex's command of Lingala, she hid it well.
“I understand him in ways that you cannot.”

Alex considered this for a moment. Marie had a point. She also had established a relationship with Manamakimba that would take Alex valuable time to replicate, if, in fact, he ever could. As a Congolese, Marie might have credibility with the Hammer of God that Alex could never hope to match. It was unusual for hostages to participate in the negotiations for their own release. As a rule, they had an obvious incentive to overpromise. Marie Tsiolo seemed cool and collected, however, and it seemed a risk that was worth taking.

“Come on,” Alex agreed. “Let's go get this done.”

J
UNE
20, 2009
M
ANAMAKIMBA
'
S
CAMP

M
arie did not want to give Manamakimba the opportunity to reject her participation in the negotiations, so she sat in the chair the American diplomat had vacated. Manamakimba said nothing, but he gestured to one of his aides and a boy came running over with a third chair for Alex.

The three negotiators sat facing one another over the flat granite slab that served as a table.

“I see you brought reinforcements,” Manamakimba observed dryly.

“Do you have any objection to Ms. Tsiolo's participation in our discussion?”

“None whatsoever.” Manamakimba settled back comfortably in his chair. “Are you satisfied with the condition of our guests?” he asked Alex.

“The
guests
are not satisfied with their condition,” Marie said before Alex could respond. “My colleague, Steve Wheeler, is dying. His
wound has festered. He needs a hospital urgently. I want you to let him go before we discuss terms for the release of the rest of the team.”

“Many of my children are also sick or injured.” Manamakimba's expansive gesture implied that he used “children” metaphorically to include all of his Hammer of God fighters. “They have no access to doctors or hospitals. The treatment available to your Dr. Wheeler is no better than what I can offer my own people, but neither is it any worse. Surely you don't mean to imply that your white friend is somehow more deserving than your African brothers and sisters.”

“White or black is immaterial to me. What concerns me is the color of his leg. It is red and swollen and cold to the touch. I'm no doctor, but I know enough to recognize gangrene.”

“I could have the leg cut off,” Manamakimba offered. “Some of my boys have considerable experience with that.”

I bet they do
, Marie thought.

“He's too weak. The blood loss would kill him. He needs a hospital and medicine.”

“What's one more death in the Congo?” Manamakimba asked. “Millions of our countrymen have died in these wars . . . wars that have been fought at the behest of companies like yours, Ms. Tsiolo. If he dies, Dr. Wheeler will be just one of many victims. If his death serves to advance the cause of liberation for our people, then it is a death more valuable than most.”

“It will do the opposite,” Alex warned. “I am here to negotiate at your invitation, but if you are serious about reaching a deal that can benefit both of us, then we will have to establish a degree of trust. Ordinarily, that takes time, but it is time that Dr. Wheeler does not have. If you allow him to die under your charge while trying to score debating points, it will make it exceedingly difficult for us to develop any kind of trust or confidence in you. We have made a gesture in agreeing to meet here in your camp. You should reciprocate and let Dr. Wheeler go now. You will still have enough hostages to justify continued negotiations,
and you eliminate the risk of losing one of your guests on a timeline that you don't control.”

Marie liked that the American was appealing to Manamakimba's self-interest rather than his humanity. The Congo had a way of hardening one to the suffering of others. Self-interest was timeless.

“Surely you don't expect to get something for nothing in the case of Dr. Wheeler,” Manamakimba replied. “Goodwill frankly seems somewhat abstract at this point. Perhaps we could discuss the terms for the professor's release.”

“What did you have in mind?” Alex asked.

“I propose a statement on behalf of Consolidated Mining, the United Nations, and the United States of America accepting responsibility for the violence in eastern Congo . . . and, shall we say, one million dollars to cover the Hammer of God's expenses.”

Marie was again struck by the juxtaposition of the high-minded and the venal in Manamakimba's rhetoric.

“That seems a bit steep for a single hostage,” Alex observed.

“Ah, it is good to see that you are not above bartering for lives. You will find that an invaluable attribute in our country.”

“Then let's negotiate in a serious way. What you are asking for is out of the question. Dr. Wheeler has little time. We cannot negotiate on terms that would require messages to be relayed back and forth to Kinshasa, much less to New York or Washington. We need to work with what we have at hand. There are certain commitments I can make now, but only in exchange for Dr. Wheeler's immediate release.”

“What would you suggest then?”

“A straight-up trade. Release Dr. Wheeler and you have my word that I will stay in this camp as your . . . guest . . . until we have reached agreement on a deal that will free all of the members of the Consolidated Mining team. In reality, you'd be trading up. You'd have the same number of hostages, but you'd be giving up a dying man for a healthy one, and a U.S. official at that.”

“You are not a coward,” Manamakimba offered, after a moment's reflection. “That is something. But what do I gain by this when I could simply keep you both.”

“I don't believe you will do that. You gave us your word that we would have safe passage for these talks, and unless I misjudge you, I think your word is something that you take seriously. I assure you that I take my word seriously as well, and if I offer myself freely as your hostage, it is without intent to deceive.”

Manamakimba hesitated, then nodded his agreement. It was a good deal and the guerilla leader knew it.

“Very well. I accept your offer, Mr. Baines.”

“No,” Marie interrupted. “It is not enough.”

The two men looked at her. They both seemed somewhat surprised at her intervention. Manamakimba, she noted with irritation, also seemed bemused.

“You think our American friend values himself too highly?” the Hammer of God asked.

“I think he sells himself short,” Marie offered. “He is an American diplomat. The local representative of the most powerful country in the world. Surely he is worth more than an old and injured geologist. It is not a fair trade. In addition, Dr. Wheeler is gravely ill and will require care on the trip back to Kinshasa. The two women, Arlene and Charlotte, have been looking after him. Let them go as well and you can keep the American diplomat. Otherwise, I reject your deal as insufficient.”

Manamakimba laughed. There was nothing malevolent in it. It was a genuine laugh, full of warmth and humor.

“Two women seems extravagant,” the guerilla leader said. “A man should be satisfied with one good woman. You, Ms. Tsiolo, would be more than enough for any man, I expect. But I am not unreasonable, and I recognize the value that your American friend offers. You may have one of the women to nurse the doctor on his trip back to . . . civilization.” The last word dripped with sarcasm. “They may leave immediately. But
you must choose which one it is to be, Ms. Tsiolo. You are their leader. The decision is rightly yours.”

Marie's stomach turned over. This was not a responsibility she wanted. Whichever one she picked was likely to survive this experience. The other would share the collective fate of the rest of the team, and Marie was realistic enough to know that their future did not look bright. It was quite literally the power of life and death.

“How does it feel,” he asked, “to hold the fate of another in your hands? It is true power. Many men become addicted to this. Do not grow to love it overmuch, Marie Tsiolo. Power is a harsh mistress.”

Marie looked over at what was left of the Consolidated Mining survey team. Steve Wheeler was thrashing in a fever-racked dream. Charlotte lifted his head and cradled it in her lap. She tried to get him to drink from the clean water in her canteen, but the geologist was too dazed to swallow.

That small act of kindness was enough.

“Charlotte Swing will go with Steve,” she announced.

“The blond one?” Manamakimba asked.

“Yes.”

“Too bad. I was looking forward to getting to know her better.”

Manamakimba turned to Alex. “You may have Mr. Wheeler and Ms. Swing. You may take them immediately and then you may take their places . . . as my guest.”

Alex nodded and left to make the arrangements for their transport.

Manamakimba looked at Marie with such intensity it was as though he was trying to see inside her.

“You drive a harder bargain than the American.”

“I have had more time to take your measure.”

Marie watched as two UN soldiers and two Hammer of God fighters moved Steve Wheeler onto a stretcher and placed it in the back of one of the Land Cruisers. Charlotte Swing hugged the other members of the team and got into the vehicle. The Land Cruiser pulled out and
started down the dirt track toward the UN base. Marie offered a silent prayer to her ancestors for Steve Wheeler.

When Alex returned, the negotiations began in earnest.

“Dr. Wheeler and Ms. Swing represent a decent beginning,” Alex said. “Shall we discuss terms for the release of the remaining members of the team . . . and for me, of course?”

“Shall we? I believe that I have put my terms on the table. Thirty-five million dollars and the withdrawal of all foreign forces from eastern Congo. This applies in particular to the mining interests, but to the UN forces as well. They serve the occupiers and they are not welcome. If you'd prefer to pay in euros,” Manamakimba added, “I can offer you a favorable exchange rate. I'm afraid that I can't accept Congolese francs.”

“That's not a terribly realistic offer, Mr. Manamakimba. Only the UN Security Council can order the withdrawal of UNSAF. I can offer you a meeting with the UNSAF commander. An opportunity to bring your grievances right to the top. Perhaps if you had a chance to observe some of the UN operations, it would help alleviate your concerns. In addition, it might be possible for me to facilitate an amnesty deal with the government if you release the hostages immediately and agree to verifiable disarmament.”

“Now who's being unrealistic, Mr. Baines? In this neighborhood, disarmament is death. I will not ask that of my children. I will not trade the soldiers I hold for empty promises.”

“The people you are holding—me included—are civilians, not soldiers. They are scientists and engineers. They have no part in the war.”

“That is where you are wrong. The mining companies and the officials who protect them are the essence of this war. They provide both the reason and the means for violence. They are modern conquistadors disguised as free-market capitalists in the service of their lords and masters in Kinshasa, London, New York, Beijing, and Pretoria. I have studied your Western civilization, Mr. Baines.” Manamakimba again
made the word derisive. “I am not an uneducated savage skulking through the forest. I studied mechanical engineering at the University of Liège.”

Marie was not surprised by this. She had concluded early on that the guerilla leader had considerable formal education.

“I learned many things in Belgium, including the history of my own people. The Kingdom of Kongo was a great empire, but it was built with gold and spears rather than steel and guns. The Belgians made us slaves. We were not even a colony. We were a company, the private company of King Leopold II. The people of the Congo were just so many machine parts. We collected the Belgians' rubber and dug their copper and slaughtered our elephants for their ivory. Millions of us died. If a village failed to meet its quota, the white officers of Leopold's enforcers, the Force Publique
,
took their hands in compensation. Baskets of severed hands flowed back to Europe along with the plunder. When the Belgians finally left, we were so weak and divided that we turned on one another. For the last fifty years, the West has worked to keep us weak so that we might continue to feed their industrial machine.

“So do not tell me, Mr. Baines, that these are innocent civilians I have in my possession. They are every bit the foot soldiers of the conquerors. Just ask my pretty African sister what her own employer wants to do to her family, her village. Uncle Joseph knows.” Manamakimba pointed a long bony finger at his own chest. “Why don't you?”

When Alex looked at her, Marie turned away. Although she could not accept Manamakimba's methods, his passion and conviction spoke to her. He was certainly right about the way in which the company had betrayed her. She had been naïve.

“I did not ask you to fight my battles,” Marie told the guerilla leader. “We can take care of ourselves.”

“Can you now? That is not how it looks from the outside, Ms. Tsiolo. Remember that what is happening to you is only a small taste of what is happening to our country.”

There was a lull in the conversation as though the participants by mutual consent had paused to consider where they were. It was the American who broke the silence.

“I appreciate the history of this country and I'm sympathetic to what you're saying. The Congo and its people have suffered terribly over the last century. If you are looking to educate me, I assure you that you have my complete attention. If you're looking for justice, this isn't the way.”

The guerilla leader had an intense look in his eyes. “Let me show you both something,” he said, as he pulled a small stack of photographs out of a cargo pocket on the thigh of his jungle camouflage pants. “These are pictures of my family. My wife, Serena, our two sons, and our daughter.”

Marie and Alex leafed through the photographs. Manamakimba's wife was a graceful woman with a warm and welcoming smile. In one of the pictures, she was standing in front of a small, well-kept house wearing a simple yellow skirt and a cotton T-shirt. She was lovely. The three children stood in a knot on her right side holding hands. They were wearing what looked like school uniforms. The other pictures were of Serena and the children playing in the yard, cooking, and doing other ordinary things. The guerilla leader appeared in only one picture. This was a more formal shot, with Manamakimba and his wife sitting on a bench, their children arrayed in an arc in front of them. In the picture, the ruthless Hammer of God looked like nothing other than a proud husband and father.