Chapter Thirteen.
Ngongo, 2007.
When the precautions had been in place for the requisite two years, I suppose the Executive decided I was “clean.” At least, Major Odhon’g’s initial summons to meet him in the forest implied as much. That meeting, described at the outset of this narrative, took place early in 2007 -- sometime during February, as I recall.
About the date of the second meeting, I can be more precise: 12 June 2007. Of course, I remember this because it was also the date of my thirty-seventh birthday. To the Cadre’s Executive, there seemed to be no such thing as coincidence. This was confirmed by Major Odhon’g’s exact words when he offered me the carotte of the two possible positions in his putative administration.
“Happy thirty-seventh birthday, comrade Pierre!” he said. “To mark this occasion, allow me to offer you a choice between two very special gifts.” And he named the two positions.
Of course, the baton [“stick”] quickly followed. The Cadre’s plan was to detonate the bomb a month and two days later, at 10:14 hours on 14 July, the forty-seventh anniversary of ngongienne Independence.
“At precisely this time,” the Major explained, “Festus Nkwema will be riding along le Rue de la Liberation, and passing Musee’ d’Ethnographie, on his way from the Palace to Parc de L’Independence, where it is planned that he will deliver the keynote address to mark la grande occasion.”
What I noted among these scant details was that, in naming the dictator, Major Odhon’g had conspicuously omitted his titles and honorifics. This omission implied that the assassination was a fait accompli, that Nkwema was already grille’ [“toast”]. I should also mention that, for this second meeting, Major Odhon’g was himself decked out in full Cadre regimentals: a clean, navy blue uniform with the epaulets, stars and bars appropriate to his rank.
The remainder of that second meeting, which lasted perhaps thirty minutes, was less hortatory than logistical. I was told exactly when (1800 hours, on 13 July) and where (in a garbage receptacle, to be placed opposite the Musee’ by a young comrade earlier that day). I was to deposit the bomb. As to the detonation, the Major said only this: “The bomb will be triggered by a computer in another of our camps.” (Our second meeting was taking place outside the same camp as the first.) “But you need not trouble yourself with these details, mon camarade. By the time of the explosion, you will have vanished into a remote corner of the country.”
Of these logistical details, what I principally noted was how little I was being told. In fact, I knew quite a bit more about explosives than that they could be detonated remotely by a computer.
In 2001, four years previous to my near-fatal trip to the DNC, on one of several CPLN missions to neighboring Angola, a bushy-bearded, cigar-smoking (how unoriginal!) Cuban expert had demonstrated a wide variety of triggering mechanisms for RCIED’s (Radio Controlled Improvised Explosive Devices). He also mentioned how, a few months earlier, their opponents, UNITA, had derailed a train with an anti-tank mine, and then used small arms to massacre all of the passengers.
Our own Angolan affiliate, the MPLA, had shared this information, and related technical know-how, with us, in exchange for materiel. The Cadre had recently purchased a large quantity of Semtex, which we used for barter with neighboring affiliates, including the MPLA. The cache had been made available through middle-eastern associates, who had bought up a large quantity left over from recent IRA campaigns. Of course, the Cadre had bought the surplus Semtex at a “comrades’ price,” which was about a third of the price on the world black market.
How did I know about Semtex prices? Well, I am sure you will remember the name “Andrew Ennyange.” You may recall our 1982 colloquy in the refectory of L’institut Pedagoque. Comrade Ennyange turned out to be a Maths genius. Because his organization, the Afulaya, had been un-banned during the 1990’s by General Nkwema, and because Andrew had retained his taste for insurrection, he had shifted to the Cadre, where his title, in 2001, was “Business Manager/Chief Accountant.” Regarding this shift from religious politics to whatever the Cadre was, you might say that, unlike the hyena in the proverb, Yoo aryo oloyo lalur (“Two roads defeated the hyena”), Andrew Ennyange always knew on which road the “meat” could be found.
Of course, Major Odhon’g’s omissions at the June 12th meeting were another security precaution. I am sure the Executive realized that, in the event of my apprehension, I would be subjected to intense torture. So the less I knew about the assassination plot, the better –- for them. As everyone now knows in this era of violent state terrorism, no prisoner can indefinitely withstand torture.
Even as Major Odhon’g was meting out his sparse information, I understood his motive and, thinking ahead, I determined that what the Cuban had taught me might serve to temporarily mollify my putative torturers. Of course, the details that the Major had confided were the expendable ones. As I also knew, I was expendable. In the sad event of my death, the Cadre would regret and honor… bla bla [“blah blah”].
Major Oscar Odhon’g (2)
The seed has now been planted and fertilized, but will it thrive? The Executive was, as usual, divided over the important choice of bomb-placer. As the most influential member of the Tshombe camp, I argued that he is a comrade with an innocent look, yet sufficiently experienced. His principal rival candidate, Bemba, is a battle-scarred veteran with many dangerous missions to his credit. I suppose their point was that, if apprehended, Bemba might prove more resilient under torture.
Of course, the premise of that argument was that the bomb-placer would be apprehended. That point also had its merits, in that the operatives of La Force are ubiquitous. Of course, this also means that Albert, the boy who is to place the receptacle on the parade route, may also be apprehended. But since neither he nor Pierre has been made party to crucial details –- exactly how the bomb is to be detonated, the names and locations of those among the Executive who are privy to the plot, and so forth -- if either of them is apprehended, he will just have to invent some balivernes [“nonsense”] to feed to his captors.
How much more pressure can I, myself, endure? For twenty-seven years now, I have been serving in the CPLN.
Enough! Tomorrow night, I must set out for Mindouli to meet with Comrade Ennyange, so that he can reassure me about the efficacy of the computer program we have selected for la grande operation -- about which program I currently understand next to nothing. And then, too, there is the horrible nagging suspicion that there may be an NKN mole in our ranks. Oh, god! My existence seems to be an unending attempt to stave off damage. One more month, Oscar! One more month, and we either succeed or …
When the big day (before the big day) finally arrived, I was ready -- I suppose. Since July 13th happened to fall on a Friday, it occurred to me that the day might be unlucky. But this is not a superstition in my own culture. Now, if I had squashed an egg underfoot, or eaten my supper in a dark room, I might have felt a certain superstitious dread. Or I might not have.
These were the foolish thoughts I used to distract myself from my very real fears. As I left the office, at my usual time of four in the afternoon, my heart beat like the proverbial drum. In my briefcase was the bomb, which had rested in my bottom-left desk drawer for the seven hours since my arrival that morning.
As I walked through the outer office, my secretary cheerfully called, “See you later this evening at the Park, Monsieur Tshombe!”
Barely able to reply, I squeaked out a “Bien sur, Mariane. A bientot! [“Of course. See you soon!”]
The lift, as usual, was hors service [“out of service”], so I crept down the long flight of uneven wooden stairs, and was waved through the metal detector by the familiar guard, a retired old army man. Of course, I knew the bomb contained no metal (an elementary precaution that I understood the Cadre had taken), so this “free pass” was superfluous.
Outside, as usual, stood two black-clad giants, the NKN guarding our building, the ministere des Affaires etrangeres. I must admit that I was irrationally relieved to note that neither guard was Grand Pierre. In the two years since our confrontation in the DRC, my superstitious dread of this thug had not completely dissipated.
Grunting to the guards, who did not return my salutation, I headed south along the Avenue, intending to weave my way to the Musee’ through a warren of back streets. As I walked along, I shifted the heavy briefcase to my right hand, in order to consult the time on my smartphone, which I carried in the left pocket of my suit jacket. Since I was not supposed to deposit the bomb for two more hours, and since my walk to the garbage bin of the Musee’ would not take more than forty-five minutes, I considered the best way to tuer le temps [“kill time”].
Since I was far too nervous to eat or drink anything, I decided I would read the day’s paper, which rested in my briefcase with the bomb. I would do so in a parc de poche [“pocket park”] on a small street a few blocks from the Musee. My only fear was that I might encounter “Uncle Stooge,” whose Pension Saint-Louis was situated only a few hundred metres beyond the park. But, at that hour, I anticipated, he would more likely be at his station behind the front counter, anxiously awaiting the arrival of guests, than indulging in a casual stroll.
I dawdled my way along, trying not to look like someone who is trying not to look conspicuous. This meant not only not looking back over my shoulder, or wheeling around, but not complimenting passing dogs or babies, and not peering into uninteresting shop windows, or excusing myself every time someone passed from the opposite direction. Was I nervous? Of course, I was!
In July, on average, rain falls in Fort Chaltin for a minimum of half the days. Since the sky was overcast, and since it was “Happy Hour” for thunderstorms, I wondered what I should do, in this event. Since my collapsible umbrella was in the pocket of the lid of my briefcase, and since most rainstorms here are of short duration, I thought I could wait out the shower on a bench, beneath the umbrella.
Then, I thought I should stop worrying about everything, lest I strike an alert passerby as someone with something to hide. Still, the rain held off. As I neared the park, an Acholi proverb popped into my head: Agulu odiyo ota, which means, “The pot is pressing the grass stand,” which means, “Pressure makes people do things that would normally be against their will.” In other words, I told myself to stop worrying. Easier said than done!
Entering the park, I saw that it was deserted. This should have served as a warning. Instead, I told myself that, at this hour (a bit before five), most people were still at their jobs, or thinking about the evening ahead. Choosing a bench near the only entrance, I drew breath and sat down, the briefcase on my lap.
Although the anticipated rain did not fall, I would shortly come to regard this day as an embodiment of our saying, Pini ru keni keni. [”Not every day is a Sunday.”] This notion of uncertainty pervades Acholi culture. Another such saying is, Wilobo wai pe gimako jange. [“Nobody can be sure of what the world will do.”]
At that moment, as I prepared to open the briefcase, needlessly to check the contents, I heard soft footsteps scuffling on the gravel behind me. I tried to whirl around, but too late. A heavy, somehow familiar fist crashed into the left side of my face. Before losing consciousness, I heard only two words: La Mallette! [“The Briefcase!”]
To be continued...
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