Chapter Fifteen.
Ngongo, July 13th - 18th, 2007; New York City, July-October, 2007.
Would that I had refused this suicidal mission! Oh, well, Ange tyene lit, koko ange.” (“Regret has sore legs, that’s why it arrives late.”) Am I still alive, then? Thanks to my enemies (and my friends), yes. But barely! How did GP know I would be in that park at five p.m. on the 13th? From what I have been told, there was blame enough to go around. Of course, the main culprit was probably Uncle Stooge, who must have set the NKN hounds on my trail. But who found the scent for him? It must have been none other than my age mate from Mindouli, Joseph, my uncle’s dog’s body. But how did Joseph happen to be in the park? Who knows?
Of course, there is another possibility: a mole in the ranks of the Cadre. Experience shows that most African resistance movements are infiltrated by government spies. And vice-versa. I mean, I was a mole, myself! And I think I failed to mention that Andrew Ennyange, erstwhile member of Afulaya, and currently a broyeur de chiffres [“numbers cruncher”] for the Cadre, is also gainfully employed by Ngongo’s Bureau des Statistiques. In his day job, too, Andrew is a numbers cruncher. Unfortunately, he gets some of those numbers wrong (intentionally, of course).
When I followed the Executive’s instruction to accost “Bob” Shepard in the market, on Tuesday afternoon, June 17th, I was still a mess. After the initial working over by GP, which left me with a collapsed eye socket and several broken ribs, I was carried to the prison centrale, where I was thrown into a dungeon to await further indignities. These would not commence until I had languished on the mud floor of this dark room for who-knows-how-long -- perhaps several days. You can imagine my thoughts, as I waited through the long hours for the other boot to fall!
When they would finally start in on me, at least I would have had more than enough time to prepare my lies. Of course, they would possess the advantage of my not knowing how much they knew. Most likely, the chief interrogator would turn out to be a man I had encountered in my other life, in the ministere des Affaires etrangeres.
This thug, by name Michael Horvat, was a Slovenian with extensive experience in torture, garnered in part during the Ten Day War, his nation’s successful 1991 campaign of secession from former Yugoslavia. Several years, and several wars, later, General Nkwema managed to outbid several fellow African dictators for Horvat’s services, by offering him three percent p.a., a significant cut, of the profits from the sale of coltan, which the General personally supervised. I had seen enough of Michael Horvat to be terrified. On several occasions, he had turned up unannounced at my ministere, ostensibly to discipline a recalcitrant NKN guard, but really to kick some poor fellow into unconsciousness.
As I waited and waited for this devil to make his grand entrance, the pain from my wounds subsided from severe agony to great discomfort, such that I was able to work out responses to anticipated levels of torture. These responses would feature “giving up” Major Odhon’g, who was, presumably, known to La Force, but well beyond their reach. As soon as the electrodes were attached to my testicles, I would divulge the Major’s role in setting me on. After that, when they began to crucify me upside down, a la Peter the Apostle, I would retard the process by reciting some juicy facts about RCIED’s (Radio Controlled Improvised Explosive Devices) that I had learned from the Cuban, in Angola.
As it turned out, however, I did not have to “give up” anything. Michael Horvat had been bribed. When he finally appeared, instead of bursting into the dungeon brandishing the dreaded instruments of torture, he entered wearing a wide grin, whistling a merry tune (“We Are the World,” I think it was), and rubbing the thumb and forefinger of his empty right hand together.
On that particular day, the man’s greed apparently trumped his loyalty and sadism. Before he released me, through a rear door of the cellar, he had me pose for some photographs, which he shot with his smartphone. I assumed these would be photo-shopped, in order to demonstrate that he had done his job. Meanwhile, I was free. As the elders say, Pur kweri alok, the simplest translation for which is “Things change!”
Robert “Bob” Shepard (2)
On Tuesday morning, I ate all I could of the Pension’s breakfast, which was anything but petit. Then, I spent a couple of hours at the small Musee’ d’Ethnographie, at the south end of the Quartier Central, six blocks from the pension. The specialty of the Musee’ seemed to be tableaux vivants, scenes from ngongienne village life. Besides the usual bare-breasted maidens and stalwart warriors, there were hordes of children at play, and sage-looking elders, doing this and that. Had any African villagers ever really looked like these figures?
One conspicuous amenity the Musee’ lacked was a trash receptacle at the entrance/exit. The sidewalk in front of the gray, cement, colonial-era building was littered with light-blue ticket stubs. On my walks to and from the Musee’, I could tell I was again being watched: the men in black were obvious.
Back at the pension, after sponging off and changing my clothes, I still had many hours to kill. I remembered having told Monsieur Saint-Louis that, before leaving Ngongo, I wanted to see how “the people” lived. So I walked south along rue de la Liberation, the wide street on which the pension was located, this time away from the Quartier Central. By now, it was about one p.m., and the day had become very hot. Glad I was wearing my lightest pants and shirt, I put on my cap and sunglasses.
This section of the city was a sort of suburb, quiet, with little traffic. Although the small one-story bungalows, made of stucco or white-washed cement, were modest by American standards, they all featured high iron fences with razor wire, intimidating signs announcing the presence of vicious dogs, and notices to the effect that security companies regularly patrolled the neighborhood. A middle-aged man coming from the opposite direction saw me looking at the signs and notices. “I think those are solely for dissuasion, Monsieur” [“deterrence”].
“Ah, yes, of course. I’m a visitor. Are there many burglaries here?”
“Not many. Yet we property owners fear them.”
“What of La Force NKN?”
My interlocutor was not wearing black, but a bright, multi-colored shirt, olive colored trousers, and red rubber sandals. He flinched. “Well, of course, there are those people.” When I did not pursue the point, he wished me well and hurried on his way.
After several blocks, the neighborhood became less affluent. The rue de la Liberation brought me to a long row of market kiosks. Among them wound narrow paths leading back to mud huts roofed with thatch or rusty corrugated metal. Perhaps because of the afternoon heat, business seemed slow. Inside the open-fronted kiosks, men and women dozed on stools or chairs, or haggled with the occasional customer, over petty goods. Unconsciously, I moved my hands toward my pants pockets, and realizing I had neglected to do so, zipped them shut.
Then, as if to contradict the assurances of the stranger I had met, a tall, thin, ragged, dust-covered figure sprang towards me from a path between the kiosks. Before I could jump back, he brushed against me, and I felt a hand at my right pants pocket.
“Shaa!” shouted a shopkeeper, adding what sounded like a furious imprecation, in an African language. Several other proprietors approached, waving their arms and shouting similar imprecations. I half-expected a pack of NKN to materialize, but none did.
“Sorry, sir!” the ragged man cried, in French. “Please forgive me!” He spun around and sped back up the path, eluding the mob. Most of the merchants, some still muttering, wandered back to their kiosks.
“I am afraid, Monsieur, that you have encountered one of our madmen,” a large woman explained (also in French). “Very, very sorry.” She sat back down on the stool in front of her kiosk, which was near the spot where I had just been accosted.
“That’s okay, Madame.” My heart was beating fast. “Not your fault.” With trembling hands, I patted my pants pockets. In the left one, I could feel my wallet. But in the right one, which had held only a few coins and a roll of mints, the zipper was half open, and I felt something like a crumpled piece of paper.
In such situations, people tend not to notice much, but for some reason my accoster had looked vaguely familiar. His hair was filthy and matted. He wore ragged khaki shorts and a torn, once-white dress shirt. He was barefoot, and his face, arms, and legs were covered with bruises, cuts, and abrasions.
Then, I realized why the madman had seemed familiar: it was Pierre Tshombe, as I had envisioned him from descriptions in Eli’s emails. The image of a polite, meticulously clean man flashed across my mind. Instinctively, I patted the piece of paper in my pocket.
“Nothing missing,” I said to the market woman.
“Such people are not usually thieves. Would you like to sit down for a moment, Monsieur, perhaps to take some cold water?” She produced a second stool from beneath the table where her goods were displayed.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I have my own.” Unlocking my backpack, I took out the bottle. “Would you like some?” She shrugged and smiled. Taking a few long swallows, I put the bottle back and re-locked the backpack.
After exchanging nods with the woman, I walked on for perhaps fifteen more minutes. By then, I was exhausted. The intrepid traveler had never before attempted a long trek beneath the tropical sun, punctuated by a startling encounter. So I hailed one of the ubiquitous rattletraps that cruised the avenue, and in five minutes, we were back at the pension. I paid the driver, adding the pourboire recommended in my guidebook, to which he responded with effusive thanks.
Back in my room, I locked the door, shed the backpack, and splashed tepid water on my face. Then, I unzipped my pocket and took out the piece of paper. It was a dirty, wrinkled, lined sheet torn from a notebook. In spidery handwriting, it read (in French):
Please, Monsieur Shepard, I am so sorry to impose on you, but I know that you are a good friend of Monsieur E.J., and I fear that this is a matter of life and death. Could you be so kind as to meet me tonight at the entrance to Parc de L’Independence, near the northeast border of the city? If you will call 23-004-91 at exactly 11 p.m., you will be picked up and driven there. The driver will be one of us.
“Your presence will indicate your willingness to help with an urgent matter. Through the driver, I will entrust you with a packet containing literature documenting the struggles and sufferings of our group. I will ask you to carry these documents home with you in your luggage, and then to take them to the address indicated. When we meet tonight, I will explain more completely. In case I am not there, you may assume that I have been apprehended. In that case, the driver will drop you someplace where you can have a drink, after which you will return by taxi to your pension. This should provide you with an adequate cover.”
The letter was signed, as follows:
“Your comrade, and the friend-of-your-friend, Mr. E.J.,
Pierre Auguste Bondeko Tshombe
Cadre Pour La Liberation d’Ngongo (CPLN).
P.S. Please memorize the contents of this note and destroy it immediately.”
The writer had forgotten to append the promised address, but I assumed it would be in the packet.
Still shaky, and relying on memory for the other details in the note, I copied the phone number on a scrap of paper, then tore the note to bits, flushed it down the toilet, and flopped onto the bed. I imagined being stopped at the airport by NKN thugs, who would discover the packet. I would be thrown into a fetid cell, where demands to speak to my consul would be met with derisive laughter.
After resting for a minute, or two, I went back down to the empty lobby, and sat down on a sofa in front of the window. By now, it was almost five. In front of the building, a large old black American sedan was parked, with its motor running. Since the windows were tinted, I could not be sure, but I imagined that inside the vehicle were several men in black.
The lobby remained empty. Where was the patron? Thinking he might be eating, or setting up for the evening meal, I checked the dining room, but it, too, was empty. Only a single table was set, for six. So far at least, I had seen no sign of Chinese businessmen, or other guests. If any should materialize, I assumed their mission would involve coltan, which I knew was, by now, among Ngongo’s principal resources.
I spent the rest of Tuesday evening trying again to nap and read. For supper, I made do with some cheese, crackers, and dried fruit that I had brought with me from New York, in case the airline food was inedible. After this frugal meal, I returned to my guidebook, staring at the pages for a long time, and comprehending nothing.
At 10:30, I crept down the hall and saw that the patron had turned out most of the lights. There were still no signs of any other guests. At exactly eleven, I used my smartphone to call the number from Pierre's note, destroyed the slip of paper, tiptoed downstairs and, as quietly as possible, unlocked the gates. Re-locking them behind me, I waited in the shadows. A quarter of an hour later, Pierre's man appeared, driving a battered old sedan. He carried me through the city to the entrance of the park. No Pierre!
With growing anxiety, we waited forty minutes, until the driver suggested we leave. He dropped me at a bar in the Quartier Central, where I had my drink, then took a cab back to the pension. As quietly as possible, I once again unlocked and re-locked the gates. Creeping up to my room, I sponged myself off, turned the lights out, crept into bed, and vainly tried again to sleep. Then, I got up and, using the light from my smartphone, sent a brief text to Eli, stating that I had been unable to contact “our friend,” but that I had been accosted by a madman. I requested further instructions.
Almost immediately, I received his brief reply: “Do nothing further! Return home asap!”
After a few hours of unsettling dreams, I breakfasted, paid the bill for the whole week, and exchanged cool farewells with the patron, who was, at last, busy checking in a group of Chinese business types. I was driven to the airport in a random taxi that I telephoned for. During the forty-minute ride down the escarpment, I worried obsessively that I would be detained.
Arriving barely in time to check in, I entered the small terminal. Wearing the best smile I could muster, I wheeled my suitcase across the air-conditioned lobby to the check-in counter. The moment the perfumed, immaculately uniformed clerk, who was as beautiful as a model, began to process my ticket, her smartphone rang. For perhaps thirty seconds, she listened in silence, her perfect forehead beading with sweat.
“Oui, Monsieur Le Capitaine, entendu,” she finally said, and closed the phone. Then, to me, also in French, “I am so sorry, Monsieur, but certain formalities require me to direct you kindly to proceed with your luggage to the gray door over there, the one marked ‘SECURITE’ ‘. ” She pointed a long manicured finger.
“But...”
“Please, Monsieur, it is very necessary. I am certain you will not miss your flight.” With a sense of doom, I wheeled my suitcase to the door she had indicated, and knocked.
“Come in, it’s open,” a high male voice called through the door. His accented English suggested he was not a francophone, but someone from the Balkans, perhaps. I entered, as directed.
Dressed in a shiny, sky-blue safari suit, a heavyset white man with a pockmarked face sat staring at a computer screen on a metal desk, in a tiny windowless office with fluorescent lighting. The only ornament in the room was a huge framed portrait on the wall behind the desk. It was the dictator, as he might have looked thirty or forty years before, wearing square, black-framed glasses and a camouflage uniform.
There was no chair for visitors, so I walked up to the desk, and stood there. The nameplate read, “MICHAEL HORVAT, CAPITAINE DE SECURITE’ SUPERIOR, LA FORCE NKN.” Without a word, the man, who remained seated, gestured for me to come around to his side of the desk. Complying, I saw on the screen six or eight thumbnail photographs of a man under what I assumed was extreme torture. In one, he was dangling by his ankles from a meat hook, with his hands tied behind him, his entire body covered in blood. In another, a close-up of a silently screaming face left no doubt who the victim was.
Barely able to keep myself from swooning, I leaned both hands on the edge of the desk. The official’s face displayed a look of false concern, with an undercurrent of delight. Then, he suddenly play-acted jumping from his seat, and clasped me very hard by the shoulder.
“Please, Bob. Sit down! Sorry there’s no audio. Can I get you a glass of water?” He gestured to the desk chair. I shrugged him off, and he smiled. “No? You’re okay? If you don’t mind, then, I’ll have a quick look through your bag.” Not trusting myself to speak, I gestured to the suitcase. He laid it on the floor, popped the snaps, cursorily riffled through the contents, then shut it again. “Good to go, mon ami. Bon voyage. Please give my very best wishes to your fellow Americans!”
Hardly aware of what I was doing, I staggered from the office and wheeled back to the counter. With another apology, the clerk escorted me through a door that led out onto the broiling tarmac. Upon my arrival in Paris, this time there was a three-hour layover, during which, still dazed, I sat by a window, watching the planes land and take off.
During my first weeks back in New York, I told the story of Pierre Tshombe to anyone who would listen: friends, neighbors, complete strangers. When I began to feel like the Ancient Mariner, and a close friend suggested that I “give it a rest,” I subsided.
Two months after my return, a torn, smudged Manila envelope arrived, covered with canceled stamps from several countries, and containing incendiary documents. There was also a slip of paper with the address of a Human Rights group, but no note. I brought the packet to the address, where an earnest young woman took it, earnestly shook my hand, and uttered an earnest speech of thanks.
After that, two more months floated past, as time does for the elderly. Hardly a day went by, however, when my liberal heart did not bleed for Pierre Tshombe. Then, on Monday, November 10th, 2008, I finally received another email from Eli Josephai. His message was succinct: “Pierre has left Ngongo.”
To be continued...
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