The Merlin Legacy

© 2014 Jeane Heimberger Candido. All rights reserved.

Artist: The author Jeane Heimberger Candido

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/12/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0984-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0983-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908185

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Dedicated to my daughter

Anne Marie

Other Books by the Author

The Redemption of Corporal Nolan Giles—a Civil War Novel

Shepherd's Song—Civil War Novel of Vicksburg

Pages in Read Ink: Mysteries of Then and Now—Collection

My Bloomin' Insanity—Illustrated Gardening-humor

Levi: The Smartest Boy in the World—Children's Book

14 January 2001

Kinshasa, Capital of the Democratic Republic of the Congo

Formerly the African Country of Zaire

Office of the President Laurent Kabila

The Marble Palace on the Pointe de la Gombe on the Congo River

04o 20'S/15o15'E

The westering sun bore down in a blistering burn, setting Kinshasa ablaze in golden luminescence. It was January, the height of summer in four latitude south. The sub-Saharan pestilences and poisons exhaled a fetid tannic steam from the swamps, the stagnant pools, the puddles, and the ruts of the broken streets. Suffering from Congo fatigue, the dwellers of the city—the Kinois—lazed in every shadow and dreamed of relief. Come evening, the jungle breezes from the east and the Atlantic winds from the coast would revive the capital again. Then its pulse would beat in syncopated time with rock bands, the clink of fool's gold, and the keening folk songs of the streets.

The Democratic Republic of the Congo was a hostage held captive in the crosshairs of time, deprived of its own past and its rightful future in the advancing world swirling about it. Under the old Congo Belge, clocks in the capital had been meaningless, the work had never stopped, and sleep never allowed. The docks were kinetic with enterprise, dancing to the profanity from English, French, German, and Russian captains of feeder ships. And curses cracked staccato in refrain from harbor masters and stevedores in French, Lingala, and every dialect of Swahili and Kikongo. But none of the riches passing into and around them would be turned into gold for them. Even under Mobutu, the city sang in harmony with goods going out and profits coming in, but that wealth too had never been theirs.

Now, cranes, jabots, and riggers no longer whined with swinging cargoes. Trains on side rails did not blow cinder and exhaust. Shipping containers rotted and sweated foul, while neglected warehouses havened animals, the displaced, and roving bands of thugs.

If there were a ruling master of this Babylon of mixed races, tongues, and wildlife surging in the elbow of western Africa it was the indomitable Zaire River. It drifted an open sewer of gritty sludge, erosion, up-river village wastes, and tailings from the eastern-province mines. Downriver, the pounding rapids of the Livingstone Falls narrowed and funneled the current through the onrushing Inga Cascades into a toxic, impotent reservoir swirling around the dead hydroelectric plants—another of the broken legacies of Mobutu. Blackouts were routine—today brought another. It was a purgatory for high and low alike.

Mzee stood well back in the shadows of his office in the presidential palace, the windows closed and locked. Sweat coursed from his temples; the white shirt and trousers of his safari suit were soaked and matted against his skin. His head swam, and he steadied himself against his desk. Mother Congo, you are killing me.

He was no longer the leader of the great liberation, no longer in command of brigades who loved and feared him. The stifling closeness of the midday heat had always reminded him of those old vital days in the jungle in a good way, but now it was a grief pressing him down.

He was not yet a cadaver, but he felt the grim hand reaching up from the grave taking a firmer hold on him every day. But the impatient vultures, the coveters of his throne, circled in a flesh-eating swarm, pecking at his power. His staff of clerks and guards smiled, showed respect, obeyed, and waited. But in the DRC no office is permanent, and when it changes, power is always eaten whole.

Beyond the safety of the front gates, his enemies did not wait. They were armed with high-powered rifles sited from the Gombe shore or from the thick cover below. He could see them in his mind's eye and the terror made him feel small, mortal, and naked. He was a prisoner here, always in fear of that silent bullet bringing him down as instant and inhumane as prey.

Cheers from the stadium rumbled like the low tones of radio static—another freedom rally. He had forbidden them, but yet they increased daily and without restraint. His image was a target of graffiti on every billboard, sign, and statue. His motorcade had been stoned again, and as he passed down the streets, women raised their blouses to show their distended stomachs and lifted up their hawk-eyed babies. His soldiers were in mutiny, and his police could not stop the insult even if they wanted to.

Brazzaville, capital of the old French Congo, glistened like a polished gem on the far side of the River—still very French and another world away. There was beauty on this side as well, but it was a masquerade. The lush jade and emerald of the riverbank hid lairs of nesting crocodiles waiting for the numerous distended bodies floating down as thick as flotsam on the tidal pull. The victims came in such numbers that no one investigated who they were or where they came from. Those carcasses satiated the crocs, the rest left on the flow, drifted out to sea to feed the sharks.

And the jungle was pressing closer. The infrastructure of Belgian colonialism had come to rust and debris. The country languished as a rich land of poor people—presented to the world with its pockets turned out. Now what little of it Mzee grasped was leaking through his fingers. And along with the heat, a new revolution was boiling up, the threat of his own overthrow acrid in his nostrils. The Koti Koli guerrilla war school deep in the Congo rainforests was a nest of assassins and militia, and like predatory ants they festered everywhere. If Mzee could not cool the boiling discontent, his short administration would soon be a bare footnote in the chronicles of Congolese history already filled with tragic chapters.

In the beginning William Stanley had brought King Leopold of the bloody hands to this place. With independence came a succession of leaders, ending with Mobutu Sese Seco. The rooster who leaves no hens alone proved that there is a good life as the pampered lapdog of George H. Bush's CIA who had put Mobutu in the president's chair with Reagan's blessing. Later, when that same Bush came to the oval office, he kept Mobutu in power with infusions of economic and military aid—in return for concessions of gold, diamonds, uranium to favored U.S. corporations. Loans tallying into the billions—enough to make every Congolese wealthy for a lifetime—had been pledged from the World Bank. But the people's stomachs went empty while escalating shares to corporate concessions and leases made billions for world investors.

For thirty-seven years Mobutu played governments and industrial powers like a hand of cards while over two million Congolese died of disease and starvation. And while nearly an equal number were made refugees by unceasing war. But President Bill Clinton was no friend of the voracious rooster. Revolution flared, and Mobutu ran to the Azores to be reunited with his personal treasury. He did not live long to enjoy it.

With Bill Clinton as his patron, Laurent Kabila, buoyed on a magic carpet woven in promises of stability and change, came to the Marble Palace. In the economic bio-system of the U.S., such stability is a delicate flower watered with an unceasing rain of cash and lines of credit. Kabila accepted it all with both hands, but none went to infrastructure, to education, or to his people. And the peacekeepers sent to stop the genocide between the Hutus and the Tutsis—they too never stepped off the planes.

President Clinton was not a man to be baited or stonewalled by a petty tyrant, and when his conditions were not met, the funnels of cash were tapped. And as quickly the World Bank closed its checkbook. To make up the deficits, Kabila negotiated directly with international corporations—the foreign concessions—to make up for the shortfall with compounded interest. And on his people he imposed taxes, tariffs, leans, and rents amounting to extortion. He raised them and raised them again—until the people resisted at the point of the gun.

In the eastern provinces of the DRC—the Kivus, Katanga, and Orientale—as foreign and untouchable as the remotest planets, commerce thrived. Rogue police, military officers, and village chiefs skimmed percentages for securing safe passage of copper, cobalt, radium, uranium, palm oil, timber, and diamonds mined and borne east over jungle trails to private airfields. Cargo planes with their bellies full landed at airstrips in Dar Es Salaam, Zanzibar, Mombasa, for connections to the Arab states, India, Japan, the United States, Israel, and now China. In and out of four-star hotels located on the shores of the Indian Ocean as well as in meaner rooms in Kinshasa, passed bankers, lawyers, arms dealers, and pirates. At hand were virtually unlimited funds secured in anonymous numbered foreign accounts. As they grew more powerful, Kabila was left on the side of the trail.

Kabila, with his treasury in the red and his military and police rabble, had appealed to his neighbors, Angola, Rwanda, and Uganda. They obliged with forces and money to steady his faltering administration—in return for ravenous shares of resources, especially coltan, an essential element as a heat conductor in the ever-expanding electronics industry.

Concessionaires and his allies—such as they were—now competed against each other for greater shares, and the labor to obtain it had become precious. Individually and together they struck accords with African militias. Instead of outright slaughter, prisoners and refugee were bent to the belly-scrapping hell of the open mines and timber camps. The rest were chained and shipped to eastern ports like any other exportable asset—as they have been for over three hundred years.

Mzee was now sixty, flabby with diabetes, arterial constrictions, and arthritis. He panted like an old cow. In his youth, alcohol, women, and power had been an electric mix, but now they were an addiction that left him unsteady, distracted, dull, and ravenous in the morning. He staggered like a lame beggar. But he must play the masquerade of the vigorous reformer… to make his administration legitimate… to appear, as the Mmarekani say, on the level.

Clinton would be leaving office in two days. The transition of presidents always came as an earthquake, its tremors shaking the foundations of Kinshasa. Mzee could stay alive only by wearing the mask of the Third World messiah. Swahili had no word for messiah, but it was the image he must bring to them. The U.S., the U.N., and the World Bank must see him as the beleaguered lamb besieged by wolves, as well as the bleeding victim hounded by the world press.

Today he was to fly to Cameroon to plan peace talks, and then go on to the inaugural to build bridges with the young George Bush. It was an old game of presenting a new and humble face, but the U.S. never tired of it. He was hopeful. Last night Mzee had made gifts of 100,000 Congolese francs—he calculated that to be about five dollars American—to close members of his staff to celebrate this new hope.

The door handle summoned again. The swarm of clerks outside and the phones were angry masters. Later!

By his command who it was went away, giving time yet to pray, "Where is my comrade Che? Mbaya sana." Very bad. "Ofisi ya Che? Siwezi! Imekatika! Summoning the primal spirit of the Swahili to the Mother Jungle, he begged again, Where is Che? I cannot wait!"

He checked his Rolex, let them wait. He returned to his desk. The water in the carafe was good only for colonics and flushing toilets. To hell with his tea. From the locked cabinet he pulled a bottle of Chivas Regal and poured out what amounted to three months' pay for a palace guard. Instead of steeling his backbone, it burned a hole in his stomach and made him light-headed. But with another swallow he might even believe that this new plan would succeed where all the others had failed. Then he would again be the lion to their jackals.

His blueprint was taking shape. A resurrected Congo, and the world must genuflect to his terms, just as it has—with bile in their mouths—to OPEK. The U.S. airwaves and newspapers would be filled with the visions of him and only him D&Isquor;sir&lsquor—the one hoped for.

That all would come in tomorrow's tomorrow; now was quicksand. He must stop the sinking. This morning, the computers had gone black, the codes and the links were blocked. The carefully furrowed networks of contacts were unreachable, the balance sheets unobtainable. Had the conduit been—what had his aide said—hacked? Diverted? Stolen? Lost? A glitch? Until Sergei, his Russian technical operative, could raise it from the dead, Mzee could not know if his accounts had been compromised, and what might have gone astray.

Another hard knock. Their tongues must be hanging out. Che! I need you now. You who now has time by the all eternity, give me a piece of it, and I need a voice with fire in its throat.

Mzee freshened himself in the bathroom, rubbing his face hard with the towel to stimulate the skin and sharpen its pallor. His reflection in the mirror was strange and unfamiliar. Was it the ghost of Patrice Lumamba or the old lost Kongo tribal kings looking back at him? All had played the game of thrones and lost. He could not lose.

Mzee changed his shirt and trousers, and returned to his desk. With one hand, papers were whisked into his lap drawer. The 9mm black Makarov pistol still rested in the corner. He reached for it with the intention of sliding it into his pocket. But with the press of his weight against his pockets, the outline would be clearly visible. And so he put it back and withdrew the tin of breath mints. He slipped a couple between his molars and bit down. Then he pulled a file from inside a ledger and set it on the patent surface of his desk. With the stage set, he unlocked the office door.

His cabinet and military staff dutifully filed in with no more than a nod or the barest salute. How like Russians they were, solid, opaque, and sullen, but without the pucker and drabness of Cold War industrial tailoring. Mzee's secretary hung at his elbow, pressing for a few words before the meeting began. But he was waved away. The aide did not leave, and the President answered his persistence with a glare and another wave of dismissal.

We will not want minutes today. Mzee's tone was hushed, even conspiratorial. He should have said need but he had used want.

Then he centered himself between the two flags—the powers of state and the military—and looked from one to the other of those men who were his cabinet, each playing a false role of humility and subservience. The Python Robert Dorack, the Rwandan minister; The Holy Ghost Adrian Suddell, head of security and police; The Black Knife Rene Cardwell, the Angolan general; Martin Pilo, his ministry of treasury; and Chief of the Bloody Hands General Jacque Sawawei, Chief of Staff of his military forces.

Yes, not to be left out, The Brit Sir Torrence Oglesby, representing the concessionary consortium plus those with diplomatic portfolio. His American counterpart was not in attendance—probably in Washington for the inaugural. The last member of the ministry was his vice-president and pretender to his throne. That face he would not acknowledge with any name—he cursed the man's soul to languish in perpetual night. But Mzee's son, Joseph always present at these meetings, was not among them. As if Mzee's mind were an open page…

We have had word of Joseph and his entourage before the computers died. General Sawawei was not the man for the subtle minuet of formal palace protocol. He is still in the eastern provinces and will return tonight to accompany you to Washington, Mr. President. Certainly you remember.

Kabila glared, Of course I remember, do you take me for sénile or ivrogne? And who are you to report to me on my son?

When the President did not reply, Sawawei continued. We have taken the liberty of composing a calendar of appointments for him with members of the new administration—and he is prepared also to accompany you to hearings by the Congressional Committee on the Sub-Sahara. He is well briefed and will make a good impression.

Do you assume my son is your mouse? Well, you are wrong, General, he is my mouse. The drums in Kabila's chest beat again. Was Sawawei bluffing? Was he in contact with Joseph, while the father has had no contact since the computers had gone black last night? His satellite phone had also been silent.

The floor was tipping and Mzee must right it straight. So he picked up the memo, read it through silently—clearly puzzled by its contents. When he was sure he had their attention, he set it back in the folder and let the paranoia eat at them. And then he began, Gentlemen, his tone over formal and affecting the French he understood and they did not, you will soon see why I dismissed my secretary and no minutes of this meeting must be kept. You are my allies, and as never before we must keep our confidence together. With the new administration in America, we are presented with new opportunities. On our part, we must be prepared when those hands open again—every detail of our affairs must be in perfect order.

Mzee was building no bridges. His ministers had long ago tired of the airless sky in which the words of his Free Belgium College education flew. But they must endure it for now. And so, I must give it to you without finesse, the President tapped three fingers on the folder. "There is an oversight of five million American dollars from the Universities Trust and Endowments Fund that should have been recorded in the ledgers of our executive treasury as of 31 December last. A receipt for it has been requested by their IRS. We are as helpless as the lowest Mmarekani when it comes to the American Treasury Department."

Their eyes clouded in disbelief, but shoulders remained squared, and faces fixed. The ministers knew what came next could be truth, or more probably, one of Kabila's fictions—and a trap. They all knew that the Congolese jungle was no place for soft-bottomed, pink-cheeked western graduate students who could barely survive the hard side of Chicago or Atlanta, let alone the watershed of the Zaire. More to the truth: When Western academics came, they came in teams of geologists, chemists, mineralogists, engineers, and forestry experts bankrolled by corporations who had no interest in sampling avian life and river fish, no matter what their visas specified. Rare earth minerals and diamonds, critical for research and manufacturing, was what they took core samples of. In the end, fees and licenses totaled less than ten percent of their corporate profits the first year—less commissions tokened to war lords when the contracts were signed. That was monkey shit. What web was he spinning?

But the men still kept their silence, deferring to the Treasury Minister who was deft at playing Mzee's game. I share your concern, Mr. President. Good faith, cultural and academic interchange present a new face to a skeptical world. And no funds are inconsequential. As to where these funds have been forwarded must be investigated with all possible dedication. The Minister was optimism itself. I am sure it is what they call a glitch. As soon as our cyber networks are restored, we will be able to trace these funds, reroute them to the appropriate accounts, and a receipt sent to the IRS. He opened his portfolio. If you will just give me the particulars as to the amount, the name of the school—or perhaps a copy of the original memo…

General Sawawei leaned forward in his chair, his purposes honed by the savagery that had reared him. Can we exchange guns for butter? We need guns, Mr. President. You barely survived the last coup—the mobs came to the very doors of the palace before they were beaten back. It is no secret that they are being armed by our enemies, while my soldiers fire popguns.

Mzee set both hands flat and defiant over the blotter. That idiot Sawawei has opened his fish mouth! It is my money, not yours! But when he spoke, his control would have surprised even Che who did not think him worth the bullets in his crossbelts. We will wait to see what the audit reveals, but I wished to open your eyes that it was to take place.

Pilo's jaw hardened. Audit? It seems that this university is extending its right hand in friendship while the left is searching our pockets with a gun to our heads. It will in the end bleed us in some way. Every donation becomes an amputation.

The Brit would add, Is there room for more investors? Additions to the consortium will cause us all to sacrifice a percentage, work harder for less. Oglesby could conjure very good magic with his facts and figures, but he would not abide such sorcery in others. And he had the full might and power of the Empire behind him.

Oglesby had more, Do not be led astray by ideals. America's universities desire to satisfy their alumni with some show of affirmative action on one hand and a Rose Bowl win on the other. All reads well in their recruiting catalogs. But make no mistake—they are just as eager to get their hands on our resources as anybody else. What is the name of this benevolent university?

Our resources, our percentages, Sir Torrence, not yours? Kabila pretended not to hear the question. You are raising a fire in your brains over this prematurely. I asked you here only to make you aware and bring sunlight and—what do the Americans call it?—transparency between our offices.

But Mzee had not done that. And every man in the room saw it for what it was—a threat. He did not seek transparency between offices, but a fraudulent perception of transparency for the people. In effect, the President had just set each of their faces squarely under a headline: Traitor! He had made their options only two: Either defer the audit away from their respective departments with bribes to his personal accounts, or offer up one of their circle to purge.

And once begun, each in that cabinet knew one victim would lead to another. And one by one, in turn, all of them would be sacrificed. The gauntlet was down, but Suddell did not surrender. Perhaps an audit is in everyone's best interest—if it is precise and not a hapless tracer piercing the sky. My security men are expert in extracting information from the veins of multi-spectrum airwaves abroad or the trunk circuits of our phone lines. They are nothing more than captives of a different kind made to give up secrets. The name of the university and your contact, if you please?

Kabila retreated a half step. I assure you that my office also has its technical experts, and the investigations will proceed from here.

Robert Dorack, the Rwandan had remained silent. Yes, he appreciated the promise of this new spring of life-giving water for the blood-soaked ground of his country. He wanted to know more, and he had the gifts of subtlety as well as brutality. And so he said, Yes, we will await word from you—for a time.

Pilo took calm from others' discomfort. In a soulless tone he dared, It would be most unpleasant if this misplacement of funds reached the press while you and Joseph are in America. Then stating the repercussions to their ugly conclusion, The people will not starve quietly, they will want the face of the devil robbing their dish.

Kabila did not answer. But both sides understood that a line had been drawn in the sand, not the first, but it was the most daring. Pilo rose and the rest with him. We will await your answer, Your Excellency. And they filed out, even if they had not been dismissed.

Kabila's fingers trembled as he locked the door after them. He had blundered. Audits! The wrong words! Suddell would not allow that to happen—nor would the others. He must get to America, smile, shake hands with the new president, the son of Congo's old friend. He would take enough to finance a long stay. One safe in the lavatory of his office held enough to put smiles on the faces of a few powerful congressmen and lobbyists, and there was another in his bedroom with money for new clothes. He must have new clothes—suits rather than uniforms. And there were three more safes secreted in the false panels of the palace. It was all only paper, but the U.S. government put good faith in the paper of even a poor country. In the Congo, paper stood for nothing at all.

The cabinet descended the staircase in compact formation, ignoring the sidelong glances of the rank and file dressed in their palace uniforms of black trousers and white shirts. But those with feral instincts, who could draw much from nothing, read the warnings in the ministers' hard, dark-eyed faces. These survivors turned their backs to dial numbers from memory.

The ministers lingered in the lower vestibule ignoring the palace guards posted in every corner, their ears ready to grasp any remark. The limousine waited beyond the doors, but the men let it wait until the last minute. It would be as hot as a fire box.

The Treasury Minister had stayed behind, waiting for the key to scrape in the President's door. He set his briefcase on a clerk's desk, opened it, and rifled through its contents, his manner growing agitated over what he could not find. The scene of a high official at odds with himself made for smiles and winks among the lowly. Then Martin Pilo looked up to the ceiling. It is not here, and he exhaled a Lingalan expletive.

Suddenly aware that he was the center of bemused attention, his face softened with embarrassment. The clerk, whom Pilo knew to be a distant relative of the President's wife and not too bright, looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Pilo caught it and whispered, Excuse me. The aide drew closer, overly proud of the attention paid him. Then Pilo condescended to ask, A couple of days ago, I was carboned on a memorandum addressed to the President… from an American university, I believe… yes, it was. I was sure I had it with me this afternoon. You have probably seen it. I know he trusts your confidence and efficiency, as do I. You remember it… one page… a delicate matter of a benevolent funds transfer?

The clerk did remember and it showed readily on his face. So Pilo pressed, Would you make for me another copy, and I hope your machines are better than the clunkers at the ministry. With these old warrior's eyes of mine the print is barely legible. I would have taken it up with His Excellency, but I did not want to seem careless. And I wish to address its business immediately as he is leaving for America in a few hours.

The electricity is off, the aide replied curtly.

The Minister nodded slowly. Yes. I forgot. He had blundered in judging the relative as shallow, and certainly the clerk would now make the President aware of the request immediately. Pilo turned for the stairs.

Sir? The aide followed, but putting a hand on the Minister's sleeve would have been too forward. I did not mean to sound disrespectful, but the blackouts and the heat—it has been very trying. However, over the months I have prepared for these trials by making an extra numbered copy. I cannot give it to you, but if the Minister has time to read it here?

Pilo whispered, You are most helpful. I will not forget… your kindness.

The aide hoped not, and he set a folder in the center of his desk. Then he busied himself with some task, pretending not to watch. But every man in the office was watching. And what could not escape any of them was the storm gathering on the Minister's face.

Pilo regained his composure and handed it back. The President is most fortunate to have such an efficient aide. Please be so kind as not to mention my little confusion.

Just so, but the clerk would take time to read the communiqué before refiling it. His father would know its meaning.

When Pilo reached the bottom of the stairs, the council passed into the soaking heat to the waiting Mercedes. Even this stretch model made a tight fit for all of them, but it was the last of the operable relics left from Mobutu's stable of limousines. The old diesel pinged and ground as the driver shifted gears. And as the car made its way, Pilo motioned for the barrier to be raised, securing privacy between the driver's and passenger seats. Still, he kept his thoughts to himself until the car swung onto the Avenue Virunga toward the Boulevard du 30 Juin.

I am not sure what went on in there—the signals ricocheted about my ears like bullets. General Sawawei's hands swirled in