Blood Gold in the Congo

  The mine had produced half a million ounces of gold the prior year with a value close to $1 billion. Twenty-five million pounds was a drop in the bucket for a company that had produced close to $10 billion worth of gold over the mine’s lifetime. The villagers would never get their trees, foliage, water, and fishing habitats back. It was apparent the reinstatement monies were no more than a bribe paid to senior Indonesian politicians to ensure the problem disappeared. Joseph doubted Sir Richard even knew about it, as £25 million was not a significant sum in a behemoth company. If he did, it would severely tarnish his pristine image.

  The following morning, Joseph buzzed Ron and said, “Please buy me one thousand shares in Euro Minerals at market.”

  “In your name?”

  “Yes, and Ron, I’m going to London next week for their annual general meeting. With luck, Marc Boucher will still be there.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?”

  Joseph paused for a few seconds. “Yes, yes there is. Euro Minerals had a mine on Urlu Island. They quit it nine months ago. It’s part of the Indonesian archipelago. Find out if any reclamation or reinstatement works have commenced. If you can get some photographs, it’ll be a big help.”

  CHAPTER 40

  ..................

  UA923 LANDED AT HEATHROW JUST after midday on Tuesday. It was unusually warm, and Joseph folded his suit coat over his arm. Ninety minutes later, he checked into The Dorchester. After unpacking his small suitcase, he changed into jeans, a T-shirt, and Nikes before taking a casual stroll through Hyde Park. The park was busy with joggers, teenagers playing badminton on the manicured lawns, and mothers enjoying coffee or tea while they watched their children play. Joseph stopped at the memorial fountain to Princess Diana and reflected on how much she had cared for the poor and needy. He thought of her as an inspiration and, in some ways, a soul mate.

  He checked his cellphone. It was only two miles to St. James, and he was curious to see what a £45 million penthouse looked like, even if it was just from the outside. Thirty minutes later, he approached an extended two-level rendered cream building set back from a curved tiled driveway. Three grand entrances faced the driveway. Chauffeurs stood chatting next to Rolls-Royces and Bentleys while they waited for their bosses to appear. Joseph could almost smell the money as he started to walk back to The Dorchester.

  Early the following morning, he caught a cab to the Waldorf Hilton in the West End of London. He climbed the steps to the lobby and asked the concierge where he could find the mining conference.

  “It’s in the Adelphi Suite,” he replied, pointing. “Are you a delegate, sir?”

  “No,” Joseph replied. “I only just found out about it, but I’m particularly anxious to attend.”

  “It’s sold out. The organizers said that the demand was so strong, they could’ve filled two rooms. I’m sorry, but there are no seats.” The concierge smiled.

  “I’m prepared to pay anything. I’m keen to hear Mr. Boucher’s speech.”

  “That won’t help, sir. Mr. Boucher made the keynote address on the first day, and he isn’t scheduled to speak again.”

  “Is he staying here?”

  “He was, but I believe he’s returned to Africa. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “No – yes, I mean yes. What day is Sir Richard Devlin-Corson speaking?”

  “You’re having a bad run, sir. Sir Richard presented on the first day, too, and attended the following day, but hasn’t been in attendance since.”

  “Thank you,” Joseph said, sliding a twenty pound note under his hand across the counter.

  As he stepped back on the sidewalk, he silently cursed. The day was going to waste. He punched the address of the Euro Minerals building on Fenchurch Street into his cellphone. It was less than two miles away, and he was disappointed it wasn’t further. Thirty minutes later, he stared up at a glass skyscraper discreetly signed “Euro Minerals.” He entered the lobby and checked the directory. The executive offices were on the top level and the meeting room immediately below it. Other than that, there was little to see in the bustling lobby, so he headed back to The Dorchester.

  It was a six-mile walk, but he had plenty of time and was enjoying London’s warm July weather. He walked slowly, pondering what the meeting might reveal. Back in his room, he brought up Euro Minerals’ annual report on his laptop and read it again, adding to his list of questions.

  The following morning, Joseph arrived at the Euro Minerals building early. He took the lift to the twenty-ninth level and, along with other shareholders, was greeted by an attractive young woman in the foyer. She directed them to a desk adjacent to the meeting room door, where they signed the attendance register. There was a semi-elevated stage at the front of the large room, and the company’s ten directors were behind a long table. The portly Sir Richard Corson-Devlin was sitting in the middle of the table talking to the company’s CEO. Joseph glanced around the room, guessing there were approximately four to five hundred shareholders in attendance.

  A large electronic sign hung on the wall behind the directors showing a chart of the company’s share price, and a little cheer erupted as it broke through twenty pounds. The mood was jubilant, and small groups congregated in the aisles chatting animatedly. One larger cluster at the rear of the room caught Joseph’s eye, and he saw the unmistakable mustache and baton of Marc Boucher.

  Joseph checked his watch, quickly left the meeting, and found a quiet area in the foyer away from the entrance. He punched Euro Minerals’ number into his cell phone and when the receptionist answered, whispered, “This is Mr. Boucher. I have to speak to Sir Richard urgently. It’s critical.”

  “He’s unavailable, Mr. Boucher. I’ll put you through to his PA.”

  “No, no! I don’t have time. Get the message to him. It’s a matter of life and death. Do you understand?”

  “Ye-yes. Does he ha-have your number?”

  “Of course. You don’t have a second to waste,” Joseph hissed, hitting the end button.

  After returning to the meeting room, he didn’t have long to wait. A harried-looking middle-aged woman entered the room, went on the stage and handed Sir Richard a piece of paper. He shook his head, and then the woman turned her palms up in apparent response to a question before being dismissed. Still shaking his head, he took out his cellphone. Joseph turned to watch Boucher, who a few seconds later answered, then started waving his free arm around. Joseph smiled. He wasn’t positive but felt he might have just found out who Thibault was.

  Five minutes later, Sir Richard rose and called the meeting to order. The vest of his three-piece navy blue pinstriped suit strained under the pressure of his well-rounded stomach. “Welcome, my friends,” he said, “If there are any members of the media in attendance, I’d ask them to leave now. I would also ask shareholders to turn off their smartphones, recorders, and not to take any photographs.”

  Joseph’s cellphone was on silent and recording. He didn’t turn it off.

  Sir Richard moved quickly through the formalities before spending fifteen minutes delivering the chairman’s address. “We achieved record sales and record profits, increased our resources, and paid a special dividend. Better still, we are on track to exceed all those records this year. Our CEO will provide more details.” He concluded by saying, “There are scones, jam and cream, and beverages in the adjoining room. I hope you don’t have too many questions.”

  Laughter went around the room, and shareholders broke out into spontaneous applause.

  The CEO delivered his presentation, repeating much of what Sir Richard had covered, and finished by saying the company was on track to increase net profit after tax by 30 percent. He received a round of rapturous clapping.

  Sir Richard rose again, his ruddy jowls jiggling as he spoke. “If you have any questions, I would ask you to raise your hand, wait to be acknowledged, stand, identify yourself, and an usher will pass you a microphone. I would remind you the scones are getting cold.”
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  Several shareholders complimented Sir Richard and the CEO on the great results they had achieved.

  “Are there any more comments or questions?” Sir Richard beamed.

  Joseph raised his hand and when acknowledged said, “Joseph Rafter, Mr. Chairman. Note 66 to the accounts states, ‘After twenty years, the Urlu Island mine in Indonesia reached the end of its working life. During the year, the company paid £25 million to the Indonesian government in full obligation of its reinstatement commitments under the conditions of the mining permit.’ Can you enlighten me regarding the progress made to date?”

  Sir Richard smiled. “You’re too modest, Mr. Rafter, or, should I say, Mr. Muamba. To those who don’t know, Mr. Muamba is the reigning Olympic decathlon champion. It’s an honor to have you on our share register.”

  Warm applause went around the room.

  “With respect, Mr. Muamba, your question would be better addressed to the Indonesian government. Any liability the company had ceased on payment to the Indonesians.”

  “Were you aware of the assignment, Mr. Chairman?”

  “What a strange question. Of course, I was.”

  “The company vacated the mine over nine months ago. Would it surprise you to know the reinstatement work has not commenced? The water the villagers rely on to live is still poisoned, and the foliage has not regrown. Further, the damage is extensive, and it will be impossible to restore the land and water to its pre-mine condition for £25 million.”

  Sir Richard’s smile froze. “How do you know, and how do you know how much it will cost to reinstate the area?”

  “I have photos that were taken last week,” Joseph replied, holding them up. “Would you like to see them? I’ve had mining experts look at them, and they say more than double the amount you paid wouldn’t get the job done. Meanwhile, villagers and their families are starving because of the damage the company rendered.”

  The mood of the meeting changed, there was some hissing and booing, before one man in the audience said, “Why don’t you go back to America? If you don’t like the way our company does business, sell your shares.”

  “Hear, hear,” other shareholders said.

  “Is it the company’s policy to abrogate its environmental and humanitarian responsibilities by making payments to third parties? I don’t believe the liability can be legally assigned. Morally, I’m certain it can’t be assigned.”

  “Bloody socialist do-gooder,” another shareholder said, followed by more catcalling and hissing.

  “Mr. Muamba, I’m surprised by your comments. The Indonesian government has far more money than the company and has accepted the liability for reinstatement under the assignment. If the landowners and villagers are unhappy, their recourse is against the government. Surely you’re not impugning the integrity of the Indonesian government, are you?” Sir Richard smirked.

  Oh, you’re good, you slimy bastard. “No, I’m not. However, I thought the company, after paying £25 million, would like to see some action for its money.”

  “Quite right. While we have no legal liability, I will personally ensure the reinstatement responsibilities are taken up with the Indonesian government. Are there any other matters you’d like to raise?”

  Short of calling the Indonesians crooks, what can I say? “No, thank you. Could you please be so kind as to let me know the outcome of your inquiries?”

  “Of course.”

  A shareholder quickly moved to close the meeting with a vote of thanks to the chairman. Numerous seconders raised their hands, and the meeting was over.

  “Please join my fellow board members and me for beverages. Let’s hope the scones are still warm.” Sir Richard beamed.

  Joseph turned and looked back to where Marc Boucher had been sitting. His chair was empty.

  Most of those who had attended the meeting stayed for refreshments and to personally congratulate Sir Richard and his co-directors. Joseph stood in a corner by himself, sipping mineral water and fending off dirty looks from otherwise happy shareholders. The portly Sir Richard left a group of backslappers and made his way over to Joseph.

  “You made quite an impression, Mr. Muamba,” he said extending his hand.

  Joseph gently grasped Sir Richard’s damp and pudgy hand. “Judging by the reaction of your shareholders, not a good one.”

  “They’re not like you and I. They couldn’t care less about the environment. All they’re worried about is the size of their next dividend.”

  “You and I, alike? Surely you are joking. I care about the cyanide and heavy metals destroying the villagers’ land and water. You know as well as I do the Indonesians pocketed the monies you paid them. They’re not going to clean up the environment you destroyed.”

  “You didn’t say anything derogatory about them in the meeting.”

  “You know I couldn’t insult a sovereign government.”

  “Yes, and I know why. Your father’s firm has many clients with investments in Indonesia. That’s why you didn’t say anything. As I said, we’re the same.” Sir Richard smiled, putting a Cuban in his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to light it. I like the feel and taste.”

  “No, we’re not the same. You’re like your shareholders. All you care about is the gold. Water is far more important to the villagers – they can’t eat gold.”

  “You’re wrong. If it were true, I wouldn’t have paid the Indonesians £25 million. And you forget, the mine provided jobs for over twenty years. Without it, the villagers wouldn’t have survived.”

  “That’s not true,” Joseph said, unable to keep the anger from his voice. “They survived for thousands of years before you built your mine. They fished, hunted, and lived off the land. When you destroyed their land and water, you consigned them to a life of misery.”

  “They can always relocate. Urlu is a big island.”

  “I don’t understand. You are famous for your philanthropy. Have you no conscience?”

  “Ah, my philanthropy.” Sir Richard smirked. “Sometimes all is not as it seems. For instance, why are you here? You don’t care about those villagers on Urlu Island. You’ve never even been there. You bought a thousand shares in the company last week for less than £20,000. Then you jumped on a plane in LA to attend an annual general meeting in London. Who does that when their investment is so small? I’ll ask you again: Why are you really here?”

  “You’re wrong. I do care about those villagers and thousands of others like them around the world. I think you know why I’m here.”

  “Perhaps. It’s been nice chatting with you, Mr. Muamba, but I have other shareholders to look after. How much longer are you in London?”

  “Three days.”

  “We must have a drink before you go back. I’ll call you.”

  As Joseph reached into his suit coat pocket for a business card, Sir Richard grasped his arm and said, “I have your number. I’ll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER 41

  ..................

  DURING THE FLIGHT FROM LUBUMBASHI to Kinshasa, Colonel Donatien had unsuccessfully racked his brain for excuses. General Gizenga had been terse, saying, “The president wants to see you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. After you have landed, you are to go to the palace immediately. We will be waiting for you.”

  Donatien arrived a few minutes early. He expected to be seen in the president’s reception chamber but instead found himself shown to a small, windowless room with just a desk and three chairs. He paced around the room, unable to sit down for fear of what he was facing. The sweat under his arms was clammy. When he had asked the general why he’d been summoned, he had replied, “It’s not good.”

  Over thirty minutes had elapsed before the door crashed open, and the president stormed in, with Gizenga close behind. Dressed in full white military attire and the medals on his tunic clanking, the president flopped himself in the chair behind the desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pres−”

  “Sit,” Bodho snapped, nodding at the chai
r directly in front of him before turning to Gizenga and saying, “Newspaper.”

  Gizenga sat down next to Donatien and spread the front page of yesterday’s Congo Daily Times across the desk. There was a photograph of twenty naked soldiers in the back of an open truck captioned: “Soldiers lose their clothes – again!”

  “What do you see?” Bodho shouted, crashing his fist onto the newspaper. “What do you see?”

  “Mr. Pres−”

  “Shut up. I hadn’t finished. I see the army being held up to ridicule. The people in the streets are laughing, all because you can’t capture one scrawny rebel in Katanga. Why, why, why?”

  Donatien paused, waiting for the president to continue.

  “Are you mute? Answer me!” Bodho screamed.

  “He has an army of more than a thousand men and women. They are well-armed and have even blown up our trucks with rocket launchers. Once in the jungle they are impossible to fin−”

  “They’re well-equipped because they stole your men’s weapons and vehicles. Then they hoisted the gold from under your nose to buy rocket launchers and machine guns. If you’d stopped them before they got entrenched, we wouldn’t be in this position.”

  “Bu-but that wasn’t me. General Gizenga was still in Katanga when the gold was stolen.”

  Gizenga sat bolt upright and glared at Donatien. “You’re mistaken, Colonel. If you remember, after General Zamenka’s untimely death, I assumed his position.”

  “Yes, but − ”

  “Enough!” Bodho shouted. “Enough! I don’t want to listen to your bickering. I want this rebel and his gang killed or captured. The mining companies’ executives are angry. Some are even saying they’re going to stop our payments. They can’t operate without provisions, and we don’t have enough helicopters to service them. What are you going to do, Colonel?”