Rare Earth (19 page)

W
hen the visitors were seated at the back of the church, a young man brought them cold drinks. Levi sipped his Coke and rubbed his eyes. Charles remained up front with the elders. He was bent over in his seat, taking part in the discussion. Occasionally the pastor glanced back in Marc's direction. He looked very worried. Marc did not share his concern, nor feel any need to know what was going on. He had done everything he could.

Eventually Marc and Levi were again called forward. Charles translated, “The elders speak with one voice. They have decided that official confirmation of this plan is required.”

Marc pondered this for a moment too long, because the Kisii elder barked at him. It was not a bellow, but it did carry anger. Charles's translation, by contrast, hovered somewhere between toneless and ashamed. “The elder says, Why should we trust the future of our tribes to new voices from afar? How often have we been lied to by smiling white faces?”

Philip's uncle stared at the floor by his feet. He did not look up or speak.

Charles continued with the elder's charges. “This is not some group of angry tribesmen who oppose us. We were not evicted by some local gang. This was the government. For us to succeed, we must have powerful allies. All we see here are two men we do not know.”

One of the other elders muttered two words, which Charles translated as “Philip's dream.”

The angry elder dismissed that with a swipe of his hand. “We may have just this one chance. We must choose rightly. We must
know
.”

Marc said, “Please tell the elder I should have thought of this before I showed up. I apologize. We've traveled all night and I'm weary. I have no other excuse.”

The elders murmured appreciation of his answer. Oyango nodded gravely. The Kisii said through Charles, “It is good to know you treat our concerns seriously.”

“Always.” Marc pulled the sat phone from his pack. He had no idea how Walton would respond. But he saw no alternative. He remained in his seat as he punched in the number. The Kisii elder continued, “We are important to this process. We cannot give our earth away.”

“No one is giving anything,” Philip's uncle spoke in English to the floor by his feet.

Walton answered, and Marc showed the elders an upraised hand. He swiftly summarized the situation.

Walton showed no astonishment whatsoever. “How fast can you get to the embassy?”

“Hard to tell. It's an hour before dawn. I don't know when traffic—”

“Go there now. Take the elders. I'll arrange things from this end.”

“It will be outside official hours,” Marc reminded him. “Since the terrorist bombings, they totally shut things down—”

“I said I'll handle it.” Walton cut the connection.

Marc traveled to the U.S. embassy with Charles, Levi, and Deb in the Tahoe driven by Joseph. The elders followed in two ratty taxis. They made good time.

As they turned onto Moi Avenue, they were halted by a convoy of Kenyan military guarding the embassy's main gates. Marc grew concerned that the guards might forbid this clutch of local nationals to enter the compound. Kenya had been the first sub-Saharan nation to endure terrorist bombings, including an attack against the U.S. embassy. As a result, the new American compound resembled a polite bunker system. But when the three cars pulled up, a trio of white-hatted American MPs stepped from the guardhouse and approached the lead Kenyan armored personnel carrier.

The MP officer saluted Deb Orlando, then asked Marc, “How many are you, sir?”

“Besides Ms. Orlando, myself, another American citizen, seven Kenyan nationals, and one Israeli.”

The MP spoke into his radio, then said to the Kenyan officer, “We'll take it from here.”

The Kenyan soldiers stepped aside. The elders rose in slow stages from the two taxis and stood in regal stillness as the compound gates rolled open.

Marc stood to one side and allowed the elders to enter first. The elders were dressed in a motley collection of cast-off clothing and headgear. Three of them supported their weight on ornately carved staffs.

Inside the main building, Deb handed each a visitor's pass and ushered them through the security station. When the duty officer saluted Marc, he thought he detected a hint of good humor in the marine's gaze.

Deb led them across the foyer and down a wide main hallway. She said quietly, “This has been a surprisingly good day, thanks to you and your boss. Long, but good.”

Marc guessed, “Walton had another word with your superior.”

“More than a word. When Walton's first request surfaced yesterday evening, my boss decided he'd had enough and complained to his main squeeze back in D.C.” She made no attempt to hide her pleasure at the memory. “I don't know who phoned him back. But my boss left here with third-degree burns covering a hundred percent of his ego. Then, just to make sure there wasn't any question over the matter, the ambassador also got a couple of phone calls.”

Deb opened a door marked only by a number. “I've also been invited to transfer into ops as soon as my tour here is done. I just want you to know, sir, whatever you need, all you've got to do is whistle. I'm there.”

“Ops will be lucky to have you,” Marc said. “But I'm grateful for the offer.”

“That's no offer, sir. That's a promise.”

“I have invited you here to confirm that I speak as a representative of the United States government. At the same time, everything we discuss is unofficial and off-the-record.”

They were seated around one end of an oval conference table. The table's other end was dominated by a flat-screen monitor set in the rear wall. Sliding panels had been pulled back to reveal a battery of electronic equipment and speakers. On the screen, Ambassador Walton sat in a high-backed leather chair. The corner of a desk was visible in the lower portion of the screen. Marc had no idea where the office was located. But two flags were stationed behind the chair, framing a trophy wall of signed photographs, including three U.S. presidents. One was the American flag. The other had a pale blue shield on white background, but was folded so that Marc could not make out the insignia. It could have been military, or state, or some rarer form of ambassadorial corps. Whatever it was, the two flags and the battery of awards and photographs made for a very impressive backdrop.

“The United States government deems it to be of vital national interest to prevent the Chinese from extending their monopoly on the international supply of rare earths,” Walton continued. “We therefore offer what support we can to your endeavors to develop these resources. We may, repeat may, be able to include the UN in the equation. Marc Royce will explain this further, if or when the situation materializes.”

Marc sat with his back to the room's lone window. Oyango was seated to his left with Levi Korban across the table from them. The other elders formed a semicircle around the table's end. Charles was seated behind them and translated in a constant low monotone. Deb stood between Marc and the window. She had declined his offer of a seat.

Levi asked the man on the screen, “Why us? I mean no offense by the question. But I for one need to understand why you are speaking with us like this.”

“Why not bring in an American group, you mean. Two reasons. First, you are there and things are moving swiftly. Any action we take to insert a third party will mean taking this whole thing public. It then becomes a battle between nations. We don't want another cold war. We also have a greater chance of success if we match China's calculated strategy with our own. Getting a third party in place and up to speed in a hurry will necessitate a lot of noise.”

He waited for Charles to complete his translation, then went on, “The second reason is simpler. There are only two U.S. rare-earth mining groups with any experience in Africa. They lost almost a hundred million dollars in the Congo when their operations were deemed part of the minerals fueling that nation's civil war. Because of Kenya's ongoing unrest resulting from your elections, they will under no circumstances become involved in this venture. I know. I have spoken personally with both companies' directors.”

When Charles had caught up, Walton said, “Now tell me what you need.”

For once, the elders were silent. Marc gave them a moment, then said, “For this to work, I need to know the extent of Lodestone's involvement in these forced displacements.”

“We're working on that. So far, there is no evidence that their Nairobi operation knows anything at all. We cannot say the same for their Washington headquarters. Yet.”

“What about who was behind the attack on us in Kibera?”

“Again, there is no evidence of Lodestone's direct involvement, other than passing on the message. Ms. Orlando, do you have anything further to add?”

“I checked with my sources just before meeting Mr. Royce at the airport, sir. Nothing yet.”

Marc went on, “Any word about enlisting Sergeant Kamal and his men?”

“As you stated, he was pulled out of the refugee camp and reassigned. My contacts at the UN have located him. He has been issued orders to report for duty. Who has taken these soldiers' place at the camp?”

“We put together a group of young men and women from among the locals. They are standing guard, operating under the camp director and a local chief named Philip. But they are unarmed.”

Walton examined him a moment. “This is the camp where the young man was abducted?”

“Serge Korban was taken at a different location. But he was stationed at this camp. His sister still works out of there.” Marc gestured across the table. “This is Serge's father.”

Walton nodded a somber greeting. “My sincere condolences and hopes that your son is soon rescued, sir. Speaking as one who has supervised a number of operatives in free-fire zones, I would urge you not to give up hope.”

Levi's voice sounded strained. “I am trying.”

“I would also urge you to extract your daughter.”

“She is joining us later today,” Marc confirmed.

“What is your next move?”

Marc sketched out what he had in mind. Walton studied him with grave intensity. He nodded once. “I agree with your assessment and your plans. I stand ready to support you in whatever way possible. Good evening, gentlemen, and good hunting. Walton out.”

T
hey left the embassy compound in the starlit hour before dawn. The moon was a soft golden globe hovering just above the horizon. The two taxis that had brought the elders from Kibera started their motors, clearly hoping for a return fare. Marc walked over and asked for the price to Kibera. The lead driver named a number. Philip's uncle spoke one word. The driver cut the number in half. Marc paid them both.

The Kikuyu elder patted Marc's shoulder before easing into the first taxi. He did not speak. He did not need to.

Philip's uncle was the last to enter. Oyango stared at Marc for a time. The other elders sat in silence and watched them through the taxis' open doors. The taxi drivers showed no impatience whatsoever. Marc found himself fitting into the African rhythm, where the passage of time was measured in the flow of shadows, the sweep of stars, the rising of crops, the growth of new generations, the carving of cliffs by wind and rain.

Finally Oyango asked, “What can we do to assist in making this happen?”

This was what he had been hoping to hear from them. “We need to find the Chinese processing facility.”

“How will we know this thing?”

“It is large, and it is poisonous,” Marc replied.

Levi stepped up alongside Marc. “If the Chinese operate it according to their standard methods, their runoff will pollute the entire region. Earth, air, but most especially the groundwater.”

Oyango inspected Levi anew. “And yet you say your methods are different.”

“Like night and day,” Levi confirmed. “We have been involved in developing an entirely new method. Initially it was considered too expensive. And new extraction plants were not being built. But prices for rare earths have risen to where the difference between the poisonous method and the newer, cleaner method has become insignificant.”

The chief mulled that over. “Then your daughter had the idea to come to Kenya.”

“It is so,” Levi agreed. “Our process is successful, clean, and cost-effective. But we could not find a buyer. The Chinese refused to either modify their current extraction facilities or build new ones. So Kitra had the idea to search out a new source of raw materials.”

“This was what she came to offer,” Oyango went on. “Not money. Not power. But a safe and clean method of building a future. With these materials.”

“They are the gold and the platinum of the new millennium,” Levi said. “We proved they could be extracted and refined without ruining the environment. We have carefully patented our discoveries. The Chinese dislike paying anyone for new technology. And they show total disregard for the environment, especially outside their own borders. They are after power and money and control. They care nothing for other peoples or their land.”

Oyango turned back to Marc. “What do we say to those we send out searching for these facilities?”

“Tell them to seek a hidden camp. It may be disguised as a UN base. It will be well guarded. Trucks will enter filled with earth and leave empty. It will have a lab. And many Chinese men.”

“And a toxic waste dump as big as a tall hill,” Levi said.

“Nothing will grow upon this hill?”

“Nowhere near it.”

“This we will do.” Oyango made the pronouncement with the solemn conviction of an oath. He shook Levi's hand, then drew Marc to one side and asked, “You know of my nephew's dream about you?”

“He told me.”

The chief cocked his head slightly. “You doubt that you are the one?”

Marc hesitated, then confessed, “No.”

“Good.” He nodded ponderously. “When surrounded by miracles, it is not proper to doubt the will of the Most High God.”

Marc struggled to move beyond the resonance of that word
miracle
. “I prefer to think of myself as a servant. Not a hero.”

Philip's uncle revealed an astonishingly bright smile. His teeth gleamed in the streetlights as he lifted one fist toward the stars overhead. “You will tell my nephew something for me?”

“Of course.”

“Tell him I salute him. Say that I call him
Jatelo
. You can remember this word?”

Marc noted how Charles's eyes went wide, and he repeated the word, “Jatelo.”

“My nephew, he will tell you what it means.” He settled his hand where the Kikuyu's had rested. “It is an honor to pray for you, God's willing servant. And a friend to my people. An honor.”