Nightfall came hard and fast in Angola. This close to the equator twilight was an illusion. Minutes after sunset, night slammed into earth like a giant boulder, obliterating the day with an explosion of dark. A thick, menacing dark, unrelieved by street light. It was a dark Luis had come to know.
He made his way across the road to a ramshackle bar on the outskirts of Lucapa. Lucapa was the main city—if you could call it that—in Lunda Norte, the province of Angola that bordered Zaire. The city was like a frontier town in the Wild West, full of miners, prostitutes, guns-for-hire, and traders.
And Cubans.
For nearly fifteen years, since 1975, Fidel had been sending troops to help the Angolans preserve their Marxist government. A protracted civil war pitted groups backed by Fidel and the Soviets against insurgents supported by South Africa and the U.S.
Last year a peace accord had finally been signed in New York, and while insurgents were still attacking each other, the Cubans were out of the fight. Luis, a Coronel in the Cuban Army, had been promoted to General de Brigada after the peace accord and was now the commander of the Lucapa base, charged with the orderly withdrawal of Cubans. He’d been there nearly two years, and he often wondered why they’d been there at all. People called it Cuba’s Vietnam; he couldn’t disagree. Over fifty thousand Cuban troops and humanitarian forces, mostly doctors, had come halfway around the world, but for what? A primitive country with nothing to offer except diamonds and gold, caught in a proxy war between the superpowers.
He rolled his shoulders and stamped his feet. Almost fifty now, and a bit stooped, flecks of gray were threaded through his hair, and he needed glasses to read. The humid climate was hard on him, and November marked the start of Angola’s hot, rainy season. He felt stiff, and his clothes were damp and clammy. The breeze had stiffened, and the air carried a prickly metallic scent, which meant a storm was on the way. Mercifully, Lucapa sat on a high plateau, with an elevation that normally made the heat more tolerable. In Africa a few degrees made the difference between hell and purgatory.
He pulled the door open and walked into Nkiambi’s, Niki’s for short. It was not much more than a ramshackle hut with a corrugated metal roof. A desultory fan circulated air, but electricity in this part of the world was unreliable, and Luis fully expected it would cut out at some point that evening. A makeshift bar that had once been a tree occupied one side of the room; white plastic garden chairs and tables the other. Two light bulbs overhead threw long, dark shadows that made it easy for people to disappear in the corners.
It was still early, and the bar was half filled. A few soldiers, mostly Cuban; an Angolan here and there. Miners, probably. No women yet, but they usually didn’t come until they’d put their children to bed.
Luis went to the bar and ordered a beer from an Angolan with shiny black skin and a permanent air of resentment. Luis couldn’t blame him. For fifteen years Niki had contended with Cubans invading his country, drinking his booze, often not paying, and, now that they were withdrawing, stealing whatever they could. Of course, corruption and plunder were never discussed in Fidel’s army—officially they didn’t exist—but ask any Angolan, and they’d tell you the truth. The Angolans probably held Cubans in the same esteem that Cubans held Americans thirty years earlier.
“You call this shit rum?” a voice called out.
Luis spun around.
“¡Mierda!” Ramon drained his glass, then slammed it on the table.
“Ramon!” Luis called.
Ramon looked up. He had not aged well. Then again, who had? He had lost most of his hair, gained twenty pounds, and his face was both wrinkled and flushed, the mark of a man who drank too much and slept too little. Luis raised his bottle of beer in greeting and joined him at a table. “Relax, amigo. Two more months and we’re out of this hell hole.”
Ramon glowered. “Easy for you to say. I don’t have my orders.”
Luis sat. “They are coming. I made sure of it. We leave together.”
Ramon sniffed.
“Until then, all you have to do is stay out of the way of the elephants.”
Ramon had risen to the rank of Teniente Coronel, Lieutenant Colonel, mostly because he’d been at Luis’s side for years, the Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote. The only time they’d been separated was the few months Luis was in Santa Clara during the revolution, and they no longer talked about that. After Francesca disappeared, Ramon confessed that he had been tortured by Francesca’s father to betray the couple. The alternative would have been certain death. Luis admitted he’d probably have done the same thing, but it took years of abject apologies on Ramon’s part—he was young; he didn’t have any choice—before Luis trusted him again. But that was in the past. In the years they’d been in the army together, Ramon had been steadfast, loyal, and obedient.
“The lions, too, General. Once they pick up your scent, you’re dinner.” Ramon paused. “And the way we stink…” He laughed.
Luis took a pull on his beer. It was miraculously cool. He had no idea how the Angolans kept beer cold in the middle of the bush. “So, did you hear the news?”
“There’s a private 747 waiting for us in Luanda?”
Luis grinned. “You haven’t been on the shortwave today?”
“I’ve been on maneuvers with our FAPLA friends.”
FAPLA, the People’s Armed Forces for the Liberation of Angola, was the Angolan army, and despite the peace accord, they were still fighting the enemy insurgents of UNITA, the National Union for Total Independence of Angola.
Luis nodded. “Well, forget all that. Today will go down in history as a watershed event.”
Ramon sat up. “Did the Israelis set off an atom bomb?”
“The East German government announced that East Germans can cross into West Germany any time they want. People in Berlin are celebrating in the streets. They tore down the Wall.”
Ramon’s mouth fell open. “The Berlin Wall?”
Luis nodded. “It’s over. Communism is finished.”
Ramon didn’t move. His mouth remained open, as if he was still processing the information. Finally, he spoke. “What about Cuba?”
“How long do you think Fidel can hang on without Soviet support?” Luis took another swig of his beer. “Why do you think he was so anxious for peace negotiations?”
Ramon looked confused.
“Fidel is many things,” Luis went on. “But he is not stupid. He knows we’re in for tough times, and we need to stop bleeding money and manpower here. He wants us home.”
“Wait. Are you saying the Soviet Union is no longer giving us support?”
“Not like before. They’ve cut back on their exports. Especially petroleum.”
Ramon scowled.
“East Germany was first, but I expect there will be a chain reaction. Poland, Romania, Hungary. Then Armenia, Georgia, the Ukraine. It’s entirely possible that in a few years the USSR will no longer exist.”
Ramon splayed his hands in the air. “Where does that leave us?”
“Good question.” Luis finished his beer and ordered another.
“¡Jesu Christo!” Ramon said after a pause. He stood up, his chair scraping the floor, and strolled to the bar. “Another round.” He tipped his glass to Niki. He brought the drinks back to the table, sat down, and leaned toward Luis. “I’ve been thinking,” he said in a low voice. “And what you said makes it more important. Why should we be the only ones going back to Cuba without—souvenirs?”
“Souvenirs?”
“I have a friend. He’s mining for diamonds, and he’s willing to stake us to a partnership. All we have to do is get them out of here.”
“An Angolan?”
“What does it matter where he’s from? If we can smuggle them out and get them to a polisher, we would be rich.”
Luis took a long pull on his beer. Through a window a fork of lightning singed the sky. A crack of thunder followed. The storm. “And how do we get them to a polisher?”
Ramon smiled. “He says there are three centers for refining diamonds. Antwerp and Israel are two.”
“We can’t go to either place. We don’t have the money. Or visas.”
Ramon held up a finger. “Ah, but the third center is in the USSR. Yerevan, capital of Armenia. You could get yourself a trip there. To inspect the troop situation or something. You’re a General now. You can go anywhere.”
Luis thought about it. Then he leaned toward Ramon. “Just because everyone else is plundering the people and resources of this godforsaken place doesn’t mean we should.”
Ramon leaned back, slapping the surface of the table. “You are a fool.”
Luis didn’t answer.
“Look, amigo. This is a sure thing. But I can’t do it alone. I need help.” His eyes swept the room. “But if you’re not interested, I’ll find another officer.” He paused. “You won’t say anything?”
Luis hesitated. “Of course not.”
Another crack of lightning split the air, followed by a clap of thunder. Then the rain started. Without warning a torrent of what sounded like machine gun bullets pummeled the metal roof of the bar.
Suddenly a shout erupted from the corner behind them. “Goddammit!” someone yelled in English. “On top of everything else, this shithole of a bar leaks!”
Luis and Ramon whipped around. A man in the corner had stood up. He held a glass of what looked like whiskey in one hand, but the other was rubbing the back of his neck as if he’d been punched.
“You get what you pay for, amigo,” Luis replied in Spanish.
“Claro,” the man said, switching to Spanish.
“Join us.” Luis tilted his bottle in the man’s direction. “During the rainy season it’s smarter to sit in the middle of the room.”
The man nodded and came over. He was a tall, lean man with pale skin, frizzy red hair and a bushy beard threaded with gray. He didn’t appear to be military, and he was dressed in the type of khakis people wore on safari. A scuffed leather backpack was slung over his shoulder. The man’s face was flushed, as if he’d been out in the sun too long. That, or he was drunk. Maybe both.
Still mumbling in English, he sat down. “Sorry.” He switched to Spanish again. “Everything is soggy here. Empapado. The air, the clothes, the food, even the booze.”
“Where are you from?” Luis asked. “Your Spanish is good.”
“I was born in Sweden but I’ve lived in the U.S. most of my life.”
Ramon and Luis exchanged a look.
The man caught it. “Don’t worry. I’m not CIA or army or any military, as it happens. I’m a geologist.”
“Geologist?” Ramon cocked his head.
“A scientist who studies rocks and other materials deep in the Earth,” Luis explained.
Ramon’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, a miner.”
“You could say that.”
“Diamonds or gold?” Ramon waved a hand. “Or do you plan to make your fortune in both?”
The man smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Ned Swenson. And with whom do I have the pleasure of drinking?”
Ramon and Luis introduced themselves.
“How long have you been in Africa?” Ramon asked.
“About a month,” Swenson said.
“You have to be careful,” Ramon said importantly. “You must make sure your guide is trustworthy. Despite the peace treaty, there is still fighting. And UNITA is the largest diamond miner in the area. If they think you’re invading their territory, they’ll kill you.” He snapped his finger. “Like that.”
“If the land mines don’t,” Luis added.
“So I understand.” For having heard such a dire prediction, Swenson looked remarkably serene.
“You’re not the first to find your way here, you know,” Luis said. “Now that the war is winding down, everyone is trying to exploit the area. Except the poor Angolans.”
“Spoken like a true Marxist.” Swenson clapped Luis on the back. “Of which there will be fewer after today.”
“You heard about Berlin?”
“Of course.” Swenson got up. “In fact, let me buy the next round. To celebrate.”
The rain still pounded the roof, and wet air drifted inside, curling Luis’s hair and ringing his neck with sweat. When Swenson came back with their drinks, Luis saw bubbles of condensation on his bottle. Niki’s electricity was stretched to its limit. This should be his last beer.
“So,” Ramon tossed back his rum. “Which is it? Diamonds or gold?”
Swenson gazed at Ramon and Luis with bloodshot eyes. He’d probably been drinking for hours, Luis thought. “Actually, neither,” he said.
“Then, why are you here?” Ramon said. “Surely, not for the climate.” He guffawed and poked Luis with his elbow.
Swenson took his time answering. “The world is changing.” He glanced at Luis. “In fact, today might be the first day…” He glanced up. “…or night of the new order.”
Ramon nodded. “That’s what Luis was saying.”
“Not just a political order,” Swenson went on. “An economic one, as well. Twenty years from now, the world will do business very differently.”
“How?” Luis asked. For being half-drunk, the man was articulate.
Swenson took a long swig of his drink. “Electronica.”
Ramon scoffed. “Computers? They’re nothing but a fast adding machine.”
It was Swenson’s turn to laugh. “Gentlemen, the world is on the brink of a new industrial age. Everything we use will be different in a few years. Imagine a telephone as small as a pack of cigarettes.”
“You mean one of those cell phones?” Luis said. “I’ve heard of them. But they’re expensive. A rich man’s toy.”
“Now, yes. But in ten years? Or twenty? You’ve probably seen the price of computers come down, perhaps in Cuba as well. Well, imagine a day when you will have access to a phone you can take anywhere in the world. Or an electronic device you can read books on. Or watch films. Or play games more complicated than any arcade. It’s all coming.”
He was starting to slur his words, Luis noted.
Ramon rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “So what? What does that have to do with mining in Angola?”
“All these devices will require a new type of battery.”
Ramon pointed two fingers in the air and hopped his hand across the table. “They have them now.”
“Not the bunny type.” Swenson laughed. “Actually, they’re called capacitors. Sort of a cousin to a battery. They help stabilize and store an electrical charge more efficiently than a battery. Because of that, they need to be made from materials that will conduct and preserve that charge.”
Luis connected the dots. “And you discovered that material here.”
A flush crept up Swenson’s neck, and he flashed a Buddha-like smile. “You don’t expect me to confirm that, do you?”
He was definitely slurring his words. “You just did,” Luis said.
Swenson flipped his palm up and down. “Maybe, maybe not. But I doubt I’m the first man who’s not looking for gold or diamonds here.”
Ramon curled his lip. “I don’t understand.”
Swenson shot Ramon a patronizing look. “Of course you don’t.”
Another torrent of lightning and thunder exploded.
Swenson leaned forward and whispered in a theatrical voice. “All right. I’ll tell you. It’s called coltan.”
“Coltan?”
“Coltan. There is only a limited supply of this mineral in the world, and eighty percent of it is in Zaire. I predict that within ten years, people will be mining—and fighting over—coltan more fiercely than diamonds or oil or gold put together.”
Ramon rolled his empty glass on the table. “If this mineral is so wonderful, why haven’t we heard about it? And why haven’t you found it?”
“Who says I haven’t?” Swenson emptied his glass.
The door to the bar opened and an Angolan came in, spotted Swenson, and came over. “A break in the rain is coming, sir,” he said politely. “We should be on our way.”
“Ah, Tobias.” Swenson nodded and stood unsteadily. “You’ve been excellent company, my friends, but now I must bid you good-bye. My driver is never wrong.”
Luis watched him settle his tab with Niki, then lurch out the door. Suddenly Ramon got up too and went over to Niki. Luis couldn’t hear their conversation, but he saw Ramon point toward the door.
Niki called out to his eighteen-year old son, Kambale, who worked the bar with his father. When Kambale came over, Niki whispered in his ear. Kambale nodded and exited the bar.