Russland, Niobium and Attanasio: what’s behind

What lies behind Russia’s hypersonic program: a smuggled, super-strong material that, since 2021, has been at the centre of an irregular war.The Smuggling of Niobium, the Russian Mafia, and the Ambush on the Italian Ambassador on 21 February 2021

On 21 February 2021, along a dirt road in the east of the Democratic Republic of Congo, from Goma in the direction of Rumangabo–Rutshuru–Lueshe, a World Food Programme convoy falls into an ambush: Italian ambassador Luca Attanasio, his bodyguard Carabiniere Vittorio Iacovacci, and WFP driver Mustapha Milambo are killed. On board is also Rocco Leone, Deputy Country Director of WFP in the DRC, the only survivor.

What is initially presented as an assault by “common bandits” opens up a much more complex scenario, in which the line between humanitarian aid, intelligence, and an irregular war for the control of critical resources becomes extremely thin.

One of the leads that has emerged in geopolitical analysis – as a working hypothesis for investigators – is that the convoy, in addition to its official mission under the UN flag, was monitoring on behalf of the CIA the routes of Congolese resources and the interests of a criminal cartel linked to the Russian mafia and intelligence services. In this reading, the ambush on the WFP convoy becomes a message, or an interdiction operation, against the backdrop of a fierce competition for control of strategic minerals.

Eastern Congo is one of the main global hubs for cobalt, coltan, gold and, increasingly, niobium, a rare metal that is essential for the aerospace industry and for certain alloys used in missile technology. In the analyses most focused on the Kremlin, smuggled niobium is described as a “wild card” in Moscow’s high-stakes gamble for superiority in hypersonic missiles: a clandestine, untracked flow that would feed advanced military programs and power structures built on black money.

From this perspective, Russia never acts in a linear way: it relies on mafia networks, private intermediaries and para-state structures to control or at least influence the supply chain of strategic Congolese minerals.

Within this same horizon of ambiguity lies the role of the WFP. Not so much as a “spy agency” in the strict sense, but as an actor operating in theatres saturated with intelligence activity. The World Food Programme has a complex governance structure: an Executive Board of 36 member states, with a President elected every year, and a global Executive Director. From 2017 to April 2023, operational leadership was in the hands of David Beasley, former Republican governor of South Carolina, a politician with wide international connections, under whose direction the WFP also received the Nobel Peace Prize (2020).

At operational level, in 2021 WFP in Yemen was headed by a Country Director, Laurent Bukera, while in Congo the Deputy Country Director was precisely Rocco Leone, who was on board the convoy on the day of the attack. After the events in Goma, the Rome prosecutor’s office requested that two WFP officials, including Leone, be committed for trial on charges of manslaughter: according to the prosecution, they allegedly failed to implement essential security measures, falsely declared the composition of the convoy, violated UN protocols (which require 72 hours’ advance notification) and concealed the ambassador’s presence, resulting in the lack of an adequate armed escort.

In 2024, however, Italian judge Marisa Mosetti determined, on the basis of information from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, that, as UN officials, Leone and the other suspect enjoy functional immunity and cannot be tried in Italy for that incident.

It is important to stress that these are the only documented events in which Leone’s name appears: there are no public records linking him to the CIA, to other intelligence services or to espionage operations. The WFP, on the other hand, has repeatedly had to defend its staff against accusations of spying on behalf of the United States; today, many officials are detained in Yemen by the Houthi government because they are suspected of being undercover CIA agents. Likewise, the official biographies of Beasley do not show any formal post within the US intelligence community (CIA, NSA, DIA, etc.).

This does not prevent, however, the convergence between humanitarian aid, strategic interests in minerals and security apparatuses in war zones from fuelling suspicions and theories about a possible “spy” use of convoys and humanitarian programmes. Hence the hyperbolic, but now widespread, idea in certain analytical circles that the ambush on the WFP convoy in February 2021 was not just a local crime but part of a broader irregular war over critical resources, with the Moscow–Kinshasa axis at its centre.

2. Irregular War and Critical Resources: The Moscow–Kinshasa Axis

The Democratic Republic of Congo is not simply a country rich in raw materials: it is an operational theatre of silent, ruthless war. In the east of the country, irregular warfare is the norm: dozens of local and foreign armed groups operate outside any state control, turning the area into a criminal fiefdom.

At the heart of this war economy are cobalt (indispensable for batteries and e-mobility), coltan (crucial for electronics) and niobium, increasingly strategic for the aerospace and military industries.

At the base of the plunder pyramid there are not just “bandits”, but a truly institutionalised “military mafia”. The emblematic case is that of the mines of Rubaya (North Kivu), vital for the global supply of coltan and tantalum. According to UN reports, in particular the Rapport final du Groupe d’experts sur la République démocratique du Congo (S/2024/432), for years commanders of the FARDC, the regular Congolese army, have collaborated with militias that are theoretically enemies (such as the FDLR) to share profits, turning regiments into private commercial enterprises.

In recent years, the situation has become even more complex with the rise of the “Wazalendo”, local militias armed by the government to fight the M23 rebels. Born as a defence tool, these groups have quickly turned into autonomous criminal gangs: they impose illegal taxes at checkpoints and run gold smuggling routes to Uganda.

On the other side, the M23, backed by Rwanda, has built a sort of shadow administration: it controls mining areas, taxes coltan depots and launders the ore by transporting it through the Bunagana crossing, before placing it on the global market as seemingly legal goods.

The plunder of Congo does not stop at African borders. Illegally extracted resources need sophisticated networks to reach global markets and safe channels to launder dirty money. Reports by the Italian Anti-Mafia Investigation Directorate (DIA) and investigations by District Prosecutor’s Offices, especially in Reggio Calabria, show that the ’Ndrangheta is no longer just a territorial mafia, but a global holding company.

Exploiting the immense liquidity generated by drug trafficking, Calabrian clans have entered the mineral resources business: they act as global brokers, offering advanced platforms for laundering and reinvesting the blood-stained proceeds of coltan and diamonds, serving as an invisible hinge between African warlords and legal Western markets (see Vincenzo Musacchio, Huffington Post, “Gli affari della ’ndrangheta sulle risorse minerarie del Congo”).

The actor that more than any other has turned this diffuse banditry into a geopolitical lever is Russia. To understand this, one must look at the relationship between the Russian state and organised crime: the concept of the “Chekist–Mafia Nexus” (or “Chekist-Mafia State”) describes the operational fusion between the security and intelligence apparatus of the Russian Federation – the “Chekists”, heirs of the Bolshevik Cheka – and the networks of the Organizatsiya, the Russian mafia. This is not mere tolerance of crime, but its deliberate instrumentalisation for geopolitical purposes.

The Russian secret services – the FSB (domestic security, a pillar of regime stability) and the GRU (military intelligence, focused on aggressive operations abroad) – use the mafias as deniable assets, tools to carry out dirty work (murders, trafficking, illicit financing) while preserving the state’s plausible deniability.

In Congo, this system offers obvious advantages: if a niobium smuggling route is intercepted or an opponent eliminated, responsibility falls on “common criminals”, while Moscow can deny any direct involvement. Russian mafias manage both the logistics of global smuggling and of money laundering: illicit financial flows feed black budgets used for intelligence operations, bribery of local officials and support to paramilitary groups, all off the Kremlin’s official books.

To put a face to this hybrid system, we must look at two symbolic figures. On the financial side, Semion Mogilevich, head of the Solntsevskaya Bratva, considered one of the most powerful Moscow criminal organisations, is described as being protected by the top echelons of Russian power and as an architect of strategic alliances. Since the 1990s he is said to have forged a steel pact with the Camorra for money laundering and arms, creating a criminal axis that now extends to African resources.

On the operational side linked to the military world stands Viktor Bout, the “merchant of death”: for decades, his cargo planes are said to have flooded Congo with Soviet weapons in exchange for diamonds and minerals, closing the circle between mafia power, intelligence interests and the plundering of mines.

This fusion between state and crime also manifests itself in Africa through the projection of private military contractors. For years this role was embodied by the Wagner Group, a Russian private military company de facto linked to the Kremlin and its services. After the death of its leader Yevgeny Prigozhin in August 2023, Wagner was reconfigured into a more institutionalised structure, the “Africa Corps”, placed under the direct control of the Ministry of Defence and the GRU. In practice, Moscow has nationalised mercenarism: the fighters are now state employees, but the operational model remains substantially unchanged.

In countries such as Mali, the Central African Republic, Sudan and, increasingly, in the DRC itself, the Africa Corps guarantees the survival of regimes – protecting leaders, repressing internal dissent, securing palaces – in exchange for direct, predatory access to mineral resources. African mines thus become an official “cash machine” for Russia’s wars, a continuous flow of wealth that also feeds the development of advanced technologies, including hypersonic systems, in which metals such as niobium and tantalum are crucial.

The situation in the DRC today represents an archetype of modern irregular warfare: an intertwining of local militias, transnational mafias, intelligence services and private military companies that turns Congo into not just a country in crisis, but a global strategic asset, a battlefield where the future of technology and geopolitical balances is being decided, while peace seems to drift further away every day.

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3. From WFP to Fogbow: The Hybridisation of Humanitarian Aid, Security Apparatuses and Intelligence

If the Congolese terrain shows how irregular war over critical resources is fuelled by states and mafias, the world of humanitarian aid reveals hybrid dynamics in which security logics and geopolitical interests penetrate the international aid architecture. The World Food Programme, at the centre of the Attanasio case, is a striking example.

The WFP is governed by an Executive Board elected annually, distinct from the Executive Director, who – in practice – is always an American. In 2021, at the time of the attack on Attanasio, the Executive Director pro tempore was David Beasley, former Republican governor of South Carolina, a high-profile humanitarian leader. The main institutional biographies (UN, WFP, WEF, etc.) do not list official assignments in the US intelligence community; there is therefore no documentary evidence linking him to the CIA or other agencies as an officer or staff member.

During his political career in South Carolina, however, Beasley had frequent public contacts with federal representatives of various agencies, at institutional events in Charleston, Columbia and Florence and at The Citadel and Coastal Carolina University – the latter with specialised programmes in intelligence studies. In Rome, at WFP headquarters, he also took part in public initiatives with political counsellors from the US Embassy.

During his tenure, internal shadows emerged within WFP. In 2019, an anonymous survey of over 8,000 staff members, commissioned by an audit under his leadership, brought to light allegations of abuse of power, discrimination, assault and favouritism in various offices. These were not accusations focused on a single person, but on an organisational culture perceived as toxic: authoritarian, self-referential, at times marked by nepotism and the improper use of privileges (business-class flights, internal appointments, a tight circle of advisers, often Americans with links to the security and intelligence world).

Journalistic sources and some NGOs do not identify Beasley as the direct author of abuses, but criticise him for a slow and inadequate response. The Board therefore set up a “joint Board/management working group on harassment, sexual harassment, abuse of power and discrimination”, which openly spoke of the need for a comprehensive action plan to address these issues.

At the same time, WFP became embroiled in operational scandals: in Sudan the agency opened an investigation into suspected fraud and into the cover-up of obstruction of aid, with officials under investigation for possibly having concealed the army’s role in blocking food distribution and making fuel disappear; in Yemen it had to respond to accusations by warring parties (such as the Houthis) of political bias or cooperation under extreme pressure, fuelling mistrust among authorities and armed groups. Cases of negligence, lack of transparency and political controversy in war zones have fed doubts and suspicions – and at times full-blown theories – about possible overlaps between humanitarian aid, intelligence and geopolitical influence.

At the end of his WFP mandate, from 2025 onwards, Beasley’s name resurfaced in a new context: Fogbow. It is a spin-off from WFP, a US for-profit company that presents itself as an enabler of “humanitarian access and operations in challenging environments”: it provides logistics, access and management of humanitarian corridors in conflict areas such as Gaza, Sudan and South Sudan, handling tonnes of aid and airdrops, often in cooperation or under contract with governments and with public or foundation funding. In effect, a “commercial WFP”.

Fogbow’s leadership is made up of figures with strong military and intelligence backgrounds. Its president, Michael “Mick” Mulroy, is a former paramilitary operations officer at the CIA’s Special Activities Center, a former Deputy Assistant Secretary of Defense for the Middle East at the Pentagon, and a former Marine. Various journalistic investigations place Fogbow among the enterprises led by “veterans of the American national security community”, describing it as a company run by former military and intelligence officers; Mulroy is described as a “retired CIA officer and former senior defense official”.

Fogbow is therefore not a neutral NGO in the classic sense, but a private company founded and led by former CIA and DoD leaders, which states that it uses logistics, security and intelligence capabilities in humanitarian contexts.

In 2024–2025, Fogbow became one of the central actors in the maritime corridor from Cyprus to Gaza, initially via barges and then through the US-built floating pier off the coast. The project was funded, among others, by the government of Qatar through the Maritime Humanitarian Aid Foundation (MHAF); a Financial Times investigation mentions more than one million dollars paid to the Boston Consulting Group to support Fogbow and MHAF in designing the corridor.

Fogbow claims to have transferred over 1,000 tonnes of aid to Gaza through the US pier and the port of Ashdod, presenting the operation as a “blueprint” for a new model of private logistics in war and crisis. Many observers, NGOs and analysts describe this model as an example of “militarised humanitarianism”: humanitarian logistics are closely intertwined with military and security apparatuses, with the risk of blurring the line between aid and political-strategic operation.

In this context, numerous articles (AP, Africanews, The New Humanitarian, Arab News, etc.) describe Beasley as a “senior adviser” to Fogbow. A newsletter by The New Humanitarian notes that his biography has appeared on the company’s website, presenting him as a high-level adviser in a platform led by former military and ex-CIA officers, involved in the use of the military pier in Gaza.

In parallel, the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF) project has emerged, a foundation registered in Geneva and supported by the US and Israel to manage part of the aid distribution in Gaza with strong reliance on private security companies. Various articles (AP, Arab News, Le Monde, J Street, Italian investigations and BBC/radio reports) identify Beasley as the “lead choice” or a figure destined for a leadership or advisory board role in the GHF, although his involvement is not always formalised. The GHF is described as a highly securitised structure, with the presence of former Marines, former US security coordinators for Israel/Palestine, former UN security heads and people linked to private security companies.

Another piece of the puzzle is the move of his special assistant into the Fogbow orbit: a key figure on Beasley’s WFP team, Gavin Gramstad, formerly Special Assistant to the Executive Director, is now part of the same network.

Three elements converge:
1. a private company led by former CIA/DoD officials operating in highly militarised humanitarian contexts;
2. a former WFP director who becomes its senior adviser, bringing political capital, “humanitarian” reputation and relationships with governments and agencies;
3. the transfer of his trusted staff into the same circuit.

For many analyses, this triad signals a growing hybridisation between security/intelligence apparatuses and the international humanitarian architecture. It does not prove that Beasley is an “intelligence man” in the formal sense – there is no official evidence of his belonging to the intelligence community – but it shows how, increasingly, top figures in the humanitarian world enter mixed public–private platforms that are deeply influenced by national security logics and state strategic interests.

In this scenario, episodes such as the ambush on the WFP convoy in Congo, internal investigations into harassment and abuse, scandals in Sudan and Yemen, and “humanitarian” corridors running through military piers and contractors led by former CIA officers all converge on the same underlying question:

to what extent is humanitarian aid a cover for hybrid war?

And to what extent has it instead become a – more or less conspiratorial – instrument within the very irregular war being fought for control of niobium, coltan and other critical resources on which the future of global military and technological power depends?