The Golden Chair
Page 6
He awoke as the sun was just peaking over the horizon. A few yards on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling window was a parked plane being preparing for the day’s flights. And one or two shops behind him were beginning to open. There were a few people in the terminal, but it was mostly still empty. He walked to the nearest vendor. The woman was counting the cash in the register. He ordered a large black coffee, paid in cash, and sat at a table. As he did, he pulled out his phone to check his email.
From Erin. ‘Fw: Fw: Your flight confirmation from IAD to KIA’
Paul took a sip, burning his mouth, swearing — he reflexively jerked, which sloshed a small black tidal wave onto his hand.
More swearing.
Dripping with coffee, he reached for a napkin. No napkins. He flung his hand down next to him, wiping the rest on his pants. With his dry hand, he tapped the email from Erin.
In it was a single line:
“Looks like Carl changed his mind. See you in Accra.”
He put his phone away and rubbed his eyes.
This would complicate things, he thought.
He picked up his coffee, his hand still tingling from where he’d spilled it a minute before, and walked to his terminal to wait for his flight. There wasn’t much he could do at this point. At the moment, he was glad he was about to get onto ten-or-so hour flight. It would give him time to think. And right now, that’s what he needed most.
16
Ghana
Erin walked down the steps of the 737, feeling the Ghanaian heat hit her like a blanket. She stepped down onto the tarmac. The pilot said the temperature was 84. It must be at least in the mid-nineties, she thought. The sun was everywhere. As the people flooded out of the plane, a baggage handler piled luggage onto an airport cart.
She walked with the rest of the passengers to the nearby building, walking through an unlabeled open door. Down the hall, they reached a room that opened up into a large space with a line of different people and a large vinyl sign hanging from the ceiling: ‘Entry Customs.’ She stood in line, waiting. The line moved fast.
“Next,” a man behind a window called.
Erin looked to see an empty spot at the far end. She walked, backpack on and passport in hand, to the far counter. The man sat behind heavy glass, talking through a small semicircle cut-out. Without taking his eyes off of his computer screen, he held out his hand. “Passport,” he said.
She slid her passport with its folded yellow card through the semicircle in the glass. The man opened the passport, flipped through it, turned it sideways, and looked at it, then looked up at her.
“What is your business?” he asked in a bored, mechanical voice.
“I’m…,” She said, then stopped.
In all of the rush to get here, she hadn’t actually considered an answer to this question. Officially, she was doing public relations for her international client. In her experience, ‘public relations’ tends to raise more questions than it answers. The other answer — the unofficial one: she was here tracking down a lead that may tell her who killed her mother twenty-six years ago.
The man behind the counter stopped typing and looked at her. “Your business here in Ghana,” he said.
“Journalist,” she said, “I’m a journalist.”
“Jour-na-list,” he said, typing it into his computer.
Then, without any indication the transaction had ended, he called out, “next,” as he slid her stamped passport back through the glass.
Erin grabbed her passport and walked to the exit. The next person was already at the counter waiting for her to move.
She walked down a curvy hall, seeing large cultural artwork screen prints on the walls, along with the floor to ceiling stenciled letters that said, ‘Welcome to Ghana.’ A mixture of modern and ancient. As she looked at the walls, she saw brief descriptions and timelines of Ghana’s history, noting empires like the Ashanti, Akwamu, and Mankessim. A vintage-looking map showed a good portion of West Africa, segmented off as ‘Ghana,’ during one of the long-ago empires.
As she walked, a new thought occurred to her. She hadn’t planned on how she’d contact Paul once she’d got here. She brought a sat phone with her, but she didn’t have his number. She’d only barely told him she was coming. Her face flushed slightly at the stupid mistake. She kept walking. She thought about finding wifi and sending him a message. Maybe she’d—
“Hey,” a voice called to her as she walked by.
She glanced over her shoulder, and then she stopped. The tension she was holding in her shoulders faded.
“Paul.”
He was standing against the wall, arms folded.
“I realized I hadn’t—” she started.
“Come on,” he smiled. “Any checked bags?”
“No, just this,” she said.
“Good girl,” he said. “My car’s this way.”
They walked through the airport. There were people shuffling everywhere. They passed a small window in a wall with a line of people at it. Above it, an electronic ticker showing currency prices. Cedi to USD, Cedi to EUR, Cedi to GPB. It looked like a pawn shop with its locked-down window. They kept walking. They approached two lines near a glass door that led outside. It was a second Customs inspection, for luggage.
“Don’t make eye contact,” Paul told her. “Just put your bag down, let them look at it, and pick it up. Don’t hesitate, and don’t talk.”
The lines were flanked by men wearing camo gear, cradling black automatic weapons. Erin put her backpack down and waited in line. When it was her turn, the man in a tan airport uniform took it. He looked at it, then set it down. She glanced at Paul standing past the line with his arms folded, watching. Without making eye contact, she picked up her bag again and walked toward Paul. Her heart thumped as she walked past the soldiers. And it was all she could do to not look at them as she passed. Paul kept eye contact with her, motioning her to him with a nod of his head. As she caught up, they both walked through the double glass doors out into the sun.
The crowd outside was worse than inside. There was no order to any of it. Paul stood in the middle of the people. She was about to ask Paul what they were waiting for, when a black Land Rover pulled up, driving into the crowd.
For a moment, Erin thought the vehicle had lost control and was going to plow into the crowd in front of them.
But the people made room, and the Land Rover stopped just in front of Erin and Paul. It was dirty, Erin noticed. The door opened, and a black man in a bright shirt stepped out, leaving the driver door open as he did. Paul walked up to him and handed him a palm-full of paper money.
“All okay, Jacob?” Paul asked him.
“All good, my brother. Even washed it for you,” he said, laughing, as he handed Paul the keys.
Paul looked at Erin, “This is us.”
They got in, and Paul drove them out of the airport and into the heavy mid-day traffic. Motorcycles moved in between cars, and the taxis, marked with their yellow quarter-panels, filled the roads all on a crash course for one another. Accra, Ghana’s capital city, was a busy place.
Paul exited the main road, leaving the congestion behind. “Taking a short cut,” he said.
They followed the port, the road snaking as it followed the shoreline. Over the wall, Erin could see permanently mounted cranes used for lifting shipping containers off of vessels. The port wall went on for several miles.
Once out of the city, the road turned into a two-lane rural highway. The driving here was faster. And it was mostly paved, with trees on either side. The red dirt, Erin thought, looked almost at odds with the green bushes and trees growing out of it. The repetitious scenery, the hot afternoon sun, and the jet lag were a combination that Erin had a hard time fighting. She lay there, wedged between her seat and the door, drifting in and out of consciousness. A few times, she jerked awake as the Land Rover slowed for a small village, while the people and animals crossed the road. For almost three hours, they continued this way.
“Our camp is small,” Paul said. “It’s a mobile unit, designed to go wherever we need it to. And there’s only a few of us. So it works. Oh, and…uh,” he hesitated, “just to warn you, comfort is relative out here. But if you think about tent-living, it’s a few steps up from that.”
Erin was tired, and she didn’t have the energy to give that much thought. The Land Rover bounced under trees, following slightly worn track marks.
“Something else,” Paul said as they pulled into a clearing. Up ahead, Erin could see a few heavy-duty trailers and an old yellow Land Rover and a truck. “The data we’ve collected,” he continued, “seems to be getting out almost as fast as we can collect it. The problem is, we haven’t actually been releasing it.”
“I’m sorry…,” she said, “it’s been a long day.”
He pulled into the camp and parked the Land Rover near one of the trailers, resting his arms on the steering wheel. He looked over at her. “I don’t know anything for sure yet — it’s all speculation. Just…keep an eye out for anything that doesn’t look right.”
She registered the change in his tone but hadn’t yet put together what he was talking about. “What do you—”
“I think,” he said, looking tired, “we might have a leak in our camp.”
Erin looked out her window. A couple of men stood waving at them. One was black and tall, with pink hair. And the other was a white guy who looked sorely out of place. Both of them had stupid grins on their faces.
She turned back to Paul, to ask him more about what he’d told her.
But he had already opened his door and was getting out. He ducked his head back into the truck, “Welcome to SERA,” he said.
17
SERA Basecamp
“Just smile,” Ben told Gavin not looking at him.
“This is my smile.”
Ben looked at Gavin as a cloud of dust entered the camp.
“And whatever you do, don’t look at the Land Rover.”
As he said this, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gavin glancing at the truck.
“I said don’t look at it.”
“I…,” Gavin started. “What if Paul—”
“He won’t,” Ben said.
“How do you know?” Gavin hissed back at him.
“It’s taken care of,” Ben said.
Paul parked his own, newer, Land Rover under a tree at the edge of camp.
“How did you get a replacement tank way out here, anyway?” Gavin asked.
“I’ve got a friend,” Ben said casually. “Works with Keeler. They’re funded, get whatever they want. And we…swap favors every now and then.”
Gavin looked at him, but Ben’s attention was on Paul’s vehicle. Specifically, the passenger sitting next to him.
“Who’s that?” Ben said.
“No idea,” Gavin said, noticing her for the first time. “Maybe Paul found a girlfriend in D.C.?” he said with a grin.
“Yeah…that sounds like Paul. Ladies man.”
Paul and the woman got out of the car and walked toward them.
“She’s—” Gavin started.
“…pretty,” Ben finished.
“I was going to say ‘too young,’” Gavin said.
Jokes aside, Ben knew Paul well enough to know he wasn’t the relationship-type. But as the pair walked over, he couldn’t help but think — they did seem to match each other somehow. It certainly wasn’t the clothing choice. Paul was in his standard ripstop-pants-and-camp-shirt uniform — the opposite of fashion by just about everyone’s standard. ‘Functional’ was the euphemism. She, on the other hand, looked put together. She wore fitted khaki shorts and a plain v-neck t-shirt. Neither made her look like she belonged here. But, somehow, she was doing all right…
“Don’t stare,” said another voice, startling Ben.
Marisol walked up behind Ben without him noticing. She’d been with SERA for a few months, but it seemed like longer. Some days that was a good thing. Other days, it was…
“What?” Ben said. “I wa—” he caught himself, realizing how forced his surprised-voice was coming out.
“You were definitely staring,” Gavin added.
Ben began to get annoyed with the two and started to respond.
Kwami, SERA’s permanent guide came over. Kwami was a native Ghanaian. And he was old. Though no one was really sure how old. On different occasions, he’d given vastly different years for his birth, so it was just one of those things.
“What are you look—” Kwami started. “Oh,” he seemed to find his own answer. “Paul is back. And he has a pretty girl with him.”
Marisol looked up at Ben, smiling about as broadly as her face could handle.
Paul walked up.
“It…looks like everyone is here,” Paul said, seeing everyone lined up. “Well, then. Everyone, this is Erin,” he said to the group. “She’s here on loan from R4 Worldwide, one of our partners in D.C. Doing a story for one of our donors.”
He held out a hand, motioning to Marisol, “This is Marisol,” Paul said. “She does special projects, which basically means a lot of different things and whatever we need at the time.”
Marisol smiled and held out a hand.
“It’s good to have another girl here,” Marisol said.
“Nice to meet you.”
She smiled when she said it.
A nice smile, Ben thought.
And then stopped himself.
“Ben,” Paul said.
“What?” Ben jerked his eyes to Paul.
“It’s your name,” Paul said slowly. “I’m introducing everyone, remember?”
“Yeah…I know that.”
Paul paused for a moment and looked at him before continuing. “Ben,” he said again, “mostly does my job when I’m gone. Which—” Ben heard the shift in tone. He knew Paul was about to say something sarcastic.
“Which—” Ben jumped in and finished for him, “is very challenging, but,” he held up a finger, “rewarding.”
Marisol looked at him sideways.
Ben reached out his hand to shake Erin’s, using the rest of his energy to keep the appropriate sized smile on his face.
“Um, Hi,” said Erin.
Ben noticed Erin’s smile was notably smaller now. More of a cross between a smile and a question. He felt Marisol’s eyes barreling into the side of his face. He pulled his hand back and diverted his eyes.
“Next,” Paul said, still looking at Ben. “Kwami. One of my oldest friends in Ghana.”
“And wisest,” Kwami said, in his smooth voice.
“He’s our local guide and our chef,” Paul said. “He can do anything with anything.”
He stepped forward and shook Erin’s hand with both of his. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Erin.”
Erin shook his hand and smiled again. “Same to you.”
Kwami put most people at ease. Right now, Ben felt sure he was doing the exact opposite.
“And this,” Paul said finally, “is Gavin. He does all our data work.”
Gavin jutted out his hand out to shake. “I am so glad you’re here. We’ve heard a lot about you.”
“You have?” Erin asked.
“Well…,” for a moment, Ben thought Gavin was going to make a not-too-subtle joke. “No,” Gavin said. “But, we are glad you’re here.”
That could have gone worse, Ben thought.
“Right, Ben?” Gavin added, sharing a knowing smile with Ben.
There it was.
Erin, and everyone else, looked at Ben.
“Of course,” Ben said, smiling, giving his best this-is-what-Gavin-always-says-after-he-meets-someone-new answer, making a point to not meet Gavin’s look.
Erin looked back at Gavin and then at Ben again.
“He…,” Ben said, “doesn’t get
out much. We keep him mostly tied under the tent behind the computer.”
“That’s actually true,” Gavin said.
“Okay,” Paul said, shaking his head, motioning for Erin to move on. “That was the team — I’m sorry — and this is the camp. I’ll give you the tour.”
Gavin turned around and looked at them. “The tour?” he asked.
Ben looked at him hard.
“What?”
Marisol started to say something, then seemed to think better of it. Ben wasn’t sure if she was using her better judgment, or if she just couldn’t trust herself not to laugh. Either way, Ben was thankful.
“At least,” Gavin said, “we didn’t look at the truck.”
18
Marisol
The sun was lower now. It was breaking through the trees in the way that saturates everything with a heavy orange-red hue.
As Paul walked Erin through SERA’s camp, she thought it was less of a camp and more of a stopping point. Its sum total consisted of three trailers parked in a u-shape. One of the trailers had a large awning that extended out. Under it was heavy plastic containers, the kind that kept expensive equipment from breaking on impact. Some of them were turned on their side, doubling as tables.
“This,” Paul motioned under the overhang, “is where Gavin does most of his work.” Erin saw a laptop with several cords running to it and several computer screens. Under it was a rack sprinkled with tiny lights, some flashing, along with more computer equipment. “You can find a space and set up if you need it. We have wifi, too.”
“Wifi, really?”
“It’s satellite,” he said. He pointed to a small metal dish on top of the largest trailer. It had two cords running from it down the side of the trailer and into Gavin’s work area. “It’s small,” Paul continued, “but it gets decent reception. Depending on what you’re trying to do. The rest of us do mostly field work, so we don’t use the space too much.”