Sankara gave him a curt nod in answer, evidently unmoved by the platitude when it came from someone else.
We started toward the secretary-general’s office, Sankara charging ahead, although I wasn’t entirely convinced he knew where he was going, me and the rest of the delegation following behind him. I caught up to him and said in French, “You’re a fast walker. I’m supposed to be leading the group.”
He slowed down, which I suspected was a concession that he wouldn’t extend to everyone. As I strode by his side, I could feel that sublime energy of his. I don’t mean that in a mystical way, more as a comment on the strength of his will. He smelled like soap, like his uniform had been freshly laundered. Three gold stars studded his orange shoulder boards; his wedding band was also gold.
I felt him staring at me and glanced over. “You look familiar. Do you hear that a lot?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe you remind me of someone.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Is this your first visit to the UN, sir?”
“My third, and I’ll tell you something: I don’t plan to be back. I don’t like it here. Just look at him.” He pointed to a man in a suit. “Look at his face. The people here are way too serious.”
“But you don’t even know him,” I challenged with a smile. To soften it I added, “Mr. President.”
“Call me Thomas.”
“You don’t even know him, Thomas.”
“I know plenty of men like him. And I know you have to avoid becoming one of the rats in the UN corridors.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know? You must be new here,” he said.
“I am.”
“Well, be careful or you’ll become like these men. You’ll get too in your head, and you’ll forget all about the world outside of this place. You’ll become a rat, who reduces the real problems in the world to abstract subjects to bicker over.”
“At least the world’s problems are discussed here. A lot of people won’t even do that.”
“But it’s not enough just to discuss things. We are the elites. We can’t just talk about human rights, while we conveniently forget that we condemn thousands of children to die because we couldn’t agree on the best policy to help. Or in my government, if we can’t agree on a pay cut so that a little clinic out in the country can be built. Those kinds of choices make us part of the international complicity of men of good conscience.”
“What a sound-bite-ready speech. You’ve said it before.”
“I have,” he said with a bright laugh. “But I mean it.”
“I believe you do, sir. And I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“No, it’s good. Stay sharp. Keep me and everyone else here on their toes. If you do, there might be hope for you yet.”
We were at the secretary-general’s office. I showed the delegation inside, then watched the handshaking, the pleasantry exchanging, the secretary-general handing Thomas a gift—a book, something large and decorative that I didn’t catch the title of—while a UN photographer documented the moment.
Once the pageantry was over, we went to the delegates’ dining room. Its two most striking elements were the expansive river view the floor-to-ceiling windows offered and, after the speech on global inequality Thomas had just given, the massive buffet in the center of the room. I sat across the table from Thomas, between Chantal Compaoré, who didn’t say a word to me, and Vincent Traoré, who spoke steadily throughout the meal, using the opportunity to practice his English. He spoke it well despite the fact that he’d never been to an English-speaking country before. He talked mostly about his membership in the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution at the university, of which he was very proud. He explained that the Committee was a local governing body run by average people. According to him, it promoted participatory democracy and the popular revolution, having replaced the corrupt and reactionary officials who’d governed before Thomas had come to power. While I was suspicious of his government—of any government—being the only ones allowed to dictate who was reactionary and who revolutionary, I said nothing.
As I was looking at Thomas, who was staring down at the small portion of food he’d taken from the buffet, he looked up; I let him catch me watching him. As he smiled, warmth washed over me, starting as a gentle tingling at the base of my skull. I urged myself to remember that feeling. I was happy, I’d liked him immediately, and it had been so long since I’d had such feelings that they seemed like a novelty.
I wasn’t able to speak to him again until the meal was over. He was standing beside the window with Sam Kinda and Vincent Traoré, and as I approached, I heard that he was talking to them both about the New International Economic Order, a set of proposals designed to replace the Bretton Woods Agreement as the international monetary system. The leadership of several developing countries had proposed it about a decade earlier but, as Thomas saw it, the NIEO had gone nowhere because the status quo, Bretton Woods, too heavily favored the powerful countries that had created it for there to be any change. He was saying that it had gotten no traction because western Europe and the United States kept railroading its adoption.
“Maybe your comments today will spark some interest in it again,” I offered.
He shook his head. “They invited me here to speak because they only want words. No action. The right to a fair international economic order is like the other rights of the people: They won’t be given to us. We must conquer them in struggle.”
Vincent nodded in strong agreement.
“So why did you accept the invitation to speak?” I asked. “For the free trip to New York?”
He smiled. “Yes. I’d like to spend some time in Harlem on this trip.”
“Really?” I was genuinely surprised. I assumed a foreign dignitary would prefer to spend his time in an upscale neighborhood, like Midtown.
“I know people think of the place as a dump, as a place to suffocate. But I believe Harlem will give the African soul its true dimension. That’s where our White House is, among the black people of Harlem. I should see it while I can.”
“You were serious then? This will really be your last visit to New York?”
He nodded. “When I first became president, I thought it was necessary to come to the UN. Now, while I do feel a duty to represent the interests of the nonaligned countries, I know I can do so more effectively other places. The UN is too much of an echo chamber, one manipulated by a few powerful drummers.”
“Well. We should make it count. I could show you around if you want.” I was standing too close to him.
He hesitated, and I worried that I sounded forward. “Do you mean tomorrow? After the rally?”
“Yes. I live up there. I could give you a tour of my neighborhood afterward if you’d like. Take you for lunch.”
“Did you grow up in Harlem?” he asked, still not responding to my invitation.
“No. My father did though. Actually, I grew up over there.” I pressed my fingertip against the window, and we both looked out at the shore. “In Queens. In a little house out in the suburbs.”
We were alone. Vincent and Sam had moved a few paces away to one of the other windows. I touched his arm then; there was no real reason for me to do it other than that I wanted to. He looked at me, and in his gaze I suddenly felt very transparent. I knew I had a solid cover; everything I’d told him was based in truth, which is where the best covers are formed. I knew I could be an effective spy. But in that moment, it felt like he was looking into me, and it made me unsure of myself. I didn’t know if I was more worried that he could tell my flirtatiousness was manufactured or that he could tell it was real.
“All of us?”
“Excuse me?”
“Is the entire delegation invited on your tour?”
“Oh. Yes, if that’s what you want. It’s up
to you.”
Before he could answer, a voice called his name. Blaise and Chantal Compaoré were crossing the room toward us. Chantal and I stood quietly to the side as Thomas and her husband spoke in a foreign language—Mooré, I guessed from what I’d read. I assumed they were talking about business or politics, until Thomas said something that made Compaoré laugh. Mirth made his distinctive features even more striking. His eyes turned down, and when he smiled the crease that ran across the bridge of his broad triangular nose deepened. They were not only political allies but close friends, and observing their dynamic confirmed that. When they were finished, Compaoré turned to me. He asked me to remind him of my name, and when I did, he repeated it with deliberate eye contact—a move out of the slick politician’s playbook. He asked, “No dessert?”
“I don’t have much of a sweet tooth,” I answered.
“How about you, Thomas?” As he gestured grandly to the buffet tables, it was obvious he was joking.
Thomas shook his head, clearly repulsed by the idea. He said to Compaoré: “We were talking about the tour she was going to take us on tomorrow. She lives in Harlem.”
“Where exactly?” Compaoré asked.
“Not very far from where they’re holding the rally, 128th Street.” “So we’ll pick you up,” Compaoré said. “Give your address to Sam. But we should go now, Thomas.” He steered the president toward the exit, Chantal following in their wake. And I watched them, genuinely sad to see Thomas go, before catching myself. Then I went to Sam and wrote down my address.
12
THE NEXT DAY, I WAITED FOR Thomas and his delegation to arrive while sitting at my living room window. Below me, a pleasant fall day was unfolding on Lenox.
I was eager to see the president again. I admired him. Even so, I saw no reason why that had to get in the way of my work. This was the case that could start me on the path toward my goal: becoming a special agent in charge. And Daniel Slater had recommended me; he was somewhere waiting in the wings, trying to give my professional life a boost. It felt like a gift being given on behalf of Helene.
A black town car pulled up in front of my building. When Thomas stepped out from the passenger side, I called down to him and waved. Said that I would be there in just a minute. I met him on the sidewalk, and kissed him on both cheeks. He was wearing his captain’s uniform again and took off his beret in a show of gallantry. The driver got out of the car in a panic. He said in English, “Miss, you’ve got to talk to them. They want to walk.”
Vincent explained as he unfolded from the backseat. “The PF doesn’t want to show up to the rally in a chauffeured car,” he said, using a nickname for the president of Faso. He was wearing a busy polyester shirt with a wide collar and looked like he hadn’t slept well.
“I don’t need you to speak for me,” Thomas snapped. He seemed irritated, his mood apparently as bad as mine was good, which made me think the political tension that Ross had mentioned must’ve broken to the surface in Burkina somehow. By then Sam had joined the group on the sidewalk.
“I can’t let them just disappear on me,” the driver said. “Please, miss. If anyone finds out, I’ll lose my job.”
I told him there was nothing I could do: If a president says he wants to walk, it seems to me that he’ll be walking. I didn’t know why he was so worried. The DSS agents I’d met the day before were surely nearby. Maybe he thought they’d snitch on him.
We started in the direction of the school. As we walked along Lenox, one of the DSS agents stepped from a car. He was very conspicuous as he followed us, just a few paces behind.
“Where are the vice president and Mrs. Compaoré?” I asked Sam. “They’ve gone,” was his curt response.
“Vice President Compaoré is heading back to Burkina this afternoon,” Vincent elaborated. “His wife is still here though. She’ll be going to Paris in a few days with their son.”
Sam said something to him in Mooré as he glanced at me. I had the impression that it was about me, perhaps a warning. Sam had been immediately distrustful of me, and had no problem showing it.
I led our group with Vincent at my side, who kept yawning.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.
“I was up until three with Thomas taking notes on phone meetings. I think he must’ve called every politician in Ouagadougou.”
“Is something going on?” I said casually, as if saying it coolly enough would prod Vincent into a spontaneous itemization of the intel I was after: bullet points outlining precisely what Thomas knew about how much my government was meddling in his. No dice. It’s much harder to subtly coax information out of people than the movies let on. What happened instead was that I was greeted with silence, and we continued toward Harriet Tubman elementary. It was as institutional as any other New York City public school, the finger paintings taped up behind the barred windows giving it the appearance of a prison for children.
The Patrice Lumumba Coalition’s director, Aisha’s uncle, who was a bald man wearing glasses on a chain around his neck, was waiting in the lobby with a few other men to greet Thomas’s delegation. He led us into the auditorium where two hundred or so people were waiting, many of them standing. As we passed down the aisle toward the reserved seats in the front, I saw Aisha with Marlon in her lap. When she recognized me she quickly looked away.
We sat. The director went up onstage, and as he talked about how pleased he was to have Thomas speak, I looked around and took in the excitement of the crowd. Both DSS agents were waiting by the exit, and I saw a special agent there too, one I knew by face, not name. He was wearing a black suit and looked as much like a Fed as it was possible to look, a standard intimidation tactic that no one in the room seemed particularly intimidated by. I was surprised. Ross hadn’t told me that another agent would be present.
Vincent went up to the stage first and spoke into the microphone attached to the podium there. I expected him to be nervous, but he was composed. He talked about how exciting it was to be in New York before shifting his focus to Thomas and the work his government, the CNR, was doing in Burkina Faso. The people around us began to clap as Vincent looked down toward Thomas and said in French: “Comrade President? Your audience is ready for you.”
Thomas stood. He strode briskly toward the stage and climbed the steps on a sea swell of applause. He waited there, looking out at us serenely, all of his earlier irritation having apparently dissolved.
The crowd quieted. He let a few more moments pass before he gripped the podium with both hands and leaned toward the microphone. His voice barely audible, he said: “L’impérialisme.”
“À bas!” a few French speakers in the crowd said back. Down with it.
“Le néocolonialisme.” There was a smooth tranquillity to his voice that provoked excitement in the crowd.
“À bas!” more voices shouted.
“Le racisme!”
“À bas!” the voices in the auditorium thundered.
“La patrie ou la mort, nous vaincrons.” Homeland or death, we will win. “Merci, comrades.” He paused for a moment. When he spoke it was with Vincent translating for him. “We feel that the fight we’re waging in Africa, principally in Burkina Faso, is the same fight you’re waging in Harlem. Even if you have greater material wealth than we do, you have misery in your hearts. The misery of the ghetto, for example, and the brutality with which your police treat its citizens, the misery associated with the inhuman life created here because of the power of money, because of the power of capital.”
The audience around me erupted into applause once more, and I realized I was as captivated as everyone else in the crowd. This was so different from the speech at the UN, which had been interesting but not galvanizing. It might’ve been because I was sitting closer or because of the engaged people around me; either way his passion felt sincere and was being amplified by the crowd. And yet it was intimate, lik
e he was talking directly to me and only me. Everyone probably felt that way, I understood that, but it was still intoxicating.
“It is also a fact that any American, whatever his wealth, is like a pawn on a chessboard, a pawn who is moved around, who is manipulated, who isn’t told one-tenth of the realities of the world. The American people can’t be proud of the fact that, wherever they go, others look at them and see behind them the CIA, see behind them the attacks, the weapons, and so forth. I understand that black Americans also want their freedom. But don’t confuse real freedom with the freedom of the few to exploit the rest.”
I wondered then if his Pan-Africanism was too idealistic. While it was generous in its inclusion of me and other black Americans, at the end of the day, the very imperialism that he resisted was being enacted in our names too.
“You can’t be proud that your brothers are treated with suspicion. You can’t be proud that while we are here discussing things, while we are here talking to each other as Africans, your government regards you with such suspicion that they send spies who are here in order to make a report tomorrow morning.”
His gaze landed on me briefly then, and I felt like he was looking into me again. And that time I felt afraid. Not of having my cover blown, but because I feared I was on the verge of losing control. It was intense fear, and in that way made me feel like when as a child I’d broken something or been caught pawing through the metal desk in my father’s room and was about to find myself in serious trouble.
His eyes moved out behind me into the crowd, presumably toward the special agent standing beside the exit. “We say to them that they don’t need to bring secret microphones. Even if television cameras were here, we’d be saying the same thing: We are ready to fight imperialism. Imperialism is the cause of your misery. The fight against it is our common fight.”
Thomas banged his fist against the podium. He’d reached the apex of his speech and folks were near hysterical, calling out yes and preach, applause breaking out in all quarters of the gym. Although I recognized his words as propaganda, it was impossible to be in that room, full of energized people, and not feel electrified. I looked around and found myself wanting to believe, as they seemed to, that he meant what he was saying.
American Spy Page 14
