“Did the chief give him anything? For fighting on his behalf?”
“Yes. He was given the chief’s last name. Ouédraogo, which is Mossi. They’re the ethnic majority in Burkina; they have the most money and social privilege and political power. I’m Silmi-Mossi. Historically, we’ve been on the bottom rung of society. Sankara is a Silmi-Mossi name. I reclaimed it when I was in high school. So he got a name and a minor appointment in the colonial government. My father was an auxiliary gendarme in Gaoua, the town where I grew up.”
“Do you take after him?”
“Not politically, no. Our conversations about politics are more like confrontations. The Germans captured him, so his attitude has always been that things could be much worse. But I want change. I want things to improve. I don’t believe anyone will hand that to us. We have to force it to happen. And I don’t understand why he was a gendarme. How could he enforce the laws of white men when they applied them so unjustly?”
“For personal gain. You just said the posting was a reward. He was like my father: He wanted to ensure a better future for his children. That makes sense to me.”
“But the fact that he was a gendarme didn’t protect him or us. He was tossed in prison twice because of things my siblings and I did when we were kids.”
“What did you do?”
“Why is that your question? To decide if he deserved the punishment?”
“No. I—”
“In Gaoua the school had a French principal. Once one of my younger sisters threw some stones up into a tree to knock fruit out of it. She was hungry. The stones fell on the principal’s roof, and his wife, who was inside taking a nap at the time, said that the sound disturbed her rest. So they came to our house and arrested my father.”
A couple of kids on bikes were approaching us from behind; I hooked my arm around his and pulled him close to me. I could tell he was confused until the bikers sped past us.
“Tell me about the second time.”
“Did you see them coming?” he answered, avoiding the question.
“Heard them.”
“I couldn’t pick them out from all the other noise. This is a very loud city.”
“I don’t notice it anymore.”
The way I was holding him must’ve made him nervous, because he gently unhooked my arm from his as he said, “I can’t imagine growing up in a place like this. What was it like?”
“A little boring. Especially in Queens.”
“That’s it?”
I thought for a moment. “There was a lot of competition. If you wanted something you had to figure out a strategy to get it. No one was going to hand you anything. Ever.”
“What was your strategy?”
“I was the best. I worked the hardest. I wanted to leave the neighborhood. I wanted more than it could give me.” I thought of Helene, who’d been motivated in the same way. But I’d taken it as a personal rejection.
“You had to be exceptional just to leave.”
“Yeah, like my grandfather. He immigrated here from Barbados and he was—I’m talking a lot about my family,” I said, interrupting myself.
“Are you?”
“More than I’m used to. I don’t like to talk too much about them. It’s like you and your books. I reveal too much about myself when I talk about them. They’re the people that formed me.”
“And I’m the paranoid one,” he said.
I smiled. A black car with the DSS agents inside passed by slowly. We’d walked in a large loop and were headed back toward my apartment by way of the long, narrow, and strangely steep park where I’d first approached Aisha. I told Thomas that there was a wood house in the park that had belonged to Alexander Hamilton. And I said that farther up the hill was the college I’d attended. He said he wanted to see it, but the sun was starting to set and I thought we should turn back. I said, “I want to take you one last place before you go back downtown.”
I was taking him to the Lenox Lounge. Although it was close to my apartment, I’d only been there once or twice, but I thought he’d like it because there’d be live music playing. Plus the bar was beautiful, or at least, you could tell it once had been. Strictly speaking it was a dive, but there was bold geometry in its Art Deco design.
When the bartender looked up he did a double take. As he stood at attention and saluted, I noticed a tattoo on the inside of his arm: a heavy 89B. It must’ve been his army MOS—his job code.
“Captain Sankara. This is an honor.”
Thomas saluted back.
“I was at the rally,” the bartender said, and I translated.
“We’re here for the music,” I told him. I’d thought Thomas would like to see the show because he used to have a band, Tout-à-Coup Jazz.
“What can I get you?” the bartender said.
“Do you drink?” I asked Thomas.
“Only occasionally. I like dolo,” he said, referring to a millet beer. “You don’t have that here though.”
I had no idea what dolo tasted like, so I ordered us both a beer I liked and hoped for the best as the bartender poured it. When Thomas tried to pay, the bartender put up his hand. “No charge, Captain.”
He dried his hands on a bar rag and picked up a camera. “Do you mind?”
Thomas said it was no problem and I took a picture of them together, assuming the bartender would add it to the mirror behind the bottles that was studded with photos. As I handed back the camera, I noticed a copy of The Spook Who Sat By the Door near the register. I’d read it; we’d had to at Quantico. Very deliberately, with a raise of my eyebrows, I asked him his opinion on it, planning to force Thomas into our conversation about books.
“It’s great,” the bartender answered. “Really got me inspired.”
Thomas knew what I was up to. Humoring me, he asked, “Have you read The Devil’s Alternative?”
The bartender shook his head. “He a black writer?”
“No, but you might like it. It reveals some of the hypocrisy of the major world powers.”
“And what about Burkinabè novels. Any you’d recommend?”
“I don’t like African fiction in general. The books I’ve read have been disappointing. It’s always the same story: A young African goes to Paris, suffers, and when he returns he’s out of touch with tradition.” Thomas watched me as I translated for him. Once I’d finished he said as an aside to me, “You didn’t like that criticism.”
I was flustered. He’d known exactly what I was thinking, and it surprised me. I often heard I was hard to read.
“Well?” he pushed.
“It sounds like you’re only describing one book in particular. He’ll take that generalization more seriously than you do.”
“I prefer African writers who write about real problems, not just for literary effect.”
“That’s fine. You just can’t say it to him.”
“I can’t?”
“Don’t ask my opinion if you don’t want it.”
Thomas opened his mouth to argue but I turned back to the bartender and picked up my drink. “Nous vaincrons.”
He smiled and repeated the phrase, tripping over the French a bit.
“It means we will win,” I said.
Thomas and I started toward the small room at the back of the bar.
“You revealed a title you’ve read,” I said as we walked, trying to shift the conversation back to its earlier tone. “Now I know everything.”
“Me too. You told me about your family.”
I hadn’t mentioned Helene. I’d been more careful than he realized. As we sat together on zebra print seats he said, “Blaise would like this place.”
“I’m sorry he couldn’t make it to the rally.”
“He had to take care of an emergency. Our government, the CNR, has voted to ban multiparty elections.”
I believed that a single-party system was a dictatorship, no matter how much good that party did for its citizens. But I didn’t say that. He was upset, and for the first time in our conversation I didn’t want to push.
“There’ll be a lot of backlash facing me when I return. People are starting to accuse me of authoritarianism, but that’s not fair. The truth is that we can’t just re-create a system of Western democracy in our country. Corrupt politicians hide out in parties; they become men who use their power to undermine the revolution and true democracy. Participatory democracy. Take members of the so-called ULCR.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“A political group. They’d like to form their own party. Any chance they get they vote en masse to block my campaigns. The last instance was about whether or not they support trade unions. They voted to support them in order to force my hand. I had to ban them.”
“But why are you opposed to the trade unions?”
“That’s not the point! The ULCR are reactionaries. They don’t even care about whether trade unions are legal or not. They want to frustrate me at every turn as a political tactic. It’s obvious. And self-serving.” He angrily took a sip of his beer.
“Why are they doing that?”
He looked at me steadily for a moment before he spoke. “I told you already. Because they’re reactionaries.”
I nodded. I thought I had my answer to Ross’s question. Although it’s hard to prove what someone doesn’t know, I thought that if he knew the ULCR was under CIA control he would’ve made an accusation about my government directed toward me, an American. That seemed in keeping with how he’d been speaking.
By then a few other couples had arrived to the dark, smoky lounge. The band started the early show set: upbeat, brass-driven jazz. I watched Thomas more than I did the musicians. He had an expressive face, and was enraptured; I noticed that the music had quickly improved his mood. While the band was playing a slower number he caught me looking at him. I was overwhelmed by how intense it was to look in his eyes.
When the show ended, Thomas got to his feet and enthusiastically applauded. He was the only one standing. The bartender came into the back room then. He went up on the stage and whispered something into the guitarist’s ear as he pointed over at us. As most of the other people filed out of the room, the guitarist waved Thomas over.
He went up onstage, where the guitarist handed over his instrument to Thomas and said the name of a standard. He nodded—he knew the song—they began to play. It was a pleasure to watch him because his enjoyment was so sincere. His anger from earlier was long gone, and he looked truly happy.
When the song finished, I clapped and whistled. He thanked the band, who each took care to shake his hand, then came back toward the table, his face flushed and ecstatic.
“You were excellent,” I said as he dropped onto the bench beside me.
“Thanks. For everything, I mean.” He took a small box out of his bag, the one I’d seen earlier. “Do you already know what’s in this?”
“How could I?” I said with a smile. He couldn’t prove I’d looked inside his bag—that I’d fallen for the trap he’d apparently laid for me. He handed me the box, which I opened. Inside were copper bracelets. Taking them out, he slipped them up my arm.
“They’re beautiful,” I said. “Did you bring them from home?”
“I saw them in a shop yesterday and asked Sam to go buy them for you. Copper is a powerful metal.”
“Thank you.”
I wanted him to kiss me then—for my work or just because, it didn’t matter. I leaned slightly toward him. Once again he knew what I was thinking and stood. “I should go.”
At the front of the bar there was music playing on the jukebox and far more people crowded in the space than there had been when we first arrived. By the door I said, “Wait. Thomas. Don’t go back downtown yet. Come back to my place for a nightcap.”
He smiled and took my hand. Pumped it twice. “I’m glad I met you. Maybe not everyone at the UN is a hallway rat.” He leaned close to me and said into my ear, “But you have to understand. I can’t do anything wrong. You see?”
I nodded. “I can give you a ride downtown.”
“I’ll get one with the agents who’ve been following us. They weren’t very subtle, were they?”
“Not at all.” He kissed me on the cheek and I watched him leave.
Once he was out of sight, I went immediately to the bar and ordered one whisky and then another. What I felt was confusing—although I’d gotten the intel Ross had asked me for, I still felt like I’d failed. I was ashamed and disappointed in myself.
After my second drink, I started back toward my apartment, even though I hadn’t yet hit on the magic amount of liquor that could chase my humiliation away.
As I approached my building, I noticed a white van idling out front. My heart picked up speed as I got closer; it seemed so out of place, and so much like the surveillance vehicles we used at the bureau. I knew immediately that it was there to capture images of Thomas and me. I went up my stoop and let myself inside.
In my bedroom, I looked over to the window across the street, the same one where I saw the girl reading sometimes. I felt unsettled. Although the window was dark I could’ve sworn I was being watched.
* * *
—
I SPENT A FEW DAYS sunken in a mire of self-loathing, scolding myself, although for what I didn’t actually know. I’d done what Ross had asked—if he thought I hadn’t that was his fault for being so vague. Still, when he summoned me for a lunch debriefing at a diner downtown, I arrived with my stomach in knots.
When I told him that I didn’t believe Thomas knew about the CIA’s involvement in the ULCR, he nodded and said, “Were you able to get him alone?”
“No,” I said, assuming he was asking if I’d slept with him.
“Never once?”
“Only for a few minutes when he changed his clothes at my place.”
He opened his briefcase and handed me an envelope. “That’s half the amount we talked about.”
I didn’t have to ask why. After seeing the surveillance van I finally understood why Ross wanted me to sleep with him. It wasn’t for the sake of intel. It was only obvious in retrospect: SQLR was about using me to blackmail Thomas. They wanted photos of us together. And Thomas had known that was a possibility even when I didn’t—that’s why he’d slipped my arm out of his and said what he had at the lounge.
I tucked the money into my purse. “When can I talk to Daniel Slater?”
He shook his head. “He’s not in New York.”
“We had a deal.”
“Did we?” he said.
“Maybe I could speak to him on the phone, or go to him. I just want to ask him a question or two about Helene.”
I was leaning forward, practically begging.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding at all contrite. I hadn’t given him what he’d wanted and he was punishing me. It was an ugly side of him.
After the meeting, I returned to the field office. I’d thrown myself into my work at the bureau, even though my days were still filled mostly with paperwork, and seemed especially gray after the flashy excitement on an undercover assignment.
When Rick Gold called me to his office in the late afternoon, I had the uncharacteristically optimistic idea that it was because he’d noticed my hard work and was going to put me on the surveillance squad monitoring the suspected spy in the Foreign Mission.
Gold’s office smelled like brand-new carpet and was garishly decorated with a number of gold-colored accessories on the walls and shelves (the man wasn’t the most original thinker I’d ever met). To my surprise, Mr. Ali was there. I tried to catch his eye but couldn’t.
The SAC, my boss’s boss, was there too, clutching a paper cup of coffee. I
’d never exchanged more than a few words with him; he wasn’t a particularly friendly man.
“Close the door,” he said to start the meeting. “You understand why you’re here today, don’t you?”
“No,” I said truthfully, with a small shake of my head.
The SAC frowned at Gold before he turned to me. “Your ASAC informs me that you’ve been falsifying paperwork. Is that true?”
Gold had laid out a few forms on his desk: Aisha’s termination papers.
“I’ll need you to sign off on the disciplinary report,” the SAC said. Gold handed me the paperwork, which I glanced over. I looked up at him.
“You’re suspending me?”
I glanced at Mr. Ali for help, but he was still studying a spot on the carpet. When I’d first walked in, I’d wrongly assumed his presence there served no other purpose than to humiliate us both. But no. They were setting me up and he’d helped them.
“This is ridiculous. I’m not signing that.” If I didn’t, they’d have to give me a formal hearing. I stood. “I’ve always maintained a strict standard of professionalism as a member of law enforcement. My performance reviews here and in Indiana all attest to that. If Gold has some ax to grind—”
“Ax to grind?” he said. “You’ve been falsifying reports. Who knows how many.”
“I’m not signing anything.” I stood and left the office. At my desk, I gathered my purse and suit jacket; while headed to the elevator, I heard Mr. Ali call my name. I ignored him and kept walking, but he caught up with me at the elevator bank.
“Marie, let me explain—”
“Don’t bother.” I pressed the call button.
“I thought you didn’t forge any paperwork,” he said. “You told me you didn’t.”
“So then why’d you tell them I did?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t.”
I didn’t believe him, and he read it in my face.
“This is what happened: Gold said he had a hunch that you were breaking rules. I told him I knew that wasn’t true. You’re the most principled agent we have.”
“And then?”
“I told him about our lunch. I said that if you were even thinking about taking paper clips out of this place that you’d talk with me about it first. When he said he’d found something while investigating you, I told him I thought he was making it up.”
American Spy Page 16
