by Bob Purssell
Appearing to take no notice of Estelle’s declaration, Roger went on. “If you refuse our generous offer, you will be the victim of a hit-and-run auto accident. I have a copy of the accident report. Here, read it.”
Roger handed the copy to Estelle, which she attempted to read. However, her dazzled eyes squinted so badly that I doubted she could distinguish the letters, let alone read the words. Roger took back the document and handed it to me with the words, “Barbara, would you help Estelle.”
I read the phony police report. Estelle tried to appear unmoved, but she wasn’t entirely successful. Twice, I saw her eyes blink.
Roger said, “Before I leave, I’d like to make one last point. If you were thinking of becoming a heroic martyr, if you elect not to cooperate, we’ll leak that you betrayed your long-term, but now imprisoned, leader, Comrade Francois. That way, from beyond the grave, you can help us protect our informant so he can continue his betrayals.”
I didn’t know who Comrade Francois was, but Estelle did. Her body stiffened and she snarled, “You bastard.”
Roger, again paying Estelle’s outburst no notice, said, “I’ll leave you two for a half an hour. When I return, you can tell me your decision.”
* * *
As he left the room, Roger turned off the blinding lights, leaving only an overhead lamp. It took Estelle some time to recover. By the time she did, I was sitting opposite the woman on a second metal folding chair I had found behind the two lights.
Estelle declared, “I won’t betray my colleagues, so don’t try to convince me. I know how interrogators work. We train for these situations.”
“You’re one up on me. I’m just an observer.”
Estelle kept silent and so did I. After three minutes, she told me, “Go; leave. I don’t need you.”
“Roger told me to stay.”
Three more times Estelle ordered me to go. After her last command, I said, “I believe he’ll do what he says.”
“No, he is bluffing. It is a common interrogation tactic.”
“I’m not so sure. He seems ready to sacrifice you to protect his informant.”
Estelle countered with, “Killing me would be illogical. He needs me alive.”
“Why?”
With her imperious manner, Estelle declared, “What is an interrogator without someone to interrogate?”
“Roger never said anything about interrogation.”
Estelle stared at me as she considered my statement. Then she declared, “I know many things. I am too valuable to throw away.”
“You better convince Roger of that. In eighteen minutes, if you haven’t decided to work with us, he’ll have you killed.”
“It is good to die for one’s beliefs.”
“Even when your colleagues believe you betrayed them?”
“They know I am loyal.”
“Roger is persuasive. After he starts convincing them otherwise, things could change.”
Estelle went quiet. For maybe a minute, I too kept silent. Then, taking a stab in the dark, I asked, “I was thinking about what my colleague said concerning Comrade Francois. After he was betrayed, how many party members were purged?”
Estelle glared, but said nothing.
Figuring her lack of denial meant I had blundered onto something, gambling that Estelle’s party, like so many revolutionary movements, was rife with personal and ideological dissension, I postulated, “When Roger leaks your involvement in Francois’ betrayal, Henri’s rivals won’t miss their opportunity. They’ll use the news of your treachery as justification to settle old scores.”
“How do you know about Francois? You know nothing of the party.”
“You’re correct. I know nothing, but I bet Roger knows a whole lot. And now, with you in his grasp, he has the tool he needs to destroy Henri.”
Estelle’s expression betrayed her fear and confusion. I pressed. “They’ll blame Henri for this ridiculous hostage-taking idea. When it all goes wrong, they’ll blame him to protect their own backsides.”
Estelle started to speak, but then checked herself.
“Too bad you won’t be around to influence Roger. Too bad the incompetents, the corrupt, the idiots will escape while the true revolutionaries get purged.”
Estelle’s mouth moved, but no words came out. With a scorn that surprised me, I sneered, “All because of you, Estelle; all because of your decision to put petty self-interest before the revolutionary imperative.”
Estelle cried out, “Henri told them that getting involved with the Saudis would lead to disaster. He told them, but they wouldn’t listen.”
The word “Saudis” jolted me. Thinking of Ahmed Ben El Sharif, I demanded, “Who’s ‘they’?”
“The Central Committee.”
I glanced at my watch. Two minutes and Roger would come marching in. Stabbing the air with my extended finger, I lectured, “Your party’s existence is at stake. It all depends on you, Estelle.”
My verbal torpedo struck home. To my astonishment, Estelle began crying and tears began flowing down her cheeks. Standing over the woman, I laid it on thick. “You’re no revolutionary. You’re nothing more than a bourgeois romantic filled with her own self-importance.” Then I stood up straight and turned my back.
Behind me, I heard Estelle, between sobs, snivel, “I’ve done everything the party has asked.”
Folding my arms, spreading my feet, I haughtily declared, “If you were truly a revolutionary, you would sacrifice yourself and your reputation to protect the party … not pathetically whine about your unimportant feelings.”
With effort, Estelle stopped her crying. Collecting her thoughts, she said, “I will cooperate on one condition. No action will be taken against Henri and the conservative faction.”
Guessing Estelle was a stickler for adhering to procedure, I declared, “To prevent confusion, we need to document our understanding. I will get the necessary materials so we can do this.”
* * *
As I shut the door, I could see Roger was ecstatic. Jumping around like a kid, he had trouble containing his enthusiasm. Finally settling down, he showed me the monitor, and I could see Estelle sitting, apparently composed, obviously in deep thought.
Roger found an interrogation form on the computer next to the monitor. After editing the form’s title to read, “Agent – Agency Cooperation Agreement,” Roger handed the printed document to me with the words, “Do your thing, Lieutenant.”
I went back into the room, and together, Estelle and I began stipulating her cooperation with the CIA. Very insistent on being precise, she added clauses limiting what she and the CIA could do. It took some effort on my part not to exclaim about the absurdity of this Alice in Wonderland procedure.
Fifteen minutes later, document in hand, I excused myself and left the room. Four people had joined Roger and they began laughing as soon as I closed the door. While one man typed up the document, Roger selected another to be the lawyer. The man’s qualification: he was wearing a suit.
Back in the room, Estelle thoroughly reviewed the printed document. With solemnity, after making a short speech that sounded very legalistic, our supposed lawyer had Estelle and Roger sign multiple copies. To complete the charade, our would-be lawyer, after some more legalistic-sounding mumbo-jumbo, proclaimed the agreement official. Her commitment documented, the CIA’s obligations spelled out, having protected what was important to her, Estelle imperiously announced, “I am prepared to cooperate. Shall we begin?”
* * *
Susan knocked on the door to my bedroom and asked, “Barb, are you up?”
“No. Go away.”
“I need you to get up.”
“Let me sleep.”
Susan explained, “If we had time, I’d let you sleep, but that’s not possible.”
Sitting up in bed, the window already bri
ght with the morning light, I groggily asked, “What are we doing that’s so important?”
“Estelle has arranged for us to meet with Henri.”
“Susan, Henri is one of the terrorists, a bad guy.”
“Let’s not categorize. Estelle and I have talked. In my opinion, Henri’s approachable.”
Awake, I exclaimed, “Approachable! What if he turns on us?”
“You’re beginning to sound like Roger.”
“Roger knows what he’s doing.”
“All right Miss Fuddy-Duddy, Roger will follow us. If we get into a jam, I’ll hit my little button. He and his guys, with all their guns and muscles, will come running. Satisfied?”
With sleep impossible, I said, “Okay, you win. Where are my clothes?”
Smiling, Susan explained, “I chucked what you had on and did some shopping for you in my closet.”
“You’re so thoughtful.”
“It’s either this sheath or your birthday suit. Hurry up; I’m just dying to see how it looks.”
As I put on the bright yellow knit, I thought about questioning Susan further about her plan, but I reconsidered that option. For all her apparent air-headedness, Susan always seemed to have her bases covered. Could it be, I wondered, that appearances were deceiving?
* * *
Susan drove us in an elderly Renault sans a working air-conditioner. Thank God, the light Sunday morning traffic allowed us to move along so the breeze from the open windows could circulate. Wearing a short-sleeve, A-line dress and white pumps, Susan, a buxom platinum blonde, looked like the archetypical pretty young thing from a 1950s movie. I glanced at my yellow sheath and observed, “We look like a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses making the rounds.”
“I didn’t have time to do anything more creative. Chad has a good-sized Christian community, so two women going to church might not seem all that strange.”
I looked at the handful of dirt-poor Chadians we were passing and hoped we would arrive before the population awoke.
While we were still on the paved main road, Susan pulled over. “Let’s freshen up. Estelle says Henri appreciates well-dressed women.”
As I put on the lipstick she had lent me, Susan suddenly said, “Since you’re pretty, I bet you’ve been characterized as vapid?”
Caught completely off-guard, nonplused, I couldn’t respond to Susan’s question.
“Forget the intellectual accomplishments; you’re cute with that adorable nose; or you’ve got beautiful blonde hair; or you’re gorgeous with that trim figure. Does that sound familiar?”
I nodded in agreement, wondering what my colleague was getting at.
“Forget having a serious conversation; you should be light with just a touch of that ever-popular, humorous naiveté. Do you recognize any of that?”
If I were honest, I would have said, “No,” but I smiled and nodded my agreement.
“Well, I didn’t start this career; I didn’t get this job because I’m an airhead. I’m fluent in the three most common local languages spoken in Chad. Only one other person at the station can do that. I’m running five different agents, all of whom are well-placed.”
Again nodding my agreement, I wondered, what is Susan getting at?
“Well, today I’m going to pull my own ‘Barbara O’Leary’.”
Stunned hardly described my astonishment. I blurted out, “What?!”
“I figure if we talk to Henri on his turf, without trying to intimidate the man, he’ll be more receptive to the idea of cooperating.”
“I didn’t think Uncle Sam negotiated with terrorists?”
Susan replied, “Estelle said he didn’t approve of the abductions.”
“Not approving and not participating aren’t exactly the same thing. Did your bosses approve your idea?”
“The hostage negotiations are bogged down. The radical faction and their Arab backers are just stringing us along. Charles knows it, but what can he do? He doesn’t have an option.”
“Did Charles ask you to talk with Henri?”
“Charles is inhibited; he finds it difficult to ask for the things he wants.”
When I didn’t respond, Susan continued. “Barb, you went off on your own, and you transformed the situation. All I’m doing is taking what you started a step farther.”
“But—”
“But, nothing. Those hostages need more than chitchat over an old-fashioned telephone. I’m going to talk with Henri. If you don’t want to come along, I’ll call Roger. You can ride in the back-up van.”
The idea of wimping out was anathema to me, so I said, “Lead on, my warrior princess.”
Susan beamed.
* * *
N’Djamena, the capital of Chad, is laid out in a grid pattern, which is good. The main thoroughfares are paved, which is also good. The local streets are sandy, dirt strips, which is not so good.
We turned onto one of these sandy, dirt, side roads and found Henri’s modest home. Unlike the ramshackle dwellings on his street, his place was immaculate, with the shrubbery trimmed and new pastel blue paint on the stucco. Susan parked in front of the house and the two of us trooped to Henri’s front door. I glanced down the street looking for Roger and his squad of potential rescuers. They were nowhere to be seen.
Susan took the lead and knocked. Inside the house, there was movement. I observed, “This is going to be interesting.”
Henri called out, “I’m coming.” Seconds later, the door opened and there stood Henri. Surprised, he first looked at Susan and then at me. His face clouded over as he began to fathom the significance of my arrival.
“Aren’t you going to invite us in?” asked Susan.
Recovering, Henri said, “Park your car behind the house.”
Without acknowledging my presence, Henri walked by me and opened a gate. Susan parked our vehicle out of sight, and together the two of them walked back to the front door.
In silence, Henri held the door open. First Susan and then I stepped into the house. Susan beamed at Henri’s discomfit. He asked, “Are there more of you?”
“I would hope not,” replied Susan. “I thought it would be best if the three of us had our little chat in private. Is that acceptable?”
Having recovered from his initial surprise and near shock, Henri responded, “I’ve been arrested before. I can assure you that it was a most gruesome experience, so I appreciate your civility.” Then to me, he said, “It’s good to see you’re well, Miss O’Malley.”
Flashing Henri a smile, I couldn’t resist. “You said we should meet under better circumstances, so here I am.”
Henri kind of grinned and then said, “May I offer you some carcaje. It’s our national drink; we make it from leaves of the hibiscus plant.”
Susan added, “It’s sweet. I like it.”
* * *
As we sipped our drinks, Susan and I admired Henri’s home. He was a bachelor, and his abode was simply, but tastefully, furnished. In his bedroom on his dresser, there were pictures of his family and dignitaries, one of whom was a youthful Fidel Castro. A large flag of Chad hung in his dining/living room. Henri told us his father had bought the flag the day Chad had achieved its independence.
Sitting around a table in the main room of his house, Susan began our discussion with Henri. “We see three points of common interest between your faction of the party and my country. First, we, like your faction, oppose the taking of hostages. Second, we, like you, believe outsiders and their agendas should not unduly influence the politics of Chad. Third, we consider the radical faction a threat to you, your party, and Chad.”
“Assuming that I agree with your analysis, what actions do you propose?”
Susan replied, “If you help us with the hostages, we’ll prevail upon the government of Chad to stop its effort to destroy the party.”
“Does that include releasing our people currently being held by the government?”
“A qualified yes. Comrade Francois has to go into exile. The president of Chad will never tolerate him remaining in country.” Henri began to speak but Susan motioned she had more. “My people are prepared to offer the party, through your good offices, a substantial contribution.”
Henri stiffened, and I thought this last enticement a mistake. “And what do you expect from us?”
Susan laid down her conditions. “The prompt release of all hostages. If you cannot effect that, then we need you to tell us the location of the hostages and the names of their captors, including those Central Committee members involved.”
“A stiff price for what you offer.”
“Henri, your party has blundered into the big leagues of international politics. I’m offering your organization a way to escape its error. Don’t make us find the hostages without your assistance.”
Henri answered, “I’ll consider your offer.”
“In the end,” warned Susan, “it will be deeds not words that count. So, don’t wait too long; events have a way of accelerating beyond our control.”
Our conversation came to an awkward stop with Susan and Henri staring at one another. I felt like saying something, but this was Susan’s show, so I decided it was best to keep still.
Henri broke the silence. “Barbara, you escaped because I told you to use Route B, not Route A.”
Making my expression as impassive as I could, I continued my silence.
“If you had used Route A—it was shorter—you would have encountered members of the radical faction. They had orders to kill you.”
I didn’t want to agree or argue with Henri because it might undercut Susan’s attempts to convince the man to cooperate with us. Instead, I asked a question that I had been considering ever since we began our conversation. “Henri, how do members of the party communicate when they discuss the hostage situation?”
As Henri considered my question, Susan said, “This is a chance for you to demonstrate your cooperative spirit.”
Probably feeling squeezed, maybe feeling he had an opportunity to get some wiggle room, Henri replied, “We use communicators.”
