by M L Rudolph
The lawn chair rattled unsteadily under their combined weight. “Uh-oh. We’re almost too big for this old chair.” And father and son shared the laugh of the fortunate, in a rare moment when the universe really did have a center.
A nearby table burst into laughter and Matt came back to these people dining around the hotel pool in Bamako. Who were they and what was at the center of their worlds? So different from his. In one sense they all scratched out existence on this same speck of a planet, but in another sense they lived different lives within diverse cultures whose histories clashed at times but never grew together. Lands and languages separated them, travel and commerce threw them together.
Matt never thought deeply about other cultures in other lands. For the natives serving the guests, it was normal to see hippos playing in the river, monkeys and vultures chained up for pets, to travel on unpaved roads through unfixed borders. They paid whatever they could haggle for whatever could be bought which appeared to be anything and anybody.
Such a wild and disorderly existence was too different from Matt’s well-ordered everyday. He could never live here. Nothing was dependable, not the food, nor the water, nor the people he had met. So why would Karl choose this place? To stay away? To cut off contact? Wouldn’t he want to keep in touch with his home at least as a lifeline to someplace where everything worked?
As if taking their cue from the table of raucous diners, the chained spider monkeys erupted into chattering action. One monkey stole a shiny object and scrambled into the lower limbs of an acacia tree, his chain trailing and scraping across the earth. His companion spun around once, then twice, and jumped up to chase his fellow prisoner up the tree.
Chapter 19
That night after a dinner of fish soup, couscous with medallions of lamb, and a light white Algerian wine, Matt slept uneasily. His back-ache entered his dreams and he kicked at images of Consular Officer Fletcher leading a team of baklava-clad Interpol agents over the low ocher wall surrounding Jean-Louis’s family farm. The faceless agents descended on the tranquil setting, scattering chickens and kicking goats with their heavy boots. Dogs yapped, children screamed. The powerful intruders frog-marched Sally across the grounds. Matt kicked at his covers, fighting off lumbago – angry and vulnerable – furious at Fletcher’s mocking voice. “You seem like a good guy, Mr. Reiser.”
Naked under the thin sheets, Matt attempted to block the agents, but he was a powerless witness to the roundup. Sally protested with her wrists shackled at her back. Matt ran after her but she disappeared into a windowless hut. Matt kicked at the door to the hut. Again and again. His back aching and his sheets in a knot, he opened his eyes to a stain on the ceiling and heard a knocking on the door.
“Monsieur Reiser,” a voice rasped from outside.
He tuned into his nakedness and shouted back, “No thank you.” He checked the bedside clock: 7:20. It might or might not be correct.
“It is me, Jean-Louis.”
Matt groaned and kicked to free his legs from the sheets.
“Let me in, quickly,” Jean-Louis said.
Matt got up and grabbed a towel from the bathroom to wrap about his waist.
“Ahhh,” Jean-Louis said, at the security chain. “You are awake! Let me in. We must talk.”
Matt looked over Jean-Louis’s shoulder. He was alone. “Haven’t you had enough from me?” He wasn’t inclined to let the thief into his room.
Jean-Louis looked both ways down the hallway. “I did not want to come, but this is for Sally, and my mother. You know what it is like to promise a woman.” He put his head right up to the chain. “Robert is not dead,” he said in a coarse whisper. “He is alive and coming to Bamako.”
Matt released the chain and stepped back from the door, a sharp stab in his lower back. “Damn it!”
“Yes, it is bad, monsieur.”
Jean-Louis slipped inside and stood in the narrow area between the bed and the bathroom. Matt sat on the edge of the bed.
“Where is your son? Did you find him here in Bamako?”
“Does it look like I found him?” Matt leaned forward to take the pressure off his nagging back.
“How can I tell? You are the one who went to the embassy. What did they tell you?”
“They told me he registered with the embassy in Upper Volta, in Waga.”
“He is in Ouaga. Excellent. So you will be leaving right away, no? Because it is important that you leave right away.”
“I got a flight Monday.”
“Monday? But that is in three days. Robert may be here tomorrow.”
“What do I care? Abidjan never happened. Remember? I’m done with all that.”
“But it is not done with you. I am sorry to say things have changed. He is on his way here with three mecs that work for his father. And with a serious wound across his forehead.” Jean-Louis showed some satisfaction with this last detail. “He has only revenge in his sights. Revenge he can brag about.”
“What are you talking about?”
“His entire world is his little section of Abidjan, and if he lets us go unpunished, he is nothing. If he lets us go, his scar will always signify humiliation. But if he gets revenge on us, that his brutes can witness, he can wear his scar like a reputation. Just like his father wears his nose. I know it sounds stupid. But he is a stupid man and this is how he works.”
Matt considered the possibilities. “That bastard can’t get to me. I’ll stay in the hotel, taxi back and forth to the embassy, then taxi to the airport and be gone. I don’t think I need to worry. You maybe. But not me. I was in the background. Remember?”
“Doesn’t matter what I remember. Only what he remembers. And he arrives tomorrow, from what I’ve heard with his sights on you, me, and Jacques. He will go to the farm first. But we will be gone. Then he will find you here. Don’t be fooled by the appearance of security, monsieur. He will get to you as easily as I just did.”
Jean-Louis stood at the foot of the bed, looking down on Matt. “Voila, monsieur. I have told you,” he said, with a note of finality. “I can tell Sally you found your son and you have a flight. My mother blames me for not protecting Sally. But they can’t expect me to protect you. I can only warn you. And now I have done it. Au revoir, monsieur. And bon voyage.”
But before Jean-Louis could leave, Matt threw out his arm to stop him. “Wait.” He now regretted even more what he’d told Fletcher about Le Croc, about the ride to Bamako with Jean-Louis, and about the stolen passports. Fletcher would get Jean-Louis’s name and track him down. He might already know who and where he was.
Jean-Louis stood impatient, wanting to leave. “What?”
Matt wasn’t sure how to start. “They kept my passport.”
“What? Why?”
“It was listed as stolen. It was too late yesterday to get an emergency replacement. I have to go back today.”
“So? Go back.”
“That’s not all. I told them about Le Croc. I didn’t have a choice. I reported my passport stolen and there was no other way to explain how I got it back.”
Jean-Louis eyed Matt angrily. “What else?”
“I had to say how we got here. And I’m sorry, that means I told them about you.”
Jean-Louis erupted, kicked the edge of the bed.
“But,” Matt thought quickly, “what if I go back today and tell them Robert is the passport thief? He is really. He works for his Dad, right? Tell them I have reason to believe I’m at risk, that if they protect me, they can get their hands on Robert?”
“Do whatever you want. I don’t care. Anything that slows him down is good for us. But one thing you should know before you depend too much on anyone helping you.” He caught sight of the bedside clock. “I have to go. We leave for a few days to lead him astray, make him go back empty-handed, look like the fool he is.”
“Wait,” Matt said, to stop Jean-Louis at the door. “One thing I should know. You said before I depend on anyone.”
Jean-Louis stood with a
hold of the door knob. “Le Croc pays some police in Abidjan so they turn a blind eye. They don’t mind his robbery business, but if he hurt or killed a European or an American, that would be a big problem for the police. A diplomatic problem. So he is careful that way. But in Bamako, Le Croc has no such arrangement with the police.”
“So you’re saying it’s safer for me in Abidjan than in Bamako?”
“Robert is stupid and weak. You should watch out for him and his men.”
Chapter 20
Within ten minutes of Jean-Louis’s departure, Matt grabbed a taxi in front of the hotel and directed it to go to the US Embassy. Matt explained to the Malian at the entrance desk how the embassy kept his passport and he needed to see Consular Officer Fletcher. The receptionist made a call and came back to Matt with the news that Mr. Fletcher wasn’t in the building today. Hadn’t left a message for a Mr. Reiser. And as it was Friday, Mr. Fletcher wouldn’t be back until Monday.
“But I’m leaving the country on Monday and I don’t have a passport. He was supposed to get me an emergency passport today.”
The receptionist put Matt in touch with a functionary in the consular section, a trim, middle-aged woman with cornrows and wearing a festive short-sleeved blouse. The woman occupied a work space behind a counter next to a sign that clearly stated “Walk-In Citizen Service Hours, Thursdays: 1:00 to 3:30, Fridays: 8:00 to 11:00.” US Citizens waited their turn for her routine consular services on those days and at those hours. She helped Matt by giving him a form—the same form Matt filled out in Abidjan for Consular Officer Bigelow—then she offered to help him with any questions he had and to personally see that his form received attention on Monday.
“But that isn’t soon enough,” Matt pleaded.
She didn’t have the authority to do more, she said.
“I explained everything to Mr. Fletcher yesterday.” Matt stood at the waist-high counter and leaned toward the functionary. He lowered his voice. “My passport was stolen in Abidjan. He promised to get me an emergency passport today. I got a flight on Monday, the next one after that’s not until Thursday. Can’t you check to see if he left something behind for me?”
The woman promised to look one more place and left Matt standing at the counter while she disappeared through a door.
Matt took a breath and let himself feel hope that his persistence would pay off. He rubbed his hand across his chin—his beard now soft to the touch—and surveyed the room. A large clock on the wall behind the counter was the exact style as the clocks on the walls of Harrison High. It had big numbers, distinct notches for minutes, and a sweeping red second hand. As a representation of American culture that simple clock gave him confidence that this Malian woman would reappear with a solution to his passport problem, because here on this tranche of American soil in the middle of Africa, Matt could count on being treated like a citizen, like an Amcit, under the steady sweep of seconds as the minute hand ratcheted to 8:15. There was plenty of time to get the passport. They probably stamped them out every day. She’d find his file and the whole matter would be handled in minutes.
He studied the clean, well-ordered American waiting room: the square wooden desks with the efficient mechanical hum of the IBM Selectrics, the May calendar on the wall with a photo of cherry-blossom Washington, even the door knobs resembling those he grabbed every day of his life at school but never noticed. It was like the office was scooped up from home and shipped intact. The second hand swept around until the clock hit 8:20.
The consular assistant reappeared, carefully closing the office door behind her. She didn’t carry anything—no file, no paperwork, no passport—and she walked toward Matt with her eyes down.
“I am sorry, monsieur, but you will need to come back Monday. Mr. Fletcher left instructions not to authorize your new passport until he returns.”
“But that can’t be. He promised.”
“I am sorry. His instructions are quite clear. Is there anything else I can help you with today?” Her face took on the bland expression of the reluctant subordinate.
“No. You don’t understand. I can’t wait until Monday. Listen,” he leaned toward her again and whispered just loud enough to be heard over the sudden eruption of typewriter clacking. “I helped Mr. Fletcher with his investigation into stolen passports. He said what I told him was extremely important.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Maybe I could contact him. I’m sure he didn’t mean for me to wait until the Thursday flight.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Reiser.”
He gauged the woman’s maturity, the start of crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes. She had to be roughly the age of most the mothers he dealt with at Harrison High. He tried another approach. “It’s about my son. He’s missing. I’m here to find him. Mr. Fletcher was able to tell me that he registered with the Embassy in Upper Volta. I now have a clue, and, his mother.…” Matt put every bit of empathy and pain he could muster into his eyes. “She doesn’t have a lot of time. Every day counts.”
The woman registered Matt’s second effort with a wince so slight Matt wasn’t sure he saw it. Then without a change in her demeanor and without leaning toward him in what could be mistaken for a conspiratorial pose, she dropped her eyes to the counter for the time it took to say, “The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 9:15.” Then once more, loud enough to be heard over the clacking typewriters, “I am sorry monsieur, but that is all I can do. You will have to come back Monday.”
Matt looked up at the clock, then back at the functionary. She was already occupied with paperwork she extracted from beneath the counter. “Merci,” he said and avoided an inclination to touch her hand in gratitude.
The Malian government buildings were built on a hilltop Presidential complex in north Bamako. The taxi driver knew where to go, drove Matt to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and parked across the street. The main entrance to the Ministry was guarded by two soldiers; rifles slung over their shoulders, smoking cigarettes, occasionally tossing a glance at the taxi, which Matt could see made his driver fidget.
Matt knew he had to catch Fletcher before he entered the building if he wanted to leave enough time to get back to the embassy before the 11:00 closing of the consular section. Fletcher’s instructions to wait until Monday had to be an oversight. If Matt could just catch him for a minute, before he went inside, he could rat out Robert without implicating Jean-Louis or involving Sally. Then Fletcher would release the hold on his passport.
Simple. Straight-forward. American. The best way to engage Consular Officer Fletcher. Matt settled on his tactic by the time an American sedan pulled up outside the Ministry.
The young diplomat hopped out of the backseat alone and brushed his hair out of his eyes. He wore dark glasses and a tan suit, carried a narrow briefcase, and appeared in a hurry.
Matt jumped out and rushed across the dusty street. Fletcher jogged up the steps toward the two guards and they let him pass with a nod. Matt’s new boots dug at his ankles as he came up from behind Fletcher’s car. The guards caught sight of the sudden movement and shed their nonchalance, coming part way down the steps in front of their post to intercept the man in the vest. One of the guards shouted.
“Deke,” Matt hollered, out of breath. “Deke.” Matt pointed at Fletcher for the guards’ sake. “Over here. Matt Reiser.” Out of the corner of his eye, Matt noticed his taxi driving back the way it came. His instinct was to yell after his departing ride but that would mean taking his attention off the guards.
Fletcher stopped and turned.
“Deke.” Matt waved. “Can I talk to you? Just a minute?”
The lead guard held his rifle diagonally across his chest, prepared to block Matt’s way. The other guard stood in reserve, eyes wide, standing with a slight stoop as if poised to leap into action.
—I know him, Fletcher assured the guards in French. “Mr. Reiser.” The diplomat came down the steps toward his fellow American.
As a show of camaraderie, and as a sign
to the guards, Fletcher extended his hand toward Matt who took it with relief.
“I thought it was you. I was touring the city and I…when you got out of the car, well, I was just surprised to see someone here I recognized.”
Fletcher listened behind his dark glasses.
“They told me at the embassy that you put my passport on hold. I figured that had to be a misunderstanding, so when I saw you. Well, I know you must be busy. But, can we take care of the new one today? I was able to get a flight out Monday morning.”
Matt saw his face reflected in the diplomat’s shiny sunglasses.
“Interesting to see you.” He shook his floppy hair off his forehead. “I’m actually here to see the Minister about that little matter you and I discussed. Maybe I can find you somewhere this afternoon? When would you be available?”
“Available? Well, yeah, but, your hours. You close at 11:00. I really need.”
“Don’t worry about that. Those hours are for walk-ins. I’m likely to need you this afternoon anyway to identify someone. Then we can take care of your matter. But first,” he said, and nodded toward the Ministry building, “I can’t be late. We have to arrange the pickups.” He smiled and patted Matt’s shoulder as a conclusion to this little talk.
“Pickups?”
“Based on your intelligence. That Mercedes.” He actually squeezed Matt’s shoulder as if he was the coach and Matt was begging to get in the game. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned toward the Ministry.
Matt watched him walk up a few steps before he yelled, “The passport thief is coming to Bamako.”
Chapter 21
Matt broke into a sweat as soon as he started walking along the road through the Presidential grounds. Damn driver. The hilltop road curved in front of the government buildings under a full complement of shade trees. The powerful Niger River surged below. He could see his hotel by the river. At least he wasn’t lost.
