Marissa shook her head. “They’re just so poor. They look at those tankers out there and see the money Karama and his people haven’t stolen flowing to PetroGlobal. What can they do? E-mail their congressman? Sue someone? There’s no outlet for them—no civic culture or means of protest or sense of solidarity—only an obsession with hierarchy and who’s got what they need. So their only recourse is scraping by or attaching themselves to a ‘big man,’ like Chief Okari, who’ll give them crumbs from his table.” Her speech softened again. “That’s one reason Bobby and his father were estranged. Bobby was trying to change the consciousness of a people, replacing the reliance on big men with a belief in social justice. That made the big men angrier than you can imagine. In Luandia, Karama’s the biggest man of all.”
“And Karama rules through his own network of big men, whose loyalty he buys with oil money.”
Marissa nodded. “That means every level—the army, navy, police, security services, the governors of states, even local leaders. Their only job is to keep the lid on in return for stealing public funds. The people get nothing but ruined land and the right to bribe officials with money they don’t have. No wonder teenagers take to the creeks with guns.” She leaned forward, speaking with quiet sadness. “What Bobby offers the Asari is unique in Luandian history. That’s why Okimbo came to our village.”
Pierce realized he had forgotten his coffee. He took a lukewarm sip, then said, “Only after scaring or bribing most of Bobby’s lieutenants.”
Marissa stared at her folded hands. “They were brave for so long,” she answered. “Once you see Goro, maybe you’ll understand.”
“But who does that leave for you to trust? Atiku Bara?”
Marissa tilted her head, as though listening for sounds only she could hear. “There’s a path from here to the beach,” she told him. “Why don’t we walk for a while.”
THOUGH IT WAS dark, the glow of flaring gas illuminated the oil-slick beach like a movie set at night, its distant roar carrying on the wind. Ahead a stray dog limped in and out of shadows, veering aimlessly toward the silver outline of an oil derrick. Stopping, Marissa gazed at the torch-like flame. “In Goro, the children never knew a dark night.”
Though she spoke aloud, she seemed solitary. Pierce tried to imagine the will it had taken for Marissa to adapt to Luandia and then to embrace her husband’s struggle against such odds, and the terrible aloneness she must feel now. “You asked about Atiku,” she continued. “The truth is, I can’t know.
“Oil poisons souls. People know there’s a lot of money; how to get some becomes an obsession. People are frightened; they fear for themselves and can’t protect their children. They master deceit because they don’t know who to trust. You never know whether you’re speaking to an enemy or a friend, or what might have changed that overnight.” She turned to Pierce. “For years Atiku Bara was one of the best men I’ve ever known. But now Bobby’s in prison, his home village slaughtered. Men they both counted on have fallen away. Atiku knows too well that Karama and Okimbo have no limits. What’s to keep them from making his wife and children disappear? What’s to keep Atiku from taking money to make them safe? What does it mean that Atiku’s managed to survive?
“That’s what happens, Damon. You don’t know who to trust. So you trust people you shouldn’t and don’t trust those you should, knowing their psychic equation could alter in a heartbeat.” She folded her arms, looking out at the flotilla of tankers. “In his way, I believe Atiku loves Bobby as much as I do. But he doubts Bobby in other ways he never acknowledges. I think that’s why he managed to be in England on Asari Day, and elsewhere when the soldiers came to Goro.
“I’m not saying that he knew. But I know how afraid he was. Who can blame him? In Luandia, children become hostages.”
Pierce shoved his hands in his pockets. “Is that why you never had them?”
Marissa was quiet for a time. “That was one reason,” she answered. “After Karama came to power, one of his rivals, another general, went underground. Karama sent his troops to the man’s house. A soldier put a gun to his wife’s head and asked his seven-year-old son where his father was. When the boy couldn’t tell him, they took away the mother. No one’s seen her since. Bobby was afraid to have his children used against him.”
“And you?”
Marissa drew a breath. “We all know couples who stop flying together once their kids are born. In that sense Bobby and I are flying together. We didn’t want to crash and leave a child.” She closed her eyes. “Even being married makes us vulnerable. Right now I wonder what they’re doing to him while we’re walking on the beach. All I know is that he’s just as afraid for me.”
Pierce reached out, gently resting a hand on her shoulder. As though remembering his presence, she opened her eyes. She grasped both of his hands in hers, the tightness of her fingers expressing what she did not say.
“Bobby needs a story,” Pierce told her. “Who else could have hung those men?”
“Anyone. FREE or another militia. Someone acting on Karama’s orders.”
“And the motive?”
“A pretext for getting rid of Bobby. The motive’s always the same—oil. Karama wants to control it. The militia groups want to steal it. Bobby wants to redistribute the money it brings.” Marissa released Pierce’s hands. “If the Asari movement spread across the delta, the people’s lives would change. But that would eliminate the rationale for FREE, as well as the basis of Karama’s power. If Bobby dies, so does his movement.”
Pierce watched her face. “Another possibility is that someone in the movement hung them. Maybe out of frustration, or for money. Or because they imagined Bobby wanted that.”
“No one sane could think that,” Marissa said emphatically. “It would endanger everything we’ve worked for. Including international support for the Asari cause.”
“True. But Bara worries that Bobby overrates that. Especially now.”
The change of subject caused Marissa to pause. She took a few steps toward the water, staring out at its seeming infinity. “So do I. Praise from Greenpeace or the London Times won’t be enough to save him. Even before this, foreign reporters were afraid to come here. Now they can’t. And in America, few people care—it’s just Africa, they think.”
“Maybe not PetroGlobal.” Pierce moved beside her. “Suppose we could prove that PGL’s equipment was involved in the massacre and even put its people on the ground. Making Okimbo the face of PGL would be a considerable embarrassment. Bobby’s death would make PGL’s position that much worse.
“I don’t know how much pull PGL has with Karama. But it’s got to have some—he makes billions off it every year. And I’m certain Petro-Global has friends in the White House. There may be a way, if we can find it, to use forces more powerful than the Asari to keep Bobby alive.”
“’We’?” Marissa repeated.
Pierce nodded. “I’m an American lawyer. I’ve got more freedom of action than you do. I’ll try to get a meeting with PetroGlobal. What I need from you—and, for better or worse, Atiku Bara—is help in trying to establish that there was a massacre and, with luck, who actually hung those workers.”
Even as he said this, Pierce felt uncertain of what course he was committing himself to follow; what unknown circumstances might intrude; what hard choices he might face; how deeply he wished to involve himself with lives as dangerous as the Okaris’ in a country as deadly as Luandia. He knew only that, now that he had seen Marissa in this place, his conscience was too uneasy to let him simply wish her luck before resuming what had become his all-too-comfortable life.
Marissa seemed to read this on his face. In a quiet tone, she said, “After Goro, I had no one else to turn to. Somehow, after all this time, I believed you’d care. I also know you’ve got experience we need.” She touched his sleeve again. “But this has nothing to do with you, Damon. After all, if it had been up to you, I would never have come here.”
Pierce managed to smile. “But th
en you wouldn’t be you. So here I am.”
“Then at least tell me you know how dangerous this is. Even for you.”
It was better, Pierce sensed, to pass over what he had already experienced. “It’s certainly interesting,” he answered. “Can’t say I like Port George.”
She gave him a questioning look. “It’s not just the kidnappings—people die for nothing. I’m sure Karama’s people saw you tonight. Pretty soon they’ll know who you are. The only help for that is to leave and not come back.”
She realized, Pierce saw at once, that the thought had already occurred to him. “Not before I see Goro for myself. After that, we’ll figure out what else I can and need to do. But there’s one thing I need to know from you.”
“What’s that?”
“Whether Bobby ordered those murders. Or allowed them.”
Marissa stiffened. “How can you even ask me that?”
Pierce steeled himself. “Because you’re desperate enough not to tell me. From what you say, Luandia breeds dissembling. Even among friends.”
Marissa stared at him. “You have changed, haven’t you? You’re harder.”
“So it seems. But then twelve years is a long time.”
“All right, Damon.” Marissa’s voice was strained. “I saw Bobby’s face when we found those men. He couldn’t have known. I wouldn’t have asked you to come if I wasn’t sure.” She hesitated, then spoke more softly. “There’s another reason. I know you’re not here for Bobby, but for me. I wouldn’t put you in danger for a lie.”
Watching her eyes, Pierce saw nothing but her desire that he believe her. Summoning a smile, he said, “I’ve got the luck of the Irish, remember? Mine and Robert Kennedy’s, as well.”
Marissa did not return his smile. “Robert Kennedy’s brother, the president, said that life is unfair. His own death proved that. But I never thought you really believed it.
“Until now, your own experience suggests that life is fair—that most people end up getting what they deserve. Faith like that is alien to Luan-dia. It’s not just people who die here—it’s illusions.”
For a moment Pierce wondered if Marissa was also speaking of herself. “I have changed, Marissa. My illusions died at The Hague.”
Almost imperceptibly, Marissa shook her head. “Did they, Damon? After all, you won that case. So you still believe in the rule of law.” She took his hand and looked at him, her eyes searching his. “Luandia changes people—there’s so much cruelty and caprice. It’s not just Bobby and me I worry for, Damon. It’s you.”
5
AT DAWN, MARISSA, BARA, AND PIERCE DROVE TO A BOAT LAUNCH outside the city. The air was dense, the heat already searing. Though the black car outside the compound followed, no one stopped them. By the time they reached the launch, the car had vanished.
“It’s good they don’t know where we’re going,” Pierce observed to Bara.
Bara shrugged. “Maybe they don’t care—Asariland is still a military zone. Unless we’re lucky, the army will stop us from reaching Goro. But the route we’re taking, however circuitous, is the only way to avoid Okimbo’s soldiers.”
Marissa said nothing. Her gaze was abstracted: though, as a witness to a massacre, her presence was necessary, Pierce knew that she dreaded returning.
They climbed into a Boston Whaler piloted by a thick-waisted Luan-dian who took five hundred dollars of Pierce’s money. Then he started the motor and eased the boat through an inlet, toward the polluted brown waters of Port George Harbor. “Thus begins a tour of corruption,” Bara remarked dryly. “This port is a haven for diamond smuggling, the drug trade, and oil stolen from the creeks we’re heading toward. Nothing leaves here without the fingerprints of crooks in government.”
Bara and Pierce sat at the rear of the boat. Alone, Marissa stood near the front, bracing herself against the metal railing, the breeze rippling her hair as the boat picked up speed. Above the mouth where the inlet met the harbor was a bridge groaning with stalled cars. Marissa gazed up at it as they passed beneath and then, as though drawn by something she had noticed, turned back to look. Beneath the deep thrum of the motor, Bara told Pierce, “She and Bobby lost a friend on that bridge—a man who dared to run for state governor against Karama’s handpicked minion. He was driving to a rally when his opponent’s hired gunmen tried to intercept him. He managed to stay ahead of them until he reached the bridge.
“There was a traffic jam, of course. So his pursuers left their car and pumped a hundred or so bullets into his SUV. There was hardly enough of him left to bury. Why bother to stuff a ballot box when you can easily kill a candidate?”
Hands in the pockets of her jeans, Marissa turned from the bridge.
At one edge of the broad harbor a garbage-strewn beach with tin-roofed shacks gave way to a cluster of stilts holding up a ragged expanse of cloth, creating patches of shade that, Bara explained, Luandians rented for an outing. The boat veered to avoid the rusted hull of a capsized barge. Turning, Pierce saw three gray warships of the Luandian navy at anchor beside an oil tanker longer than two football fields. Bara pointed to the mouth of the harbor. “We’ll be passing close to Petrol Island.”
The pilot accelerated, throwing Pierce and Bara back in their seats. Marissa, still standing, bent her knees to ride out the boat’s erratic jolts. At close range, Petrol Island appeared surprisingly barren: from the water, Pierce saw only the steel structures of an oil refinery and the walls of a compound. “PGL’s employees feel safe here,” Bara remarked. “There’s even a village of prostitutes to service the residents. Too bad for all of us that most of the oil is still onshore.” He did not need to mention the three dead workers for whom Bobby might pay with his life.
Still Marissa had not spoken. Nor had she an hour later when the boat docked near a rutted road leading to the heart of the delta.
A YOUNG MAN in a beat-up van waited at the isolated landing, looking about with an air of apprehension. “Have you seen soldiers?” Bara asked as they got in.
“Not yet.”
Bara fell into a pensive silence. Pierce surrendered himself to fate; anxious inquiries would only add to the tension he felt building in his companions. Sitting in the van’s passenger seat, Marissa stared straight ahead.
The road was marked by craters and rivulets of open sewage. They saw few cars. A kaleidoscope of dystopic images appeared in Pierce’s window: a heap of burning garbage; a leper begging; a poster that showed the governor whose thugs had killed the Okaris’ friend grinning insanely at the empty road; two boys selling jars of stolen oil as though at a lemonade stand; PGL access roads marked by signs that warned against trespassing. Beneath the seat, Pierce noticed, the driver had concealed a gun.
“Shit,” Pierce heard Bara say.
Ahead, a makeshift checkpoint of mangrove branches and rubber tires was flanked by two policemen. Marissa sat rigid, staring fixedly out her side window as though she had seen nothing. The only sign of emotion in Bara was the rapid movement of his eyes. Slowing the van, their driver muttered, “Don’t look at them.”
Pierce understood the stakes. They could be arrested for espionage, and the presence of a white man only increased the risk. Even in times of lesser tension the police used their power at will, and rape was common. Pierce’s deepest hope was that these men would not recognize Marissa. It was bad enough that she was beautiful.
When the car stopped, a tall policeman in sunglasses sauntered to the driver’s side, his companion behind him. He leaned inside, one arm resting on the open window, and looked into the front and back. “Who are you?” he snapped at Pierce.
Pierce saw Bara tense. “A visitor from America,” Pierce answered.
The man peered closely at the others, his gaze lingering on Marissa. “This road leads to a military zone,” he told Pierce. “Only spies have business there.”
Pierce’s mouth felt dry. “I’m no spy.”
Scowling, the policeman motioned Pierce outside. When Pierce complied, the man grasped
his shoulder in a viselike grip. “To spy carries penalties for anyone who helps the spy. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. And I am a man with children whose boss pays him next to nothing.”
Pierce hesitated. “I understand.”
“The price for a spy is five hundred dollars American. A spy’s friends cost one hundred each.” The man glanced at his companion. “Passing into the military zone will cost two hundred more. How much will a spy pay for the privilege of risking death?”
Swiftly, Pierce tried to sift his thoughts. He needed to see Goro. Yet to turn back might be safer: this offer might be a trap, and to accept it might trigger their arrest. All he felt was astonishment at the instincts required for survival. In a tentative voice, he said, “I’d like to see more of Luandia.”
The ambiguous answer caused his questioner to remove his sunglasses, staring hard at Pierce. With stiff fingers, Pierce produced his wallet and counted out sixteen thousand in inflated Luandian currency, then four thousand more. The man kept staring until Pierce’s gaze broke. Then he took the money, nodding curtly.
Pierce got back in the car. As they drove past the barriers, no one spoke. He felt as though his nerve ends were rubbed raw.
THE SILENCE STRETCHED for minutes. Sulfurous smoke from gas flaring drifted through the sweltering air; there were fewer birds; the palms and mangroves appeared scrofulous and stunted. At times Pierce could hear the distant roar of another flare. Now and then a Luandian man or woman trod along the road as though on a treadmill to eternity, their slow, repeated movements bespeaking weariness in the bone and brain, days endlessly the same. Near a nexus of aboveground pipelines was the shell of a two-story building identified by a faded sign as the Awala Hospital. The sight prompted Bara’s first words in a half hour. “A Potemkin project,” he told Pierce. “PGL builds things like this to pacify an angry community. But they’ve got no way to maintain them. You can’t run an MRI machine without electricity or training.”
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