He was tall, and his features were coarse. On both sides of his face were three symmetrical grooves, tribal scars inflicted in childhood. The gold braid on his red officer’s cap set off the perfectly tailored green uniform arrayed with combat ribbons. At last he raised a pristine white glove, inducing silence, sudden yet complete.
“Greetings, my people,” he began.
Carried by loudspeakers, his resonant voice seemed to hover above the crowd. “Nineteen days ago, three employees of PetroGlobal Oil—a guest in our country—were lynched in Asariland. On that very day, I swore to bring the murderers to justice. One week later, our military arrested the author of this brutal act: the would-be dictator of his imagined secessionist state, Bobby Okari.”
The implacable rhythm of Karama’s words did not invite applause. “The crimes of which Okari stands accused are many. Kidnapping and murder. Plotting to overthrow a democratically elected government. Incitement of sedition. Sabotage against the economic interests of the state.” On the screen, Karama’s blank gaze moved across the stadium, as though his senses could discern the traitors in its midst. “These are the acts of a would-be tyrant who, in his egotism, imagines himself a colossus in the eyes of the world. And so the Asari became his soldiers.”
The loudspeakers crackled with a sarcastic laugh that startled his audience. “How foolish. Did they imagine marching on Savior City and hanging me, as well?
“If so, they are as deluded as Okari. Until Asariland is pacified, it will remain a military zone under the command of Colonel Paul Okimbo, closed to outside agents of sedition . . .”
“That means CNN,” Rubin murmured to Pierce. “And you.”
“Certain allies of Okari,” Karama said with muted anger, “have depicted our response to homicide and treason as genocide. So I tell you—and them—that the only violence was launched by the terrorist Okari against the protectors of the state.”
Pierce saw Vorster grimace. Issuing from his expressionless face, Karama’s voice carried above them. “We will tap the telephone lines, monitor the bank accounts, intercept the mail, and access the computers of all those who may have conspired with him.” Karama paused, speaking slowly and emphatically. “Anyone who writes or utters words destructive of the unity of Luandia is guilty of treason. Anyone who impedes the production of oil is guilty of sabotage. Anyone who makes false charges against the state is guilty of sedition.
“All are punishable by death. Anyone suspected of these crimes will be detained.” Karama’s tone became flat. “They will have no right to ask our reasons. They will have no right to seek an end to their confinement. They will have no access to lawyers or the courts.”
Rubin arched an eyebrow. “Sound familiar?”
“For those charged with crimes against the state,” Karama continued in the same unvarying monotone, “our justice will be swift and sure.
“In thirty days, Bobby Okari will be tried for his crimes by a special tribunal.” Karama paused to let the weight of these words permeate the crowd. “The tribunal will be composed of two senior judges and a member of the army. There will be no appeal of its rulings or its judgment. I alone will determine whether, when, and how its sentence will be executed.”
“A telling choice of words,” Rubin murmured.
Pierce said nothing. He was remembering the gallows in Port George.
Once more, Karama’s mirrored gaze swept the silent crowd. “Justice will be served, my people. God’s will for Luandia will be done.”
Uncertain how to respond, his listeners waited for cues; some around Pierce simply stared at the giant face on the screen. Karama raised his hand—half salute, half benediction. A claque began chanting, “Karama, Karama, Karama . . .”
Suddenly the stadium was plunged into darkness. “Uh-oh,” Pierce heard Vorster say. “Whoever’s running the power grid is getting it in the neck.”
Confused, the people around them milled and chattered. Unlike in Goro, Pierce reflected, there were no flares to illuminate the dark.
When the klieg lights came back on, Karama was gone.
OUTSIDE, THEIR POLICE escort had vanished. “Let’s get in,” Vorster snapped, and the three men joined Clellan in the SUV. A weapon rested on the console beside him. “Our friends suddenly took off,” Clellan said.
As Clellan started the SUV, Rubin surveyed the throng. “Guess someone knows you’re with us,” he said to Pierce. “The punishment for lawyers is driving through Waro unescorted.”
As they drove, Pierce imagined Marissa listening to the speech. “What did you think?” Vorster asked.
“As Okari’s would-be lawyer? Luandia has signed six different international agreements on political, legal, and human rights. This speech violates every one. The kangaroo court for Bobby rips due process to shreds. Karama picks the court, reviews its verdict, and passes sentence. Why not just shoot him in the head—Karama’s done it before.”
“So what can you do?”
“About Karama, nothing. Whoever represents Bobby will have to find some other way to stop this.”
Rubin gave him a dubious look. “Ah, yes,” he said finally. “The court of world opinion. In thirty days, they’ll have pretty well cleaned up Darfur.”
Pierce ignored the mordancy of Rubin’s tone. “Too little time,” he said.
THEY WENT SILENT as the car crept through the crowd. Vorster looked from side to side, waiting for some threat to emerge. Abruptly, Clellan turned down a darkened side road bounded by squat concrete houses behind barbed-wire fences.
“Bad choice,” Vorster said.
Clellan kept driving. “Didn’t like the crowd back there. Too many people to watch.”
Captured in their light beams, a group of young Luandians spread across the road. “Area boys,” Vorster told Pierce with a fair show of calm. “They pick out a neighborhood and rip people off. At least that’s what I hope they are.”
“Shall I run them over?” Clellan asked.
“No. Considering Damon’s with us, the authorities might decide to care.”
Clellan kept driving toward the line of men, then braked abruptly with less than a foot to spare. Several men jumped back; another sauntered to the driver’s window. Clellan rolled it down.
“You were driving too fast,” the bulky young man said harshly. “Unless you pay us, we’ll call the police.”
Clellan seemed to consider this, then to reach for his wallet. Pierce watched his hand reappear with a gun aimed at the man’s face. “If your friends don’t evaporate,” Clellan told him, “your head will.”
The man froze as if hypnotized, then turned to his companions, waving them away. They disappeared like shadows in the night.
Clellan accelerated. “About your hotel,” Vorster told Pierce. “It’s pretty secure.” No one mentioned the area boys.
THE HOTEL WARO was a five-story building surrounded by high stucco walls; its management, Vorster said, paid the police well for the privilege of making foreigners feel safe. Pierce thanked his companions, checked in, then stopped at the outdoor bar.
It was situated near a swimming pool surrounded by palms. At a table nearby a fat German business type fondled a young Luandian woman; intent on their conversation, the four Chinese at the next table ignored this. Pierce sat at the bar and ordered a brandy.
He sipped the warm amber liquid, waiting for his thoughts to overtake his emotions. Then he put down some money and went to his room.
The rug was dirty, the sink and bathtub mottled by rust. Pierce thought of a trip he had taken with his college girlfriend, staying at cheap hotels in shabby southwestern towns. He took out his cell phone to call Marissa.
Three times the call didn’t go through; Pierce feared that they had cut her lines. When he tried her cell phone, she answered. “It’s Damon,” he told her. “Are you okay?”
“They haven’t come for me yet.” He could hear her breathe. “I watched Karama on television. He means it, Damon.”
Her voice carried the
echo of fear. “I’ve got some ideas,” Pierce said. “But we should talk in person—”
The connection went dead.
Pierce sat on the edge of the bed. Now that he was alone, these unfamiliar surroundings felt surreal, as though he was caught in a dream he feared would end badly. He wondered how Marissa’s dream—a life of meaning in Luandia—seemed to her now.
At length he checked his e-mail. The American ambassador, Grayson Caraway, had taken note of Karama’s speech. He could see Pierce tomorrow in Savior City.
10
SAVIOR CITY WAS THE OPPOSITE OF WARO: THE ROAD FROM THE airport was smooth, and the outer environs—green lawns and sleek high-rises—reminded Pierce of those of an affluent southern city in America. As they entered the capital’s heart, Vorster pointed out the Ministry of Defense, built in the shape of an enormous battleship; a new soccer stadium; and the headquarters of the Luandian National Petroleum Corporation, PGL’s partner, a marble tower whose smoke-colored windows seemed appropriately opaque. If Pierce had not seen Waro and the delta, he might have imagined that Luandia was prospering under the firm but farsighted guidance of President Savior Karama. Then Vorster pointed out the entrance to Savior Rock, the presidential redoubt, and Pierce recalled Karama’s true purpose in building his own capital.
The barred fence was guarded by a line of soldiers and flanked by two armored personnel carriers. Within the high walls were Luandia’s Congress and high court, making their members, in effect, Karama’s prisoners. In the distance, Karama’s fortified palace was set against a sheer natural edifice of black volcanic rock. The site was immune to surprise attacks: the only path for soldiers mounting a coup would be to convoy for hours to the city, break through these barriers, and proceed to the palace in a frontal attack. “Eleven A.M.,” said Vorster, checking his watch. “The president’s no doubt asleep. For Karama, vampires and enemies come out at night.”
Silent, Pierce wondered how to persuade such a man to release Bobby Okari.
* * *
IN ITS DESIGN, the embassy captured post-9/11 America: a walled concrete bunker bristling with security devices, seemingly designed to withstand explosive devices. After a security check, a young diplomat escorted Pierce to the office of Grayson Caraway.
The ambassador rose from his couch, greeting Pierce with a firm handshake and the offer of coffee and a comfortable chair. He was tall and spare, perhaps in his late fifties, with graying brown hair, glasses, and a thoughtful, somewhat professorial demeanor. Caraway was an able man, Martel had assured Pierce—representing America in such a complex place was no job for the dilettantes who purchased ambassadorial posts by raising campaign money for whoever won the presidency. Caraway got to the point at once: “Like you, I found Karama’s pronouncement disturbing.”
Pierce smiled faintly. “That’s a diplomatic way of putting it.”
“Diplomacy,” Caraway rejoined, “is my business. I’ve already spoken to Karama’s foreign minister, also a professional. It’s clear to me that he wasn’t consulted before Karama decided to spit in the world’s face.”
“So who can make Karama listen?”
Caraway sat back on the couch, his fingers steepled, his expression penetrant and serious. “A few rules of the road, Mr. Pierce. First, be assured that I consider Okari’s fate a serious matter. It’s also my job to represent the interests of our government, and it’s not up to me to define what they are. With that caveat, and assuming your good faith, I’ll be as helpful as I can.
“Let’s define good faith. Because of the defects in our intelligence about Karama, my job involves a good deal of guesswork. I don’t want to guess about you.” Though even, Caraway’s tone conveyed a steel practicality. “I need to know where you’re going, and the tactics you’re using to get there. I also need to understand your relationship to the Okaris. I don’t expect you to tell me confidential information. But I want to know that whatever you do tell me is reliable—and, above all, that you won’t try to use me to save a man you know ordered the murder of three employees of an American company deemed critical to our security.”
Pierce held up his hand. “I don’t know who had those men killed. But I know Okari well enough to doubt that it was him. I’ve also been to Goro. The one thing I’m sure of is that the army slaughtered hundreds of unarmed civilians. So Karama and Okimbo are murderers—it’s logical to suppose they planned the first murders to justify this massacre. One of my expectations is that our government will do its damnedest to keep Karama from murdering Bobby Okari.”
Caraway rested his chin on folded hands, contemplating Pierce. “I’d hope for the same. But remember that America has many interests, and State, Defense, and our intelligence agencies often disagree on what the priorities are. If you attack us publicly it will help neither your country nor Okari.
“Assuming that he’s innocent, I think America’s interests are best served by keeping him alive. But if I find out he’s guilty, or that you’re trying to mislead me, we’re done. Fair?”
“Fair.”
“All right.” Caraway’s long frame seemed to relax a bit, and he spoke in a milder tone. “Let me give you a primer on Luandia and geopolitics. Start with two rules. The first is that 9/11 trumps everything: our preeminent concern is oil supply and the fear that Islamic terrorists will infiltrate the Muslim north. Second, like Putin, Hugo Chávez, and the Saudi royal family, Karama knows that oil empowers him to disdain world opinion. Hence last night’s speech.”
Pierce nodded. “The way Martel put it is that 9/11 started the new cold war: all that matters is that you’re on our side.”
“That’s part of the problem. Then there’s the nature of Luandia itself. It has all the elements of instability—right now, Karama’s what we’ve got.” Caraway turned, pointing out the window to a high-rise in the middle distance. “That building’s a gift from China. They’re spending billions to buy influence, which translates into oil. The Chinese are tailor-made for Karama: they crave oil, they believe in graft, and they don’t give a damn about human rights.” Caraway’s face turned grim. “If I advocate standing up for Okari, someone in Washington will say I’m bringing Karama and the Chinese closer.”
Pierce tried to envision the geopolitics enveloping Bobby Okari. “How real is the threat of Islamic terrorists in the north?”
Caraway got up, pouring more coffee for them both. “The basis for imagining a threat’s real enough. The north’s borders are porous, and its expanses of desert are so vast and ungoverned that some envision it as ‘Af-ghantstan 2020’: a base for terrorist operations no one can control. It doesn’t help that bin Laden made a tape calling northern Luandia ‘ripe for liberation.’ My personal theory is that he’s stoking our paranoia, hoping to draw in a visible contingent of U.S. troops whose presence will offend Luandian Muslims. But there’s a large pool of unemployed men in the north who despise the Karama government and our invasion of Iraq. It’s not uncommon to find infants named Osama.”
“Is there any hard evidence of jihadists in Luandia?”
“Some. Our satellites have located what they believe may be a terrorist training base in the north, and our intelligence people snared a guy with ten million dollars and a cell phone programmed to call jihadists in Saudi Arabia. But Luandia’s Muslims are Africans, not Arabs. They’re also Sufi—a decidedly gentler sect scorned by Islamic militants.” Caraway’s slight smile had an ironic cast. “Still, Karama knows how to play the terrorist card. His story is that he, and only he, is America’s bulwark against Islamic terrorists infesting the north.”
“What about in the delta?”
Caraway looked at him shrewdly. “Against an Islamic alliance with FREE, you mean? That’s not a natural fit. But some fear that Al Qaeda could become a shipper and refiner of bunkered Luandian oil, dramatically expanding its ability to finance expanded terrorist operations against the West.
“There’s precedent for that. Ninety percent of the drugs derived from poppies grown in Afghan
istan are sold in Europe and come back as arms for the Taliban. The Iranians funnel petrodollars to Hezbollah. That’s led to another factor that strengthens Karama—our nascent military presence in Luandia.”
Pierce was genuinely startled. “I didn’t know we had one.”
“It’s not large yet. But we have military personnel in the north, training Luandian soldiers in counterinsurgency tactics. They’re potential targets for kidnappings or killings—God knows what we’ll do if that occurs. Nevertheless, the Pentagon wants to increase our military beachhead here. Even, some propose, in the delta.” Caraway checked his watch. “I’m about to get on a conference call with the State Department about Karama’s speech. Someone’s going to ask how pressing Karama about Okari helps us put more soldiers here.”
Pierce felt discouragement become anger. “They’ve got it backward,” he said. “To stabilize the delta you need the kind of social justice Bobby stands for. Kill him, and all the troops in the world won’t buy your nervous friends a good night’s sleep.”
“As it happens, I agree.” The ambassador seemed to reach a decision. “Come to my house for dinner tonight. There may be more for us to discuss, including what—if anything—you intend to do. I’m still not quite clear on your purpose here.” He raised his eyebrows. “By the way, what did you put on your visa application?”
Pierce smiled. “Vacation.”
“Oh, dear. That may have helped get you into Luandia, but it may also keep you here. The last intermeddlers in the delta who claimed to be tourists, three documentary filmmakers from Germany, were jailed by the state security services on charges of espionage. My friend the German ambassador can’t seem to spring them.” Caraway stood, offering his hand. “Make this trip a short one, Mr. Pierce. You don’t want the cell next to Okari’s.”
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