11
OUTSIDE HIS HOTEL, A LUXURIOUS HIGH-RISE, PIERCE ENCOUNtered a row of limousines guarded by armed soldiers. As he and Vorster entered, the lobby buzzed with blacks and whites on cell phones, the elite classes whose dealings with one another, so profitable for themselves, did nothing for Luandia or its people. A tall and imposing Luan-dian man in traditional dress swept past them, accompanied by a fawning deputation of Chinese. “That’s Ugwo Ajukwa,” Vorster explained, “Karama’s national security adviser. The man’s knee-deep in the oil business—legal and otherwise. The sight of him with the Chinese is not a happy one.”
Pierce went upstairs and left a detailed voice mail for the managing partner of his law firm, Larry Kahan, outlining his preliminary thoughts on how to save Bobby Okari. Then he scribbled notes for hours, assessing all he had heard through the prism of law until, exhausted, he prepared for dinner by napping.
CARAWAY’S ONE-STORY HOME fronted a lagoon shaded by palm trees. They sat beside the water at twilight, on a patio illuminated by torches. “My own version of flaring,” Caraway said. “Keeps the mosquitoes at bay.”
The two men sipped glasses of single-malt scotch. After a time, Pierce asked, “How was your conference call with State?”
Caraway considered his answer. “Much as you’d expect. The self-styled ‘realists’ consider Okari a luxury on whom we should expend—at most—pious words. Others see Karama as the luxury. To them, our obsession with this ‘global war on terror’ could lead to a disaster similar in kind, if not scale, to Iraq—the descent of a strategically important region into chaos. Imagine the choice between military intervention in the delta and letting the oil go.” Pausing, Caraway took a careful sip of scotch. “There’s only one principle agreed to by all: no one wants to back Okari if he’s a murderer.
“As Martel surely told you, some of the skeptics believe that Okari cares more for power than principle.” He held up a hand. “To begin, do you really think Okari was as naive about Karama’s character as he now suggests? There are those who argue that Karama was Okari’s ticket to ride, and only when that failed to work out did he turn to the Asari—that his ultimate aim is to become the ‘big man’ of all Luandia, its president. If Okari’s ambition is for himself, then nonviolence may be just another stratagem, as disposable as the rest.”
Pierce set his drink down. “I don’t believe that.”
“And I’m disinclined to. But FREE was cutting into his support, especially among the youth. Okari’s a man completely certain of his own rightness. In a place like Luandia, with all its tests and temptations, that can have a dark side.”
“He’s not stupid,” Pierce said. “Those lynchings were a disaster.”
“True. But Okari needed to hang on to his militants. He wouldn’t be the first revolutionary who told himself, ‘Just this once, for the greater good.’” Caraway’s tone became forceful. “You suggest that Karama arranged the hangings to justify a massacre. Ask yourself why Karama would perpetrate a lynching that makes him look bad and intimidates his cash cow, PGL. As for the massacre itself, I suspect it happened the way Okari says. But as long as Karama’s in power, it’s beyond our capacity to prove that and, some would say, against our interests to try.”
“Everyone knows who Karama is,” Pierce answered in disgust.
Glancing up, the ambassador gestured to a young American soldier who doubled as a messboy, suggesting that a first course would be welcome. “We know who he is,” he replied. “Karama sits at the top of a very slippery pole. To stay there he’s used surveillance, rape, torture, economic blackmail, secret prisons, and mass murder. He’s subverted the military chain of command by enlisting junior officers as spies. He’s mastered the art of whom to bribe and whom to kill.” The rhythm of Caraway’s speech slowed, as though to emphasize an important moment. “When I first met Karama as ambassador, it was at three A.M., and we were watched by North Korean bodyguards—the worst of the worst, recruited because they have no connection to Luandia. Karama was smart, articulate, even amusing. But by the end of the meeting I understood that he had no interest in me or my country. All that mattered was how he could use us to ensure his own survival.”
Pierce felt gloom settle around them like the night. “Suppose we’re both right,” Caraway continued. “That Okari didn’t order those men lynched, and neither did Karama. What then? One possibility is that someone’s playing Karama for reasons of their own, certain that he’d proceed against Okari precisely as he has. I think Karama’s genuinely afraid that the Asari movement might spell the beginning of a secessionist uprising that sweeps the delta.” Caraway propped both elbows on the table, his expression reflective. “Without oil, the game’s over for Karama. That’s more than enough reason to justify dispensing with Okari.”
Pierce finished his scotch. “So who would kill those oil workers to set Karama off?”
Caraway grimaced. “Luandia’s far too byzantine to know. But if Karama’s innocently proceeding against an innocent man, he’ll be that much harder to persuade.”
The first course arrived, a fruit salad featuring pineapples grown in Luandia. His appetite diminished, Pierce sampled the salad, then put down his fork. “For the sake of argument, suppose the U.S. made saving Okari a priority. What would we do?”
Caraway pondered this. “Try to figure out some sticks and carrots. But there’s no way we’d cut off military aid. And cutting off humanitarian aid would be pointless—there’s too little of it, and Karama wouldn’t care.”
“Suppose America were to boycott Luandian oil?”
Caraway emitted a mirthless laugh. “We are talking theory. We wouldn’t do it alone—the oil would just go elsewhere, maybe to China. The Europeans wouldn’t join us; they’re as addicted to oil as we are. As for other African countries, they don’t like helping whites push other blacks around, and several of their leaders resemble Karama more than Okari.” Fastidiously, Caraway wiped his mouth with a white napkin. “You’d also be surprised by Karama’s support in Washington. He’s got a small army of lobbyists trumpeting all the good he does for his people, headed by a former black congressman who, before he discovered Karama’s money, pushed human rights in Africa. If you take on Okari’s cause, I’m certain he’ll try to stymie you.
“That brings me to Okari’s ultimate problem: time.” Caraway shook his head in bemusement. “I assume thirty days isn’t nearly enough for a lawyer to prepare his defense, even if the trial court wasn’t a joke. I can assure you that it’s not enough time for a mechanism as cumbersome as our government, faced with a country as complex as Luandia, to focus on saving the life of just one man.”
“You’re suggesting that it’s hopeless,” Pierce said in a toneless voice.
“Difficult.” As the messboy approached, Caraway fell silent, waiting until the man had filled their wine glasses. “You may wonder why I’ve asked you to dinner. You’re a lawyer and a free agent. You may be able to say and do things in America that a mere ambassador can’t.”
Pierce looked at him fixedly. “So could Marissa Okari. She’d be far more effective on TV or working Congress than I’d be. What can you do to get her out?”
“I took that up with the foreign minister. Karama won’t let her leave.” Caraway puffed his cheeks, expelling a long silent breath. “Though she’s an American, she’s also become a citizen of Luandia. An admirable gesture, and extremely shortsighted. Luandia won’t recognize dual citizenship. It’s more difficult to pry her loose, no matter how dangerous things get for her here.”
Glum, Pierce sampled the wine, considering his next remarks. “We’re leaving out PGL,” he said at last. “They have leverage with Karama and the White House.”
Caraway gave him a quizzical smile. “Why would PGL expend its capital on Okari’s behalf? Or, for that matter, his wife’s?”
“Because the army came to Goro in PGL’s helicopters and boats.” Pierce spoke quietly but coolly. “Bad enough to destroy a people’s way of life; worse to
give them nothing for it in return. But it’s truly special to help a murderous autocrat and a psychopathic army colonel commit a mass atrocity against civilians. People like that get convicted of war crimes.”
Caraway put down his wine glass, staring at Pierce. In a measured voice, he said, “That’s a serious charge. Of one thing I’m certain: if PGL’s equipment was used, its people will claim they were unable to anticipate—let alone control—what Okimbo did with it.”
“They’re not virgins,” Pierce snapped. “Most likely Okimbo and his soldiers were on PGL’s payroll; no doubt PGL asked Karama for ‘protection.’ They know damn well who these men are, and what kind of ‘protection’ they were likely to get.”
“So all that’s left for you is the small matter of proof.” Caraway’s voice held quiet irony. “When I first moved here, I bought a boat with an outboard motor for puttering around in this lagoon. One day someone stole it. When I went to the police, they said, ‘We have no gas. If you give us money to fill our boat, then we will find your boat.’
“So I did. And they did. Otherwise I’d have no boat.” Caraway poured each of them another half glass of wine. “I won’t belabor the analogy. Perhaps they stole my boat; perhaps they murdered the person who did. All I know is they brought it back.”
“In this case,” Pierce retorted, “they murdered Okari’s father. That means he can sue PGL in an American court. If they prove to be com-plicit in a massacre, I doubt they’ll enjoy the consequences.”
Caraway considered him. “Results take time. Law, like diplomacy, moves at glacial speed.”
Pierce smiled a little. “Yes. I’ve thought of that.”
“What you’re asking is whether I’d facilitate a meeting with the head of PGL.”
“That would be nice. Preferably before Karama throws me in jail.”
For a time, Caraway gazed out at the lagoon. “Let’s enjoy our dinner,” he replied. “For the moment, I think we’ve done sufficient business.”
The waiter served the main course, then dessert. It was only over coffee that Caraway returned to the subject of Pierce’s mission. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised. “In turn, will you accept a last piece of advice?”
“Of course.”
“You’d be better off leaving here and never coming back. But as long as you’re here, don’t assume that because Americans and Luandians share a common language, words share a common meaning. They don’t. Listen not only to what is said but to what the speaker may be trying to convey. If someone lies to you, don’t waste your time on outrage. The only useful question is whether he’s really trying to mislead you, or whether the lie’s so obvious that it’s meant to express a deeper truth. The most critical thing about anyone you meet is not their words, but their motives.” He smiled briefly. “That applies not only to Luandians, by the way.”
Politely, Pierce thanked him.
12
THE NEXT EVENING, BACK IN WARO, PIERCE RODE WITH VORSTER AND Clellan to the home of PGL’s managing director. As they drove, Pierce observed the street life of the city: a brightly dressed woman bearing a basket of fruit on her head; a gaunt bicyclist carrying a satellite dish; an urban marketplace with tin shacks and a muddy parking lot. Then Clellan cut across a sandy field to avoid an intractable traffic jam, and Pierce saw on the waterfront the expensive homes of Waro’s elite, protected by concrete walls with jagged shards of glass inserted at the top, a disincentive to intruders. “An opulent prison,” he observed.
“Everyone’s in prison here,” Vorster responded. “But some prisons are nicer than others—as you’ll soon see.”
An hour later, they arrived at a compound with fifteen-foot walls, its entrance a marble archway so massive that Pierce thought at once of the Arc de Triomphe. Stationed by its metal gate were mobile policemen wearing green fatigues and flak jackets, carrying AK-47s. “Luandians call them ‘kill and go,’” Vorster said. “They’re law enforcement’s equivalent of Okimbo.”
Stopping at the gate, Clellan gave Pierce’s name to a security guard. The man placed a telephone call; after a moment the massive steel gate slowly opened, and they entered a rarefied world of palms and manicured gardens and enormous villas. They parked in front of the largest, a sprawling terra-cotta residence that, Pierce guessed, was close to thirty thousand square feet. “Remind you of Goro?” Vorster murmured to Pierce.
“No oil slicks. This must be where the money goes.”
Leaving the car, Pierce followed a winding stone path to a sturdy iron door monitored by a security camera that protruded from the wall beside it. Pierce pushed the intercom button and, when questioned, announced himself. A servant in a white coat and dark trousers opened the door and led him to a sitting room. “Mr. Gladstone will be with you presently,” the houseboy advised.
Alone, Pierce gazed out the deep glass windows at a capacious lawn and garden sloping to the water’s edge. In the distance, the office towers of Waro looked pristine. Absorbed by the view, he barely heard the footsteps behind him. When he turned, an elegant Luandian man in a cashmere sport jacket extended his hand. “I’m Michael Gladstone.”
As Pierce returned the man’s languid handshake, Gladstone smiled at his quizzical expression. “You were expecting someone lighter.”
“In a word, yes. No one told me you were Luandian.”
“That’s progress, I suppose. My predecessor was British; now he’s my landlord, safely ensconced in Dubai. May I arrange a drink?”
“Thank you, no.”
Gladstone waved at two chairs near the window. “Come, sit.”
The executive glided to a chair opposite Pierce. He was roughly forty, Pierce guessed, with close-cropped hair, smooth skin, keen eyes, and an expression that suggested watchfulness and habitual caution. “So,” he said, “you’re Okari’s friend, perhaps his lawyer. What is it you want from us?”
“For the moment, mutual understanding. I assume you saw Karama’s speech. This farce of a tribunal can’t be good for PGL.”
A troubled look briefly surfaced in Gladstone’s eyes. “Not good,” he parried, “is three Luandian employees hanging from a tree in Asariland.”
“Or having your helicopters and boats used in a massacre?”
Gladstone placed a graceful finger to his lips. “This is not a deposition, Mr. Pierce. Our conversation is private; I’m seeing you at Grayson Caraway’s request, to learn what you want. As to Goro, the government denies a massacre. Whatever may have occurred, no one from PGL was present.”
“Then who flew the helicopters?”
“Again, Mr. Pierce, we are not in court. Were we, all that I could tell you is that my people inform me that our equipment was, quite literally, borrowed.”
Pierce kept his tone mild. “Your ‘people’ being Roos Van Daan, ex-mercenary soldier in Angola, now PGL’s chief of security in the Delta. He seems to have a certain reputation.
“Let me tell you about Goro, Mr. Gladstone. PGL helicopters and sea trucks transported Okimbo and his soldiers. They proceeded to burn the village and slaughter all the residents except the Okaris. Soldiers beheaded Bobby’s father; like the hundreds of bodies, his head’s gone missing. Okimbo himself raped a fifteen-year-old girl before he slit her throat. Okari was forced to watch.” Pierce paused a moment. “Granted, you weren’t there. But please don’t tell me you’re surprised.”
Gladstone stared at him. “My job is to protect our employees and operations. Okari’s followers seized our oil platform and blocked access to our facilities; for all I know, he ordered those lynchings. I am left to hope that Okimbo responded reasonably, and that Okari’s trial will fairly ascertain his guilt—both matters beyond our control.” Gladstone’s speech gained quickness and force. “In fact, we control almost nothing. Your friend has helped make us a hostage in a war between the government and the people of the delta. And for what? We, too, are victims of corruption. We do not dictate how oil revenues are spent. We can only make one very stark choice: stay or leave—”
Gladstone spread his hands. “When PetroGlobal came here, the government expected nothing. For my predecessors, oil and corruption were the apple Adam bit. I will concede that in earlier days PGL screwed the natives, took the oil, and enjoyed the profits. The results were as you see them: yet more corruption, violence, and human and environmental misery.
“All I can alleviate is the latter. As soon as possible, we’ll stop flaring and repair our antiquated pipelines. But it’s late in the day, and there’s no one to help us. Certainly not Savior Karama. Nor,” Gladstone continued with palpable anger, “Bobby Okari. It’s not pleasant to be the scapegoat for a demagogue with a Messiah complex whose self-serving rhetoric inflames the militias he claims to deplore. Nonetheless, I hope Karama spares him, or the first Easter after Okari’s death will disappoint him hugely.”
“You’re free to hope,” Pierce shot back. “This tribunal is his death warrant, and the delta once he’s gone will disappoint you hugely. The change Okari wants will help PGL survive.”
Gladstone shook his head in demurral. “All Okari brings to our door is trouble. Does he truly think making our corporate life miserable will transform Karama? Corruption is not an incident of government policy—it is the government’s policy.
“Do they help clean up the environment? Do they tend to the poor who are so outraged at us? Do they fight the militias, or end the bunkering so many of them profit from? Do they maintain the community projects they harass us to build? No. They blame us, and encourage others to blame us, for failing to do the things for our people only they can do.” Gladstone softened his tone. “We both know what those are, Mr. Pierce. Democracy. Infrastructure. An end to corruption. Stewardship of land and water. Are you laughing yet? Well, you should be. Because to say such things in Luan-dia is a joke.”
“Poor PGL,” Pierce said with equal quiet. “Such good intentions; so little love in return. And even less influence. I’m sorry if you’re not enjoying your job. But you can’t take the money, then wash your hands of what happened in Goro. I assume you’ve met Okimbo.”
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