ECLIPSE

by Richard North Patterson

  Though mild in tone, the remark was by its nature so insulting that Nubola glared at him. “You are here at our sufferance, Mr. Pierce.”

  Pierce stifled his own fears. “True. But not yours. I’ve merely asked your fellow judges for a ruling, which they’re more than capable of making without military intervention. In other jurisdictions, this is a matter of law.”

  Someone in the gallery coughed nervously. Nubola’s glare intensified. With obvious difficulty, he struggled to maintain the fiction that Orta commanded the courtroom; Orta hesitated, as though contemplating the cost of this pretense. Then he placed his hand on Nubola’s arm, saying to Pierce, “Your remarks were out of order. You will apologize to Colonel Nubola or find yourself in jail.”

  Pierce faced Nubola. “Forgive me, Colonel, if my certainty that this question is relevant caused me to forget myself.”

  Nubola nodded curtly. Turning to the witness, Orta paused for a final moment. “Please answer, Dr. Aboh.”

  Aboh’s eyes darted from Okimbo to Pierce. In a muffled tone, he answered, “I heard only rumors.”

  With equal quiet, Pierce asked, “That the villagers had been massacred?”

  “Objection.” Ngara quickly approached the bench. “This tribunal has been most lenient in giving counsel leeway. But counsel’s accusation is intended only to discredit this proceeding and slander the government of Luandia. I ask that this be stopped.”

  Pierce forced himself not to glance at Okimbo. Stepping forward, he stood beside Ngara. “The witness first made his accusation to Colonel Okimbo. It is relevant to ask whether he was frightened of Okimbo. If he heard that the colonel had ordered his soldiers to kill hundreds of Asari, the truth or falsity of such a report does not matter. But whether this witness feared that it was true matters a great deal.”

  As a matter of law, Pierce knew, this rationale was flawless. From the sheer misery of his expression, Orta knew it, too. Were he to rule correctly, the shadow of Goro would enter the courtroom for good. In the silence, Orta sat back, eyes half shut, slowly rocking in his leather chair. Softly, he said, “Objection overruled.”

  Pierce fought to conceal his astonishment. Facing the witness, he said, “Please answer, Dr. Aboh.”

  Once again, Aboh glanced at Okimbo. In a barely audible voice, he responded, “I heard rumors of violence.”

  “What kind of violence?”

  Now Aboh could look at no one. “The murder of villagers. Also rape.”

  “Did you ask Colonel Okimbo about this rumor?”

  “No.”

  Pierce cocked his head. “Were you at least a little curious?”

  Briefly, Aboh closed his eyes. “I didn’t think such questions productive.”

  Pierce shook his head in wonder. “Tell me, Dr. Aboh, how did the subject of your conversation with Bobby Okari arise between you, Okimbo, and Van Daan?”

  The witness reached for a glass of water. He took a sip, licking his lips. “They asked if I knew anything about Bobby’s involvement in the lynchings. It was clear that they already believed that he had done this. So I told them what I knew.”

  “I see. Since Van Daan gave you fifty thousand dollars in connection with the peace negotiation, has he paid you anything more?”

  Once again, Aboh hesitated. “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty thousand U.S. For further services on behalf of peace.”

  Pierce moved closer to the witness. “Of what nature?”

  “I haven’t performed them yet. I’m waiting for emotions to die down.”

  “Or just for Bobby to die?” Before Ngara could object, Pierce asked, “Did Van Daan pay this money after you reported your conversation with Mr. Okari?”

  For an instant, Aboh’s lips moved but made no sound. In a near whisper, he answered, “Yes.”

  Pierce considered his position. He had seldom discredited a witness so completely; the real question was whether it mattered. Turning to Orta, he said, “Thank you, Your Honor. That’s all I have for Dr. Aboh.”

  At once, Ngara was on his feet. “Do you believe, Dr. Aboh, that the ‘irrational’ actions urged by Mr. Okari meant an act of violence?”

  “Yes.” Aboh paused to compose himself, looking at no one. “The conversation happened as I said it did, with far more menace in Bobby’s voice than I’m able to convey. Three deaths swiftly followed.”

  Ngara nodded, a pantomime of satisfaction. “No further questions.”

  Aboh left the courtroom, passing Bobby with downcast eyes. Bobby’s gaze was more sorrowful than angry. “A pity,” he said. “Eric’s already dead. It’s just that he’s still breathing.”

  “Your Honor,” Ngara announced, “that concludes the case for the prosecution.”

  Pierce was both amazed and unprepared: as thin as Ngara’s case was, Pierce still had no defense witnesses other than the Okaris. Thinking swiftly, he told Judge Orta, “In that case, I ask the tribunal to dismiss this case at once.”

  Orta’s eyes opened slightly. “On what grounds?”

  “The obvious one, Your Honor. The prosecution’s evidence, taken alone, does not establish a prima facie case—let alone establish my client’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. We’ve heard only three witnesses, all recruited by Colonel Okimbo, all paid for by PGL. Their credibility is nil.” Pierce’s voice grew more impassioned. “But even if you credit every word they said, all the tribunal knows is that the lynchings occurred. No one heard Bobby Okari order them. No one knows who carried them out. No one can connect them to Mr. Okari’s supposed words.”

  Orta’s eyes dulled, the look of someone who wished to be anywhere but in this courtroom. “How can I defend a case,” Pierce asked, “where there is no case to defend? The world is watching, Your Honor. The only matter for this tribunal to decide is whether it’s a court of law or an instrument whose sole function is to eliminate Bobby Okari by imprisonment or death. If this is a court of law, it will set him free.”

  Abruptly, Pierce turned and walked back to his client. But instead of Bobby, he looked at Marissa. Her eyes said all that he could wish for.

  When Ngara stood, Pierce could feel his ambivalence; no decent man enters the law for this. “We believe our case sufficient,” he said. “If the defense can offer an alibi or explanation, they should. If all they have is silence, that is Okari’s confession.”

  This brief rejoinder, stunning in its sophistry, drew Pierce to his feet. But for the moment Orta had used up his last reserve of courage. Holding up his hand for silence, he told Pierce, “The prosecutor has offered evidence that, if unopposed, is sufficient to warrant conviction. Will you offer a defense?”

  Pierce felt near panic overtake him, commingled with a sense of the surreal. “Yes, Your Honor. I ask the court to give us until tomorrow morning to begin.”

  “Very well,” Orta responded with courtesy. “You may start at nine A.M.”

  Abruptly, he banged the gavel. Quietly, Pierce told Bara, “I don’t care how you find Beke Femu. Do it.”

  Pierce clasped Bobby’s shoulder, then went to find Clark Hamilton. A young white man stopped him, extending a hand. “I’m Bob McGill,” he said, “political officer at the U.S. embassy. Ambassador Caraway wants to buy you dinner.”

  5

  SORRY FOR THE LACK OF AMBIENCE,” GRAYSON CARAWAY TOLD PIERCE. “But the State Department is warning Americans not to travel to the delta and ordering diplomatic personnel to stay away from public places. They’re afraid I’ll be kidnapped, or just shot.”

  They sat at a conference table in a sterile corner of the American consulate in Port George, sampling the Luandian version of takeout. “It’s better this way,” Pierce answered. “When I left the courtroom today the look Okimbo gave me was all the warning I’ll ever need. If I die in some sort of ‘accident,’ you’ll know why.”

  Caraway nodded, a grim acknowledgment of the truth. “Stay alive,” he said. “Bob McGill says you’re doing well in court. If you can keep it up, you’ll
stoke the Western media and provide those of us who give a damn further basis for questioning this proceeding.”

  “This isn’t a ‘proceeding,’” Pierce replied. “It’s a lynching. Okari should have walked out of there today a free man. The fact that he didn’t should tell the State Department all it needs to know. If anyone there is still awake, tell them I’ve got no witnesses, let alone a way of proving Bobby’s innocence.”

  Caraway scooped some rice onto his plate, carefully adding a dash of hot sauce. “I should be straight with you,” he said. “State’s under a great deal of pressure. Luandia’s foreign minister has filed a protest, calling your lawsuit a ‘gross interference’ in the country’s internal affairs. His message to me—clearly dictated by Karama—was ‘America is not our colonial master.’ They’re particularly unhappy with you.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “Exactly what you’re doing—if you weren’t throwing sand in the gears of Luandian ‘justice,’ Okari might be dead by now. But Karama has begun to make not-so-subtle threats about preferring the Chinese oil cartel to PGL. Hence the Defense Department and the oil strategists don’t like you either. They’ve reduced the complexities surrounding Okari to a very simple test: they’ll support whatever helps ensure that America gets the lion’s share of oil. You flunk.”

  Worry and fatigue, Pierce discovered, had frayed his temper. “What about our vaunted devotion to human rights? Or is that just bullshit we peddle to idealists like Bobby before we throw them to the wolves?”

  Caraway’s reaction was not defensiveness but silence. “The problem’s not just us,” he said at length. “The Brits won’t support anything that might really help Okari. Neither will the French or Germans. As for the Chinese, they’re thrilled: supporting murderers like Karama is their human rights agenda. We’ve already discussed Darfur—the Chinese take the Sudanese government’s oil, then use their power at the U.N. to help the Sudanese slaughter their own people. There’s no chance that oil-consuming nations will agree to sanctions against Karama.” His tone became more clipped. “Then there are the Africans. Even statesmen like Mandela, Okari’s hero, won’t say a word on his behalf. It’s ‘political correctness’ at its most perverse: they’d rather let an autocrat like Mugabe destroy Zimbabwe than join the West in criticizing an African regime. Karama is the latest beneficiary.”

  Pierce had stopped eating. “I guess the Okaris made a mistake,” he said bitterly.

  Caraway considered him. “Okari miscalculated,” he amended. “He’s far from naive. But I sometimes believe he came to see the world’s admiration as literal life insurance. It’s not.

  “As for the United States, he overrates our leverage. There’s too much we need from Savior Karama. We need Luandian soldiers, believe it or not, as peacekeepers in African countries torn by conflict. We need Karama’s cooperation in fighting the spread of AIDS. The Pentagon, ironically enough, wants his support in keeping American soldiers accused of crimes in places like Iraq from being tried in foreign courts—”

  “But this kangaroo court is okay for Bobby Okari?”

  “He’s not an American soldier,” Caraway said evenly. “At the risk of making you angrier still, we also want Karama to crack down on oil bunkering—”

  “Angry? It’s a joke. His own officials, people like Ugwo Ajukwa, are waist-deep in bunkered oil. Don’t our people know that? PGL surely must.”

  “We all do,” Caraway answered tiredly. “Which brings us to PGL. So far, you’re making its people look complicit—Gladstone’s painfully aware of that, believe me. The longer this trial and Okari’s lawsuit go on, the worse it gets for them. That’s your hole card. But it’s also become a problem.”

  “How so?”

  “Because no American company wants public scrutiny of how they’re forced to operate in a place like this. They certainly don’t want to be sued for human rights abuses by business partners like Karama, or punished by foreign governments embarrassed in U.S. courts. Nor do they like having their employees hung from trees. So they absolutely hate Okari’s lawsuit.” Caraway put down his fork. “I’ll give you one example. Last week I flew to Washington, hoping to persuade the West African desk to support some meaningful measures to help extricate Okari, at least if he doesn’t wind up looking guilty—”

  “Which he won’t.”

  “The current evidence is pretty feeble,” Caraway responded, “though I can’t cross him off my list of suspects. Anyhow, I also used the trip to attend a luncheon meeting of an influential group called the Corporate Council for Africa—American companies who do business over here. Within the limits of my position, I tried to interest them in using their collective influence to promote lenience for Okari.

  “I got back the usual boilerplate about not interfering with the judicial process of a foreign country.” Caraway smiled without humor. “One pompous fellow, some sort of financier, pronounced himself a great authority: I didn’t understand Luandia, he told me—he had a personal relationship with Karama and other highly placed officials, and intervening on Okari’s behalf would be an enormous mistake. He proceeded to recite Karama’s party line on the Asari movement—the secessionist threat, the likelihood of Okari’s guilt, et cetera, et cetera—so faithfully I could have been listening to Karama or Ajukwa themselves. It’s better in the original. Unfortunately, I also learned that this self-anointed expert has the ear of the White House.”

  Pierce looked at him curiously. “A commodities trader named Henry Karlin?”

  Caraway seemed to search his memory. “I’m not sure about his business,” he said at length. “But, yes, I believe that was his name.”

  Despite Caraway’s studied vagueness, he seemed unsurprised by the question. At once Pierce grasped that the ambassador’s anecdote was not casual and that, perhaps in league with Dave Rubin, he was conveying information that might somehow be important. “Does Karlin have a relationship with Ajukwa?” Pierce asked.

  “I don’t know for sure. But it’s fair to assume that.” Caraway gave him a significant look. “You should also assume that Karlin is actively working against Okari, using whatever political influence he possesses with our current administration. That could be a problem. Another problem is time—you’re running out.” Caraway paused for emphasis. “The wheels of diplomacy grind with painful slowness; too often our favorite policy is waiting on events. Some people at the State Department resort to hoping that once Karama steals enough, he’ll give us that ‘free and fair election’ he keeps dangling, then trot off to Monte Carlo with his stolen billions.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Caraway laughed briefly. “No. Karama likes having the community of nations kiss his feet. In a far less healthy, far more authoritarian way, he’s as addicted to the world spotlight as Okari. The effect on both men is malign. Your client doesn’t think he’ll die; Karama wants to kill him. What better way to show the world who’s boss?”

  This assessment depressed Pierce still further. “You’ve made me realize something,” he told Caraway. “Luandia is so lethal, and this trial so rigged, that I find myself indulging in magical thinking: that the beneficent United States of America—that beacon of freedom that embraced my immigrant father and sent his youngest child to Harvard—will somehow save a black man who’s risked his life for the ideals we claim to live by. Pathetic, really. I’m too old for fairy tales.”

  For a time they simply sat there in the bleak fluorescent light. “Neither of us,” Caraway said at last, “is too old for hope. We need a way to keep Okari alive, even if he’s in a Luandian prison. If we can do that, the next step will be persuading Savior Karama to send the Okaris into exile, positioning Bobby as a force for good in the post-Karama Luandia that America’s hoping for without doing very much.”

  “I’d be thrilled with that,” Pierce answered. “But whatever happens to Bobby, I’m worried about Marissa. I want her out of here.”

  “You should want that.” Caraway pause
d. “At least she’s an American citizen. If the time comes, I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Another silence ensued. “You know what the problem is?” Caraway said at length. “Not only with us, but our allies. It’s not just grubby pragmatism. We’re also anti-historical: for all we should have learned, too many Western leaders imagine that the Hitlers, Stalins, and Pol Pots were mutants—that the mass murderers of history are somehow different than standard-issue tyrants like Savior Karama. Very few appreciate that—however insane these monsters were—like Karama they made very sophisticated calculations of the forces against them and concluded that they could advance their aims through murder.

  “The only difference is a matter of scale. Hitler and Pol Pot were millions of bodies into it before they went too far; Stalin and Mao killed millions more and still died of old age. Karama understands this. In his peculiar calculus, killing Bobby Okari is a pittance.” Caraway’s tone became weary. “The West’s ultimate delusion is that Karama won’t kill him—that it would simply be too blatant. By the time we face reality, Karama may be watching his home video of Okari’s execution.

  “I’ll help whenever I can, Damon. But your best hope is PGL. With the proper motivation, and Okari’s acquiescence, PGL might yet induce Karama to kick him out.”

  CONCERNED FOR PIERCE’S safety, Bob McGill offered to drive him to the Okaris’ compound. “If they kill you,” he said blithely, “they’ll have to get me, too. Even in Luandia, murdering diplomats is awkward.”

  The young, Pierce reflected, believe that they’re immortal. When McGill pulled up to the compound, Pierce thanked him. “No problem,” McGill responded with a grin. “I like watching you in court. Kind of makes me wish I’d gone to law school.”

  Opening the car door, Pierce mustered a smile. “Keep watching,” he advised. “You’ll get over it.”