ECLIPSE

by Richard North Patterson

  Glancing at Marissa, Pierce saw Bobby shake his head. Pierce walked over to him. “I won’t allow this,” Bobby said, “and you shouldn’t want it. To call Marissa would jeopardize her further. Whatever becomes of me, I want her to survive.”

  There was nothing for Pierce to say. Facing Orta, he said quietly, “We have no other witnesses. Do what you will.”

  Raising his head, Orta tried to gather the remnants of his dignity. “We will entertain closing arguments at nine A.M. tomorrow,” he intoned. “Then we will render our verdict.”

  12

  IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT, BUT NO ONE AT THE OKARIS’ COMPOUND SLEPT.

  In her bedroom, Marissa called and e-mailed media contacts and supporters in America, alerting them to the fateful pronouncement awaiting Bobby in the morning. Working beside Pierce in Bobby’s study, Atiku Bara alerted diplomatic contacts in Europe and among the nations of the British Commonwealth, seeking more visible support for Bobby in the rush of events. Shutting his mind to its hopelessness, Pierce prepared the final argument, logical but impassioned, that he would have given in an American court. Turning off his cell phone, Bara asked Pierce, “What will you say?”

  “That he’s innocent. What else is there to say?”

  Bara cast a troubled gaze at the carpet. “He should have said so himself.”

  “To what end?”

  “For the world to hear to hear.” Bara’s eyes met Pierce’s. “For me to hear.”

  The tenor of his voice filled Pierce with unease. “What are you saying, Atiku?”

  Bara drew a breath. “Lucky Joba wasn’t lying. The phone call he heard Bobby making was to me.”

  Pierce sat back, stunned. All he could do was stare at Bara, trying to reintegrate his sense of this man in light of the secret he had carried. “He was just so tired,” Bara murmured. “Worried the youth were slipping away—”

  “According to Joba,” Pierce cut in, “Bobby said there must be deaths.”

  “To me, he was speaking out of anguish, less for himself than imagining the mind of an Asari youth.” Bara’s tone was soft. “Obviously, I issued no orders. Almost as soon as Bobby said this I could feel his regret. We never spoke of it again.”

  “Not even after the lynchings?”

  “There was too much for us to talk about. Perhaps he didn’t remember; perhaps he did not wish to.”

  Pierce rubbed his eyes. The truth behind his sense that Bara concealed secrets now seemed clear. The burden Bara carried was his fierce loyalty to Bobby; the information he had withheld from Pierce concerned his own doubts. “According to Eric Aboh,” Pierce said, “Bobby told him something similar—if more ambiguous.”

  “True. But Eric is jealous and a coward. All it would take is a healthy fear of Okimbo to cause him to enrich his testimony.”

  For a moment Pierce was quiet, torn between dread of his question and the need to hear the answer. “Do you think Bobby ordered the killings? Or said anything that might have encouraged them?”

  Bara considered his answer. “For all the time I’ve known him, Bobby’s commitment to nonviolence has seemed absolute. In my heart, I still believe this. We’ve proven that the trial is a farce, and that someone else may well have ordered those men hung. Perhaps that is all we could do. But the barest possibility lingers that Karama and his underlings may have framed a guilty man. For Bobby’s sake, and mine, I wish this were not so.”

  For me now, as well, Pierce thought. But all he said was “You’ve been a loyal friend, Atiku. You have nothing to regret.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, Pierce felt an oppressive fear permeate the courtroom. Soldiers ringed the building; inside, the number of guards had doubled. As if on alert, Okimbo stood instead of sitting, positioned so that the tribunal could not help but see him. The gallery was quiet. Even the judges appeared lifeless: when Orta spoke, inviting closing arguments, his voice was barely audible. Watching, Marissa was so rigidly composed that the effort this must surely require touched Pierce more than tears.

  In his closing argument, Ngara was perfunctory, as though he had lost any relish for a drama whose fraudulence was so transparent. After reviewing the testimony against Bobby, he said, “These murders were the inevitable culmination of seditious rhetoric, secessionist ambition, and civil disobedience against the security and economic interests of the state—crimes in themselves punishable by death.” He pointed to Bobby Okari. “Now this man, so voluble in his insolence, has refused to speak to the evidence. This court has no choice but to find Bobby Okari guilty and sentence him to death.”

  Sitting beside Pierce, Bara stared at the table. As Pierce gathered his notes, Bobby touched his arm, his eyes filled with intensity and purpose. “Our final words should come from me.”

  There was no reason, Pierce realized, to refuse. Nodding, he stood. “As is his right, Mr. Okari wishes to speak on his own behalf.”

  Orta’s features rearranged themselves: his lips pressed, his eyes narrowed, and the furrow in his forehead deepened. Then he mustered a curt nod.

  Bobby stood with difficulty, resting his palms on the table for support. His gaze swept the tribunal, first resting on Nubola, then Uza, and finally Orta. Softly, he told them, “I knew that someday we would meet before they ever brought me to this place.

  “Long ago, by speaking for my people, I signed a pact with death. I knew full well the fate of those who protest in Luandia. You are merely Karama’s pawns, interchangeable cogs in the machinery of death.”

  The courtroom was hushed. Watching Okimbo, Pierce waited for him to halt the proceedings, or for Orta to do so out of fear. Bobby’s speech gathered a relentless force. “I’ve committed no crime but to rally the oppressed to seek an end to misery. The punishment was the slaughter of my people.” His voice filled with searing anger. “The men who are your overlords have fouled our land; poisoned our water; ravaged our daughters; killed our men, women, and children and driven their survivors into hiding. And now the ‘judicial system’ for which you are the front men has beaten, starved, and tortured me; stripped my wife naked for trying to see me; intimidated and bribed fearful men to bear false witness against me; and trampled every right due any man in its indecent haste to kill me.”

  On the bench, Orta reached for his gavel, staring at Bobby. “Even now,” Bobby asked him, “are you still afraid of truth? If you find me guilty, as Karama has ordered you to, the world will see your cravenness and shame. And if you sentence me to death, you are as guilty of murder as whoever hung those men.”

  Okimbo stepped into the well of the courtroom, nodding peremptorily to Orta. But the judge still held the gavel. “I stand before you,” Bobby continued, “appalled by our poverty; distressed by our political subjugation; angered by the devastation of our land; sorrowing for the loss of our heritage; compelled to uphold our right to a decent way of life; and determined to help give our country a government that protects us all. So I am not the only man on trial.”

  When Pierce glanced at Marissa, her eyes were shining with pride and anguish. “All of us,” Bobby said firmly, “stand trial before history. The government and PGL are on trial. So are the politicians, soldiers, businessmen, lawyers, and judges—too greedy to act, too afraid to speak the truth—who abet the cruelty and corruption of the state. And so are all the nations of the world who take our oil to fuel their cars and factories and arms and lust for power, leaving us with nothing but men like you.”

  Angrily, Orta cracked his gavel, “Silence.”

  Bobby shook his head. “We are almost done here, you and I. For you and for your colleagues, this is the last chance to expunge your own guilt. For your sake, and that of our people, I ask that you take it.”

  Wearily, Bobby sat down. Breaking the silence, someone applauded. Furious, Orta banged his gavel.

  This time the silence was complete. Filled with dread, Pierce watched the judges talk among themselves. When Orta faced the courtroom, he did not look toward Bobby, and his voice was devoid of feeling. “We find th
e defendant Robert Okari guilty of murder and sedition. The sentence for these crimes is death by hanging.”

  Pierce heard a gasp. Glancing up, he saw Okimbo smile; his foot tapped, as though keeping time to music only he could hear. Fighting his outrage, Pierce stood. “We ask for time to petition the government. What is the scheduled date of execution?”

  Humiliation passed through Orta’s eyes. “By decree of the executive, the court has no discretion in this matter. We await instructions from President Karama.”

  Orta banged the gavel. The tribunal stood at once and retreated from the courtroom.

  On Okimbo’s order, four soldiers came for Bobby. Stoically, he quickly embraced Bara, then Pierce. As the soldiers encircled Bobby, he turned to see Marissa.

  She stood there, motionless, until Bobby disappeared. Pierce knew he would always remember the desperation in her eyes, the look of a wife who might never again see her husband.

  13

  IN TAUT SILENCE, VORSTER AND CLELLAN DROVE PIERCE, ATIKU BARA, and Marissa away from the courthouse. Marissa stared ahead, ignoring the barricades and soldiers. But when they reached the compound, armed soldiers under Okimbo’s command were stationed at the iron gate.

  Lowering the window, Clellan waited. A lieutenant in combat fatigues approached. Peering in at Marissa, he said, “Mrs. Okari is under house arrest. Once inside, she stays there.”

  Pierce got out, facing the lieutenant. “On whose orders?”

  The man shook his head. “Don’t question us,” he said curtly. “Unless you want to join her.”

  He barked a command to a soldier inside the gate, and the iron bars slowly parted. As Bara and Marissa got out, Pierce leaned inside the van. “Wait here,” he told Vorster. “I’ll call you.”

  Vorster nodded; there was nothing else to do. “Let’s go inside,” Pierce told Marissa.

  Her look was both fearful and questioning. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Together, Marissa and the two lawyers walked through the gate, and then it closed behind them.

  ONCE INSIDE, PIERCE asked Marissa for a moment with Bara. The two men went to the patio. The noontime heat was sweltering; beads of sweat appeared on Bara’s forehead. “You could be next,” Pierce told him.

  “And you?”

  “I’m an American. My chances are better than yours. God knows what will happen in the delta now.”

  Bara put his hands in his pockets. “The only alternative to Karama will be FREE. Perhaps that’s why those murders happened.” His gaze met Pierce’s. “It took such courage for Bobby to speak today. Once he said such things because he believed that, in the end, words of hope would triumph over weapons. Now hope will die with him.” Tears surfaced in Bara’s eyes. “I must try to remember Asari Day—men and women, young and old, all demanding justice. Then others may remember, too.”

  His tone was valedictory, as though Bobby were already a memory. “He’s not dead yet,” Pierce said. “There’s a meeting of the Commonwealth nations, in Australia. If you can leave, go there, and talk to any leader you can find about speaking out on Bobby’s behalf. If enough of them do, maybe we can save him.”

  Bara looked down. Neither man said what both believed: that the purpose of this mission would be to save not Bobby Okari but Atiku Bara. “And Marissa?” Bara asked.

  “I’ll take care of her.”

  Slowly, Bara nodded. “There’s something else you can do,” he told Pierce. “Among the Asari, it is tradition that we are buried in our home village. Otherwise the dead man’s soul can never sleep. If they murder Bobby, try to see that he’s laid to rest in Goro.” His voice softened. “This should have been my duty, Damon.”

  “You have a family in London.” Facing Bara, Pierce felt a renewed fear for him. “Vorster’s waiting outside. Say good-bye to Marissa and go.”

  Awkwardly, the two men embraced. “Do me a favor in return,” Pierce told Bara. “If they murder Bobby, don’t come back. Leave this last to me.”

  WHEN BARA HAD gone, Pierce went to Marissa’s bedroom.

  She sat in the window, gazing out at the Atlantic. “How are you?” he asked.

  After a moment, she turned to him. “I was thinking about the three of us, back in Berkeley.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “A thousand things.” She hesitated. “I found myself imagining that I’d chosen not to come here. Then I felt ashamed.”

  “Human, you mean?”

  “I guess. In my more selfless moments, I imagine you’d never met me. Or maybe that’s just self-pity.”

  Pierce waited a moment. “I have to leave, Marissa.”

  Her eyes glistened. “I know.”

  Watching her face, Pierce realized that, dislocated by all that had happened, she thought he was returning to America. “Not home,” he said. “I’m flying to Savior City before those soldiers shut me in here.”

  “For what?”

  “To see Caraway, and maybe Gladstone—he’s got a meeting with Karama.” Pausing, he searched for words of hope. “That today was so awful helps us in the eyes of the world, I think. Whatever else, it should be the end of delusions.”

  “The end of mine.” Marissa bowed her head. “I find myself waiting for the telephone to ring, Okimbo inviting me to collect my husband’s body from him. I can’t stop seeing Bobby hanging from those gallows. I wonder if it’s better knowing the hour that he’s scheduled to die, or to die with him hour by hour.”

  Pierce did not know what to say. By leaving, he could lose himself in action; Marissa was forced to wait alone, dreading what would happen to Bobby, and herself. At length, Pierce said, “I’ll do whatever I can for him. Then I’m coming back for you.”

  “Only if it’s safe.” Looking up at him, she tried to smile. “Don’t become a burden to me. It’s enough to worry about the other man I love.”

  Looking into her face, Pierce understood, as much as he could, how she must have felt watching her husband taken from the courtroom. “When I said I was coming back,” he told her, “I was promising myself.”

  “Then I won’t say good-bye,” she answered softly. “We’ve done that too often already.”

  THAT EVENING PIERCE boarded a plane for Savior City.

  The soldiers had let him leave without incident; the question was whether he could return. Flying with Vorster, he found his thoughts oscillating between Bobby and Marissa—fearing that Bobby might be dead by the time he arrived; imagining what might happen to Marissa. To leave her effectively in Okimbo’s custody filled him with foreboding. As the plane taxied to the gate, he found a message on his cell phone and was certain it meant the worst for both Okaris.

  But the message was from Gladstone. “I saw Karama,” he said simply.

  THEY MET IN the dimly lit restaurant of a luxury hotel. Though his attire remained elegant, Gladstone looked as though he had not slept, and his voice and manner were subdued. “It was after midnight,” he said, “in Karama’s backyard zoo. As we spoke, he threw scraps of meat to a pair of tigers. Karama called Okari a secessionist. His fate was not a question of commerce, Karama said, nor could he take into account our fears of an American court.

  “It was like talking to a monomaniac—no give at all. I tried to resurrect his previous hint that, were we quiescent, he might content himself with exiling Okari. He answered that this was before you and this American she-judge conspired to embarrass him.” Gladstone sipped his mineral water. “I took that as a suggestion for us to be silent. So do my superiors.”

  “Then it seems they’ve got a choice,” Pierce answered. “Please Karama and fuel my lawsuit, or do the morally decent thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Speak out against Bobby’s execution, here and in America. Not just for show—PetroGlobal has friends at the White House and in Congress.” Pierce’s voice hardened. “By tomorrow Okari may be dead. All I can do then is amend my lawsuit to include his execution, with the widow Okari as plaintiff. The result for PetroG
lobal will be worse than you imagine. I don’t think its officers will enjoy answering for Okari’s murder.”

  Gladstone shot him a resentful look. “I don’t enjoy answering for Roos Van Daan. You can be sure that our chairman and our board are acutely aware of the problem you’ve created. They’re less persuaded of Okari’s innocence; oddly enough, the hanging of our employees troubles them as much as the prospect of Okari’s.” Gladstone’s tone became sardonic. “Sentiment aside, our board isn’t interested in trying to save Bobby if all they get is more of you. They want this lawsuit gone.”

  “And I want both Okaris alive. Did Karama say anything about her?”

  “No. Not even to suggest that she’s the bone he’ll throw us in return for silence.”

  Pierce absorbed this. “I’m not the client. But tell your people this: if they help get both Okaris get out alive, I’ll find some way to end this lawsuit.”

  Gladstone stared at him. “That’s all?” he inquired tartly.

  “Not quite. I want a meeting with Karama. I know you can accomplish that much, Michael. So please don’t tell me no.”

  Gladstone’s expression filled with misgiving. “The man’s a psychopath,” he said flatly. “If I succeed, bring something to feed the tigers besides yourself.”

  His cell phone rang. Taking it from his suit coat, Gladstone glanced at the number, then pushed the talk button. “What is it?” he asked brusquely.

  Gladstone listened. After a moment, his eyes froze. Before hanging up, he said softly, “Thank you.”

  “Is Okari dead?” Pierce asked at once.

  “No. But you’d better get to Caraway as quickly as you can.”

  “What is it?”

  “Six American military advisers have been kidnapped in the north, allegedly by Islamic terrorists.” Gladstone shook his head in dismay. “I’m no geopolitical strategist, but I’d say this changes everything.”