ECLIPSE

by Richard North Patterson

  14

  IT WAS NINE P.M. BEFORE PIERCE REACHED CARAWAY, NINE-THIRTY WHEN Pierce and Vorster headed for the embassy. Vorster had again concealed a gun beneath the seat of his SUV. But the broad streets of Savior City were light in traffic and largely free of crime; unlike Waro, this artificial city existed to glorify Karama, and the dictator’s presence fed an oppressive fear of displeasing him. As they neared the embassy, the distant lights of Karama’s redoubt glowed against the dark shadow of Savior Rock. “He’ll be up all night,” Vorster said. “Even without a crisis, Karama’s like Dracula.”

  Pierce’s cell phone rang. When he hit the talk button, he recognized Jeff Schlosser’s voice, its rhythm more rapid than normal. “What the hell’s happening over there? Those soldiers are all over the news.”

  “I just heard,” Pierce said. “All I know is this can’t be good for Bobby.”

  “That was my reaction,” Schlosser said. “Actually, I need to know what you did to stir up Henry Karlin.”

  “Nothing that points to you,” Pierce assured him. “We sent Karlin a subpoena, then wrote to the chairman of your agency asking that it investigate Karlin’s trades. So what’s he done?”

  “Gone ballistic. The chairman came to my office personally, wanting to know what we had on Karlin. When I reviewed the trades with him, he said it was a bullshit case. Then he told me to shut this down before we damage Karlin’s reputation based on unprovable speculation from Luandia.” Schlosser’s voice was etched with cynicism. “I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that our chairman was the finance director for the president’s last campaign, and that Karlin was a major fund-raiser. Money’s only supposed to buy access, not an entire federal agency. You’d think this was Luandia.”

  Pierce felt his own anger merge with a growing sense of helplessness. “So what do you think?”

  “We hit a nerve.” Schlosser paused briefly. “Might as well give you the rest. The day before your letter arrived, Karlin made another futures bet—the option to buy six million barrels at four bucks higher than the current market price.”

  As Pierce digested this, the SUV glided to a stop in front of the American embassy. “When does the option come due?”

  “Three days from now. Just like before, when Karlin bought the options, there’s no apparent reason why the price of oil would spike above four bucks in so short a time. Which strongly suggests that he knows something the average speculator doesn’t. What’s your guess?”

  Pierce felt sick. “That in three days Bobby Okari will be dead.”

  Pierce felt Vorster staring at him. Speaking more slowly, Schlosser said, “You really think that.”

  “I wish I didn’t. But if Bobby’s executed, the price of oil will go way up. Karlin is tied to Ajukwa, who’s tied to Van Daan, who’s tied to Okimbo, who may have ties to General Freedom. One story has it that General Freedom slips bunkered oil out in barges and tankers owned by Ajukwa; another that Ajukwa is the mysterious Jomo.” Pierce paused briefly. “Put all that together, and it helps make sense of Karlin’s trades. Look at the events that happened between the time Karlin bought the first three options and when he cashed them in at a profit: FREE sabotaged PGL facilities; someone lynched three oil workers; and FREE raided Petrol Island. If Ajukwa knew in advance that all this would happen, he could have tipped Karlin off that the world price of oil was likely to go up. Karlin wouldn’t even have to know why.”

  “What would be in it for Ajukwa?”

  “Kickbacks. Karlin’s connections in Washington. Bigger profits on the oil he ships after FREE has stolen it.” Pierce paused. “Perhaps more power. Suppose being Karama’s key adviser isn’t quite enough for him?”

  Pierce heard the silence of thought. “A lot of guesswork,” Schlosser observed, “to account for an execution.”

  Turning, Pierce gazed through the rear window at the lights of Karama’s redoubt. “This is the place for it,” he answered.

  * * *

  PIERCE WAITED IN Caraway’s office for over an hour before the ambassador rushed through the door. “Meetings,” he said hurriedly. “I apologize.”

  “What’s happening with our hostages?”

  Caraway perched on the edge of his couch as though ready to depart at a moment’s notice. His face was tired, his speech uncharacteristically clipped. “We’re still sorting through the scraps of intelligence. The short of it is that Americans are training Luandian soldiers in the Muslim north. Six were snatched from their vehicle near a town named Rakaad. A group calling itself Al Qaeda in Luandia is taking the credit. Our intelligence people have never heard of them.”

  “Meaning they don’t exist?”

  “No one knows for sure. But the name Al Qaeda gives Karama more leverage in America. When Bhutto was assassinated and the Pakistanis blamed Al Qaeda, plenty of Americans were conditioned to believe it—it’s like ringing the dinner bell for Pavlov’s dogs. Same here.” Steepling his fingers, Caraway ventured musingly, “The pity is that we were making progress on Okari. That trial—especially the verdict—raised the chances that the U.S. would speak out much more strongly. I even hoped we might induce the president to call Karama himself.”

  The regret in Caraway’s tone deepened Pierce’s despair. “But not now,” Pierce said.

  “Not likely. The kidnapping of American soldiers trumps Okari’s plight, and empowers the DOD as their protector. We need Karama’s cooperation to get our soldiers back alive. The president is not in a great position to pressure Karama about Okari: if he loses these men, his advisers worry, he’ll be crucified by his critics in Congress and the media.” Caraway stopped himself. “That’s telling you perhaps more than I should. But that 9/11 has changed the nature of our government is no surprise to you.”

  “None,” Pierce said. “But the timing of these kidnappings makes me wonder.”

  Caraway gave him a quizzical smile. “Everything in Luandia doesn’t happen because of Bobby Okari. Most likely this is a tragic coincidence.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  Though Caraway seemed to ponder this, Pierce sensed that he already had. “The ‘terrorist’ kidnappings of American soldiers diverts us from trying to save Okari. If you’re determined to take that road, one can posit that our enemies want to destabilize Luandia, and that Okari’s death will help perpetuate lawlessness in the delta, perhaps driving out companies like PetroGlobal.” Caraway’s tone became dismissive. “Should you want to get even more conspiratorial, you could argue that Islamic terrorists—or whoever the kidnappers are—are doing this to help empower FREE. And if your goal is achieving paranoia, you could choose to believe that Islamic terrorists and FREE have some alliance regarding the use of bunkered oil.

  “But that’s the difficulty. Some of our most highly placed strategists tend to see Al Qaeda where it isn’t. So we invade Iraq and, by doing that, create more soldiers for Al Qaeda and open the country to terrorists who weren’t there before. Which brings us back to where we started—who are ‘Al Qaeda in Luandia,’ and are they Al Qaeda at all?”

  “And if they’re not?”

  Caution showed in Caraway’s eyes. “That’s for our intelligence people.”

  Pierce gazed out the window; even here, he could see the lights of Karama’s fortified palace. “Suppose they’re working for Karama,” Pierce said. “Or someone close to him.”

  Caraway looked at him hard. “Why would you say that?”

  “Your Pakistani example. Whether it’s real or not, Al Qaeda in Luandia empowers Karama more than it embarrasses him. Like Musharraf, Karama becomes an indispensable ally in the war on terror, empowering him to dispose of Bobby as he likes. That’s true even if Karama himself doesn’t know who these kidnappers are.” Pierce leaned forward. “What’s Ugwo Ajukwa’s role in the hostage crisis?”

  Caraway appraised him closely. “Ajukwa is pivotal,” he answered. “He’s Karama’s national security adviser. He’s also a Muslim from the north, with deep connections there.”
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br />   “And what’s his involvement with respect to Bobby?”

  Caraway paused. “According to the foreign minister, Ajukwa is urging Karama to execute him. Not that Karama needs encouragement.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m due to see Karama about the hostage situation in less than an hour—maybe I’ll learn more then. But no matter who these kidnappers are, Karama knows that whatever he does with Okari, many of our oil strategists see him as our best hope of stability.”

  Pierce felt his time running out. “What will you say about Bobby?”

  Caraway gave a brief shake of his head. “I’ve been given a laundry list of requests. Full protection of other Americans in Luandia, including military personnel. Permission to bring in our top military intelligence people. A commitment that Karama will use all his resources to find out where our people are. And, if we need it, Karama’s authorization to bring in the special forces for a rescue operation.” Despite the flatness of Caraway’s tone, Pierce heard a note of apology. “American lives are at stake. In diplomatic parlance, I’m not authorized to make Okari a formal subject of this meeting.”

  “There’s another American life at stake,” Pierce said sharply. “Marissa Okari’s.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Caraway answered. “After they put her under house arrest, I called the foreign minister. Adu tells me that Ms. Okari is also in Karama’s hands. You already know that Luandians don’t recognize dual citizenship. To their mind and, I’m afraid, to ours, she’s different from these soldiers.”

  “But not to me.”

  Caraway nodded. “If there’s a way to slip in a word about the Okaris, I will. After I see Karama, I’ll feel out the foreign minister again. I’ll tell you whatever I learn, good or bad.” He stood abruptly, extending his hand. “I’m very sorry this has happened, Mr. Pierce. It’s far from what I hoped for. Please stay in touch.”

  CHECKING INTO THE hotel, Pierce turned on CNN.

  The international broadcast carried six photos of the kidnapped soldiers: two African-Americans, three Hispanics, and a blond corporal with a crew cut who, despite his expression of martial resolve, looked as innocent as a farm boy. For a moment, Pierce imagined millions of Americans filled with empathy for the soldiers’ families and anger at their abductors. Then he pulled out his cell phone to call Dave Rubin. “Who’s ‘Al Qaeda in Luandia’?” Pierce asked.

  “Damned if I know,” Rubin answered. “As I told you before, there’s evidence of a jihadist presence in the north. But I’m wondering if someone made these guys up.”

  Pierce heard the beep of an incoming call. “Hang on, Dave.” Pushing the flash button, he answered.

  His caller’s voice was resonant. “Is this Damon Pierce?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Ugwo Ajukwa, national security adviser to President Karama. Come to Savior Rock at half past midnight and General Karama will grant you fifteen minutes.”

  Without awaiting an answer, Ajukwa hung up.

  15

  JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT, PIERCE AND VORSTER REACHED THE HIGH metal gate that protected the entrance to Savior Rock.

  The barrier was guarded by soldiers in combat fatigues. After an officer checked by telephone with someone inside, the electronic fence opened, and Vorster and Pierce drove into four square miles surrounded by a twenty-foot concrete wall and shrouded in darkness. A winding road flanked by palms led to the distant palace, brightly lit against the looming outline of Savior Rock, fifteen hundred feet of black stone. Three times Pierce and Vorster stopped at gated checkpoints manned by sentries. Three times they passed large buildings: the compound of the state security services, bristling with satellite equipment intended to alert Karama to a coup; the home of the vice president, built inside Karama’s compound to make its resident his virtual prisoner; the Congress building, where “elected” members could not come or go unless the president permitted it. To Pierce, the compound was the physical expression of Karama’s need to maintain power through fear. Pierce felt that fear himself; catching his mood, Vorster murmured, “Into the belly of the beast.”

  After another half mile of darkness, they passed through the final gate, entering a driveway to Karama’s sprawling palace. Set against the black mass of Savior Rock, it was bathed in spotlights that illuminated the lushly landscaped grounds as brightly as a football stadium at night. Reaching this fortress, Vorster let Pierce out.

  Pierce stopped at the foot of the marble steps. Stationed amid the plants and trees, video cameras captured every stride he took. The palace itself, grand in the manner of nineteenth-century France, displayed what appeared to be a system of alarms and sensors. Pierce slowly climbed the steps to a twenty-foot-high metal door, in front of which stood three uniformed Asians with automatic weapons, Karama’s North Korean bodyguards, their faces as blank as their eyes were hard. Passing between the guards, Pierce saw the metal doors parting without the apparent involvement of a human being.

  Inside was a white marble entryway the size of a basketball court, with forty-foot ceilings and a marble stairway, covered in deep red carpet, that rose to the president’s quarters. A watchful man in impeccable dress materialized from a side entrance and led Pierce up the stairs. At their head were more Koreans. Without acknowledging their presence, the man led Pierce into Savior Karama’s waiting room.

  It was, as Caraway had described it, as gaudy as the court of Louis XIV. But tonight it was not filled with sycophants or favor seekers. When the assistant led Pierce to a thickly upholstered armchair and left him there, Pierce was alone.

  He was at Karama’s mercy. Repressing his apprehension, Pierce focused on what he must try to accomplish, uncertain of what effect his words would have on a person so brutal and unpredictable. Then, Pierce saw, rather than heard, a tall man enter the room. Wearing long white robes and an African cap, he seemed less to walk than to glide, his appearance of ease contradicted by a look of enmity directed at Pierce. Even before he spoke, in a deep American-accented voice, Pierce recognized him as Ugwo Ajukwa. “You are Mr. Pierce,” Ajukwa said in a cool tone. “You know, I think, who I am.”

  He did not extend his hand. Nodding, Pierce said simply, “I do.”

  As he followed Ajukwa, Pierce recalled Bobby’s account of being summoned by Karama: they walked through a sumptuous sitting room and into an illuminated garden that ended at the iron bars of Karama’s zoo. With his back to Pierce and Ajukwa, a uniformed man gazed into its darkness, motionless, as though listening for the sounds of animals at night. As Ajukwa approached him, Pierce stopped amid the garden. “Mr. President?” Ajukwa said.

  Karama did not turn; at first, Pierce thought he had not heard. Then Karama ordered, “Bring him.”

  Ajukwa beckoned to Pierce. Pierce walked forward, stopping a few feet from Karama. “This is Okari’s lawyer,” Ajukwa said.

  At last Karama turned. Though Pierce had seen him on a giant screen, he was not prepared for the impact of looking Savior Karama in the face. Even without knowing of Karama’s cruelty, Pierce would have felt it. The aviator sunglasses, concealing his eyes, deepened the impassivity of someone utterly indifferent to human contact; the tribal scars on the man’s face underscored the gulf between him and Pierce. Ajukwa stood behind Karama, even taller and much lighter of skin—a dagger to Karama’s bludgeon, so different in appearance, and so intently watchful, that Pierce intuited a distrust grounded in ethnicity and ambition. His voice etched with disdain, Karama said, “You came to plead for Okari’s life. So plead.”

  Fighting a sudden queasiness, Pierce glanced at Ajukwa. “I came to speak with you alone.”

  Ajukwa’s eyes narrowed. “Speak,” he interjected, “and be done with it—”

  Still watching Pierce, Karama raised his hand for silence. “First you spew insults,” he said to Pierce. “Now you set conditions. Soon you will shit from fear.”

  To show fear, Pierce sensed, would mean failure and perhaps increase the danger to Bobby and himself. “What I have to say is between you an
d Bobby Okari. No one else is meant to hear it.”

  Karama showed no flicker of expression. Then he held up his hand again, snapping his fingers. “Go,” he said.

  At first Pierce did not know for whom these words were intended. Then Ajukwa spoke sharply: “This is a trick.”

  Still Karama stared at Pierce. With deadly softness, he said, “So I am not equipped to deal with tricks? Then perhaps you think I should not be president.”

  Ajukwa’s expression became veiled; over Karama’s shoulder, he gave Pierce a measured nod, as though he had marked him well. Ajukwa’s footsteps as he left made no sound.

  “Speak,” Karama said.

  Pierce felt his time trickling away. “All Bobby wants,” Pierce said, “is hope for the delta. To kill him would be like executing Mandela. You’ll unleash hell.”

  “Nelson Mandela?” Karama repeated with contempt. “I have yet to hear from him. So perhaps Okari is not as important as he imagines himself. Only I can make him so by keeping him alive; the world will think him too sacred for me to hang. Okari is only useful to me dead.”

  Karama’s implacable reasoning gave Pierce pause. “You can make him useful alive,” Pierce answered. “Spare him, and the world will see you differently.”

  “You babble Okari’s pieties,” Karama snapped, “mistaking poetry for power. He believes himself to be the world’s darling, too rare a soul to be executed by a simple military man. But who is to stop me? PetroGlobal? They owe their stockholders the profits I can give them. The Chinese? They kill their own Okaris by the thousands, including in Tibet. The Africans? South Africa helped keep Mugabe in business, and Mugabe has no oil. America? As long as they get their oil and save their precious soldiers, the day after I hang Okari he’ll be just another black corpse.

  “True, there will be noble speeches about his sacrifice, the indomitability of his spirit, the obligation of those who survive never to forget. But the world is a forgetful place. Your cars will run; your youth will go to the movies; your president will thank me for my friendship. Soon Okari’s people will remember him, if at all, as the murderer of three Asari oil workers. If this pathetic plea is all you came for, you’ve wasted my time.”