by Kyle Mills
Wasn't that how deals with the devil always went? He'd bargained for his freedom and in the process had permanently lost it.
Trent picked up the phone and dialed, swilling the rest of his drink as he listened to it ring.
"Yes."
"Hello, Aleksei."
"What the fuck took so long? Mtiti's been calling every hour, and I can't keep ducking him."
"I'm sorry for the delay. I wanted to make sure I had all the facts."
"And what are they?"
"I'm taking care of the situation with Mtiti's photo op, but Josh Hagarty isn't as easy. I don't think he's going to work out."
"What do you mean he isn't going to work out? This was your plan -- you found him, you trained him, and you told me he was perfect for this job."
Of course that was a wild distortion of the truth, but arguing with Aleksei Fedorov was always dangerous and most often pointless.
"He has suspicions --"
"Suspicions? What in the hell are you doing over there, Stephen? He just landed on a continent he's never been to before, he doesn't speak the language, and we have him isolated in a compound in the middle of nowhere. Are you advertising what we're doing on television there?"
"He has some family problems to deal with and wants to go home, Aleksei. No harm done --"
"No harm done? How much does he know?"
"Not enough that it's going to cause us a problem. We'll give him a good severance, and he'll never think about us or this country again."
"What guarantee do I have of that? How do I know he's not going to come home and start talking to people? How do I know he isn't going to start a goddamn blog called `My Time with NewAfrica'?"
"I'll talk to him. I'll --"
"Get rid of him."
"Aleksei, it's too soon after Dan. Our donors are going to start getting uncomfortable, and it's going to make it impossible for us to replace him."
"Replace him? With who? You searched the whole country, and he's the only thing you came up with."
"There was the candidate from Cali--"
"No. You told me Hagarty was the best man for the job. He's either going to stay on, or he's going to disappear."
Trent looked longingly at his empty glass and fell into the chair behind his desk. The idea had been that Josh was someone who could be slowly brought along and eventually told the truth about NewAfrica. That he, unlike a typical aid agency do-gooder, could be made to understand the situation for what it was and appreciate the financial opportunities it could provide. After their last meeting, though, Trent was beginning to realize that he'd misjudged his new employee -- that Josh Hagarty would never be able to accept what they were doing here.
"I'm not sure either one of those options is the best course, Aleksei."
"What about his sister?"
Trent rested his head in his hand. It always came down to the children. The ones least able to defend themselves.
"Her name is Laura," Trent said quietly.
"She's seventeen years old, living in a rural part of Kentucky with their mother." "And they're close?"
"Yes."
"Then maybe we need to show him just how easy it is for us to get to her."
Chapter 22.
"Hey!" Josh Hagarty shouted, running toward a soldier who had just sent a young boy sprawling to the ground.
Josh managed to grab the kid and pull him away before the soldier could deliver the kick he was clearly lining up for. A moment later he found himself staring down the barrel of a machine gun. Terrifying, but not exactly unexpected.
The malaise that had engulfed his project after the fire was gone. No fewer than forty of Mtiti's soldiers had come roaring up the road that morning in a convoy of flatbed trucks loaded with mature cornstalks.
Josh raised his hands and began to slowly back away as the soldier barked unintelligibly at him. On the hill, maybe three hundred yards away, he could see Gideon watching. Apparently, instead of firing him, Trent had put him in charge of whatever the hell it was that was happening.
Josh had to admit, though, that he'd never seen his workers move with the kind of urgency he was seeing now. There was obviously something extremely motivating about being chased around by fatigue-clad thugs wielding assault rifles and machetes. Despite a complete lack of organization, the burned tractor was already gone -- dragged out with a team of cows and some rope. The remains of the storage building were in the process of being dismantled by a group of children, and the black ash was being swept away by an army of women armed with brooms improvised from handfuls of straw.
Most impressive, though, was the fact that almost half the field was already replanted, and the corn necessary to finish the job was on its way -- passed hand to hand by a line of straining workers.
The soldier motioned with his gun for him to get out of there, but Josh remained frozen, uncertain what to do.
This was slavery, plain and simple. The men, women, and children he had been working with were being driven past the point of elthaustion by terror and violence. But what could he do? Tfmena was gone, he didn't speak the language, and he was seen as just another ineffectual white alien in this world. One last glance at a smug Gideon and Josh retreated back through the chaos.
"Busy little beaver today, aren't you?"
JB Flannary had set up two lawn chairs on a small rise that afforded a sweeping view of the mayhem below. He patted the empty seat next to him, and Josh dropped into it, too worn out and frustrated to do anything else.
"I'm done."
"Done with what?" Flannary said, fishing a beer from the cooler next to him and holding it out.
"Everything. You, this continent, Stephen Trent. By this time next week, I'm gonna be sitting in front of my mom's trailer wondering what the hell just happened."
"And that's a good thing?"
Josh accepted the beer and stared down at it. Of course it wasn't a good thing. All the problems he'd run from were still waiting for him. But at least in Kentucky there was someone he could actually help. Here he was useless. Or worse.
They sat in silence for a while, drinking and watching the field being planted. When all the corn was in, the trucks pulled back and the women went to work erasing their tracks from the dirt.
"Looks even better without the shed and the tractor," Flannary observed. "More authentic."
His voice carried more than a hint of sarcasm, but there was no denying that he was right. Tightly framed and from just the right angle, the newly planted field looked almost idyllic. Sun-dappled corn swayed in the breeze, endless green hills retreated into the horizon. If it hadn't been for the soldiers frisking various men and women before dragging them into an inexplicable line, it would have seemed almost peaceful.
A small dot appeared on the horizon, and a few moments later the drone of a helicopter became audible. The workers who hadn't passed muster were chased into the trees by screaming men with guns.
The afternoon rains hadn't come that day, and the dust turned into a choking cloud as the helicopter landed on the far edge of the project. When the air cleared, the door slid open and a few well-armed men jumped out, surveying the area before motioning behind them.
The workers began to cheer as Umboto Mtiti emerged, but it was less a sign of political solidarity than a reaction to the not-so-gentle urging of the men guarding them.
"His Excellency, the president," one of Mtiti's entourage called out in an impressive baritone. "Ruler of the country, commander of the armed forces, and savior of his people."
"Don't forget 'world-class scumbag,' " Flannary added, raising his beer in a drunken salute.
Josh had seen a few poor-quality photos of Mtiti, but beyond the roundness of his face and the uniform heavy with medals he'd awarded himself, they hadn't captured the man. First, they always depicted him smiling -- an emotion that seemed completely foreign to the face that Josh saw now. And second, they couldn't replicate the sheer size of the man. He had to be at least six-four, with the formless
bulk of a retired power lifter.
Mtiti didn't acknowledge his fans, instead marching directly toward the cornfield as a group of photographers hurried to keep up. One skittered over to the recently formed line of workers, finding an angle from which he could capture their cheers without including the soldiers extracting them.
"Vultures," Flannary said.
"Photographers. I hate those sons of bitches. The root of all evil, if you ask me."
"I thought money was the root of all evil."
"A distant second, son. Ever wonder how they get all those pictures of starving kids in a country like this one that's drowning in donated food?"
"I never really thought about it."
Flannary frowned deeply as he followed Mtiti's progress. "I was at a hospital down south a few years back. A bunch of photographers from some NGO or another found a kid with dysentery, took him out of his bed and laid him on a patch of floor where the tiles were broken, and started taking pictures. But the kid was on the mend, and he didn't look sick enough, so they asked the doctor if he'd take out the kid's IV for a while."
"Bullshit."
"I swear on my mother's grave."
"Did the doctor do it?"
"I don't know. I went outside, slashed their tires, and got drunk. Been that way ever since."
Josh wanted to believe that the story was an exaggeration, or maybe even the fabrication of a booze-soaked brain, but like most of what the reporter said, it had the depressing ring of truth.
Josh drained the rest of his beer as Stephen Trent appeared in the door of the helicopter wearing a pair of khaki cargo pants and a NewAfrica T-shirt. He looked a bit reluctant to get out but managed to overcome his hesitation and jog to Mtiti's side. He nodded respectfully as the president talked, but there was no indication that they were actually discussing the project. Neither man showed any interest at all.
"Aren't you gonna go down and press the flesh a little?" Flannary asked. "Mtiti is one of the greatest men in history. If you don't believe me, just ask him."
The truth was that Josh just wanted to sit there, get drunk, and wait for it to be morning in the United States so he could check up on Laura. Even with everything that had happened, though, it seemed a little disrespectful to sit there under an umbrella watching his boss and the president of the country like they were a sideshow in some grotesque circus. His chances for getting a letter of recommendation were looking pretty slim as it was.
Josh pushed himself out of his chair and walked down the hill, joining the carefully selected group of workers being marched toward the president. They seemed nervous, unsure what was going to happen to them, and some looked at him for reassurance. He considered giving them a composed smile, but it seemed too dishonest.
A shout and wave from Stephen Trent got Josh ushered through the makeshift barricades. He concentrated on looking nonthreatening as he approached, aware of the armed men watching him.
"Mr. President," Trent said, "I'd like to introduce you to Josh Hagarty. He's our man on the ground here."
Mtiti appraised him emotionlessly and ignored Josh's outstretched hand. Not that he could blame the man. It wasn't like the work that had been done here demanded a hell of a lot of respect.
"Who's that you're sitting with over there?" Trent said as Mtiti turned his back on them and started toward the photographers setting up equipment.
"Nobody. He's a reporter who lives in the compound."
"JB Flannary," Trent said. "Are you two friends?"
Josh shrugged. "There aren't that many people to hang around with, you know?"
"I understand, but I wonder if you could have chosen more wisely than a burned-out reporter who sits around all day and criticizes everyone who tries to do something positive with their lives. He's done real hatchet jobs on charities in the past."
The workers were being arranged in a way that would obscure the cornfield's lack of depth, and the photographers had descended into an argument about where to best put Mtiti.
"That was a long time ago. These days he just writes positive stuff." Josh paused for a moment. "If he didn't, I'm guessing he'd have been run out on a rail by now."
The photographers made their decision, and the president was positioned amid a group of children, who began cheering and waving their hands in the air on cue. With a little Photoshop, it would be quite the inspiring image.
"Any word on my plane ticket?"
"I think I've managed to get you a seat on the nineteenth."
"The nineteenth? That's almost three weeks from now."
"You're lucky it's not three months the way the flights are these days," Trent said, wiping the sweat off the back of his neck in a way that seemed to be a nervous tic. "Before you leave, though, we need to talk about your sister."
"I've been thinking more about that, Stephen. I appreciate your offer and all, but I don't think you can help. Actually, I know you can't. This is something I have to take care of myself."
"Shit," Trent muttered, but Josh realized it wasn't directed at him. After less than two minutes of having his picture taken, Mtiti waved a hand in frustration and started back toward his helicopter.
"Look, I've got to go," Trent said, joining the bodyguards and protesting photographers following along in the president's wake. "But we have to talk. I'll give you a call and we'll set it up."
"Looks like you and Mtiti hit it off right away," Flannary said, still lounging in his shaded beach chair.
"Fuck off."
"Would you like me to get you a drink while I'm fucking off?"
"Goes without saying."
The helicopter was already in the air, and the people beneath it scrambled to escape the stinging dust, temporarily deaf to the soldiers' orders. Flannary held out a beer, but Josh shook his head. "Got anything stronger?"
"Why*
Josh sank into the empty chair and watched the helicopter gain altitude as the soldiers tried to regain control. "Because they didn't fix the irrigation system."
Flannary nodded thoughtfully. "I missed that. You've probably got enough people to hand them water for a couple of weeks until you can rig something up."
"I don't think it'll be necessary."
Flannary's brow furrowed, and he handed Josh a half-full bottle of vodka. The air cleared, and the empty flatbeds pulled back up to the cornfield. Within a few minutes, the first stalks had been dug up and were being passed hand to hand back to the trucks.
"You knew that was going to happen," Flannary said, admiration clearly audible in his voice.
"I suspected."
Flannary reached over and clinked his glass against the bottle of vodka in Josh's hand. "You're one cynical son of a bitch, kid. I think I'm actually starting to like you."
Chapter 23.
"They were going to assassinate Tfmena?" Flannary said. "Who was paying?"
They'd sat in those lawn chairs for almost six hours the day before, drinking and watching Gideon oversee the dismantling of the project. There had been nothing left when they finally got up and stumbled back to the compound. No corn, no tools, no people. Nothing.
Josh had been depressed and drunk enough to agree to get up before dawn to drive Flannary to the airport. At the time it had seemed like a good idea. Now, not so much.
Josh opened the door of the Land Cruiser and vomited onto the dirt rushing below, barely managing to pull himself upright in time to miss an animal-drawn cart meandering up the side of the road.
"Annika listened to the recording at least ten times, and she says she got pretty much all of it," he said, grabbing a warm Coke and swishing his mouth out with it. "No mention of who the moneyman was."
"Please tell me you still have it."
"The MP3 player?" Josh shook his head. "Stephen wanted it, so I gave it to him."
"Jesus Christ!" Flannary shouted. "How could you do something that stupid?"
"Don't bust my balls, JB. I knew it was a mistake, but he's my boss, and he said he needed it to justify getting r
id of Gideon. What was I gonna do? Call him a liar and make a run for it?"
"Why the hell not?"
Flannary seemed impervious to lack of sleep, hangovers, and pretty much everything else. He was well-scrubbed, what remained of his hair had been trimmed, and his badly dated clothes were wrinkle free. According to him, this rare trip to the United States was for his brother's wedding, but he didn't seem particularly interested in the prospect of being reunited with his family.
"You know, when you first got here, I figured you were just some stooge New-Africa had hired. But now I think you're too dumb to be a stooge."
Josh grimaced, though he was fairly certain the statement was meant as a compliment. "You know, JB, every time we talk, I get the feeling you're dancing around something. It's starting to make me want to punch your face in."
The reporter grabbed his travel mug and took a thoughtful swig of the Bloody Mary it contained. "Have you ever asked Trent what happened to Dan?"
Josh wasn't sure how he'd expected Flan-nary to respond, but that wasn't it. "Yeah. We've talked about it."
"What did he say?"
"Not much. He implied that Dan had gotten involved in something illegal."
"That's bullshit."
"How do you know?"
"Because Dan Ordman was an insufferable Boy Scout from a stinking-rich family of East Coast liberals. Now, if someone told me you were into something shady, I'd be open to the idea. But Dan? No fucking way."
"I'm driving you six hours to the airport, you know. A little respect would be in order."
"No offense intended," Flannary said. "But you're not exactly the prototype for this kind of work. As near as I can tell, you're nothing but a desperate guy with an armed-robbery conviction."
Josh slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop and sitting there with the dust rolling over them.
"Are you throwing me out?" Flannary asked.
It was a good idea. Just shove him out the door and watch him recede until he was nothing but a little fleck in the rearview mirror. Some lucky hyena's evening snack.
Instead Josh stomped on the accelerator, and they fishtailed back out into the road. "What do you think happened to Dan?"
