Megalomania? No. Megalomania is delusional. There was nothing delusional about it. Hard-hearted? No. It was realistic. Even honest. He was not among those hypocrites who claimed to act for the good of the common man, the employee, and certainly not the stockholder. They’re the worker bees. They exist to be used. All that fuss in the media about Enron et al, as if it were news that investors get fleeced. Of course they get fleeced. It has been ever thus. Instead of whining about it, they should count their blessings. They’re lucky to be living in this century.
In ages past he would have been a Duke ten times over. Owning castles on the hill. Conscripting armies of peasants. Sending them off to battle to enlarge his holdings. Executing any laggards among them.
These days, we field armies of lawyers and accountants. Not traditionally a criminal class in themselves, but a distinction that’s becoming increasingly blurred. We still need to augment them with more overt malefactors such as our Chester Lilly and his ilk. Those Dukes, no doubt, had their own Chester Lillys to deal with any who became inconvenient. They also had Bishops to persuade all the peasants that suffering is good, the more brutish, the better. Each stroke of the lash adds a brick to the palace that awaits you in heaven, so shut up.
We’ve lost the romance of that era, thought Bourne. We still confer knighthoods, but we call them vice presidents. We no longer have dungeons, torture chambers, the rack; we’ve replaced them with unending litigation. Where that fails, we still execute the occasional upstart. That’s the only part left that’s exciting.
Oh, not true, thought Bourne. It’s all exciting. It’s a kick. Even the annoyances like this business in Angola. They distract, but they do wonders to stir up the blood. No, the world is not a video game, but it is a great game nonetheless.
Among his amusements, sipping brandy with his atlas, was to contemplate national borders. Those on the African continent in particular, and its neighbor next door, the Middle East. Every border was either a political fiction or the product of somebody’s whim. Most were drawn by this or that colonial power. Whole countries created with the squiggle of a pen. Winston Churchill once created at least five that Bourne knew of within the space of about fifteen minutes.
Churchill said, “You want borders? There they are. Let’s move on.” And those lines were drawn with utter indifference to the wishes and the claims of the people who lived there. On the other hand, the people, the tribes that were affected were utterly indifferent to those lines as well. “Call the country what you will, but it isn’t our country. Place your borders where you will, but they aren’t our borders. These are our ancestral lands and you can’t have them.”
It was a recipe, certainly, for eternal tribal conflict. All loyalties are tribal, not national. Territorial disputes would have tribe fighting tribe when they weren’t fighting a central authority that they rightly saw as having no legitimacy. And when one group takes power by fair mean or foul, they’ll give all the best jobs to their fellow tribesmen because that’s where their loyalties are; that’s who they trust. Inevitably, everyone else feels left out and, voila, we have the seeds of civil war.
The European powers saw this coming, of course. It was wonderful news for their arms industries. The central authorities would need lots of weapons. They wouldn’t last a month without the wherewithal to keep the disenfranchised at bay. The rebelling tribes would need modern weapons because without them all we’d get is a lot of wholesale hacking as we’ve seen in Rwanda and elsewhere. We really don’t mind them shooting each other. But we do tend to squirm when they hack.
The main thing, however, is to keep them all busy fighting and fearing each other. For all the pious mouthings about peace and stability, no interested foreign government wants either. Most African governments certainly don’t. Almost all are administered by minority tribesmen who would soon be sent packing by an honest election. Every Arab regime along with them. Give them peace and stability and the first thing you know, they’ll start noticing that they’re being plundered.
Roger Clew had made a snide remark to that effect. He’d asked, “Why the interest in Sierra Leone? You haven’t finished looting Angola.”
Hmmph! Roger Clew. A fine one to talk.
Clew’s government was happy to back Jonas Savimbi when coastal one third of that country was Marxist. So, in fact, was Savimbi, when it suited his purpose. Clew’s government switched sides when the Soviets imploded. All that lovely oil. Let’s rethink our ideology. We’ll dump Savimbi, but let’s not let him be defeated. We need him so that coastal Angola needs us. Let Savimbi keep them busy while we pump their offshore oil and while our fishing fleets gobble up their seafood.
We won’t be piggish about it. They’ll get their fair share. Or at least a few hundred of them will. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be able to buy all those guns and tanks and landmines that we sell them. They’d need them to fend off Mr. Savimbi who seemed to feel betrayed for some reason. And we certainly can’t sell U.S. weapons to Savimbi. That might strike our coastal friends as duplicitous. So we’ll have someone else sell him someone else’s weapons. The Israelis, for example. Let’s let them make a buck. This way everyone comes out ahead.
Very sensible, thought Bourne. Make sure nobody wins. Each side wants it all, but they can’t get it; it’s a stalemate. Oh, the Coastals did manage to knock off Savimbi whose behavior was becoming increasingly bizarre. Burning witches. That sort of thing. Savimbi, just as likely, was betrayed by his own for the sin of getting bad press. Betrayed by Duganga, his old comrade in arms? No, not by Duganga. He would not have had the spine. If anyone, it would be Alameo.
With Savimbi gone, things did settle down. They still send out patrols and they ambush each other, but they also do business with each other. Smuggling is rampant. It employs ten of thousands. Deals are made by cell phone, by radio, and even in person by groups that slip in through their porous lines of battle. The two sides must maintain close radio contact in order to arrange safe passage for the smugglers lest they blunder into a minefield. Also for Red Cross aid workers and such.
Bourne could pick up his phone and call Luanda right now and get patched right through to Duganga himself at one of his shifting headquarters. He wouldn’t, of course. Deniability, you know. Best to stay several layers removed. But he would call Alameo. He would do so with relish. He had, many times, rehearsed in his mind the words he would say to that man on the day when he finally had Stride in his grasp.
Where were we, thought Bourne? He had lost his train of thought. Ah, yes. Mr. Clew. The annoying Mr. Clew. And Clew’s naïve scruples re Angola.
Long before the oil, the diamonds, the seafood, Clew’s government helped itself to its populace as well. Very well, not the government. The landowners. Same thing. Three out of every ten African slaves were taken from that one coastal region. They were always the strongest, the biggest, the healthiest, all the better to survive an ocean crossing. Name a top black athlete and you’d get good odds that his forebears were snatched in Angola.
What made them so hearty? No one seems to be sure. It is one of those mysteries of genetics. It certainly couldn’t have been what they eat. The cassava root appears to have been their staple ever since they walked on two legs. It’s the
Angolan equivalent of Ireland’s potato except that practically no one else eats it. All cassava is used for in the rest of the world is to make tapioca for puddings. And the damned stuff is poison if not properly prepared. One must leach it to get the cyanide out. Leach it and dry it and then God knows what. But how in the world did they discover the process? By trial and error? That sounds terribly incautious. Unless their taste-testers were their own slaves or captives. Or perhaps they tried recipes on the old and the weak.
Of course, thought Bourne. The old and the weak. The deformed and the short and the stupid. In the long run that would certainly strengthen the gene pool. The testers must have also included the ugly because they’re a handsome people as well. Fine looking women. Beautiful chil
dren. Malnourished on the whole, but the bone structure’s there. Those twenty young girls that Bobik was transporting should be quite a treat for that…what’s his name?…Moshood…during the trip up to Gambia.
Which reminded him…
Bourne thumbed his atlas to the page that showed the entire west coast of the continent. He traced a finger from Angola to Sierra Leone. Let’s see, he thought. It’s eight o’clock in Virginia. It’s six hours later in Sierra Leone. That freighter of Bobik’s should just about be there for their rendezvous with that cannibal’s men. Bourne wondered what arrangements Clew decided on making, not that it mattered very much. The main thing is that Clew is keeping his word. He is looking for Elizabeth Stride.
Bourne’s informant was Clew’s driver, one Alex Rakowsky. Well, no, that’s not accurate either. Clew’s paunchy driver was not on the payroll. He had simply been tasked by another of Clew’s colleagues to observe and report on Clew’s behavior. The driver had been told that Clew was suspected of running some rogue operation. Secret files, clandestine contacts and the like.
"Keep your eyes and ears open, keep us informed. It’s an additional duty, so we’ll up you a pay grade. That will make for a nicer retirement check. No harm to Mr. Clew. We assure you of that. You might even help to save him from himself.”
The driver was talked into it. He must not be very bright. He would not have made the cut in Angola. Thanks to him, however, we knew of Clew’s jogging habits and were able to have our private chat. And we learned, although too late, that Clew carried a recorder along with a pistol in that belted thing he wore. We know that he recorded our conversation because the driver heard him test his machine after he’d gone home and showered. That was unexpected. And an annoyance. Who’d have thought that Clew would go out jogging wired? A few parts of that discussion had potential for discomfort should they find their way into the media. And Clew’s recorder, according to the driver, seems to be a sophisticated piece of equipment. It records, it makes phone calls and it downloads computers.
Damned gadgets. There’s a new one every time you turn around. He was glad that he stayed out of that business.
On returning home, Clew had gone to his computer and called up several files on Elizabeth Stride. The driver says that one bore her likeness. Great news. We’d been told that no photographs existed. Clew downloaded it into his sneaky machine in order to take it to work with him. This must be a good thing. It means that Clew in on the hunt. We also know that Clew must have called Paul Bannerman, probably using that same machine and probably on his way home from our encounter. We infer this because, according to his driver, Bannerman replied with an encrypted message. We don’t know what it said, but whatever it was, the message seemed pleasing to Clew. According to the driver, as reported back at State, “Clew smiled and he got a little dreamy about it.” Is that how he’d respond upon hearing that she’s dead? Of course not. Therefore, she’s alive.
Bourne thumbed forward again to the map of Angola. He ran his fingers over the eastern two thirds, the part once controlled by Savimbi, now Duganga, and of course by our friend, Alameo. It was also the half that would not be worth having were it not for the fact that it was littered with diamonds. Control those diamonds, the best in the world, and you hold the world’s diamond trade hostage. The South Africans, the Belgians, the Israelis would come begging. And he’d almost done it. At one point, he’d almost done it. And he would have were it not for Alameo’s interference.
“Alameo?” he murmured. “We really must talk.”
It won’t be in anger; I’ll be perfectly civil, your recent behavior notwith- standing. Oh, it’s true that I was miffed when I saw those three heads, but I’ve come to appreciate the grandeur of the thing. In fairness, you must come to appreciate me. I intend to persuade you that you’re on the wrong side. I intend, very soon, to have something you want. I’m assured that is it something that you value most highly, more than life itself by all accounts.
I intend to have Elizabeth Stride.
ELEVEN
“Give me a minute with her first,” said John Waldo. He broke off to intercept Molly.
Elizabeth waited as the two of them huddled. She saw him gesture toward Aisha, explaining her presence. He took longer on the subject of Elizabeth’s resurrection, recounting, no doubt, how much she’d been told. Molly’s lips said, “Let me speak to her privately.”
She approached with a smile and offered her hand. She shook hands with Elizabeth and with Aisha in turn. She studied Aisha’s face. She said, “Aisha. That’s a Muslim name, isn’t it?”
Aisha nodded. “Yes, it is. Hello, Molly.”
“The name of Mohammed’s favorite wife, am I right?”
“Uh-huh. But it’s pretty common now.”
“On this island?”
“Not really. But we have lots of others.”
“Other Muslims?”
“Mostly women. But some of them use English names now because…”
“Aisha,” said Elizabeth, “that’ll keep.”
Molly looked at Elizabeth. “No end of surprises.” She said to Aisha, “Could I ask you a favor? Take a short walk with Billy. I need a few minutes with Elizabeth.”
Aisha looked at Elizabeth who said, “Go. It’s all right.”
Molly said to Waldo, “John, I’d like you to stay.” Billy placed a hand, lightly, on Aisha’s shoulder. “You want to go look at the boat?” he asked.
Elizabeth said, “I’d rather she didn’t.”
Billy leaned toward her. “Let’s lighten up, okay?”
For an instant, as he said it, Billy’s eyes turned cold and dead. She was getting a glimpse of the Billy she remembered. It didn’t frighten her exactly, but it did give her pause. Billy used that hesitation to turn Aisha toward the ramp. Elizabeth did not try to stop them.
Molly Farrell watched them go. She said, “Lovely girl.”
“She is. She’s very special,” said Elizabeth.
“I wouldn’t worry about her meeting Carla. Carla’s better with kids than you’d imagine.”
“Harry Potter,” said Elizabeth. “I just heard.”
“Carla’s nose is out of joint because I made her stay on post. You can say hello later. She’s a big fan of yours. She never realized that you were the Black Angel until after you and Kessler had left Chamonix. She thought you were just Kessler’s woman.”
“I’m not the Black Angel any more,” said Elizabeth.
“And what about Aisha? Does she know about you?”
“She does, but it no longer matters.”
Molly seemed bemused. She was shaking her head. “Well, someone has to say it. It’s a very small world. Six degrees of separation and all that.”
Waldo wasn’t sure that he followed. He asked, “What’s that ‘six degrees’ part?”
“It’s a theory,” Molly told him. “It means we’re all linked. We know hundreds of people. Each of those knows hundreds more. In the end, we know people who know everyone.”
Waldo wasn’t so sure. He said, “We know our own kind. That’s a lot more important, I think.”
Elizabeth added, “And most of us seem to be here.”
Molly answered, “Well, a few. You’ve heard some of it from John. Harry Whistler’s son, Adam, got involved in that shooting. He’s a good man. You’d like him. He’s very much Harry’s son. He would have tried to mind his own business, but Claudia, his…friend, forced the issue.”
“In what way?”
“She threw the knife. She’s an unusual young woman.” Molly threw a glance toward the boat. “She’s aboard. We’re just getting to know her ourselves. The third woman is her mother. She flew in today, too. The mother and Harry, it seems, have grown close. She’s been widowed even longer than he has.”
“I’m…glad for Harry,” said Elizabeth to Molly. She said to Waldo, “Is that true? With a table knife?”
“Twenty feet, moving target. Some throw. Could you do that?”
“Not on purpose
.”
“Even Carla said she couldn’t. You know why? You’re both human. This Claudia, however, goes you one better. It turns out that she’s also an angel.”
Molly said, “He’s not kidding. She does think she’s an angel.”
“Not your kind, either,” said Waldo. “A real one. A year or so ago she got shot, almost died. She had a…I forget…Molly, what do they call that?”
“A near-death experience,” Molly answered.
“Right,” said Waldo. “So she’s pretty much dead. Not breathing, no heartbeat, no nothing. Then she meets this white light I keep hearing about. It’s Saint Peter? God? I don’t know. She doesn’t either. Whatever it was said she’s being sent back as young Adam’s guardian angel. I’m not saying I believe it, but I’ll tell you, she believes it. You might, too, when you hear a few things she’s done since. Adam says she talks to birds and the birds talk to her. That plane that went down? She might have done that with birds.”
I’m so glad that Aisha’s not hearing this, thought Elizabeth. I hope she’s not hearing it on that boat.
Molly said to John, “Let’s not get into that now.” She said to Elizabeth, “Let’s get back to why we’re here. There were some people hunting Adam. He’s been trying to lie low. But that shooting forced his hand and…well it’s not important how…but the people who were after him saw this on the evening news and decided to come down here and finish him. His father knew that Adam was in danger. Harry and his people jetted over from Geneva, but he knew that they couldn’t get here in time. So he called Paul Bannerman. We were down here in two hours. All we wanted to do was get Adam off the island, but things got a bit out of control.”
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