“Do you have easy access to one?”
“Shouldn’t be too much of a problem,” he said. “When I’m not using them, they’re leased out to the Malaysians and Chinese—I have a company that handles logistics from the logging cut sites to the port. It’s a legitimate cover for the trucks and gives me the opportunity to pay my dues in terms of hefty contributions to the local fraternity of nepotists. During the rains I’ll use them if we have to haul through the bush, so it won’t be out of place.”
Munroe nodded and then said, “If I want to leave a few things behind, do you have a secure spot?”
“I do,” he replied, then led her back to the guesthouse bathroom and with a skilled set of hands removed a section of the doorframe and pulled out from the wall a narrow sealed container that held several thousand euros. “Should still be some space in there,” he said, and handed it to her.
She pried the lid loose. “How secure is this property?”
“No military will enter, if that’s what you mean.”
She removed the Equatoguinean residency card from the security belt and placed the belt with her passports, credit cards, and Emily’s death certificate into the container. “What guarantee do you have?”
“Antonia is the oldest and favorite niece of one of the president’s wives, and Antonia’s husband is connected to the president through the military. Between the two of them, the property is safe.”
She sealed the lid. “That’s good for them, but it doesn’t protect your valuables.” She nodded toward the container in her hands.
He smiled and took the container, slid it back into the wall, and replaced the boarding. “You have to know everything? All my secrets?”
Munroe shrugged. “Whether you tell me now or not doesn’t really matter. When I want information, I get it. I’ll find out one way or the other.”
“All right then,” he said. “Antonia and I, we go way back—I’m the father of her eldest son. He’s eight, so you can do the math.” While he spoke, Beyard walked toward the front of the house, and Munroe followed. “About four years ago, when our relationship was shot to hell and there appeared to be no future for us, she married her current husband—she’s wife number three. He lives in the capital, and she sees him once or twice a month.”
Beyard opened the door of the Peugeot for Munroe and fiddled with the handle in order to get it to remain closed. He slid into the driver’s seat and slammed his own door several times before cranking the engine. “I bought this place for her,” he continued. “Put it in her name. It’s her insurance policy and will buy her freedom if that’s what she chooses—you know how it goes here—and now that the oil companies have their compounds nearby, it’s a valuable little piece of real estate.”
Munroe knew well. When an Equatorial Guinean woman married, she became bound to the husband and his family, often becoming a form of property. Divorce, although technically possible, placed an impossible burden on the woman: By law the husband kept the children from the marriage and the woman was required to pay back the dowry or else be imprisoned, and imprisonment in the country’s decaying mixed-gender jails was little better than a death sentence.
The vehicle sputtered forward. “I think you would agree,” Beyard said, “that my confidence is well placed and the property is safe.”
Munroe looked at him sideways and crossed her arms. “Yes, I would agree.” She paused and turned toward him. “It may have been nine years, but you haven’t changed much. There’s always a price. You’re using her.”
He looked at Munroe, taking his eyes off the dirt track that passed for a road. “I’ve never denied it,” he said. “The fact is, she doesn’t care.”
“And her husband, does he care? Surely he knows your history, knows you use this property, knows you’re sometimes here when he’s gone—he can’t be happy about that. He probably wouldn’t mind if you disappeared.”
“Nah,” Beyard replied. “I’m the one who introduced the two of them, and he’s one of my best friends.” He shrugged. “Things are what they are, Essa. My relationship with Antonia ended four years ago and, I might add, through no fault of hers. I’m the one who’s fucked in the head. We have a son together, and regardless of what things are now, I want her to be happy. Whether I’m using her or not, she still comes out ahead, and so does the boy.” He turned to look at her. “Satisfied?”
“I suppose.” And then, after several moments of silence, “Does your son know you’re his father? Do you see him often?”
“Yes, and not very. When he turned seven, I took him to Paris. He stays with friends of Antonia’s family and goes to one of the best schools in the city. And yes,” he said in answer to Munroe’s unasked question, “at my expense. I fly him home twice a year. I’m determined that he will have two worlds to choose from when he grows older, and I’ve made arrangements that should anything happen to me, he will be taken care of.” And after he’d been silent for a moment, “You of all people are in no position to be judgmental about using or not using someone, when you are at this very moment using me to get what you want.”
“I’ve offered to hire you. That you won’t take the money is not my concern.”
Beyard smiled. It was a smile of knowing, of understanding. “Essa, perhaps in your other life, among other people, such words would have meaning—but not between us. You and I both know that games of semantics are meaningless when we have a deeper understanding of human nature. And you are using me. You know what I want more than money, and you give it to me like a drug, in small doses, feeding me until it becomes an addiction. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I don’t know it. Just as Antonia does with me, I have given you permission to use me. You and I, Vanessa, we are very much alike.”
FROM BEYARD’S PROPERTY the road was nothing more than a deeply rutted dirt track that cut through encroaching foliage, and as the vehicle crawled along it, a branch occasionally brushed through one of the open windows. A couple of kilometers from the property, the track connected to a wider dirt road, which later converged with tarmac, and where the orange-red dirt ended, they crossed the first checkpoint.
Several strands of barbed wire were strung across the road, and two makeshift wooden sawhorses blocked the lanes and worked to keep the nearly nonexistent vehicle traffic from passing. There was one weapon shared among five men, and to the side of the road an assortment of logs and stones circled a ground cooking fire over which an aluminum pot boiled. Beyard bantered with the commander of the group and then, five beers lighter, the Peugeot was on its way across the tarmac heading up the only segment of the coastal highway that was paved and into Bata, the largest and primary city of Equatorial Guinea’s mainland.
With a population of seventy thousand, Bata was the second most populous city in the country, but in land area was larger than the capital. Unlike Malabo, which was dense, overcrowded, its narrow city streets congested, Bata was long and spread out, the streets wide and relatively empty and most of them paved. The buildings that fronted the ocean were two- and three-storied, constructed in the style of Mediterranean and Spanish villas. Farther back from the shore, the buildings were mostly one-storied squares of cement-block houses built for functionality without regard to aesthetics, albeit widely spaced and neatly set along the street edges.
Several kilometers south of the city lay the port, where the natural resources of the country were shipped out at an astounding rate, and below the port were the foreign compounds, where oil companies housed their employees in little pieces of America transplanted to West Central Africa. Several kilometers to the north was the single strip of tarmac that served as the largest airport of the Equatoguinean mainland and that operated only during daylight hours when visibility was good—a strip long and wide enough to accommodate a 737 and nothing larger. Leading out of the city to the east was the highway that ran through the north-central heart of the country, previously red clay that transmogrified into an impassable swampy muck during the seasonal rains, now t
armac paid for by oil.
The Peugeot shuddered and sputtered before finally coming to rest in front of Bar Central. The establishment was one of the city’s most popular restaurants, doubling as a watering hole, and it was, Munroe hoped, the first step to picking up Emily Burbank’s trail.
Like Malabo, Bata was a city without entertainment, a place where a trip to an air-conditioned grocery store was a day’s highlight, and in the absence of everything else, the restaurants and bars were the de facto social gathering points. Those who ran them felt the pulse of the city, knew the rumors, heard the gossip, and were keenly aware of the faces as they came and went. And like most of the restaurants in the country, Bar Central was owned and operated by expatriates, in this case brothers originally from Lebanon. The eldest of them now stood behind the bar at the cash register, and when he noticed Beyard, he offered a generous mustachioed grin, raising his hand in a semi-salute. A few moments later, he joined the two of them at their table, shook Beyard’s hand, and embraced him in a brotherly hug. He and Beyard joshed back and forth for a moment before the man pulled up a chair.
His name was Salim. His black hair was peppered with gray, and his eyes were a dark hazel. Although he couldn’t have been older than forty-five, deep stress lines across his face put him closer to sixty. Beyard introduced Munroe, and when he did, Munroe took Salim’s hand and said, “Assalamou alaykoum.”
Salim smiled widely—“Wa alaykoum assalam”—and then to Beyard, “I like this girl. Where did you find her?”
The conversation continued in small talk until Munroe slid a printout of Emily’s Internet photo across the table to Salim. “Nabhatou an hadihi al bint.”
Beyard intervened. “We would very much like to know if you’ve seen the girl,” he said. “But if anyone asks, we only came for breakfast.”
Salim pushed back from the table and said, almost as if in surprise, “Francisco, my friend. That you have to ask? For you, anything.” And, turning to Munroe, “Yes, I’ve seen the girl.” He ran a finger around the back of his ear and tilted his head to the side. “Last time maybe six months ago.”
“She comes here often?” Munroe asked.
“I wouldn’t say often. Maybe once or twice a year.”
“She comes alone?”
“Alone? No, never. Always with people. And her husband, he comes more often.”
Munroe was silent for a moment. “She’s married?”
Salim gave a shrug and a half smile. “Married? Well, I don’t know that a dowry has passed or documents have been signed, but that she’s with him, yes, I am very sure about that. He has the last name of Nchama, that I also know.”
“Mongomo clan,” Beyard said.
“She lives here in Bata?” Munroe asked.
“Again, I don’t know,” Salim answered. “But I think no.”
Munroe tucked the printout into her shirt pocket. “If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything in particular about this girl that caused you to remember her—anything specific at all?”
Salim shrugged and was silent. His finger wandered again behind his ear, and finally he gave a slight smile and said, “I know my clientele; after a while you get used to the way things are, patterns. For the most part, like remains with like. The Spaniards, they socialize with the Spaniards, the French with the French. It is not often you see one of the men of this country with a non-like woman over whom he claims ownership.”
“Did she appear happy, unhappy, fat, thin, well dressed, poor?”
Salim sat back for a moment. “The last time I saw her, she was thin, almost frail, and her hair, it was much longer than this picture and wound tight around her head. She was dressed modestly but expensively, somewhat like the wealthy women of the local men—a particular style not African yet not Western. She did not appear so much sad or unhappy as just … well, perhaps vacant.”
“What about the times you’ve seen her in the past?” Munroe said. “How would you describe her then?”
“Truthfully,” Salim said, giving a slight laugh, “I can’t say that I have ever studied her. I’ve seen her maybe four or five times over the past few years, but I’ve never paid much attention.”
“I appreciate it,” Munroe said, and then, “If you remember anything more, would you contact Francisco?”
Salim nodded, and then said to Beyard, “You should know you are not the only ones showing pictures around the city.”
Munroe, who had been in the middle of taking a bite of pastry, stopped, replacing it on her plate. “There are others passing around photos of this girl?”
“A photo of you,” he said. “You’ve nothing to worry about from me. I expect no trouble, and if I’m asked, I can positively say I did not think you resembled the photograph.” He gave another chuckle. “Perhaps it would be better for your sake not to be seen around the city for a few days.”
“What did he look like—the person with the photo?”
“There were two of them. One military but without a uniform and the other a younger man, maybe in his twenties, possibly from the Mongomo clan. He was well dressed.” Salim stood. “One moment,” he said, and then walked to the bar counter and pulled a piece of paper from beside the cash register.
“They gave me this number to call in case I should see you.” He handed the paper to Beyard, and Munroe slipped it from him and into a pocket.
“Did they leave the photograph?” Munroe asked, and then to Beyard, “The particular photo being used would tell us a lot about who is looking.”
“They left nothing except the number,” Salim said. “But the photo was not of such good quality that you are easily recognized.”
Outside in the car, Munroe turned to Beyard. “If it was just me, I’d attempt to gather a bit more information before heading out of town, but it’s not just my neck, and you know the city better than I do. You have an opinion?”
“I think you should take a nap in the backseat, where you’ll be out of sight,” he said. “There are two more places where I have trustworthy acquaintances. Let me see what I can find out.”
The news from the two other restaurants was similar: Yes, they knew or had seen Emily Burbank, not often, maybe once a year. The manager of La Ferme was certain that Emily did not live in Bata and believed Mongomo was her home. Both confirmed that there had been two men the day before yesterday looking for a white woman, but neither knew why.
In the backseat of the car, Munroe shifted to avoid as many of the protruding springs as possible, crossed her arms over her face, and closed her eyes. Random thoughts rushed, collided, and merged. It was no longer one puzzle; it was two—possibly three. She pulled in air, and with each deep breath, worked backward into a state of clearheaded focus, placing the new pieces of information against what she already had. There was a fit somewhere, the answer just beyond reach, tantalizing strings of thought that floated across the recesses of her mind and then vanished.
And then a connected synapse: The minister of foreign affairs and the Malabo chief of police—when they’d been presented with the photo of Emily Burbank, the odd look on each of their faces could only have been disguised recognition. Emily was familiar to them in a personal way. A large piece of the puzzle slipped into place. Emily Burbank was the constant, the segment of data that made sense.
If today’s news was accurate, then as of six months ago Emily Burbank was alive and out in the open among the population of Bata. There was no secret of it, she was neither hiding nor being hidden. But neither had she, in the past four years, contacted her family—surely she must know they were looking for her. The texture of the developing trail was there, materializing, touchable, waiting to be found and followed. If Munroe could get to Mongomo, Emily was within reach.
Beyond Emily the events shattered into scattered, jagged pieces. Munroe and Bradford had been followed around Malabo from the time they’d arrived. She’d ended up on the boat, while Bradford was escorted out of the country. The men on the boat would have assumed she was d
ead and, even if for no other reason than to avoid admitting the fuckup, would have reported her as such.
To be searching for her here, now, someone in the local military had to know that she was alive and that this was where she was headed. Munroe could not shake the lesser and more treacherous possibility—that the men passing around her photo had been informed of her whereabouts by someone closer, someone who knew her movements, who would have been able to arrange to have her followed from the moment she’d set foot in Equatorial Guinea.
The men with the photo had been in Bata two days ago. Where had she been two days ago? Somewhere off the coast of Nigeria. How many of the people who knew she was alive were aware she was heading to this city?
Logan. She hadn’t mentioned where she was or where she was going.
Kate. Kate knew just about every step she was taking—but Bata? No, that part had been left out.
Francisco. He’d had no idea she was in Equatorial Guinea before she’d shown up at his house and could never have arranged to have her followed. Unless … unless he’d learned of her imminent arrival from Boniface Akambe. The dots were there, perhaps the connection.
Bradford. Shit. She’d told Bradford about Bata, and he had been there with her in Malabo nice and cozy in his bed right about the time she’d been trapped by an anchor on the ocean floor. He’d known all their movements in advance. And when she’d turned up undead and undrowned, he’d insisted on returning to Africa, coming with her to Bata.
Three puzzles, each with similar coloring, identical pieces, and interlocking shapes. To Beyard she said, “We should probably get out of town.”
She remained in the back while he maneuvered through the city, and when most of the buildings were behind them, she climbed into the front. Beyard reached out his hand and swept a strand of hair off her face. “This thing you do for a living—your job that you still haven’t told me about. You’re a strategist?”
“Not like you,” she said, and then she laughed. “Actually, quite a bit like you. I go into developing countries and gather information—usually abstract and obscure—and turn it into something that a corporation can use to make business decisions.”
The Informationist: A Thriller Page 20
