The Informationist: A Thriller

by Taylor Stevens

  “I assure you the sources are genuine,” she said.

  “What’s the next step?”

  “Now that Miles is here, we’re waiting on a few details to get sorted out. I’m estimating a week before we’re ready to return to Río Muni—the Equatoguinean mainland.”

  “A week? That long?”

  “About that, yes.”

  “Thank you, Michael,” he said. “This is excellent news, although honestly, I’m terrified of falling prey to false hope. Please let me know as things progress.”

  “Of course.”

  THE CALL OVER, Munroe turned to Bradford and then to Beyard, who had just entered the room. “If we’re lucky, we just bought ourselves a week.”

  chapter 19

  Turnoff to Ebebiyín, Cameroon

  The road was dry, the atmosphere hazed by harmattan—fine Saharan dust blown from the north—which clouded the sky, cut visibility, and filled the horizon with the orange-tinged illusion of smog and pollution. Munroe checked the rearview mirror, caught the outline of Beyard’s vehicle, and returned her focus to the pothole-pitted road ahead, stopped and shifted into four-wheel drive.

  She worked the clutch and gas heading down, then up, a chunk of missing road that had most likely washed out during a previous downpour. Bradford stared out the passenger window with his arms crossed. It was more or less the same silent position he’d held since Douala and under the circumstances probably as close as he could get to turning his back to her. Whatever the mood, he was certainly entitled to it; she’d been treating him like crap since he’d returned to Cameroon, and though it would eventually be necessary to make nice, now wasn’t the time.

  They had left Douala before dawn, routing east to Yaoundé and then south, the quality of the road rapidly deteriorating the closer they drew to the border. Entering Equatorial Guinea from Cameroon was inconvenient at best. The countries were separated at the coast by the Ntem River, and where the water no longer delimited them, the countryside was thick with dense forest, through which village populations were able to traverse on foot, often unaware of the exact place one country ended and another began. There was only one vehicular transit point along the 120-mile stretch, and they were now driving down the road that led to it.

  A gate barring the road and a small building standing next to it marked the entrance into Equatorial Guinea. Munroe slowed to a stop. By all appearances the checkpoint was deserted. When after a minute no official exited what should have been an office, she switched off the engine and stepped into the afternoon heat.

  The one-room structure was empty, bare-board walls with a cement floor and holes for windows, and the only sound came from the insects that buzzed along the ceiling. Munroe stood in the doorway for a moment, then turned and walked toward the metal barricade. It was held in place to adjacent poles by three chains, which meant they would need to locate three officials, each with a separate key. The border didn’t close until five, but with the post deserted, traffic nearly none, and it being midafternoon, the authorities were no doubt already finished for the day. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to expect that at least one of them had already returned to his village, taking the key along for the evening.

  Through the dust caked on Beyard’s windshield, she could see him leaning on the steering wheel, eyes following her movements, and when she strode toward him, he stepped out of the vehicle. “Three locks,” she said, “empty office.” She stared in the direction of town. Somewhere along those streets, in some bar or hotel or restaurant, was an unknown face expecting her to arrive within the week, waiting to pass along the word and thus guarantee that she never made it to Mongomo.

  If they’d come to the country under any other pretense or if they’d had more time, perhaps a wiser move would have been to turn back, head west, and then cut tracks across the unmarked border. Here they were set out like targets on a firing range, and if the artifice of an Israeli convoy was transparent, they’d know it soon enough.

  Women and children approached the vehicles, some trying to get Bradford’s attention through his window and others crowding around Beyard and Munroe, each offering items for sale. A boy of eight or nine balanced a dirty plastic basin filled with bananas on his head. Beyard examined a bunch and then pulled a handful of loose change from his pocket. He knelt down at the boy’s eye level, handed over the cash, and flashed Munroe a dashing smile; the unriddling of the missing officials had begun.

  It took thirty minutes before they were able to locate the first official with his key, another forty to find the second. It was two hours before the third was found, and when he was, he was drunk and unable to locate the key until Munroe, unwilling to offer bribes or wait out the length of time it would take to play the game, began to name-drop. With the appropriate level of threat provided, the missing key was swiftly produced, and the convoy moved into the town of Ebebiyín. By now even the most incompetent of lookouts would be more than aware of their presence. If there had been someone waiting—and Munroe was sure that there was—no threat or whisper of awareness to the convoy’s intent had blown on the wind.

  The village of several thousand was a gateway at the crossroads between Gabon, Cameroon, and Equatorial Guinea: a marketplace and hub of activity for miles to the west and south; a small grid of mostly unpaved roads and the whitewashed and red-stained buildings that fronted them; and like most rural towns on the continent, life here moved at a lethargic pace. It took less than ten minutes for the convoy to crawl through the sprawled, dusty streets, and when they were on the narrow but paved stretch that would take them to Mongomo and were far beyond the reach of townsfolk curiosity, Munroe turned the vehicle off the road.

  Verdurous vines that thrived in the open light of the swath of tarmac created a wall of green on either side of the road, and so, in view of any vehicle that might pass, Munroe and Beyard moved quickly, switching out Cameroonian plates and papers for Equatoguinean, stashing the old ones behind door panels, and minutes later they headed back onto the road in vehicles registered in the name of the country’s president. There were still eighty kilometers to Mongomo, and with the improved road conditions it would be possible to reach the city by early evening. But they would wait until tomorrow’s dawn; it would be far better to approach the target house with a full period of daylight ahead, and staying in Mongomo overnight created too much exposure.

  A half hour after dark, they went off-road, following a track that connected a small village to the Mongomo road. In the hour since Ebebiyín, they had covered forty kilometers, the empty stretch taking them past an occasional bush taxi, several abandoned and cannibalized cars, and expected roadblocks; nothing out of the ordinary that would signal awareness to their presence and the relative silence among the local military frequencies so far confirmed that all was in order.

  Before reaching the designated village, the convoy detoured into the bush, where they would bide the night well hidden in the black of the forest. In the dark, Munroe felt for the vehicle’s communications equipment, and when she had disconnected it, she placed the pieces into a duffel bag, slung the strap over her shoulder, and opened the door. She stepped into the night, and Bradford said, “Where are you going?”

  She nodded to the rear. “Other vehicle,” she said, and although she knew it was unnecessary, added, “Keep the lights off and, unless you want to get devoured by mosquitoes, the doors and windows shut. Don’t run the air conditioner—the engine noise will attract attention. I’ll be back at dawn.” She shut the door before he had a chance to respond, knowing he’d hate her all the more for it.

  Munroe slid into the backseat of the rear vehicle. Francisco was in the front, reclined, hands behind his head, and when she shut the door, he brought the back upright and climbed between the front seats to where she was. His foot hit the duffel bag. “What’d you bring?”

  “Everything that transmits.”

  He slid next to her and maneuvered her onto his lap so that she faced him. “Still don’t trust him?�
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  “Not enough to leave it with him overnight,” she said.

  His hands were already inside her shirt. She removed his uniform, and like two teenagers on a forbidden tryst, hormones transcending heat and discomfort, they left the interior of the vehicle as damp and humid as the air outside.

  It was well past midnight before they finally returned to the front and reclined the seats in an attempt to sleep through what was left of the night. The mirrors of the lead vehicle reflected dim specks of canopy-filtered moonlight, and Francisco nodded in their direction. “You didn’t need to bring the equipment,” he whispered. “You know he’s not the one trying to get you killed.”

  Munroe stared out the passenger window.

  “I see the way he looks at you when your back is turned,” Francisco said. He paused and turned his head toward her. “You’re a very perceptive woman, Essa. You can’t help but know that he wants you alive as badly as I do.”

  “I’d have thought it would bother you, and instead you advocate for him.”

  He reached out and touched her cheek. “It does bother me. I want him away from you, I want you to myself.” He sighed. “But I don’t own you, and that’s beyond my control.” He turned and faced front again. “All I’m saying is that I know the torment, and there’s no need for you to be deliberately cruel.”

  She closed her eyes. It was so much more than that. Until the unknowns became clearer, it was difficult to discern how far Bradford could be trusted, and keeping him off balance was the easiest way to gauge him. Munroe put her feet up on the dashboard and drew a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about him,” she said. Didn’t want to talk about anything, really, because as unplanned as it was, history was about to be repeated: A trio of two foreign men and a woman would be heading into Mongomo, and no matter what they found when they reached the city, the proverbial shit was going to hit the fan.

  Though none of them would readily admit it, they all knew that getting back out was going to be dicey. Tonight was the calm before the storm.

  Calm.

  Munroe breathed again and felt the relaxation of assignment wash over her.

  THEY ENTERED MONGOMO in the early morning while the streets were still in the beginning stages of bustle and activity. For a village on the edge of civilization, one completely surrounded by the wide, sweeping grandeur of lush vegetation and without direct access to any center of industry, Mongomo showed surprising modernity, testament to the windfall of oil money finding its way to the extended families of the clan that filled the presidential palace.

  Shortly after eight they stopped in front of the city’s police station, and while Beyard waited with the vehicles and continued to scan the local frequencies, Munroe and Bradford sought out the highest-ranking officer available. Once pleasantries had been dispensed, Bradford, acting as Munroe’s superior, spoke emphatically, a foreign-sounding nonsense that Munroe, very much the younger male subordinate, interpreted as a request for assistance. The officer obliged by providing an aide to direct them to the house of Timoteo Otoro Nchama, vice minister of mines and energy.

  The dwelling was a single story, spaced widely from its neighbors and set ten meters off a quiet unpaved street whose outlet narrowed into a verdant footpath that led toward rough cinder-block houses and, beyond them, the jungle forest. Munroe drove by the house once and then, leaving Beyard stationed at the street entrance in the second vehicle, returned the guide to his workplace, a tactical gesture that had nothing to do with kindness.

  On the second sweep, Munroe made the full length of the street to the narrowed outlet before looping back to park in front of the house. The lack of vehicles fronting the house pointed to the minister’s being away from home, and the ease of access to the property meant a smaller chance of being trapped should the encounter proceed in a less than favorable direction. It also meant being visible from the street, and by the pedestrians and neighbors who had already begun to take notice of their presence.

  Munroe and Bradford walked the distance to the front door, and she stood to the side, out of sight. Bradford rapped a three-beat knock on the heavy wood, and in the silence they waited. There’d been shadows in the windows during the first pass, and Beyard had already confirmed that no one had left the house since. Another moment of silence, and at Munroe’s nod Bradford knocked again.

  His hand was coming down on a third try when the door opened and an older woman with a worn dress and flat shoes looked out at him with disinterested annoyance. From her appearance Munroe assumed maid or nanny, but it was difficult to tell, she could just as easily be mother or sister. The woman spoke no English, and as Bradford could not converse in any of the local languages, he handed her his business card and motioned for her to carry it inside.

  A few minutes later, the woman returned and gestured for Bradford to follow. Munroe joined him, and though the woman showed initial surprise at Munroe’s emergence, she led them both to the interior of the house with apparent acceptance and without comment. They had gone only a few steps when a petite blond woman entered the foyer at a brisk pace and, seeing Bradford, stopped short, gaped, and then burst into tears. The cherubic teenager from the high-school photo had been replaced by a woman aged beyond her years.

  There was a second of uneasy quiet filled by sobs, and then Bradford said, “Heya, kid,” and walked toward Emily and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She buried her head in his chest, her shoulders quivering with each rapid inhale, and Bradford stroked her hair and in a half whisper said, “Hey, it’s all going to be okay.”

  He looked toward Munroe with a distressed smile. From here they were winging it. Emily had disappeared four years ago, now she was found, and with the exception of Munroe having faced two attempted military executions, nothing more was certain.

  Munroe felt a wave of disequilibrium; after everything that had come before, reaching the target now had been unsettlingly simple.

  Emily straightened and sniffed, and through tearful laughter she said, “Come on in, let’s sit down.” Her words were strained, as if this were the first English she’d spoken for as long as she’d been missing. To the woman who had answered the door and now hovered in the shadows, she said, “Nza ve belleng café.”

  Munroe smiled in recognition of the Fang language and shifted so that the camera lens attached to her lapel faced Emily directly. It was the most straightforward and least intrusive way to document whatever would transpire, and there were two machines establishing a record of it: one was snuggled in her shirt pocket and the other was with Beyard, receiving the signal wirelessly.

  Emily led them to the living room and sat on the oversize sofa. Bradford sat next to her, and she glanced at him repeatedly, each time a smile breaking through the etched lines of distress on her face. They were smiles of innocence, shock, nervousness, confusion, but most of all unadulterated happiness. Whatever Beyard’s suspicions, this girl wanted to be found, no doubt about it, which begged the question, why in the four years that she’d been missing had she not contacted her family?

  Emily turned to Munroe and hesitated. Bradford said, “Emily, this is Michael.” Munroe stuck out her hand, and Emily shook it, with another smile. “Your family has been trying to find you for the past four years,” Bradford said, “and Michael is the one responsible for finally tracking you down.”

  Emily withdrew her hand, the smile fading as she tilted her head to the side, squinting as if processing what had just been said, and then she turned to Bradford and said, “What?”

  Munroe said, “Emily, we’re here to assist you if you want it. We’ve come prepared to get you out of the country. Is this something you’re interested in?”

  Emily nodded slowly. “It is,” she said, “but I don’t understand. Why now? I’ve been asking to go home since I got here.”

  Bradford glanced at Munroe, and she gave him a look back that could only be interpreted one way: Either Emily had gone batty or they had a major fucking problem. Probably the latter. Mu
nroe’s heart pounded, her mind drawing threads of thought into a partial tapestry, then she paused, knowing the answer to her next question before the words left her mouth. “Emily, who have you asked?”

  Emily began to reply and stopped when the maid entered the room with a tray of cups. She set it on the coffee table, and Emily folded her hands in her lap and waited. The seconds passed, each one a painful breath, until at last the woman left the room.

  “I don’t trust her,” Emily said. “I don’t think she speaks English, but I don’t know for sure. She’s my husband’s aunt, and she reports everything I do to him.”

  Munroe stepped to the couch and knelt in front of Emily so that their eyes were almost level. “We came to get you out of here, to bring you home if that’s what you want. Is it what you want?”

  Emily nodded.

  “Then listen carefully,” Munroe said. “I’ve been nearly killed twice trying to get to you, and chances are whoever tried before is going to try again if they find out we’re here. The information we’ve been given and what you’re telling us contradict, and if we don’t get the facts sorted out soon, we might not make it out of the country alive—meaning that if you’re not killed along with us, you’ll be stuck here. Emily, we need to know who you’ve asked about returning home, who is keeping you here, and who is trying to kill me. Can you help us with this?”

  “I asked my dad,” Emily said. “It took me a long time, maybe a year, but I finally got through to him, and when I did, he was angry and refused to talk to me.” Emily’s words were starting to flow, her speech was less stilted, and the fluency—even the accent—was returning. “I was able to contact him only that once, and I’ve never been able to speak with my mom. I’ve also asked my husband so many times. I used to think that one day he’d let me go, but now he hits me if I bring it up, so I’ve stopped asking.” A tear dropped from her cheek onto her lap, and she sniffed and ran her fingers under her eyes. “He says that by keeping me here he’s doing me a favor, that without him I would be dead, and that I can never leave and I should be grateful.” She lowered her eyes. “So I really don’t understand why you’ve come now.”