by Seeley James
He called her to the pulpit and introduced her. She wore the latest mid-thigh dress from Ghanaian designer Aish Obdubi, featuring African geometric circles in green and turquoise and cut in a western style. She made brief remarks about investing in hope but made no mention of the foul. When she finished, another priest came forward and continued the service.
Back in their seats, the bishop leaned toward her.
“Ms. Sabel, I understand you were violently baptized in Geneva a few days ago. Praise be to God you emerged. When we emerge from the waters of death, we are changed. Sometimes for the better, sometimes not. Tell me. Do you still harbor anger toward those who persecute you?”
Pia stared at the altar without answering.
“Is there something in Cameroon that troubles you?” he asked.
Pia glanced at him sideways, saw a new intensity in his eyes. “Troubles me?”
“Your mind is working on something outside this place. Your heart is not with us now.”
Pia bit the inside of her lip. She wondered if perception was something he’d learned on the job or with age. She said, “I’m here seeking justice.”
“Your visit is a blessing to Cameroon and the church. Whatever troubles your heart troubles us.” His voice dropped, his eyes narrowed. “There is a difference between justice and revenge, Ms. Sabel. And both belong to the Lord. Leave it to Him and you can find peace.”
She shot him another sideways glance. He was serious, but so was she. Serious about finding a killer and exposing a conspiracy. His look made her reflect on her mission. Why was she in Cameroon? Was she really trying to solve a murder? Or was it a vainglorious mission to prove herself? She thought about it and resolved her questions.
“We’re in the same business, Bishop—we both strive for peace. You strive for spiritual peace, I strive for physical peace. The people of Cameroon need both.”
“Then your work makes mine easier.” He patted her knee. “Seek spiritual peace first and your burden will be lighter.”
She smiled and put her hand on top of his.
After the service, the choir and clergy recessed out of the church with Pia in their midst. She stood a head taller than the bishop. In a way, she felt protective of him. Yet she sensed he was the kind of man who’d give his life rather than take a life to protect others.
For years psychologists lined up to tell her father that Pia’s risky behavior and reckless drive to succeed stemmed from the desire to have saved her mother’s life. Were they right? One of her parents’ murderers was already dead, and she’d find the other soon enough. She lived with that part just fine. The other part, though, the question that ate at her day and night: If she could go back in time, would she have given her life to save her mother’s?
They stepped outside. The sun glowed like a pearl in the hazy sky and the humid air left dew on her skin as if to save itself the effort of raining. The choir sang and chanted ahead of them as they walked. She reached out and held the bishop’s hand. The school she funded lay across a wide dirt road. Three buildings of classrooms, a dormitory for abandoned children, and a meeting hall were clustered around a soccer field.
Agent Ezra stood watch on the far side of the road, his weathered face a formidable presence. His eyes, hard and humorless, noted everyone in the crowd. The Major trotted alongside the procession, falling into step with Pia.
“The team cleared the hotel,” the Major said. “We’re meeting your investigator, Monique Tsogo, in an hour. She turned up something. Agent Jacob hired a speedboat and went up the coast to get a feel for the delta. He says the mangrove swamps are big enough to hide a battleship.”
With a quick glance at the bishop, Pia nodded and continued the tour of the school. By midafternoon she’d seen the church, the school, the grounds, and just about everyone there. She sidestepped an invitation to watch the girls’ varsity soccer team play Yaoundé Catholic the next evening and politely refused an invitation to stay in the convent. She finally broke free and made her way to the Hotel Seme Beach.
Limbe had dirt roads with no street signs or traffic lights. There was little motorized traffic, mostly pedestrians and bicycles. As they drove through town, Pia saw children playing soccer in a dirt lot. A couple of crooked sticks at each end formed goals. Their ball was made of socks stuffed with old rags. They played barefoot without shin guards. An adult shouted at them from the sidelines.
A few minutes later, the cab turned into the hotel’s guarded entrance and crossed the bricked courtyard. They got out, and Pia pushed Miguel back to the cab. She pulled out a stack of hundred Euro notes and gave it to the cabbie. Miguel waited, staring at her.
“Go to the nearest soccer store and buy everything they have—shoes, socks, balls, nets, everything. Take it back to that field, and give it to the kids. Make sure they distribute the stuff as evenly as possible. Miguel will verify.”
The cabbie said, “Who should I say gave them these things?”
“A friend.”
Miguel grabbed the door handle and stopped. Before he got in he said, “Must be nice to have a lot of money.”
“How much you have is not important. It’s what you do with it that counts.” Pia looked at the ground and breathed out. “I have a long way to go.”
Pia turned to the hotel. She could feel Miguel staring at her as she walked.
A two-story main building, the hotel had tiled walls dotted with small windows. A portico with four folding chairs and a feral cat greeted them. Mildew permeated every interior space—in corners, mold bubbled out from under the paint. Clean and tidy, for Africa.
The rooms overlooked a picturesque private beach on one side and views of Mount Cameroon on the other. Agents Marty and Tania had chosen the middle of three bungalows on the beach for Pia. Tania walked in first, checked the corners and closets, and opened a window to a warm salty breeze.
Tania pointed to a pattern of mold in the corner. She said, “Is this good enough for your highness?”
Pia stared at her without speaking for an uncomfortable time. Pia tossed her bag on the bed. She looked at the bare desk, the small tube TV on a tiny stand in the corner. Finally she said, “If you don’t like your room, I’ll trade with you.”
Tania scoffed. “Don’t try to win me over, bitch. When the shooting starts, you’re on your own. I wouldn’t cross the street to lay down cover for you.”
Pia pulled a tracksuit out of her bag, eyeing Tania the whole time.
“You mentioned that once already. You have a specific complaint this time?”
“Yeah. I got something specific. You really expect us to use those stupid darts? No hollow points? No armor piercing rounds? All we got is darts with no range and no stopping power?”
Pia stepped over to Tania, towering over her by several inches. “Sabel Security no longer uses deadly force as a first option. That was my first order when I took over last week. We have conventional ammunition as a last resort. No exceptions.”
“Oh, there’re exceptions all right. The bad guys fire the exceptions. If you’d ever been in a real firefight you’d know that.”
Ezra stepped into the room, stood behind Tania. His craggy face softened.
“People in this part of the world wear lightweight clothing,” Pia said. “Not a lot of body armor. If you nick a guy with a 9mm round, he can still shoot back. If you nick him with a Sabel dart, he’s down.”
Ezra put a hand on Tania’s back. “Trying to get fired, Tania?”
“She’s just testing me,” Pia said.
“We made a mistake, Ez-man,” Tania said. “She brought us out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing to find. Those fuck-tard pirates are probably using one of the tankers as a base out in the ocean somewhere—”
“Not unless it’s invisible,” Pia said. “Yeschenko’s people called me—they patrolled the Bight of Bonny for weeks after the Zorka Moscoq was taken. They only thing they found was a fishing trawler. The people he sent said the attacks had to come from the mangrove
swamps in the Niger delta. Look at a map. It’s the only option.”
Tania’s scowl faded.
“C’mon kid,” Ezra said with a friendly shoulder rub. “Switch your watch with Marty before you say something you’ll have to apologize for.”
“No apologies required if you speak your mind,” Pia said. “I’d rather have outspoken employees than a bunch of suck-ups.”
Ezra raised an eyebrow. “Then in all honesty, Ms. Sabel, I have to be outspoken too—without a doubt, you’re the smartest, best-looking boss I ever worked for.”
Pia laughed. Tania spun away from his hand and went outside.
Pia and Ezra glanced around the room, then at each other.
“Never mind her,” Ezra said. “She doesn’t loosen up until the shooting starts.”
“Eric was right,” Pia said. “I’ve never been in a firefight. Got any advice?”
For a long time the old soldier looked like he was about to speak but didn’t bring his eyes up. After a full minute, he met her gaze and let out a long breath. He said, “When a soldier commits to his mission, the first thing he does is figure he’s already dead. Every breath he draws after coming to that realization is a special breath. Every decision he makes is more focused, more important, more sacred.” He looked at her intently. “Every day I’m alive is like a gift from God.”
“Kind of depressing,” Pia said with a small, nervous grin.
“We don’t go to war to win it. We go to stop it.”
He glanced around the room, one last visual sweep, nodded at her and left.
Pia sat on the bed and stared out the window for a long time. Children ran on the beach, birds flew by in the air, waves rolled in and rolled out. What had she gotten herself into?
The Major came in with a short, thin woman wearing a colorful African dress and matching gele, headscarf. The investigator, Monique Tsogo. She explained in excruciating detail how many fishmongers she’d spoken to, how the road from Batoké to Idenao was bumpy, how the road ended there and she had to hire a boat to Bekumu, then walk to Bamusso.
Then she described a villager from deep in the delta who was willing to work with them. Money meant little to the remote tribes, and the villager wanted help with a problem as payment. They’d meet her up the coast in the morning.
After Monique left, Pia turned to the Major. “The boys who’ve been following us, do we know who sent them?”
Chapter 15
* * *
25-May, 4PM
“You saw them?” the Major said.
“I’ve been followed before,” Pia said. “Used to be overzealous fans or someone ticked off about a foul. Guess things are different now. Who are they?”
“Tania and Marty pushed them around a little, talked to them, took their pictures. They were embarrassed but not deterred. They just kept a little more distance.”
“Let’s follow them,” Pia said. “I’d like to know who sent them and why.”
“They’ve been making calls on cell phones.”
Pia’s eyebrows went up. “Can we jump the frequency?”
“Miguel is our electronics expert, he has a cell phone scanner.”
When Agent Miguel returned from distributing soccer gear, he gave her a hand-sized device and showed her the basics. As they went over how it worked, he changed the subject for a second. “The Sabel Foundation gives out millions in charity, why make the soccer gear anonymous?”
Pia said, “When you know the source of your good fortune, you can always ask for more. When you don’t, you take very good care of your gifts.”
An hour later, in running shorts and a tank top, Pia dropped a soccer ball at her bare feet. She dribbled her way onto the beach with a Bluetooth earbud in her ear. Connected to that were both her phone and the eavesdropping receiver in her runner’s pack. Tania followed. The Major drove up the coast road. Marty and Miguel rotated off watch and headed for the hotel bar.
Pia’s two shadows looked concerned about the group’s splitting up but made no calls.
She dribbled up the beach at a warm-up pace, the brown sand squished between her toes like soft silk. Tania did her best to keep up. Patches of scar tissue on her legs covered most of one thigh and half of the other. The rewards of serving her country.
They left the populated section of the beach.
The boys followed, though not quite at Pia’s speed.
A couple kilometers out, Tania stopped. She said, “OK, I get it. You’re an athlete. Now can we jog at a normal pace?”
Pia huffed. “That was just a warm-up. What’s your 10K time?”
Tania stopped running, put her hands on her knees. “I dunno, under fifty minutes probably.”
“Air is up here,” Pia said stretching her chin skyward. “Never bend down when you’re out of breath.”
Tania stood up straight. “What’s your time?”
“Thirty-two or thirty-three, usually.”
“Look, we’re way ahead of the boys. Isn’t this good enough?”
Their favorite spies had fallen so far behind they were merely figures in the distance.
Pia took off again, dribbling the ball. Tania whined and took off after her. A stand of dense trees and brush grew close to the water, obscuring the way ahead. Rounding a bend that cut off visual contact, Pia stopped and hid among the foliage. Tania followed her into the small peninsula of jungle, panting profusely.
“Can you see them?” Tania asked.
“Yep, they’re arguing. Tough spot we put them in—do they follow us into an obvious trap or stay under cover? Now they’ll have to use the phone.”
She worked the receiver to isolate the boys from the thirty-two active calls in the area. Pia scanned until she came on something with a beach breeze blowing in the background, an unmistakable whoosh across the microphone every few beats. Wanting confirmation, she squinted to see if the lips synched up. But they were too far away for certainty. The tall boy held the phone to his ear. He turned around. Immediately she heard the change in wind on the monitored call.
She had them.
“Can you tell what they’re saying?” Pia handed the earbud to Tania.
Tania glared at her. “What, you think I’m part African so I can speak Zulu or whatever the hell that is? Is that what you’re saying?”
“You’re more African than I am, but that’s not what I meant. It doesn’t sound like a Bantu dialect.”
“Bantu? Oh, is that it? They speak Bantu?”
“Dialects south of the Equator are usually based on Bantu, the way French and Spanish are Romance languages. It was in the mission brief.”
“Yeah? Well, fuck Bantu.” Tania grabbed the earbud and shoved it in her ear. After listening for a few seconds, she dropped it back in Pia’s hand.
“Sounds like Cajun or something.”
“You’re right. Pidgin French probably. Dammit.”
“Did you ask the Major about Bantu?” Tania said. “She’s all African.”
“Get focused.”
Tania huffed. She asked, “Is that a record button?”
“Hope so, I pushed it a few minutes ago.”
“So how do we find out who they work for?”
“I don’t know,” Pia said. “They didn’t follow us as far as they were supposed to.” Pia peered through the bushes, then back at Tania. “Let’s ask them.”
Tania rolled her eyes but jogged down the beach toward the boys. Once she’d passed them by a hundred meters, she turned around and ran back toward them. At the same time, Pia ran toward them from the other side. The boys were in their late teens, slightly built and scrawny. They wore pastel slacks and button-down short-sleeved shirts to blend in with the hotel guests. Their heads swung back and forth between Tania and Pia like fans at a tennis match.
With no one else in sight, they decided to make a break for it. Running for the hotel, they charged at Tania. Twenty yards out, she pulled up short and raised a hand. They didn’t even slow down. She glanced around, then pulled a gun
out of her waist pack. The boys stopped in their tracks.
The taller one narrowed his eyes and bent into a fighting stance. The shorter one stepped sideways, splitting her aim. Neither of them saw Pia coming up behind them faster than they could have imagined.
Her slide tackle took down the short guy and distracted the tall one. Tania stuck the gun in his right eye.
Pia’s target scrambled to his feet. Seeing the situation, he pulled up two fists and growled at her. She smiled and shook her head.
“We only want to talk to you,” she said.
The taller boy said something that sounded vaguely French.
Pia looked at him, “Do you speak English?”
“Hell yeah they speak English.” Tania kicked the taller boy. “They spoke to Marty. Ain’t that right, skinny boy?”
The short boy lashed out with a kick to Pia’s midsection. She twisted right, his foot glancing off the back of her thigh, then unwound with a right cross that connected her open hand to his temple. His head spun over his shoulder, his body following in the twist. He collapsed on the sand.
“Holy shit!” Tania said. “Did you kill him?”
Pia looked at Tania and the tall boy, their eyes wide, faces shocked. She shook her head and said, “He’s counting sand while he sorts things out.”
On cue, the shorter boy spit sand and rose on his elbows, then on his hands and knees. He flopped around and sat in the sand shaking his head. Slowly, his eyes rose to Pia’s.
“All I want to know is who hired you to follow me,” she said.
The tall one glared at his friend. “No talkin dem to da lady, abi.”
Pia turned to the tall boy. “You talk to da lady, abi.”
He squinted at her and shook his head.
“We ain’t getting anywhere with these guys,” Tania said. “Can I shoot ’em?”
The whites of his eyes bulged out. Pia nodded and Tania popped a dart into the short boy. He fell over. They turned to the tall boy.
“No, no, no.” He waved his hands in front of him as if swatting away flies and backed up. “No bosses for we. Dis tins happens for anoder raison.”
