American Spy

by Lauren Wilkinson

  I got on the bike. It was quiet as usual on my street, the only activity being an old man clearing away brush and pruning neems, throwing the limbs into a wooden cart yoked to a patient donkey. I started up the engine, shattering that peace.

  The university wasn’t very far from the house. I passed Thomas’s face on a nearby billboard, rounded a dump site scattered with chickens pecking at the debris, crossed a wide street, and sped onto a dirt lane where a ten-foot pile of every imaginable auto-body part sat in front of a garage: engines and doors, truck panels, even a giant bright yellow piece that I guessed was a school bus hood. A mechanic in orange flip-flops was standing beside it, his arms crossed as he laughed with another man.

  I wasn’t often happy in Ouaga and was frequently sick—early on in my trip I had a run-in with a bit of lettuce from which I never fully recovered—but I did find it beautiful. I’ve never been anywhere before or since that had the capacity to surprise me with its sights like that city did.

  I passed an empty guard booth and rode onto campus. The road was smooth and lined with trees. Groups of students walked on the side, most of them young men who were conservatively dressed in collared shirts and slacks.

  That Committee election was an important one because the university was a seat of political activity and power. So much so that a few months earlier, students protesting the trade union ban had clashed with police on campus and the result was an abrupt school closing that had thrown the academic calendar out of whack. It had since reopened, and classes resumed, but some programs of study were permanently out of sync.

  Following Slater’s instructions, I rode over a short footbridge, turned off the road and onto a dirt embankment that ran alongside a narrow, dried-out canal. After a short time I came to a slope and parked my bike beside a few mopeds at the bottom of it. At the top of the slope was a rare sight—a copse of tall leafy trees and ample shade. I started up.

  A handful of chalkboards were peppered beneath the trees. There was writing on some of them, math equations mostly, and low benches in front of each board—the space must’ve served as an outdoor classroom. About a dozen students were waiting there for the election to start. A man broke away from a group of students and approached me. Because the university was a locus for political activity and the professors were paid notoriously poorly, Slater had recruited several of them as agents. He’d asked one to attend the election with me—he was a professor and also a member of the CDR.

  I was glad Slater had sent his agent, who was only a few years older than I was and had a pleasant face for a snitch. I was the only woman in the crowd and would’ve been far more conspicuous alone. We returned to the group where he introduced me and said I was an American who worked for the UN, there to observe the election. One of the candidates, Jonas Somé, was standing in the group. He was short and had a heavy brow.

  The agent asked Somé if he felt confident. He smiled and said he did, as his friends chimed in with assurances. Somé explained his position to me: He supported the ULCR and believed that the country should adopt a multiparty system. He believed the CDR was weak because of its current leadership; if he was elected, he would do his best to once more make the group a strong political force.

  As a pair of young men began setting up a table and a box for the votes to be cast in, I heard the sound of motors; a new group had arrived at the bottom of the slope. I’d hoped it was Thomas. Instead, three young men came toward us, Vincent Traoré among them.

  I left Somé and approached Vincent. He was wearing a starched pink shirt tucked into blue pants and looked nervous. He remembered me from New York and spoke to me in English, asking me niceties about my family; it seemed like he wanted to keep his mind off the election. He had far fewer friends in the crowd than Somé—only two young men came over and joined us.

  Suddenly Thomas appeared at the top of the hill, just a few paces away, Sam Kinda and a second uniformed soldier with him. He was dressed casually and just as handsome as usual. An excited pulse went through the crowd—I think that Slater’s agent, Vincent, and I were the only ones who’d had any indication that he might show up.

  Vincent and the young men who were standing with us began to clap and cheer, and the rest of the crowd soon joined in. I was just as excited as everyone else, experiencing that same sea swell under my heart that I had when I’d first shook his hand, the personal physical connection. And there was the second kind of excitement too, although it had waned some from the day I saw him speak at Harriet Tubman school, the charismatic draw that a large crowd intensified.

  Thomas came over to us. He greeted everyone, then wished Vincent good luck. Up close, his trademark vigor looked like it had been wrung out of him—he seemed as exhausted as he had at the palace. Vincent left our group to circulate in the crowd, as Somé was doing, leaving me alone with Thomas and his guards. I brushed off the nervousness I felt and said, “I hope he wins.”

  Thomas smiled at me. His glance landed on the copper bangles on my wrist, which I’d deliberately put on that morning. I said, “The bartender read that Frederick Forsyth book you recommended. He still asks about you, you know. And whenever I go to the lounge, he tells that story about you playing guitar. I swear you get better at it every time.” I looked around. “It seems like you’re too busy for music these days.”

  “That’s true,” he agreed solemnly. He told Sam and his other bodyguard to give us some privacy, which they did grudgingly, but didn’t go far. I could feel both of them watching as I spoke to Thomas.

  “You look exhausted,” I said.

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “Was that sarcasm?”

  He smiled again. “I am tired. We’re still getting things done, but I have to push a lot harder these days.”

  “Even you need to rest though.”

  He nodded. “How do you like Ouaga so far?”

  “I love it,” I said, telling a genial lie.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “In Zone du Bois. The American embassy owns a house there.”

  “I know the place. I’ll come by one day soon.”

  I hid my surprise about the fact that Slater was right. He’d invited himself. “If you want to. We can talk about Harlem. Or music. Or books. Anything, really, except politics.”

  I looked into his face. His eyes were beautiful: His pupils were large despite the light, the ring of his irises warm brown.

  “That sounds nice.” Then he did something that was hard to decipher: He called a young man over, greeted him, and asked, “Comrade, why do you wear that shirt?”

  The young man looked down at the emblem on his white T-shirt. Thomas continued: “It’s free advertising for Converse. I always say it: We grow cotton here. We can make clothing here. We can be self-sufficient.” He glanced at me sharply. “We can be successful despite the intervention of foreign powers.”

  At first I was a little relieved, if I’m honest, a strange way for a spy to react to being made. But the alternative—Thomas believing that I was a lunatic who had traveled across the world because I was obsessed with him—was much harder on my pride. I still believed that he would come to the house though, which made me wonder about his motivations.

  He turned back to me and seemed about to say something, but was interrupted by one of the students at the table, who declared the voting open. As students got in line to vote, Thomas went toward a low bench and climbed up on it to address the larger group. “I came here to thank you for being good comrades. Participating in democracy is the only way it will function. I’d like to say a few words before you cast your votes. I want to remind you that everyone who talks about the fight against corruption isn’t necessarily innocent. There are those who pretend to be revolutionary to participate in the committee, but their goal is to undermine your power. They talk loud because they are afraid of you. They call this committee useless and i
neffective; they say that to devalue the regime and its leaders. They are doing everything to ensure that you don’t act. So you must act.”

  He stepped down off the bench to notably light applause—apparently not very many of the young men in the crowd had liked what he’d had to say. The mood seemed to support what Slater had told me: Thomas was losing support in certain quarters. Ironically, I was feeling more convinced by him than ever.

  Thomas, Sam, and the third presidential guard started toward the slope to leave. As they passed, Thomas glanced at me. His exhaustion, which had seemed to dissipate while he spoke, was back. I gave him a supportive smile and he nodded, then Sam ushered him down the hill.

  I joined the agent and stood to the side as the students cast their ballots. Vincent and Somé lingered as well, even standing together and chatting for a little bit. I wasn’t obligated to stay so long, but did because I was more interested in the election than I had been in the conference. I’d never seen democracy practiced that way before; the only thing that was similar to what I was used to was the partisan scrabbling that had dominated it.

  The whole process took hours, but eventually, after a long period of deliberation, one of the students at the table declared Jonas Somé the winner. His supporters burst into cheers; someone in the crowd called for a recount. Vincent shook his head at the idea, and as a signal of concession he went over to shake Somé’s hand.

  19

  I RODE BACK TO THE HOUSE AND took a quick shower to cool down. There was a guesthouse owned by a Frenchman nearby that I planned to walk over to for dinner. Like all cities, Ouagadougou was segregated by class, and I stuck to the handful of places where the wealthy hung out, which were always crawling with foreigners. I had no anxiety about that as I would’ve at home. After just a few days, my idealized vision of Africa had given way to the realities of Ouaga: I’d accepted that there were streets I wouldn’t ride my motorcycle on because they were too chaotic. Restaurants—and this was most of them—I didn’t want to eat in because there was neither running water nor real toilets in their bathrooms. Every day I spent in Burkina Faso was a reminder of how American I was.

  And although I found it difficult to be there, I thought it was good for me too, because it took me out of my usual context. There was the language, the new culture, the fact that in the United States I thought of myself as black before I thought of myself as American. In Ouagadougou, routinely, those designations were reversed: People saw me as American first. The American. I can’t say I preferred it that way, but it gave me a new perspective.

  I pulled my gate closed behind me. As I approached the guesthouse, a hand on the small of my back startled me, and I turned to find Slater beaming at me. We didn’t have plans together; he was just there, apparently having been waiting for me. I chased away the paranoid thought that he’d set me up at that house to bug it or to keep tabs on me through one of the employees.

  “What happened today?” he asked.

  “You were right. He invited himself to the house. I expect him to visit me within the next few days.”

  “Told you so. Excellent work. Do you know when?”

  “No.”

  He shrugged. “Par for the course. Expect him at a weird time. It’ll be whenever it fits into his schedule.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, trying not to sound as put off by it as I felt.

  “I thought we should get dinner. Talk about more personal things if you want. And we can celebrate your success.”

  I nodded. “I’d like that.”

  There was a whitewashed wall built around the guesthouse, which was stenciled with a heron-like bird and the name of the place in green: Bénou Lodge. A guard sitting on a wooden bench beside the gate stood as we approached and opened it for us.

  Wooden patio tables scattered the grass at the center of the garden, which served as an open-air dining room. We sat at one of the tables, and I looked toward the waiter, who was showing a couple a chalkboard menu. The only other patron was a Chinese businessman at the bar, who was holding a hand-rolled cigarette. His tie was loose, and his face was red from alcohol flush.

  “I’ve been busy too,” he said.

  “I bet. Did you find out who set the fire?”

  “Not yet, but I have a few theories. I have a Soviet counterpart here, and his agents are ruthless when it comes to sabotage. I’m sure one of them did it, but which one is hard to say.”

  “I’m glad no one was killed.”

  He shrugged, which was a strangely noncommittal response.

  The waiter approached with the chalkboard menu and rested it in a vacant chair. We ordered drinks.

  “What did you think of the election?” he asked.

  “We won,” I said. “And it was interesting to watch.”

  “Yeah. Too bad Thomas imported the idea from Cuba without learning any of the lessons from the Cuban model that he should’ve.”

  “Such as?”

  “Most of the CDR leaders in Cuba have been corrupted by the power. They keep files on their neighbors, and depend on colleagues and friends to rat each other out. You can’t give young people—or inexperienced people—power like that. In some towns here in Burkina, now, the CDRs have become flat-out vigilante groups. Thomas is a dictator, and CDRs, in practice, just wind up reinforcing that.”

  The waiter returned with wine for me and Scotch for him. He tapped his glass to mine. “To you. To your success with your mission.”

  He took a sip and said of the Scotch: “It’s hard to get this brand here, so I have cases of the stuff at home. I hand them out to important men.”

  I nodded.

  “Helene liked this brand.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine her drinking Scotch.”

  “I turned her on to it.” A smile burst onto his face. “I’d forgotten how much you remind me of her. You laugh like her and your gestures—that thing you just did, rubbing your chin like she did. You know, she talked about you all the time.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “She always said how much like her you were.”

  I wasn’t as insistent as he was that we were alike—not just looked alike. But I liked thinking of her saying that, even if I didn’t know if I believed it was true. “Well, she raised me.”

  “She was something else, your sister. Most of the time I felt like I understood her perfectly. But every once in a while I saw a glimpse of something that made me feel like there was part of her that I couldn’t see, that she was hiding from me.”

  “I felt that way sometimes too,” I said, even though I heard something different in his words than what I’d felt. The way he’d said it was like he believed there was some malice there. That she was hiding on purpose.

  “Yeah? I’m glad to hear it. Makes me feel a little better.”

  The waiter put down our entrées and Slater ordered another round of drinks for us. Once we were alone he asked, “Did you know that your sister wanted to start her own intelligence agency?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “She wanted me to be part of it.”

  “Me too. While she was on the post, I was in North Carolina helping her gather contacts. And money.”

  “Really?” That was a wonderful shock. What he’d said supported the fantasy I’d been maintaining.

  “Yeah. But after she died I lost my nerve. I only came back to the idea recently. After I talked about it with Ross. He agreed it’s a good idea. He thinks we can create a modern-thinking, nimbler firm.”

  I thought back to what Ross had been saying at the Lenox. He’d used the exact same phrase. Now it made more sense. “The kind of firm that’s crucial. And I’ll tell you why. How much do you know about the Battle of Kolwezi?”

  “Only a little,” I said, which was true.

  “It was mostly Zaire’s and Belgium’s fight, but France was also inv
olved. So were a couple of Americans from the 82nd Airborne. Like me. I was chosen for tactical airlift support because I spoke French.”

  He explained with an ironic smile that his team was “beating back the Communists.” He told me that rebels had captured Kolwezi, hoping to establish it as a people’s republic loyal to the Soviet Union. They took three thousand hostages and eventually began killing them. He said, “It was terrible, but the opposition didn’t have much moral high ground. The president, Mobutu Sese Seko, ordered his soldiers to parade the bodies of the Europeans massacred by the rebels in the streets to prompt the French and Belgians into action. All that bothered me.”

  I’d thought he meant the casual desecration of human life, but Slater explained that the fact that the battle had even happened was what bothered him. Because the Soviets had started buying up all the cobalt on the free market, he thought that anyone who was paying attention should’ve known something was about to affect a major source of it. And he thought the rebels should’ve been stopped before they ever got to Kolwezi because they’d come through Zambia from Angola.

  “The United States has one of the most complicated intelligence networks on the planet,” he said. “But somehow four thousand rebels crossed two international borders on bicycles without anybody picking up on it. If I was in charge, things would never have gone that far.”

  “You sound confident,” I limited myself to saying. This was the Cold War he was talking about. It was so complicated and the stakes were so high that humanity had been brought to the brink of nuclear war. But Slater believed that had he been able to insert himself into the early planning stages of something that became an international conflict, that conflict would have been avoided. I thought of something Helene had said a long time ago, about CIA officers thinking they were all tactical geniuses. I wondered if this streak of his had ever bothered her.