American Spy

by Lauren Wilkinson

  “Marie. Women do that all the time.”

  I thought for a moment. I wanted to think he wasn’t the kind of person she could’ve loved, but everything suggested that he was. I didn’t know what that meant about who she was.

  “Marie? You still there?”

  “Yeah, sorry. But how could he have been in the car? I remember him at the wake. He didn’t have a mark on him.”

  “From what I remember his face was all bruised and scratched. I’m sure the rest of him was in bad shape too. You really don’t remember that?”

  I didn’t, which scared me. I remembered the feeling of recognizing him, of holding on to him. I remembered him giving me the photo booth pictures. But hard as I tried, I couldn’t conjure up an image of his face at either the wake or the funeral. The line started to hiss again. “He’s a strange guy,” Pop said. “Like his cheese has slipped off his cracker.”

  “Pop. Careful, all right? I have to go now. Be careful what you say on this line; someone might be able to hear you.”

  “What?”

  “Get your phone fixed,” I said as loudly as I could. I didn’t know for certain that his phone was bugged, but if it was, Ross was certainly behind it.

  There was a threat in that. He knew where my father was. If he ever felt like putting pressure on me, Pop would’ve been in danger.

  23

  TAMALE, GHANA, 1987

  I DECIDED TO GO TO GHANA TO warn Thomas about what was happening. I’d failed to protect my sister from Slater’s corrosion, but I could still protect Thomas. I was frightened by his swerve toward authoritarianism, but he represented revolution and change to millions of people. I couldn’t let people like Slater and Ross extinguish that for the sake of greed and power.

  It was a seven-hour journey, and Slater had assigned one of his agents to take me. I packed a few things into the backpack I’d brought, including a small bottle of Scotch, and slipped my service automatic in a holster under my shirt. The driver was late, so I waited on the patio. I was very anxious, so I poured a little Scotch into my coffee and drank it as I flipped through an old local paper. Earlier in the week, Thomas had spoken at the opening of an exhibition on Che Guevara in commemoration of Che’s death twenty years earlier. A delegation from Cuba that included one of Che’s sons had attended. Part of his speech was quoted in the paper, in which he’d told an anecdote from the Cuban Revolution.

  The assault on the Moncada garrison had failed and the men who’d attempted it were about to be put to death. As the rebels were led out in front of the firing squad, one of Batista’s officers tried to persuade the squad not to shoot them. He said to his fellow soldiers: “Stop, stop. You cannot kill ideas.”

  “And it’s true,” the speech continued. “No one man is the revolution. Not me, not Che. That it continues after us, that is how you’ll know the work hasn’t been meaningless.”

  All of that seemed ominous—it reminded me of something Fred Hampton had said before he was assassinated: You can kill a revolutionary, but you can never kill the revolution. Thomas must’ve known that. I thought it was a signal that he was giving up. That he could see what was coming and had resigned himself to it.

  I was tense and quiet as we rode south, thinking about him, the way he used his power to pursue freedom for others. That was love for him. For me, that is goodness. Either way, I hope that you will share those values.

  I arrived at Mole National Park in the late afternoon. My room had already been paid for, and the clerk gave me a key from one of the cubbyholes at his elbow. I crossed a grassy expanse in the direction of a row of two-story white bungalows, passing a dining room beneath a white roof with a series of peaks, like a child’s drawing of a wave. There was a pool deck beside it, the savanna and the sky beyond, and through the tall windows I could see tourists at the tables.

  I rounded the villa along a walkway studded with lampposts. My room was on the bottom floor of one of several two-story villas, in a block that had been reserved for the government meetings. Several armed guards stood at attention near one of the rooms on the second floor.

  Just a few paces from my own door, I spotted a baboon sitting on the white railing. I knew the place was a wildlife refuge, but it was still a shock to see such a large primate in real life. I stopped. We stared at each other for a moment before I moved on, feeling like I’d been judged and found wanting. Alone in a relatively luxurious room, I put my bag down, took my gun and holster off.

  Almost immediately, the phone rang. It was Ed Ross.

  Slater had let it slip that he’d been keeping tabs on me for a long time, which meant that Ross had been manipulating me from the first time we met. I’d blamed Gold and Mr. Ali for my suspension, but had realized that Ross could easily have put pressure on Gold to sideline me for as long as he did, to cultivate that low point in my life that got me out here.

  Ross was in my head then and he still is. When I first met him, he knew immediately to flatter my intelligence, which blinded me to some of the ways he was manipulating me. I’ll never be certain about the extent to which he managed to do it. I don’t know, for example, if I myself came to the conclusion that they wanted photos of Thomas and me for blackmail, or if Ross planted that idea. I’d assumed that was the case after I saw that surveillance van parked outside my building. And I let that slip to him. But had I just misinterpreted what I’d seen—was it a regular van? Or did he have a van parked there to lead me to that conclusion? In trying to follow his trail of clues, there are times when I think I’ve finally found him. I pounce. And then I realize it’s only my own intellect that I’ve caught. My own capacity to overthink things.

  “SQLR. Do you know what you’re supposed to do?”

  “Yes. Where is he?”

  “On a tour.”

  “What?” I said, sounding incredulous.

  “Well, it’s a wildlife reserve. And he’s gone to take a look at the elephants. I suggest you go and find him out on the trail. If you don’t you could miss him.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “I doubt it. Just get him to ask to come back to your room. Dan says you’re good at that.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I have every faith that if you try you’ll succeed. But I want to remind you of something. Slater thinks you’re one of a kind, but that’s only because he’s still in love with your sister. As far as I’m concerned, you’re expendable. If things don’t go as I planned, I have no problem with you disappearing out there. Which would be easy, because you’re very vulnerable right now. You’re in a foreign country, with no contacts outside of the ones we’ve given you. Slater understands that. He’s accepted that if I have to make the call he’ll do what he has to. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” He was saying that if I didn’t kill Thomas he would tell Slater to kill me, and the realization made my hands start to shake. “I’ll do what I was sent here for.”

  “Make sure you do.”

  I hung up. Then I slammed the receiver against the phone a few times, relishing the plaintive, ghostly little rings. Needing to calm down, I drank some Scotch.

  From my window I could see that a crowd had already gathered on the knoll outside and was being held at bay by several security guards.

  A group of men came down the same stairs and a loud cheer went up. I looked out the window and saw two men who were waving to the crowd—they were obviously politicians. They had to cross the knoll to get to the parking area. Most of the crowd followed, and so did a couple of security guards. I realized it was because Jerry Rawlings, the Ghanaian president, was among them.

  I walked across the knoll toward reception, and followed the front desk clerk’s directions to the trail. It began near a toolshed, where a dozen or so green rubber boots were lined up on the patio. I followed a series of blue trail markers through a wide-open savanna populated with flat-topped syringa trees
. Antelopes hopped through the tall grass. Rustling in the underbrush beside the path proved to be a warthog scurrying past.

  I crested the top of the hill and looked down on a lovely sight. In the valley below was a lake, and standing on the near bank was a pair of elephants. Thomas was there with Sam and a man who must’ve been a tour guide—he was wearing a khaki shirt and pants.

  “Thomas,” I called as I approached. I saw Sam Kinda’s hand go to the pistol at his hip.

  “The American,” he answered.

  “It’s Blaise,” I said with my hands up, wary of Sam. “He’s our most important ally in the country. He helped create the ULCR. The whole point of it is to prevent the reunification of the CNR at every turn and to put him in power. You can’t trust him anymore.”

  Sam Kinda intervened between us. It had always been clear that he didn’t like or trust me, but he’d never been so openly hostile. He said something to Thomas in Mooré and began to pat me down for a weapon, as the other men looked on. The guide had a gap between his front teeth and was also armed, carrying a rusted hunting rifle that must’ve been just for show; it couldn’t possibly have stopped a charging elephant.

  “That’s enough, Sam,” Thomas said.

  “The CIA wants to install Blaise as president.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “There’s not much that happens in my country that I don’t know about. People have been warning me about Blaise’s plans for months. At first I didn’t want to believe it, but then…Did you listen to the speech I gave on the anniversary of the Political Orientation Speech?”

  I nodded, remembering how much it had meant to Asalfo, the bar owner; how he’d gotten his radio fixed just so he could hear it.

  “Blaise wrote the speech given by the young man who spoke first, Jonas Somé. He was attacking me through Jonas, pointing out where we diverged on certain policies. That was his way of publicly throwing down the gauntlet. Blaise is the vice president, but he’s also the minister of defense—the highest-ranking member of the military in the country—so of course your CIA would approach him. In a way he’s always been the enforcer, doing what he had to with force—with violence—in the shadows so I could create policies in the light.”

  “They’re willing to kill you to make him president.”

  He inclined his head to signal he knew.

  “Then have Compaoré arrested. Stop him.”

  “No. His ambitions have divided us, but he’s still my brother.” It was painful to see how resigned he was. How tired.

  “Thomas. Listen to me. Your life is in very serious danger. Do you know who Daniel Slater is?” I said, then used his alias.

  “Yes, he approached me a few years ago. He wanted my permission to build an American military base here—your government would give him a private contract to do it. I said no. But when Blaise is president he’ll agree. And Daniel Slater will become a very rich man.”

  “He’s a bad person, Thomas. I’m risking my life to tell you what he’s up to so you’ll prevent it.”

  “He’s greedy, not bad.”

  The semantics made me furious. “He wants to kill you! That’s what matters!”

  “I’m not afraid of death,” he said. “Only of not having done enough, of having failed out of laziness. I’m prepared to fight until the end against that. But I’ve already told myself either I’ll finish up an old man somewhere in a library reading books, or I’ll meet with a violent end, since we have so many enemies. Once you’ve accepted that reality it’s just a question of time.”

  “It’s selfish to martyr yourself. You have children.” I was surprised by how angry I was. The elephant observed us for just a second before striding into the water. She stood there, not quite knee deep, as her baby paddled around beside her. She swung her trunk, lightly splashing him.

  I started back up the trail. He called after me using my alias.

  “Marie,” I called back, correcting him.

  * * *

  —

  I RETURNED TO THE ROOM, where I sat on the edge of the bed and thought. I’d risked my life for him for no reason. Someone rapped on the door and I went to open it. Thomas was standing there, winsome despite his exhaustion.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I asked at the front desk for the black American woman.” He stepped into the room.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “That’s a good question. I’ve been asking it of myself ever since I came to your house. I wish I knew why.”

  “Self-destruction,” I said. “Loss will make you pursue it, and you’re losing something very big. Something very powerful.” I knew what I was saying to be true; after I lost my sister I completely fell apart.

  He shook his head. “Maybe it’s that I’d rather die quietly than by firing squad.”

  I realized then that he’d known even before I did what Ross and Slater had wanted from me. If it was obvious to him then maybe my blindness to it had been willful.

  I leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. He seemed conflicted then as he had before—the theory I’ve since landed on was that he was equal parts attracted to and repelled by my Americanness. Then I felt him smile, I guess at the forwardness of it. He kissed me.

  He began to unbutton my blouse. He had some trouble with the hook-and-eye closures and I looked up at him, charmed by his clumsiness, how it contradicted the confidence in his animated face at the podium that day in Harlem, how he’d looked as he held up the pistol in its holster.

  I know it reflects a weird convention, to admit that I feel compelled to detail his violent death for you, but also like I should censor myself about our physical intimacy. So I’ll limit myself to talking about afterward.

  Once more he lay still. He put his head on my chest and listened to my heartbeat with a smile on his face. Rest was something he rarely afforded himself; he treated sleep like a chore. I was pleased—the most loving thing you could do for someone like your father was to allow him to be. And hope that he could find peace in a moment of quiet. Eventually, he got out of bed and began pulling his clothes on. I dressed too and we went outside.

  * * *

  —

  I ASKED HIM TO give me a ride with them back to Ouaga. “I don’t want Slater to know it when I’m back.”

  He agreed. Sam, who’d been standing guard outside the room, said something. It must’ve been an objection because Thomas—momentarily revealing his old commanding self—answered in French: “We’ll do what I say. I’m still the PF.”

  The three of us started north with Sam behind the wheel. It was quiet in the car and I rode for much of the way with my head resting against Thomas’s shoulder.

  “I don’t see how he can betray you for the sake of greed,” I said at one point.

  “It’s not just about greed. It’s about ideology.”

  “For ideas? That’s even worse.”

  “I don’t agree. Blaise is a soldier, and a soldier without ideology is a criminal.” He added: “Are you a soldier?”

  “No, not really. Maybe I was once but not now. Not anymore.”

  “What did you believe in then?”

  “Nothing much.”

  He searched my face before he spoke. “I don’t believe you. I think you believe in a way the world should be.”

  It was flattering, but it wasn’t true. I didn’t have a guiding ideology until you were born. Now all I truly believe is that the world should be a place where you can thrive.

  At dusk, we stopped at a gas station in a small town that was just on the other side of the border. Sam opened the driver’s door and planted his feet in the red dust. Thomas leaped out of the car and went into the building across the road for some water. When he came out, it was with a small group following him at a respectful distance. The station was manned by two boys. It wasn’t much more than a gia
nt wood rack at the side of the road that held glass jars filled with amber gas, and a couple of dozen one-liter bottles that I’d first mistaken for water before realizing it looked too slick and had to be kerosene. The boys worked fast, filling the tank with adult efficiency.

  A small crowd formed around Thomas as he approached the car. Sporadic whistles and voices increased into applause. He smiled and thanked everyone. I could feel how much they loved him. And why shouldn’t they have? He’d touched lives and improved them. Even mine.

  As he was opening the car door, a man approached with a little boy. “Please, PF. Please. This is my cousin’s son. You’re his hero.”

  The man hitched the boy up onto his hip. Thomas was exhausted, I knew he was, but I saw him gather himself. He spoke to the boy. “How are you doing, little brother? It’s nice to meet you.”

  The boy shyly put his face against his cousin’s neck.

  “He’s Sudanese,” the man said. “He doesn’t speak French yet.”

  “As-salamu alaykum, little brother,” Thomas said.

  The boy was overwhelmed but grinning as he lifted his face and turned to Thomas, repeating softly: “Bonjour. Bonjour, bonjour!”

  Thomas got into the car and pulled the door closed. Eager faces crowded the open windows. Hands banged on the hood. Sam started the car and moved forward slowly through the cheering crowd. A few people managed to keep pace with us for a little while, and as we left them behind someone kicked off the chant: “We will win! We will win!”

  24

  WHEN SAM PULLED UP IN FRONT of the house in Zone du Bois, I leaned over to kiss Thomas on the cheek. “Goodbye.”

  “Be careful,” he said. I stepped out of the car.

  In the house, I showered and dressed, put the gun in my holster. I wanted to move quickly, to take advantage of Slater believing I was still in Ghana. I pulled the black comforter from my bed, stuffed it and a few clothes into my backpack. I’d have to leave the rest behind. It was a little after three in the morning when I left on the bike. There was no moon; I still wasn’t used to darkness like that. I cut the engine on the quiet boulevard and pushed the motorcycle toward Slater’s street. I could barely make out the half-dozen homes that stood on Slater’s cul-de-sac, all of them hidden behind mud-brick walls. The only light was from a floodlight mounted on the front of one of the larger homes, and the only sound the crickets stridulating in the trees.