A pair of headlights come up the driveway. Behind their glare I can make out security’s Land Rover.
I bend over Razafy and speak quickly. “Listen, Razafy, not a word about the car or the big man. Do you understand? Tell security it was a gang, all on foot, young men, but you didn’t see anything else before they knocked you out.”
“But Monsieur Knott …”
“Nothing about the car. It was a gang.”
He sighs. “As you say, Monsieur Knott.”
Though I know the intruders have fled, I ask the two security men to look for them in the house. I don’t want them talking to Razafy yet. I won’t have time to talk to Jeanne and tell her the story I want her to give to security. I can only hope she won’t repeat the fact that the intruders were calling for me by name.
By the time Esmer comes a few minutes later, I have my story straight.
“A gang of kids overpowered Razafy and ransacked the house,” I tell him. “Must have been just before I got home from work.”
Esmer purses his lips. “I called the police. They told me there’ve been a couple other break-ins tonight, about two kilometers up the road.” He looks out at the dark street. “Odd they would skip everyone else along the way and end up here.”
I need to break his chain of thought. “It doesn’t look like they took much. Just smashed the place up.”
Esmer looks at me, puzzled. “Funny. At the other places they took everything but the paint off the walls.”
“Something must have scared them off,” I suggest. “You figure the police will come by?”
Esmer shakes his head. “They’ve got enough problems tonight. Riots downtown,” he says with perverse satisfaction. The world has descended into the security man’s domain. Guys like him are in charge tonight. He tells his driver to radio the embassy to send for Doctor Andre, then nods toward Razafy, sitting up now, his head between his curled-up knees. “Can he talk?”
“Yeah.” Just to cover my bets, I add, “I’m not sure he’s making much sense.”
But Razafy sticks to the story I gave him and Jeanne doesn’t mention that the intruders had been looking for me.
Esmer leaves one of the men from the Land Rover to replace Razafy and tells me he’ll send over a replacement in the morning.
Telling myself that Picard isn’t likely to come back, I pick the bedclothes from the bedroom floor, wrap myself up and try to sleep, knowing who I’ll have to talk to in the morning.
19
The ruins of the Queen’s Palace sit atop a hill with a commanding view of Antananarivo. It was built in the nineteenth century by Queen Ravanalona, the Lady Macbeth of Madagascar, who wanted to impress the Europeans bent on undermining her rule. Her efforts eventually failed and the ruined walls now serve as a monument to—some say a tomb for—her defiant nationalism. Neglect and that most mutable of Madagascar’s commodities, time, ate away at the building. A few years ago a fire hurried things along.
My solitary footsteps scrape along the paved walk as I look at the burned-out shell and think about how hard the old queen tried to keep out people like myself.
When I turn away, I find Roland Rabary gazing at me with his perpetual frown.
I don’t offer to shake his hand. “I’m surprised you came.”
“No more so than I.” Rabary turns his back to me and looks out over the city. I amble over to stand beside him. Without looking at me, he says, “Did you know, Robert, that from this cliff Queen Ravanalona threw to their deaths thousands of Malagasy who had adopted European ways? She did the same with a few French and British missionaries, trying to eradicate the menace they posed to our culture.”
“Didn’t work out, did it?”
The Malagasy shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe there is a moment, still waiting, in which we Malagasy rid ourselves of all of you and our culture can flow on uninterrupted.”
“And maybe there’s one where the ancestors are happy. From what I’ve seen, they could use some cheering up.”
Rabary looks over his shoulder at the ruined building. “In her heart, Ravanalona must have known that if she had to build a European palace in order to impress Europeans, she had already lost.”
“Funny you should say that. I was coming out of my driveway this morning and saw something making its way up the road, pulled by three or four guys on foot with a couple more pushing from behind. With the heat shimmering off the pavement, I couldn’t make it out at first. I thought maybe they were pulling a cart loaded down with an altar of some sort, some kind of religious procession. But as they got closer I could see what it was—a bunch of guys standing in the shafts of a zebu cart that had no zebu, pulling a cart loaded down with an old car that had no wheels. It struck me as a metaphor for the whole country.”
Rabary raises his eyebrows as he tries on the idea. “Yes, the very picture of the Malagasy people impoverished by their thralldom to foreign ways.” With a casual flick of his hand he indicates the palace behind us. “I know what you’re thinking, Robert. And you’re right. I am exactly what she detested most. I am like this house, claiming to be Malagasy, but, finally, made along European lines. And just as empty.”
“Cut the philosophy, Rabary. I just want to make a deal. Something the old queen would love. I’m thinking your ministry would like nothing better than to nail a Western diplomat’s hide to the wall. The Queen would love it. So let’s make it me. I’ll tell you all you need to know about my gambling debts and how I’m not paying them off. You can tell your bosses I’m thumbing my nose at Malagasy law. Abusing diplomatic privilege. I’ve also been under-tipping at local restaurants. That should be enough to get me PNG’d, and you can lay it all on the desk of your bosses tomorrow.”
“Like a cat laying a dead mouse at the feet of its owners.”
My stomach tightens with the effort to remain civil. “However you want to look at it. Then you can have me thrown out of here. You win your government’s undying gratitude. They give you that post in Paris. You end up sipping Pernod at the Café de la Paix, while I go back to a cheap apartment in the burbs of Washington.”
“It sounds inviting. But I don’t understand why.”
“One condition. I need it done in a hurry.”
Rabary says nothing as we stroll along the bluff overlooking the city. I can hear his mind clicking over, wondering what this is all about.
“Robert, you made a very ugly scene the last time we met. And you deceived me about the provenance of that story in Notre Madagascar.”
“Here’s your chance to get even.”
“Why are you so anxious to embrace disaster? You’ve never wanted to be expelled before now.”
“No one wanted to kill me before now.”
Rabary raises his eyebrows. “Who would—?” The Malagasy stops in mid-sentence as the last tumbler falls into place. “Ah. Yes. Our friend Picard is even more displeased with you than I am,” Rabary says, adding with a sniff, “But surely you exaggerate his anger.”
“I don’t think so. Not only did I humiliate him in front of a casino full of his clients, but he seems to think I’m lying to him about the money being gone, that I have it hidden somewhere. He can’t believe I’m as big a fool as I claim to be. But I am. Two guys came by my house last night. They beat up my guard and broke in, looking for me and the money. When they didn’t find either of us, they tore the place apart to make it look like a street gang had ransacked it. Picard was with them. If I’d been home we probably wouldn’t be here having this pleasant chat. I’d simply be another victim of the unrest in your country.”
The Malagasy looks narrowly at me and senses I’m telling him the truth. He throws back his head and laughs, the sound echoing off the old stone walls. It makes me want to throttle the little potato-nosed bastard.
“So,” Rabary says, still chuckling, “as always, it is we Malagasy who are at fault. We don’t go to your country and tell you to be more like us. But you cross oceans and continents to come to this distant island and tell u
s we should live like you. And when that approach brings you to grief, it is we who are to blame. Pah!” Rabary’s face turns hard. “So now you want to leave and you think I will help you.” His laughter dies with a bitter snort. “You don’t understand. We are both, um…” He searches for the idiom. “… screwed. Even if gambling debts were enough to get you PNG’d—and I don’t think they are—I believe my superiors are already considering throwing you out of the country over this Sackett affair. If so, your expulsion will have nothing to do with my efforts. And I will receive none of the credit.”
“So you haven’t got much time left to take up my offer.” I sound like one of those guys pushing exercise equipment on late night TV. Maybe if I agree to throw in a set of steak knives. “Look, I can give you everything you need to throw me out before they decide to do it themselves. Rile ’em up good and they’ll PNG me this week, maybe in the next day or two. I’m only asking that you get them to do it before Picard catches up with me.”
Rabary smirks. “You’re really frightened, aren’t you?”
“Damn right I am.”
We walk silently along the edge of the bluff. “Yes, perhaps you’re right about Picard,” Rabary says finally. “Most people want revenge served cold. Picard would prefer it hot.”
“And Picard isn’t afraid of committing murder. After all, he got away with it once before, didn’t he?”
Rabary stops, stony faced. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re really good, y’know? The hell you don’t understand. That’s how you have your hooks into him, isn’t it? He paid Andriamana to kill a kid from Tamatave who wouldn’t pay his gambling debts. You were an administrator down there and somehow you found out. Or, after you moved to the capital, maybe Picard told you in a careless moment. I’d say it might have been Andriamana who told you, but he’s never had a careless moment in his life. In any case, you know Picard’s murderous little secret. And you’ve kept it to yourself until you could make it pay off.”
Rabary looks at me, the hint of a smile on his lips. “You never know when you’ve gone too far, do you? You have to blurt out everything you know. Play out every impulse.” Rabary speaks calmly, like a doctor informing a patient of an incurable disease. “You have in the past dismissed my warnings that you were steering yourself toward destruction. Let me try just once more, then my conscience will be entirely clear.” He looks at me, making sure I’m taking in what he’s saying. “Do not underestimate Andriamana as much as Picard does. Picard caught him at a vulnerable moment. Andriamana was just another police officer when this happened, and he needed money quickly to gain a promotion. So he murdered this boy for Picard—and has lived with this sword over his head ever since. A charge of murder against him, even an old one, would be a boon to his many enemies and an impediment to his advancement. But Andriamana did one intelligent thing. After he got his promotion and became the man we know him to be, he came to me. Yes, we’d known each other when I toiled down there as Customs chief. He knew that I could find a way of making Picard keep quiet about it. And so I did. Picard needs an exit visa if he is to ever leave Madagascar, and I can make sure he gets it only on the terms I offer. So, on behalf of the Captain, I demanded his silence.”
“And on behalf of yourself you demand a bribe for the visa.”
Rabary bows his head as if acknowledging a compliment and says, “Despite all this, Picard still thinks this secret gives him power over Andriamana. He doesn’t understand. If Picard remains silent about their little transaction—a wise course—the captain is content. If not, if Picard somehow decides to make a fuss, or demands one favor too many … Well, the captain would decide he must rid himself of this embarrassment.”
“You’re right. Picard doesn’t see it that way. He thinks Andriamana wouldn’t dare do anything to a wealthy vazaha. He thinks he’s in the clear over this.”
Rabary clasps his hands together. “Well, as you say, that’s fine.” He looks over the bluff we walk along. “Picard underestimates us Malagasy. He forgets that we are known to throw foreigners off cliffs.” He shakes his head and laughs. “But you, you make it too easy. You throw yourself off.” He essays that Gallic shrug. “I can’t help you. For my own interests, I wish it were otherwise. But what you are offering up is not enough to get you expelled and, in any case, you come to me too late.” He holds up his hand, two fingers extended downwards and wiggles them, mimicking a running man. “So it is time for you to run away. Any way you can.” He holds up his hand as if about to take an oath, but waves it dismissively. “I have no more time for you.”
He turns his back on me and walks off, still looking over the edge of the cliff.
Pushed by a tailwind of fear and self-disgust, I drive back to the embassy just in time to find I’m being called to another emergency Country Team meeting regarding the deteriorating security situation.
Everyone in the conference room makes a show of good cheer, demonstrating how well they deal with pressure. Steve Trapp is full of jokes and the gunny wants to start an office pool, placing bets on when President Ramananjara will flee to Switzerland.
For now, though, the President’s party still holds the reins of power, and the news media remain firmly under his control. Even with riots spreading across the country, with the Malagasy franc falling like a shotgunned pigeon, and the government teetering on the brink of collapse, news reports focus on the visit of a North Korean diplomatic delegation.
Rumor fills the vacuum. Radio trottoire—sidewalk radio—speaks of foreign agitators, but also of several deaths near the main market and of university buildings burned to the ground. Reports are incomplete, contradictory, and sensational to the point of fantastic, yet reflect something real about the chaos and confusion spreading across the country.
In the surest sign that the government has decided the disturbances have spread far enough and it’s time to put the hammer down, roadblocks have popped up on every road leading out of the city.
Esmer says he can neither confirm nor deny any of the rumors, though police officials have told him gangs are roaming Ivandry, breaking into foreigners’ houses and beating up anyone they find at home. “Including, last night, the residence of our political officer.” He looks down the table at me. “Fortunately, he was not at home at the time.” He makes it sound like a character flaw.
Pete Salvatore starts laying out possible evacuation routes in case the balloon should truly go up—to the airport if it’s open, or, if it’s closed, by a caravan of automobiles down to Tamatave and a rendezvous with an American naval ship.
I brighten at the possibility that all my problems might be solved by such a taxpayer-funded deus ex machina. Then I remind myself of how many evacuation plans I’ve worked on over the years, and not one of them ever came to pass.
“On the other hand, the government may be in luck,” the DCM concludes, “There’s a storm brewing. I mean that literally. High winds, rain. It should hit the coast late this afternoon and be here by evening. That’ll keep people inside tonight and maybe for a couple of days after. No one’s going to demonstrate in the middle of a hurricane.”
I wonder how this storm stacks up against the low pressure system building in my gut. I remind myself that I’ve vowed to take my fate in my own hands, to act, but my resolution is slipping. What was it Don Quixote said? “Fear has a thousand eyes and can see things underground.” Could I be more afraid of doing something, of acting, than of getting killed?
It’s nearly dusk when the meeting breaks up. As I walk back to my office, I run into Cheryl heading for the door. She says goodnight over her shoulder then stops and asks me, “Should I take that girl back down to Post One with me?”
I start to ask, “What girl?” But I already know. “No, I’ll see she gets out.”
All three of the room’s occupants look up as I appear in the doorway. Nirina has pulled a chair over to Walt’s recliner and sits with her hands resting on the old cowboy’s arm.
&nb
sp; Cheryl hadn’t mentioned Speedy. The young thief sits on the floor, leaning against the wall. He smiles and tips a straw hat he has picked up since I saw him last.
Whatever they’ve been talking about, they stop when I come in.
I ask, “Does Miss Gloria know you’re here, Speedy?”
The young Malagasy’s eyes shift away. He says nothing.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get arrested walking down the street to the embassy.” I hear the edge in my voice and wonder if they can tell how taut my nerves are.
“Speedy knows how to get past the cat,” he says with a wink at Walt.
I look around the room, not knowing what I’m searching for until I find it. Poking out from behind Walt’s chair is a heavy cloth strap. I cross the room and look over the back of his recliner. On the floor are two large satchels.
“Going somewhere?” I ask.
“Caught,” Walt said, affecting lightheartedness.
Nirina rises to her feet. “We’re leaving. Tonight.”
Walt throws his hands up. “Robert, I can’t be sittin’ around for months, wonderin’ when this government’s going to let me go. I gotta get outta here.”
How many times has Walt said the same thing? And how many assurances have I given him that the embassy was doing everything it could? None of them have come to anything.
“What if we could sneak you up to the Ambassador’s residence?” I suggest. “It wouldn’t be half as risky as just breaking out of here. The cops are still out there, but the fact that Speedy got in tells me they’re not paying much attention anymore.”
Walt shakes his head. “No, dammit. I ’preciate everything you done for me, Robert. But all you’ve managed to do is get me into a prison that’s a little higher class than the one I just left. I want out. I wanna be free.”
I turn to Nirina. “Do you even have a plan?”
“We are heading for the coast tonight,” she says, “My brother is a fisherman. He will have his boat waiting for us near Tamatave and take us to Mauritius.”
Madagascar Page 19