Zanzibar

by Giles Foden

  In addition to the FESTs, a variety of service members were despatched by the Department of Defense, which called on its resources from all over the world. A fifty-man Marine Fleet Anti-Terrorism Security Platoon was sent by Central Command to each city; a thirty-man Navy Seabee unit was deployed from Guam to help with recovery operations in Nairobi; European Command sent a twenty-man surgical team, a seven-member Army-combat stress-control team, a critical-care transport team and a seven-member Air Force aeromedical evacuation crew. From south-west Asia, more medical personnel and a mortuary affairs team were deployed, split between Dar and Nairobi.

  But it was mainly FBI staff – medical and explosives and engineering experts as well as investigating agents – who were first to arrive at the two sites. Under federal law, the FBI is mandated with investigation of crimes committed on United States property abroad, and this was why Mort Altenburg touched down in East Africa. Jack Queller, rushed from Cape Cod to Washington by light aircraft, was another who came, having been called in personally by Secretary Albright as a Center for Terrorism Control adviser to the FEST.

  Queller and Altenburg went to Nairobi first. Both men were shocked by the quantity of debris at the site when they first visited it. There was glass, a lot of glass, mounds of brick, twisted pieces of charred metal, huge slabs of concrete. The walls of several buildings had been completely ripped away, like a cross-sectional diagram. Webs of vapour still hung over the site. Kenyan construction crews, their picks and shovels ringing on stone and steel, continued to dig for human remains.

  Altenburg threw himself into investigative searches and interviews. Queller stood back a little, trying to get a picture of how it had happened. He noticed that some of his colleagues were riding roughshod over the personnel from the Kenyan Criminal Investigative Division. He himself took special care to listen to what the African policemen had to say as they went about their own examinations of the crime scene, in the wake of the FBI’s technical experts.

  The forensic procedure itself involved mapping out a boundary, a demarcation about six hundred yards from the putative centre of the blast, and working one’s way in. What the technical agents were looking for first of all were pieces of metal that showed a close proximity to the explosion – such as might have come from the vehicle in which the bomb was carried, if that was the case. There was a characteristic pitting and cratering of surfaces, and thinning and rolling of the metal itself from the amount of energy and pressure exerted on the object at the time of detonation.

  Later they would swab for trace elements, explosive residue: minute particles of chemical produced when the explosive reacted and changed from a solid to a gaseous state. Having been isolated and dissolved in acetone, the particle would then be separated, using gas chromatography, and its chemical constituents identified with an electron microscope. Only then would they know exactly which ingredients had been used to make the bomb.

  There was so much to get through that the FBI set up tents in a parking lot next to the embassy, laying out trestle tables inside, on which they could study fragmentary evidence. It was here the torn pieces of metal were examined, having been carefully picked up from where they had come to rest.

  Queller stared at them. It was hard to get a sense of how these blackened pieces, carried by the shock waves at thousands of feet per second, had moved through the air as the explosive expanded; how energy moving at such a high rate of speed could take metal, heavy metal like an axle or a piston rod, twist it, churn it, puddle it, flatten it, or form a knife-like edge even as it travelled.

  The following day, on a visit to the hospital, he saw some of the damage that had been done to human flesh by these projectiles, and by the billions of particles of glass, concrete and other material that the explosion had flung around in concentric circles.

  He walked the beds with an Asian woman doctor. Torn limbs. Corneal laceration. Shrapnel littering flesh. Teeth sheared off. Holes in the skull. People who had lost parts of their jaws or shoulders. There was one man, a driver at the embassy, who had lost an eye, an ear, and half of his forehead. The ambassador herself had a badly torn lip and other injuries. Many others, from what the doctors told him, had glass buried so deep in their bodies it would take eight or nine operations to remove it.

  Queller was most moved by those who had lost limbs. One man had lost a hand. The doctor told Queller how he had come in with the hand dangling from the threads of its neurovascular bundle – a lone figure in the sudden surge of humanity that had descended from buses and cars in the immediate aftermath of the explosion, overunning the triage area and covering its walls and floor with blood as they slumped and lay and sat down all along the hallways, waiting for attention.

  He left the place trembling and had to stand in the car park under a red-flowered tree before he could gather the strength to drive back to the bomb site.

  * * *

  Over in Dar, Miranda was at the scene as the first wave of FEST personnel arrived, to begin collecting evidence there and initiating a programme of interviews. She watched the agents as they checked in at the chargé’s house, where she was still working the phones. There were as many women as men among them, and African–Americans, Asians, WASPs – a broad spectrum – but all seemed somehow the same: the same youth and iron-hard fitness, the same sober business suits half concealing shoulder holsters and handguns, the same logic-chopping, Quantico brains. The response teams went into the blast sites first with picks and shovels, then wearing surgical gloves, carrying Q-tips and tiny plastic bags. They all wore protective Tyvek suits – all-over plastic suits to prevent contamination of evidence. They must be boiling in those, she thought, under the African sun.

  The mandatory security inspections conducted by the FEST included rigorous questioning of the chancery staff. Held at the Kilimanjaro, these were something of an ordeal, but everyone agreed they were necessary. One by one, those who weren’t too badly injured were called to the hotel.

  By the time it was Miranda’s turn, Queller and Altenburg had arrived from Nairobi. It was they who conducted the interview. She was surprised to see the two men together. She didn’t know what to say as she was escorted into the room by another agent.

  Queller was friendly from the start, rising to shake her hand, offering her his good left one, which threw her a little even though she remembered about the prosthesis.

  ‘We met before, didn’t we?’ he said, with a smile. ‘I’m sorry that we have to meet again under such tragic circumstances.’

  Altenburg was colder in his manner, studying her impassively from behind his spectacles. It was he who asked most of the questions, sitting directly opposite her at the formica desk. There was a pile of files, and a tape recorder. Queller sat a little apart with his legs crossed, the empty sleeve of his missing arm hanging by his side. The agent who had escorted her in stood at the door. She felt like a criminal under guard.

  At first the interrogation was technical. ‘What colour was the smoke from the bomb? Are you able to describe its smell?’

  She tried as best she could to remember. ‘Well, it was just black really, black with streaks of grey. I don’t know how to describe the smell. The only time I ever smelt anything like it was when some kids burnt a car in my cousin’s neighbourhood back home. Only it was more, kind of chemical. And you could smell the masonry dust too.’

  There were a few more questions like that, and then Altenburg began quizzing her on matters of security.

  ‘Had anyone, before the Friday, asked you questions about your working day, or about protection protocols at the chancery?’

  ‘Stuff like – what are the MSG’s schedules and so on?’ Queller put in helpfully.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, I know very well not to answer questions like that.’

  ‘What did you see on the day of the bomb? Did you see anything suspicious? Any people or vehicles at the perimeter?’

  She began telling them about the water tanker. ‘I had to go out and deal wit
h the water-supply man, he was late you see, and I had to hang around …’

  ‘Forensics have been right over the wreck of it,’ Altenburg said. ‘We think the other truck was the core of the blast. Can you tell me anything about that?’

  ‘It was coming up as I left. I wondered what was in it. I thought it was stuff for the swimming pool.’

  ‘What?’ Altenburg said.

  ‘We’re having a swimming pool built and construction vehicles have been coming in. I thought it was one of those.’

  Altenburg wrote something down.

  ‘OK,’ said Queller.

  ‘It was waiting to pass the water truck. I remember being surprised because usually the Tanzanian drivers honk their horns like crazy and this guy didn’t. He just waited there. Well, you know, he was a little agitated. I think … I mean, he was patting the side of the door with his hand.’

  Both Queller and Altenburg sat up.

  ‘Can you remember his face?’ asked Altenburg.

  Miranda shrugged. ‘Not really. He had pale-brown skin. He did seem familiar, I remember thinking that. I thought he was part of the construction team.’

  ‘Try harder,’ Queller urged.

  She closed her eyes. She tried to visualise. ‘He had a moustache, I think. I didn’t really look.’

  ‘That was unfortunate,’ said Altenburg. ‘Considering how things turned out …’

  He opened one of the files in front of him, lifting it up so she could see her name on the cardboard cover.

  ‘It’s your job to vet local ancillary staff here, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she replied.

  ‘Any reason to suspect any of them?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘They’re all highly committed.’

  Altenburg leafed through the file. ‘You think you vetted them properly?’

  ‘I followed the standard requirements for medium-and low-threat sites.’

  ‘It’s clear to me that those requirements did not anticipate a vehicular bomb attack.’

  ‘If I’d anticipated it I might have been able to do something about it!’

  She paused, trying not to bristle at his insinuation.

  ‘I implemented the security requirements to the maximum extent feasible. I applied risk management as I was taught – looking into the backgrounds of everyone, from gardeners to mechanics to … just about everyone.’

  She realised she was floundering. She felt guilty. She didn’t understand why she felt like this. She glanced at Queller, who gave her a slightly grim smile of encouragement. He lifted his stump off the table and rubbed it with his good hand.

  ‘Let’s play a little game,’ Queller said. ‘Let’s try to put together an identikit of the guy you saw in the truck. Break up his face and tell us about each element in turn.’

  She closed her eyes and tried to do as he said. ‘He had a small, thin nose. His eyes … they were kind of brown, I think. The mouth – well, the moustache as I said. Like, a pencil moustache.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like, er, straight and black. Not much of it.’

  Altenburg turned impatiently to Queller. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’

  Queller rubbed his stump again.

  Altenburg addressed himself to Miranda. ‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t check the truck.’

  ‘I wouldn’t normally have done so,’ she said, with some agitation. ‘I wouldn’t have been out there if it had arrived at another time.’

  ‘You don’t think it was strange that he was sitting right behind the other truck. It seems to me things could have been much worse, that they planned to drive in behind a truck that was coming in much deeper – into the compound proper.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was odd, no. Lots of trucks come in. As I said, the reason I thought the truck was bringing in supplies for the construction workers was that the man’s face seemed familiar.’

  ‘Really?’ Altenburg said. ‘And yet you can’t remember it?’

  ‘I only saw it for a few seconds.’

  Altenburg leant back in his chair and put his arms behind his head.

  ‘What would you say if I said you failed in your duty by not checking that truck? You don’t feel any responsibility in that direction?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ Miranda replied, aggressively. ‘It isn’t my job to check vehicles. That’s a crazy idea!’

  Inside, even as she spoke, she was not so sure. Should she have checked? Was she to blame? Would Mrs Ghai, George the cleaner, the gardener – would they all still be here if she had?

  ‘I think we are putting the wrong complexion on things here,’ Queller said, addressing Altenburg. ‘We’re not here to apportion blame. We’re here to find the perpetrators.’

  She spat the words. ‘Is that what people are saying? That this is my fault?’

  Altenburg closed her file. ‘That will be all for now. Don’t leave town though.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Queller said. ‘Jesus Christ, Mort …’

  And then, more gently: ‘Miranda, these are just general questions of the kind we are putting to everyone. You are not under suspicion of anything.’

  ‘Well –’ said Altenburg, coolly, ‘– no more than anyone else.’

  Miranda stood up, looking at Queller as she did so. Angry with Altenburg first and foremost, she was also angry with him, for not supporting her more. She summoned up as much dignity as she could muster.

  ‘One friend of mine was killed in that blast,’ she said, thinking of Mrs Ghai. ‘Another was badly injured. I will not be held responsible for these things. I take great exception to the way in which I have been questioned.’

  With that she left the room, ignoring the agent at the door and the next person waiting for questioning on the other side, who was Clive Bayard. He gave her a surprised look.

  *

  Back in the interview room, once they had concluded the rest of the day’s investigations, Queller turned on Altenburg.

  ‘What the hell did you think you were playing at with the Powers girl? You surely don’t think she can be blamed for this?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Her role’s only administrative security. The truck would’ve been checked by the Marines at the second wall.’

  ‘As I say, I have my reasons.’

  ‘Which are?’

  Altenburg sniffed, then gave him a hard look. ‘I wanted to press her a little. I’m going to have a full audit done on her.’

  ‘I think you’ll be wasting your time.’

  Altenburg ignored him. ‘I’ve got work to do, if you don’t mind, Jack. I want to run through what’s left of the chancery CCTV footage.’

  They did a little shuffle at the door as both tried to leave at the same time.

  *

  Late the following afternoon, Miranda was called back for further questioning by the two men. During the day she had worked herself up into a rage, furious that her competence had been called into question. She was determined to meet their questions head-on.

  Queller looked up and smiled encouragingly as she entered. Altenburg had a video-media program running on the computer in his room – software that allowed him to modulate digitally converted images from the ordinary video player that was wired up next to it. He was in shirtsleeves, his jacket on the back of the chair. On the desk, next to his bare, brown-haired arms, Miranda recognised a pile of tapes of the type used in the embassy’s CCTV cameras. It looked as if he had been going through them and downloading whatever he needed onto the computer.

  ‘Miss Powers,’ he said, ‘we have been going through footage of all contacts made by embassy staff in the months preceding the blast. Much of it has been destroyed, but I would like you to comment on two small portions of the visual record.’

  He clicked an icon on the screen and a moving image came up in a box. It showed Miranda in the car pool, talking to a man in a T-shirt. Queller bent forward to look at it, leaning on the desk with h
is stump again.

  ‘Who’s this guy then?’ asked Altenburg, silkily, clicking on pause to freeze the screen.

  To the surprise of both men, Miranda burst out laughing, throwing back her head.

  ‘You don’t think …? That’s great, that’s priceless. He’s a US citizen.’

  ‘Your boyfriend?’ asked Queller, in a hopeful tone.

  ‘Well – I guess you’d call it a fling.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ asked Altenburg.

  ‘Nick Karolides. He works on a USAID project on Zanzibar. We just kind of met.’

  Altenburg signalled to the agent at the door, who went out to check Nick’s name on one of the bigger computers that had been set up in some rooms nearby. Having been brought in on the FEST flight, they were now connected directly to a range of US government databanks. There was a brief silence in the room while the three of them waited for the agent’s return. Eventually, Altenburg spoke up again.

  ‘When did you first meet him?’

  She pointed to the screen. ‘Right then. Well, a few hours before. On the beach. He was over here to collect some stuff from back home. We just got talking. Then I went over to Zanzibar to see him.’

  ‘Tell us what happened.’

  She hesitated. ‘On Zanzibar?’

  ‘On Zanzibar.’

  Miranda sighed and gave Queller an imploring look.

  ‘Well?’ Altenburg said.

  ‘We toured. We took a boat trip.’

  She waited for him to reply, but Altenburg just slid his mouse round on the desk, pointing the cursor at Nick’s face.

  ‘Are you asking if we slept together? Are you going to haul me up for that too?’