by A. Sparrow
A light was on inside. A man rose from a chair in the corner.
“Ah!” Archie lurched back and threw up his hands protectively.
“Good evening, sir. Sorry. I did not mean to startle you.” He was the same security guard who had been there the first night. “It’s good to see you again, sir. Busy days?”
“Um … yeah … yeah … quite busy.”
“I’ve been asked to tell you … the hold had been lifted … the operation is a go … to commence at your leisure, of course.”
“Of course.”
The guard sidled around him. “I’ll summon the woman. And then I’ll be right outside, at your service as always.”
“The … woman?”
The door clicked shut, leaving Archie astounded. These people thought that he was actually the man who had attempted to impersonate him; the man who was likely now a pile of ashes in an urn on his brother’s mantle. Could they really be that incompetent?
He hesitated in the foyer of the suite. Everything in the room was as he left it, the bedspread un-rumpled, the documents fanned across the desk. A new pair of fancy-wrapped chocolates graced the pillow cases and there was a wallet on the night stand he hadn’t noticed the first time. He opened the closet to find several new items added in his absence, including fatigues in a jungle camouflage pattern.
He took and opened the wallet. It was stuffed with large denomination Ghanaian cedis and West African francs. A small stack of HVI business cards were tucked into a slot along with an array of credit cards including a platinum American Express card with a sticker denoting a $100,000 credit limit. The name embossed on the card was ‘A.F. Parsons.’
“Jesus Christ!”
One card stood out. It was made of black, matte carbon fiber with glossy black type in the center. It read:
‘DISCRETION’
And underneath:
‘5YybCz8L’
Archie hesitated, before closing the wallet and sticking it in his pocket. He sat down on the bed and waited for his heart to stop thumping so hard.
There was a knock at the door.
He got up. “Yeah?”
“I am here … for you.”
It was a woman’s voice. Ghanaian.
Archie opened the door to reveal a muscular lady in tight jeans and a bright tank top. A cotton shawl draped loosely about her shoulders. It was the woman who had been napping across from the elevator. She flashed a wide smile at him.
“Can I help you?” said Archie.
“Silly man. I am here to help you.” She slid past him and sashayed into the suite. “My name is Sylvia.”
She had to be a call girl. She obviously didn’t recognize him or else she would have known that he wasn’t the man intended to occupy this room.
“I have been waiting for two days in the lobby for you to come. You must be a busy, busy man.”
“Yeah, well … in fact, I’m kind of busy right now. Would you mind coming back … um … later?”
“Oh? You don’t like what you see?” She pouted.
“Oh no, it’s not that. I like. Very, very much. You’re very attractive. Athletic and … pretty … and everything I like in a woman. I’m just … busy.”
She got up from the leather armchair and smirked. “Of course. You have another girl coming, don’t you? A girlfriend, perhaps?”
“I’m … sorry. I can pay you anyhow.”
“Oh, you are too sweet! The other girls who say they know you are most uninformed. Have no worries. I get paid no matter what. I can watch the music television at the bar, have my dinner, sip my tea. I promise to be faithful. I am here exclusively for you. You know where to find me if you want a little more attention later, yes?”
“Of course. Thanks … for dropping by.”
She blew him a kiss with her immaculately glossed lips, and slipped out the door.
Archie caught his breath, too panicked to be titillated by what he had just rebuffed. He just stood there, staring into the lavish bathroom, wondering how hot that water got, how strong the pressure. Strong, he bet. Must be nice to work for Xtraktiv. But what kind of work did this man do?
He gathered the briefcase, stuffing more envelopes into its outer sleeve, and headed out the door.
The security guard sprang up from his chair. “The car is on call, sir.”
“No need,” said Archie. “I have … uh … other arrangements.”
“Understood.”
***
Safely back at the Afia, Archie rushed to his bungalow and double-locked his doors. He laid the briefcase on the bed, pulled the papers from its outer sleeve and started to pry at the lock but found he didn’t need to—the combination had been left unset.
He opened the lid. One glance at the contents was enough to make him dizzy: two hand guns, one a stock and snub-nosed wedge of blackened steel, the other a sleek, long-barreled affair with a molded grip, all couched in custom foam. Both were stamped with the logo of a dragon arching its wings. A wicked looking hunting knife with a serrated blade was ensconced beside them, alongside magazines crammed with ammo, a laser sight and a silencer.
The briefcase might just as well have been filled with writhing vipers. Archie slammed the lid back shut, hyperventilating like a locomotive.
He ripped open one of the unlabeled Tyvek envelopes. It contained campaign posters for Simon Appiah, a presidential candidate for the upstart People’s Vision Party which, for the first time, was mounting a serious challenge to Ghana’s entrenched two-party system.
Archie didn’t understand why anyone, especially an outsider, would want to harm this man. He was no threat to anyone. The campaign pictures made the bespectacled Mr. Appiah seem grandfatherly, with pudgy cheeks and a hefty mustache framing his smile. He looked like the kind of man who would lop open a coconut for you with his machete if you were passing through his homestead on a hot day.
Besides, Ghana had a two party system. No third party like the PVP had ever seriously challenged for the presidency. Power usually flowed to the NDC and the NPP. The PVP existed only for dreamers and losers.
A dossier listed Appiah’s campaign schedule, his home and office addresses, favorite night spots, his commuting pattern. An executive summary explained that he was running on a platform of nationalizing all extractive industries in Ghana and rolling the revenues into a Social Development Fund that would support health initiatives, poverty reduction and environmental conservation.
Archie couldn’t help but feel cynical. He had seen such arrangements devolve into gigantic slush funds for patronage by the ruling party’s inner circle. It had happened repeatedly in places like Chad, Gabon and Equatorial Guinea.
To Archie, this man’s positions were not nearly radical enough to warrant an assassination. All of this populist posturing was probably just his way of fishing for votes. What were the odds of him even getting elected? And even if he won, did they really think he would interfere with the designs of multinational corporations? Apparently someone knew differently or wanted to ensure those chances were nil.
Archie’s phone rang, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He stared at the incoming number. It was local. He wondered where the nearest cell tower was and how close someone with the right equipment could triangulate his location. He was all packed and ready. If need be, he could run. He chanced it and took the call.
“Hello?”
“Archie! It’s me, Melissa.” The connection sounded clear and strong.
“Oh God. Are you here?”
“Yup. I’m in Ghana!”
Chapter 12: Sofitel
Melissa’s voice triggered an odd mix of relief and dismay. It was good to know she was okay, but having her in Accra only deepened his troubles.
“What are you doing here? What were you thinking?”
“Well gee, that’s quite a welcome Arch. How about: ‘Melissa, how nice to hear from you, how was your flight?’”
“But I told you not to come!”
“
And I told you I was coming.”
“You had no reason to—”
“Listen. When your brother told me you were dead. I just about lost it. And then you called and you sounded so defeated, so … pathetic … so unlike you … like you’d already given up. I had to come, Arch, I just had to.”
Archie’s head spun with the absurdity of it all. His cat-sitter had flown all the way to Africa to rescue him. There was no way she could be allowed to stay, not in light what he had just discovered. These were hit men he was dealing with—professional assassins.
“How are you supposed to help me? You had no business coming here. I’m having enough trouble taking care of myself.”
“Well, excuse me mister. If I want to go somewhere to help a friend in trouble, I will go ahead and do that. I’m a big girl.”
“I’m sorry, but you have no idea what you’re getting involved with.”
“Well, why don’t you fill me in?”
Archie grew antsy just thinking about it. “I don’t know where to begin. It’s … complicated. And I can’t tell you over the phone. They might be listening.”
“Say what? Don’t be so paranoid. I mean … no one’s listening. Why would they? How could they?”
“I can’t be sure. I need to be careful.”
“Archie, you need to calm down. Let’s talk this through. First, you’re not making me go back home, not after all the trouble I took to get here. Do you know how long it took me to get an entry visa at the airport? I got off the plane about two, and I was there hours waiting in lines, getting hassled by the desk clerks. They said I should have told immigration I was coming. How was I supposed to know?”
“You showed up without a visa?”
“Well, yeah. The guidebook said you can get them on entry. They didn’t mention the rigmarole they put you through. Would have been a lot harder if I wasn’t a girl. All these security dudes kept passing me their numbers.”
“Are you at a hotel now?”
“Well, it’s more of a hostel. You know. Shared bathrooms and all. It’s a bit run down but clean and the people who run it are so friendly.”
“Oh no. That won’t do. You’re a sitting duck in a place like that. You need to get to a hotel with real security. Maybe the Sofitel. It’s in Central Accra. Walking distance of my place. A long walk, but….”
“There’s no need for that, Archie. I’m already checked in here and it suits me fine. I mean I looked into some of the bigger hotels, but they’re so expensive here! I had no idea. But this place is only fifteen dollars a night.”
“Melissa. You have to leave. You’re not safe at a hostel.”
“Why don’t I just come to wherever you’re staying?”
“No. Nuh-uh. That would link you to me. Once these people find out who I really am, they might want you silenced.”
“Silenced?”
“As in dead.”
“Now you’re talking like a crazy person.”
“Melissa, I’m serious. You have no idea what kind of people I’m dealing with. Now, get your ass over to that Sofitel. And be careful. Tomorrow morning, we’re going to book you a flight back to the States.”
“The hell you will! I just got here. And … this is my vacation. I didn’t come all the way out here to Ghana just to turn right around and—”
Archie sighed. “Melissa, you’re not listening. You must be tired. Maybe we should talk in the morning. Go to the Sofitel. Don’t worry about the money. I’ll pay. Get some rest. I’ll meet you there for breakfast, say about seven, and then we can talk.”
“Seven’s kind of early. I’m not a morning person. Though, I suppose with the time difference and all it might be okay.”
“It’s a date, then. Do not give your real name to anyone. And don’t tell anyone where you’re from. Once you’re checked in, stay in your room. Get room service if you’re hungry. I’ll cover it. Money’s no object.”
“Jeez, Archie. Is all this fuss really necessary?”
“I tried to warn you. I really wish you hadn’t come.”
“I’m here,” she growled. “Deal with it.”
***
Archie tossed the phone onto his bedspread and leaned back against the pillows. He closed his eyes and listened to the surf as he willed his breathing back down to a normal rate. The tremor in his hands slowly eased.
He stared at the black briefcase, wondering how to dispose of it. He wondered if it would float or sink. All that metal made it heavy, but all that closed-cell foam might provide enough buoyancy to compensate. He wished he knew when the tides came and left.
A knot of pain in his gut reminded him that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He checked his watch. The hotel restaurant would be closing soon. He burst out of bed and slipped the briefcase into his dresser, locking it.
He exited into the soupy air and trotted up the dark walk to the outdoor restaurant pavilion. He took a table under a thatched rotunda facing the registration area, with quick access to the stairs leading down to the bungalows and the beach.
Most of the items on the menu were no longer available, but the waiter was able to accept an order for red-red and joloff rice with fried plantains. Archie avoided the beer this time, going for an orange Fanta.
The restaurant was nearly empty, but not vacant enough to suit him. He studied the clientele, trying to reassure himself that they posed no risk. A woman sat with a pile of receipts and a ledger book, probably a manager or owner. Another table harbored a shifting host of twenty year old American boys in T-shirts and shorts—college kids from a place called Bentley, if the logos on their shirts meant anything.
Only one table worried him. A bearded man sat by himself near the bar and he never seemed to look Archie’s way. That struck Archie as suspicious, given how often Archie glanced and stared at him. Archie kept one eye on the man and one eye on his food.
***
Sleep came in bits and snatches. Archie awoke for good just before sunrise. He got dressed in the dark, took the briefcase and left the bungalow, ignoring the appeals of the cab drivers waiting in the shadows outside the hotel’s main gate. Traveling on foot made him feel more in control of his fate, whether that was really true or not. The briefcase weighed heavily on his arm.
He took a circuitous route, past the Ministry of Agriculture warehouses, through a shanty settlement bordering the garbage dump. Scavengers swarmed the latest leavings, their children running alongside Archie, reacting to his presence as if he were an invader from Mars.
Parents scolded the kids and they drew back. He had intended to ditch the briefcase in some smoldering heap, but the presence of the children dissuaded him. He couldn’t live with the thought of the tragedies that could spawn if children got a hold of its contents.
He cut through the production end of a traditional arts and handicrafts colony. Men chiseled away at lengths of mahogany, shaping djembe drums and carvings of lions and elephants, animals long exterminated from most of their former ranges in Ghana.
Archie slipped between a pair of zinc-roofed shanties to the main road, crossing it far from the major intersections. He wove a course, zigging and zagging down the side streets, alert to the possibility of being followed.
One of the streets had construction underway on a culvert running beneath. Square pits, partially covered with plywood ran down the mid-line, opening into a subterranean stream rank with sewage.
Archie removed the envelopes and slipped the briefcase through a slot between wood and blacktop. He watched it splash into the water and drift into the darkness. A woman emerged onto a balcony and did a double take at this odd picture of a white man crouching over an open sewer. He rose up and strode away briskly, without looking back.
Ghana’s newfound oil money was evident in the building cranes and steely I-beams leaping into the sky on every horizon, courtesy of Chinese contractors. In this part of town, banks outnumbered NGO offices, and stood like out jewels amidst the dull concrete with their facades of g
lass and polished marble.
The Sofitel Hotel was situated near the city center, separate from the rest of the major hotels strung along the airport road. Its grounds were surrounded by a high brick wall topped with razor wire. The guards at the gate were alert and professional. They had a metal detector, but reserved it only for locals, waving any white person through. This sort of profiling and reverse racism seemed the standard practice across much of Africa. Archie had it made if he ever wanted to be a suicide bomber.
It was not quite seven, but he found Melissa already in the restaurant, sitting at a table by the window, reading a guide book. The kitchen staff was in the process of setting up a large breakfast buffet along one wall.
Melissa took off her reading glasses and beamed a broad smile as Archie approached. “So great to see you, Arch!”
She got up and gave him an emphatic hug, which he returned only limply. Her long, glossy hair lay flat against her shoulders, still damp from a shower and redolent of ginger and lemon.
Archie tensed when he saw one of the gate guards gazing back at them. “Mind if we move? This table’s kind of visible.”
Melissa smirked. “Well, sure. That’s the whole point of a window seat. You know, to enjoy the view?”
Archie ignored her, striding across the room to a table in the corner. She gathered her purse and followed reluctantly.
A waitress came by and poured them each a cup of coffee, leaving behind a steaming pitcher of milk.
“Are you eating okay? Looks like you lost some weight.”
Her comment barely registered. He pulled a timetable from his back pocket, his hands trembling. “I did some checking,” he said. “There’s a KLM flight to Amsterdam this evening. There’s usually no problem getting seats on that one. If you don’t mind waiting till after midnight, you might be able to take a direct flight to Dulles on United. And once you’re home, you pretend you don’t know me. I’m just some guy who hired you to watch his cats. Got it?”
She screwed her almond eyes at him. “I’m not going back tonight. I just got here.”
“Melissa, you can’t stay. It’s too dangerous.”
“What’s going on? For God’s sake, will you tell me?”
Archie glanced at the waiters joking at the far end of the buffet. Only a few guests had come to breakfast so far, and all sat well out of earshot. He lowered his voice and leaned across the table.