by A. Sparrow
“That guy in the washroom, the people he worked for think it was me who died. They think he’s still alive and that I’m him.”
Melissa scrunched her nose. “O-kay.”
“I think they were after my identity all along. You see, me and that guy, we kind of resembled each other, and I gather, to these border guards, all obruni look alike.”
“Obruni?”
“White men.”
“Archie! That’s borderline racist.”
“It’s true. I mean, that’s how people think. Not me, but lots of folks focus on the superficial similarities and differences … like skin color.”
He could see Melissa simmer and fight back a scowl.
“So … anyhow, somehow they got it all bollixed. They think their man’s still alive and that I’m him. Is this making any sense to you?”
“You’re saying it’s a misunderstanding? A case of mistaken identity?”
“Well, it’s more than that. This guy who died … I think he was an assassin.”
Melissa raised a corner of her lip. “What makes you say that?”
“For one thing … he went after me with a knife. And they shuttled me to this fancy hotel. A room was prepaid under my name. They left me this briefcase full of weapons. Guns with silencers and stuff.” He slid the Tyvek envelope across the table. “And this.”
She opened it up and picked through the papers inside. She pulled out a photo. “Who‘s this guy?”
“Simon Appiah. He’s running for president. He’s the guy they want to kill.”
Melissa slipped her glasses back on and perused the various lists and summaries. “I don’t see anything here about any assassination.”
“Put two and two together, Melissa. The guns. The speaking schedule. What else can it mean?”
“Maybe that guy, the one who died, was a bodyguard?”
“Please.” He pointed at a sheet detailing Appiah’s campaign platform. “Read that.”
“’Rebuilding a society of opportunity … Transformation and modernization of the economy … Winning the enduring war against mass poverty.’ Sounds like typical Afro-politician-speak.”
“Farther down. Read the part about the oil.”
Melissa squinted at the page. “So he wants to kick out the oil companies and take over their wells. That’s a bad thing?”
“It is if you work for an oil company.”
“But this is just campaign speak from a guy who’s probably got no chance of winning. I mean, according to this, his party isn’t even in the top three.”
“Yeah, but look at this.” Archie pointed to a survey of prospective voters taken in Ghana’s rural north. “In some districts he’s got almost 70% support. And his popularity in the south is growing.”
“Holy shit.”
“See why they want him taken out?”
“We need to tell the US Embassy, or Interpol. Somebody.”
“No. Not the embassy. I have a feeling they’re in on this. And Interpol’s not an actual police force. I mean, they do some investigation, but mostly they liaison between countries.”
“Archie. We need to warn this Appiah guy. Can we call him? Send him an e-mail … anonymously?”
Archie shrugged. “Someone in his position probably gets death threats every day. His handlers would just blow it off. He needs to see the hard evidence, in person.”
“Like these papers.”
“Yeah … maybe.”
“Then we should go see him. Request an audience.”
“An audience? He’s a politician, Melissa, not the Pope.”
“A meeting, then. I don’t know. Whatever.” She pushed aside her coffee. “Man, this is fucked up. I don’t feel like breakfast, now. I’ve completely lost my appetite.”
Something burned in Melissa’s eyes as she re-read the executive summaries. “Man, this commentary really gets me. They talk about him like he’s some commie devil. But all wants is for Ghana to hang onto more of the oil money, use it to reinvest in roads and hospitals and stuff. Archie, we need to help him.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. You think you can show me something like this and then tell me to bug off?” She pulled out the list of campaign stops. “Look. Tomorrow he’s gonna be in these towns—Bolgatanga and Navrongo. Do you know these places? Are they far?”
“Too far to drive.”
“Then we’ll fly,” she said, scraping her chair back against the tile. “Give me a minute to freshen up and we can head to the airport.”
“Now? You want to go now?”
“Time’s a wasting. That man’s got assassins on his tail.”
“Yeah well … supposedly that assassin is me. So maybe he’ll be okay.”
Melissa peered over her glasses.
“What makes you think they don’t have a Plan B?”
Chapter 13: Tamale
At the domestic terminal of Kotoka airport, Archie waited in a queue at Antrak Air while Melissa tried CiTylinK. Their goal: a flight to Bolgatonga or Navrongo. As it turned out, neither airline served these border towns.
An international flight left early the next the morning to Ouagadougou, just across the border in Burkina Faso, but that would require Melissa to get a visa on short notice. Charter flights were available but would take even more time to arrange.
Archie noticed an Antrak Air flight leaving for Tamale within the hour. “Any seats on that one?”
“It is fully booked,” said the attendant. “But we can put you on the standby list.”
“Tamale?” said Melissa. “Where the heck’s Tamale? I thought we were going to—”
“Tamale gets us pretty far up country. Bolgatanga’s another hour and a half north.”
“Oh. Cool. So then we just rent a car?”
“Or hire a taxi. It’s not like they’ll have Hertz or Avis up there.”
“We will call you if the seats become free,” said the lady at the counter.
“Thank you.” They went and found some plastic chairs unoccupied at the far end of the lounge. “Well, cross your fingers,” said Archie.
Melissa leaned back, arms folded and smiled. “This will be fun. Save a man’s life. Do some sightseeing.”
“Fun.” Archie rolled his eyes. “Don’t count your chickens. We still need to get on that flight.”
Melissa leaned close to him. “You know Arch, something about this whole deal doesn’t make sense. Why would they pick a white guy to kill an African politician in the middle of Ghana?”
“Melissa. Please. Let’s not talk about it here.”
“I’m just saying.”
Her remark made sense, and managed to stir a dissonance in his mind that he struggled to resolve. “Places like Tamale and Bolgatonga, there are tons of NGO and missionary types. We’re as common as goats.”
“What if you’re not supposed to be the shooter? What if you’re the contractor?”
“Huh?”
“You go there and hire some local thug. That would make more sense, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose, but … do we have to talk about this in public?”
“I’m not talking that loud,” she whispered, louder.
“Please!”
Melissa folded her arms and re-gathered her posture. “You know Arch, here you’re a totally different person than you are at home.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean at home you can be all funny and jokey and laid back. Here, you’re all uptight. You’re scared of your own shadow.”
“Not without cause, considering …?”
The lady behind the counter went up on tip-toe and waved. Archie surged to his feet. “Looks like we’ve got seats.”
***
Dark stems, bright caps—thunderheads sprouted like mushrooms in the sky. The little ATR 42 maneuvered deftly between the isolated storms, responding like a feather to the slightest turbulence.
As the stewardesses prepared for landing, Melissa pressed her nose to the window, studying t
he landscape. Archie stole a glance over her shoulder. A patchwork of forest and savannah was punctuated with compact villages and sprawling towns.
The pilot executed a tight curve, tilting his wing tip almost vertical as he came around to shed airspeed and get into position for the runway. Archie dug his fingernails into his seat, waiting for his stomach to catch up with the rest of him. He held his breath as we waited for the plane to level. He imagined the wing slashing a groove through the treetops.
“Wheeee! This is fun!” said Melissa.
Archie re-commenced his breathing once the horizon was again flat and level. They landed with a triple bounce and pulled up to a drab terminal of concrete block. The doors opened. A blast of muggy air assaulted the cabin.
“Man. It’s even hotter here than it was in Accra,” said Melissa.
“Yeah, that’s how it is up here. Oppressive.”
“Actually … I kind of like it.”
They retrieved Melissa’s suitcase from the lone carousel at the baggage claim. Archie had no luggage other than the clothes he had washed in his sink, still damp and stuffed into a grocery bag.
“Where to now?” said Melissa.
“Well … no sense going to Bolgatanga just yet. Simon Appiah’s in Wa all day. Let’s just get ourselves some rooms.”
“Know any four stars?”
“Here? I doubt they exist. But it’s been a while since I’ve been through Tamale.”
Melissa wrinkled her nose. “I was only joking.” She strutted over to a yellow taxi. “Sir, do you know of any nicer hotels nearby?”
“The Bziga is very fine, and is very close,” said the driver.
“The Bziga, it is,” said Melissa, hopping into back seat, waving at Archie to join her. Archie climbed in, but as the cabbie was about to pull away, a man walked in front of his taxi. He held up a placard that read: “Dr. Archie Parsons. Gariba Lodge.”
“Oh my!” said Melissa.
“What the fuck? How do they know I’m here?” He thought about ignoring the placard, but reconsidered. He scrambled out of the cab. “Go ahead and check into the Bziga. I’m gonna—”
“But Archie, we should stick together.”
“Listen. They know I’m here. I have to follow through or they’ll sense something’s wrong.”
Melissa looked concerned. “You be careful. Call me.”
Archie shook his head. “Don’t you dare use that phone. Not till you get a new SIM card. See you later. Okay?”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Be careful!” said Melissa as her cab pulled away.
He let the man lead him to a white Toyota Land Cruiser in the parking lot. A transparent sticker with the black Xtraktiv logo was plastered on the door.
***
The Gariba Lodge had a prepaid room waiting for him, just like at the Labadi. According to the desk clerk, the room had been sitting vacant and ready for several days now. Apparently, the unseen powers behind the operation had not known exactly when he would be arriving. That provided some comfort to Archie, along with the observation that, other than the driver, there were no other support people evident in the hotel.
He plugged a strange key card into the door knob. It was metal and shaped like a dog tag. Dropping it in the slot allowed the mechanism to engage. A wall of cold air struck him, the air conditioning set low enough to crack bones.
Archie stepped into the room cautiously, half expecting a security guard to pop up out of a chair. He peered out into the hall, making sure he was alone, before shutting the door.
A dresser stood open, displaying a subset of the clothes that had stocked the closet at the Labadi. He selected a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of khakis and crammed them into the bag containing his other clothes.
His gaze drifted to a black briefcase atop a glass coffee table. He went over and clicked it open. Three small, cheap revolvers, serial numbers sanded off, lay encased in the foam. No silencers this time.
He pulled them out and tossed them together into a plastic bag from a waste bin. He went out onto a balcony, knotted the bag and tossed it into a dense cluster of hibiscus.
He went back in and riffled through the contents of the briefcase’s outer sleeve. It contained copies of the papers they had given him in Accra, but Simon Appiah’s appearance schedule seemed to have accrued more detail.
A black business card fell out onto the tabletop. Two lines of glossy type glistened over the matte background:
‘Clear and Present.’
‘TTy43bB9.’
***
Archie found Melissa in the restaurant sipping some fruity-looking drink with a straw. He stuck the briefcase, emptied of all hardware, under the table and took a chair. Melissa’s eyes were wide and expectant.
“How did it go?”
“Weird. It was just like Accra. New guns. New clothes. And these.” He slid the briefcase out and removed some papers from the sleeve.
“You have guns?”
He shook his head and frowned. “Not anymore. I ditched them. But have a look at these.” He slapped a portfolio onto the table.”
Melissa looked them over. “Oh, look at this. There’s times and stuff now. This should make it easy to find him.”
Archie nodded. “He’s stopping in Navrongo for lunch. I say we go to the restaurant early and be there when he arrives. That way we’re already in the door. That’s how we get close to him.”
“What’s this thing here about crocodiles?”
“Oh, that’s just part of a sacred grove. The local tribe preserves this pond for their ancestors and now they feed the crocodiles that live there. It’s become something of a tourist stop.”
“So you know this place?”
“I’ve been through a couple of times. It’s near one of the main border crossings to Burkina Faso.”
“Can we go see these crocodiles? I mean … if we get the chance?”
“Um. Yeah. I suppose.” He pulled the black cards out of his back pocket and put them down on the table. “There are these as well. I can’t figure out what they are.”
Melissa picked one up. “Weird. It’s all black.”
“Yeah, but … if you tilt it up to the light there’s glossy type on it.”
Melissa held one up and squinted. “No there’s not. It’s totally black.”
“Let me see that.” Archie took the card from her and found only a speck or two of gloss remaining on the surface. “Huh. How strange. It’s like it evaporated … er … sublimated.”
“This other one’s still has printing. Looks like a password or something.”
“For what, though?”
Melissa shrugged. “I guess you have to be in the know to know.”
“What do you suppose they mean by ‘clear and present?’”
“Clear and present danger? Isn’t that a Tom Clancy novel?”
“That doesn’t help me.”
“Maybe the coast is clear and Simon Appiah is present versus absent.”
“Maybe.”
Melissa stretched her arms. “You know, it’d be fun to get a look around town. Find a market and stuff. Do you still have that guy driving you?”
“Actually, I ditched him and took a cab.”
“Why’d you do that? Won’t they be suspicious, you blowing him off like that?”
“I don’t know what they’ll think. I just want to minimize my contact.”
“So let’s get a cab and go for a ride. What do you say? Let’s go see some Ghana.”
“Melissa. I think maybe not. It’s better that we lay low.”
She slumped in her chair. “Boy, you’re no fun.”
“Melissa. I just want to get this over with and get the hell out.”
“So what are you gonna do? Where are you going to go after this?”
“I don’t know. Go and hide under a rock somewhere?”
“Don’t you want your life back?”
“What life?”
“Oh, go on!
But come to think of it, you don’t have a job. Your family thinks you’re dead. You have an opportunity to redefine yourself. Create a whole new life, make a new Archie Parsons. I mean, if you wanted to.”
“Melissa. Honestly, I haven’t thought that far ahead. I just want to get through this ordeal and go someplace safe.”
“Are you sure you’d be safe in the States?”
“I would hope so. I mean, it’s my own country.”
“But what if you’re not? What if … like you said … the government is in on this?”
“There’s got to be someone I can trust. Someone with some authority.”
“Like who? You don’t even trust your own embassy.”
Archie shrugged. “The FBI … or maybe the New York Times.”
“Maybe WikiLeaks,” said Melissa.
“Please, Melissa, my head hurts enough as it is. Let’s worry about that other stuff when the time comes.” He patted at the money vest under his shirt.
She slurped the last of her drink. “I wish we could go for a ride.”
“Listen, I need to give you something, but I can’t do it here. Can we go up to your room?”
“Um, sure.” Her eyes betrayed a bemused curiosity.
They slid their chairs back and rose from the table. Archie followed her upstairs to a small, dim room that smelled of mildew. Water dripped from a window air conditioner and puddled on the tiled floor.
As soon as she closed the door he pulled up his shirt tails and undid the buttons.
“Archie! What are you doing? What prompted this?” she said, grinning.
“Calm down, I’m just taking off my vest.” He peeled the nylon from his sweaty back, and stood there bare-chested, and self-conscious of his flab. He laid it down on the bureau, its four long pockets bulging with bank notes.
“I want you to have this, in case something happens to me. I’m sorry if it smells a little funky. There’s almost fourteen thousand in hundreds here. Use whatever you need. The money actually belongs to a project in Liberia. I’ll find a way to pay it back somehow or another.”
“Holy crap, Archie. You expect me to carry fourteen thousand dollars in my purse?”
“I suggest you wear it, though you might want to wash it first. The airports around here don’t do body scans. And I’ve never seen them frisk a lady.”
Melissa was looking at him funny. Archie thought he sensed some trepidation.
“It’s not too late for you to back out. We can fly you back to Accra. Get you the hell out of Ghana. There’s no reason to risk your skin over this. I can handle things from here.”