by Jon Evans
Recollection trickles slowly into her muzzy brain. She lifts up her blanket and peers beneath. Somebody has dressed her in a hospital robe. Her numberless wounds have been treated and dressed with white gauze bandages, although several are already dark with seeping blood. She feels oddly dissociated from her body, like it used to belong to someone else. Veronica puts her hand to the side of her head and feels fresh stitches. It doesn't hurt. She's drugged, she realizes distantly; that IV is overflowing with analgesics, maybe even morphine. Which is fine by her.
She lies in bed for a long time before deciding to mount an expedition for the TV remote control. It lies tantalizingly close, on a table not ten feet away. Sitting up is hard. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed is harder. Standing up is nearly but not quite impossible. She grabs the IV rack and uses it as support as she shuffles dizzily across the room. Through the window she sees daylight and palm trees. She wonders where she is. Maybe she's been flown back to America and that's Miami outside. She could look, but the window seems so far away. The TV will tell her. She harvests the remote control and is on her way back to bed when the door opens.
"Well, aren't you a lively one," the plump, middle-aged black woman says cheerfully. She wears an army uniform and speaks with an American accent.
"Where am I?" Veronica asks.
"You're safe. I'm your nurse, my name's Irene. Let's just get you back to bed." She helps Veronica back to a horizontal position. "How are you feeling?"
"I feel great," Veronica says enthusiastically. "What are these drugs?"
Irene laughs. "The works. Analgesics, antimalarials, vitamins, minerals, we've put together a real party cocktail for you. You just sit tight. I'll be back right away. They'll be glad to know you're awake."
She leaves without explaning who they are. Veronica turns on the TV. The entertainment selection consists of CNN, some French equivalent of the Discovery Channel, a softcore porn channel, and a very strange, cheaply made black-and-white movie which seems to be about genies who appear out of thin air and shower African crowds with money. Clearly she's still in Africa, some French-speaking nation. The third time she flips to CNN she sees Michael and Diane's faces onscreen above the words BREAKING STORY. Veronica nearly screams before she realizes they aren't ghosts, they are actually the subject of the piece.
The anchorwoman says, "Mr. Anderson and his wife were millionaire philanthropists who had come to Uganda to tour the missions and orphanages they funded. CNN has learned that earlier today, America's special forces, aided by a local militia, mounted a dramatic assault on the terrorist headquarters in which dozens of terrorists were killed. The US government reports that all the other hostages have been safely rescued and are being treated in an undisclosed location. In a related story, well-known video-sharing web site YouTube has agreed to remove the videos of these hostages that were uploaded to their site, several of which are already among their most-viewed videos ever, but copies are still reportedly widely available on similar sites worldwide. Some of these videos portray the beheadings of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, and of Derek Summers, a Canadian citizen." Derek's picture appears onscreen. "CNN has elected not to show any footage filmed by terrorists and we call on other news organizations to join us in this decision. Up next, sports and entertainment."
Derek's face is replaced by that of David Beckham. Veronica switches off the TV and stares at its dark screen. Her head is starting to hurt, both inside and out, and her blistered feet too; but at the same time, her mind is beginning to clear. She almost wishes it wouldn't. She can hardly believe what she just heard.
The door opens and two men enter. One is white, tall, lean, and middle-aged, with graying hair, a badly acne-scarred face and jewel-blue eyes. He looks like he has spent most of his life working outside. He wears nondescript jeans and a T-shirt, and holds a small metal briefcase. The other man is black, small, slim and strong, with dreadlocks cascading down his back, late thirties or early forties, dressed in black jeans, a Diesel T-shirt, North Face hiking boots, a diamond earring, a golden necklace and a chunky gunmetal watch. Veronica remembers vaguely that both these men were on the rescue helicopter.
"Miss Kelly," the white man says. "Are you well enough to talk?"
"I guess."
"Good. My name is Strick. I work for the State Department." His clipped voice has a military cadence. "This is Prester. He was Derek Summers's colleague."
"Pleased to meetcha," Prester says, in a laid-back American accent.
Strick sits on a chair beside Veronica's bed, then opens his briefcase, withdraws a small electronic device, and places it the bedside table. His scarred face and icy blue eyes are mesmerizing. "We'd like you to tell us everything that happened in your own words. Mr. Rockel has told us his version already. Then we have some pictures we'd like you to look at."
"Mr. Rockel?"
"Jacob," Prester clarifies.
Veronica nods, hesitates, stares at the voice recorder.. She isn't sure what to say. Prester sits across the room on a wicker chair, watching carefully.
Strick cues her, "Just begin at the beginning. You were in the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, and -"
"No," Veronica interrupts. "I don't think that's where it started. Did you find Derek's body?"
Strick nods slowly.
"We found all of him," Prester says softly. "The Andersons too. They put their heads up on stakes by the airstrip."
Veronica groans and closes her eyes. She opens them again in time to see Strick staring at Prester.
The black man shrugs. "You want me to candycoat it? After what they've been through I think we owe them the whole truth."
Veronica says, "He was set up. Derek. It started before we ever got to Bwindi. He was in Uganda to investigate links between terrorists and interahamwe, wasn't he? That's what he said, just before he died. It couldn't have been coincidence they kidnapped him." She hesitates a moment. "And it wasn't coincidence he invited me. He thought my ex-husband was involved."
Strick blinks with surprise, and Prester says incredulously, "Your ex-husband?"
"Danton DeWitt."
The name appears to mean nothing to either of them.
"When did he tell you all this?" Strick asks.
"Right before - before he died."
"What did he say? What were his exact words?"
She recounts what she remembers. When Strick asks what happens next, she tells them of her desperate flight into the river valley, her escape into whitewater, how she was knocked out.
"We saw," Strick interrupts, when she gets to the part of them holding her down and threatening her life.
It is her turn to stare with surprise. "You saw?"
"The whole world saw," Prester says. "YouTube and the like. The greatest video hits of your abduction got uploaded from a Malaysian Internet cafe. Current theory is the terrorists who grabbed you emailed the footage to their buddies in Malaysia via that satellite dish you signalled with. Ain't the twenty-first century a kick? And guess what, you were a hit. Not a blockbuster, not exactly front-page news, but solid middle-page coverage around the world, and four of the top forty YouTube videos of all time."
"Prester," Strick says. "This is a debriefing, not a gossip session."
Prester rolls his eyes but shuts up.
Strick says to Veronica, "That was the only time Derek mentioned your ex-husband's name."
"Yes."
"And minutes later you suffered a severe head injury."
"No," she says, knowing where he's going with this, "I mean, yes, but it wasn't like that -"
"I understand you're an ER nurse. So I don't need to tell you how concussions can jumble the memory."
"Derek said Danton's name," Veronica insists. "I'm sure of it."
"What exactly does your husband do?"
"Ex-husband. He's a commodities trader."
"I see. Where?"
"Legally, Texas, but really he divides his time between New York and Marin County."
"And do you
have any other reason to believe your ex-husband was involved in your abduction by Islamic terrorists and an interahamwe militia?" Strick's voice is rich with disbelief.
She swallows. "No."
She wants to argue, but at the same time, she knows he's right, it doesn't make any sense at all. There's just no way Danton would ever have conspired with Islamic terrorists. So why did Derek suggest he was involved? How did Derek even know his name?
Strick nods, jots down a few words, and says dismissively, "We'll look into it. As for Derek being targeted, yes, obviously. Hard to say who by. Advance bookings are required to see the Bwindi gorillas. Any number of people could have known. Now please, Miss Kelly, go back to the beginning and tell us just what you experienced personally."
Veronica decides she doesn't like Mr. Strick at all. But he works for the State Department, he is the voice of authority, it is his job to avenge Derek. She accedes to his request and tells him everything that happened. It seems to take a long time.
"I don't understand," she says when she finally reaches their rescue. "Zimbabwe's a thousand miles south of the Congo. They don't even share a border. So what were Zimbabwe soldiers doing there?"
It is Prester who explains: "Mugabe, Zimbabwe's president, he sent his army here to back Kabila against the Rwandans back in '99. After Kabila won he let the Zimbos stay, smart move seeing as how he was in no position to kick them out, and granted them some seriously large land concessions. General Gorokwe, the guy who helped get you out, is the personal overlord of a chunk of real estate the size of Delaware. And he sends most of the money he's squeezing out of the Congo back to his big boss, Mugabe, who these days needs every hard-currency penny he can get. It's all very feudal around these parts, case you hadn't noticed. Anyways Gorokwe volunteered his troops to help out the Special Forces. Good thing too. They're jungle vets, they know the territory, we probably couldn't have extracted you without them."
"Yes, thank you," Strick says sharply to Prester. He turns back to Veronica, reaches into his briefcase and withdraws a black binder. "We'd like you to look at these pictures and tell us if you recognize anyone."
Veronica takes the binder. Prester walks over to look over her shoulder as she flips through it. The pictures are headshots of candid moments, blown to 8x10 size, often taken from across the street or across the room, some of them almost too blurry to be useful. There are no labels or captions, only a number in the top corner of each page. All the subjects in the first half of the book are black men. She stops about a third of the way through.
"That's him," she said. "That's the leader, in the glasses, the one who had the camera."
"You're sure?" Prester asks sharply. "You're absolutely sure?"
She says, "Yes."
Prester and Strick look at one another. Then Strick announces to the voice recorder, "Miss Kelly has identified figure number 31 as the leader of their abductors."
"Who is he?" Veronica asks.
"Please continue," Strick says.
She doesn't. "Who is he?"
Prester and Strick exchange a look. Then Prester says, in a low voice, "His name is Athanase Ntingizawa. He was one of the chief architects of the Rwandan genocide."
Veronica remembers Derek starting with recognition, and saying something like "euthanasia." Athanase.
"Please continue," Strick repeats.
Veronica turns the pages of the photo book. The second half of the binder is populated by Arabic men, but the terrorist who held a panga to her throat is nowhere to be found. She goes through the binder again, slowly, double-checking, before returning it.
"You got them, right?" Veronica asks. "They're all dead?"
Prester shakes his head.
"But - they got away? CNN said -"
"Yeah. I saw. CNN said dozens dead. Which is true. But not Athanase, not the Arabs, none of the senior interahamwe. Just kids with guns. The real bad guys got away to play another day."
Strick is staring angrily at Prester.
Prester shrugs. "Never mind. What do you care? You're going home. I think we're done here, right?"
"Very," Strick says curtly. He snaps his briefcase shut and stands up. "Get some rest, Miss Kelly. We'll explain your options when you're more fully recovered."
By the time it occurs to Veronica to ask what he means by options, or where exactly she is right now, they are already out the door.
Chapter 12
Veronica disconnects her own IV. She knows when the drugs wear off she will start to hurt all over, but she wants to be able to think clearly again. She fights her way back to her feet and shuffles to her window. Her room is on the second floor of a walled and gated hotel complex screened by palm trees. A half-dozen military-drab Land Cruisers and Hummers are parked in its gravel parking lot. Two white soldiers in American uniforms guard the gate. She hears aircraft above, both airplanes and helicopters, a near-constant buzz of aerial traffic.
Irene comes in while she is on her feet.
"Just can't keep you down, can we, hon?" she asks. "Those poor feet of yours need a few more days off, you ask me."
"Later," Veronica says. "Do you have any clothes?"
Irene purses her lips. "Suppose we can track some down."
"Could you? I can't stand hospital robes."
"All right, will do." But she doesn't move. She just looks at Veronica.
"What is it?" Veronica asks.
Irene says, "Don't know if this is the right time. I'm not really trained for this kind of thing. But, listen, hon, we have specialists coming here to take care of you. We have a highly trained trauma counsellor, and another who specializes in counselling victims of sexual abuse. I'm sorry, hon, but I have to know, what did they do to you?"
"To me?" Veronica half-laughs. "Nothing."
Irene looks at her skeptically.
"No, really. They, I think, they raped Susan. The British girl. But me, I mean, they weren't exactly friendly, they put a fucking leash on me, and a machete to my throat, but physically, honest, I got out okay. Just what you see, cuts and bruises and blisters, and I was sick, I've probably lost a lot of weight, but I wasn't, nothing awful happened."
"Sounds pretty awful to me."
"It's over now. I don't want to see any counsellor. I'm fine."
"I'll ask you again when you're sober."
"I'm fine," Veronica repeats. "Could I just get some clothes?"
"I'm on it, hon." Irene leaves quickly.
Veronica ventures into the bathroom. She wants to shower, but the idea of climbing in and turning on the water seems horrendously difficult and complex right now. There are a pair of flower-patterned slippers inside. She decides to try to go for a walk before the drugs wear off.
* * *
The door opens to an exterior walkway that connects the rooms, like a motel. She's glad she's in a decent buttoned-up hospital gown, rather than a cheap backless one. There is a soldier at the end of the walkway, and she freezes in place, afraid she is violating some rule, but he just nods to her stiffly. He looks Latino and about nineteen. A small strip of tall ferns and palm trees grows just outside, and through them she can see some large body of water. It isn't the ocean, there are no waves.
She proceeds down the walkway until she reaches a covered patio full of tables and chairs. All are deserted except one table heaped with scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, French bread, and coffee. Jacob is sitting there, his tall, gaunt body folded into a small chair, dressed in a hospital robe and bandages like hers, eating like he is trying to win a contest. Veronica's stomach lurches with desire.
He waves her over without stopping eating. She joins him and the next several minutes are devoted to food. At one point a formally dressed waiter comes up the stairs that lead to the patio and refills their coffee and orange juice.
"Where are we?" Veronica asks, when the ravenous void in her gut has been sated, for the moment.
Jacob points northwards. "Pretty sure it's Goma, from the lake and those volcanoes."
&nb
sp; Veronica looks and sees jagged mountains rising into the sky above a ramshackle city, the same mountains they saw from the helicopter, a few days ago. She remembers looking at the Michelin map of East Africa as they drove from Kampala to Bwindi, less than a week ago; remembers Derek pointing out the Congolese city of Goma, right on the Rwandan border, a hundred miles south of the Impenetrable Forest, nestled between vast Lake Kivu and the towering Virunga volcanos. It feels like a memory from long ago, from her childhood.
"Makes sense," Jacob says. "Goma's the headquarters of the UN peacekeeping mission. Probably the safest city in the whole Congo. Not that that's saying much."
"No." Veronica looks at the armed guards at the hotel gate. "I think we're pretty safe here though."
"Yeah. They can't let us get abducted twice. Just imagine the headlines."
"Have you seen any of the others?"
"No. I think they'll be in bed another day or two. They're older. Except Susan, and she… " His voice trails off.
Veronica nods. "Did they offer you a trauma counsellor too?"
He nods. "I told them no."
"Me too. I don't know."
"I read a study once they did of World Trade Center survivors. Those who went to analysis and counselling and joined survivors' groups and made cathartic art and so on were still totally screwed up three years later. The ones who just sealed it off and didn't talk about it and moved on were fine."
Veronica nods. "Yeah. It'd be like picking at a cut before it's even scabbed over."
"Right."
They sit in silence for a while.
Then Jacob says, "I'm going to find them. Whoever did it, whoever set him up. I'm going to find them."
Veronica looks at him. She doesn't know what to say. She would dismiss it as bluster, but Jacob doesn't seem like a blusterer, and he sounds serious. She settles on asking, "How?"
"There are ways."
She doubts it. But he has reminded her of one nagging question. "Did Derek ever tell you why he invited me along?"
"No. Why?"
"I don't know exactly. But -" She hesitates. Maybe she shouldn't tell Jacob, shouldn't add fuel to his already burning desire for vengeance.