ECLIPSE

by Richard North Patterson

  Pierce felt the prospect of returning to Luandia seep into his consciousness. “A final word,” Taylor told the lawyers. “It seems we’re in a race with a very special branch of the Luandian justice system. This is not a race an American court is well equipped to win. Do your best to help us.

  “Thank you.”

  “All rise,” the courtroom deputy called out, and a cacophony of sound filled the courtroom. Only Pierce remained still.

  ALONE IN HIS office, Pierce called Marissa. “We’re still alive—” he began.

  To his surprise, she laughed. “That’s a funny way of putting it,” she answered, and then relief suffused her voice. “I can’t believe you’re coming back.”

  “Neither can I,” Pierce answered. “But I worried that you’d miss me.”

  He meant it as a light remark. But now Marissa did not laugh. “I have, Damon. You’ve no idea how much.”

  4

  ON THE LONG FLIGHT TO PORT GEORGE, PIERCE DREAMED.

  It was Christmas, and he was with his parents in their three-decker in Dorchester. In the dream, Pierce still believed in God; the crucifix on the wall did not seem alien to him. And yet he was the same age as his parents, successful beyond their imaginings. Sean Pierce wore his Christmas sweater; he gave his crinkly smile as Pierce’s mother handed Damon a brightly wrapped gift box. “Open this when it’s time,” she told him, “and then you’ll find her. Everything will change.”

  Pierce jolted himself awake. Fragments of the dream were indeed a gift; his parents’ faces were vivid, and he still had time to say, in spite of all their differences, how much their love had meant to him, how much he loved them in return. The rest was obscure. In life, his mother was not given to mystical pronouncements: the concrete world of his parents had been bounded by the known, and Pierce could test its limits without fear. Now he was returning to Luandia.

  He shut his eyes again and imagined Marissa’s face.

  AS PIERCE CLEARED customs, the official looked up from his passport, staring wordlessly into his eyes. Then he passed Pierce through, and two Luandians on the other side began walking a few feet behind him.

  Waiting in the crowded airport, Atiku Bara extended his hand, glancing over Pierce’s shoulder. “I know,” Pierce said. “Let’s go.”

  They were silent until they reached Bara’s car. Inserting his key into the ignition, Bara smiled a little. “You’re back after all.”

  “You’re surprised?”

  The smile vanished. “Perhaps it’s me. Every night I imagine leaving.”

  Bara steered into the traffic. Almost three weeks ago they had first taken this road to Port George. Since then Pierce had seen things he had never imagined; though he could not yet define how, he felt changed. “How is Bobby holding up?”

  “No one knows; Okimbo is keeping him incommunicado.” Bara’s voice softened. “It seems you made him angry.”

  Pierce felt the vise of fear tightening again. He had spent much of the flight cultivating fatalism; fear, he had told himself, was better than self-contempt. Now he was here. “I’ll go to the prison tomorrow,” he told Bara.

  IT WAS DUSK when they reached the Okaris’ compound. As before, two agents of the state security services watched from across the street.

  Marissa waited on the patio. Seeing Damon, she ran to him, heedless of Bara’s presence. She held him so tightly that for a moment he thought of his sister’s red-haired child, Bridget, jumping into his arms after awakening from a nightmare. But when Marissa leaned back to look at him, her eyes held a craving for hope so deep that it cut through him like a knife. Though he had seen Goro, he could not imagine Marissa’s dreams.

  She managed to smile. “Twelve days,” she told him. “Forever.”

  Pierce felt Bara watching them. Releasing Marissa, Pierce turned to him. “And fourteen days until Bobby’s trial. Let’s get started.”

  They sat around the table. “We’ve got two different cases,” Pierce began. “Bobby’s suit against PGL, and his defense in Karama’s show trial. One feeds the other: even if the tribunal won’t admit evidence from the civil suit, we can use it to embarrass PGL—perhaps so badly that it will try to salvage Bobby.

  “For that we’ll need witnesses and documents showing that PGL knew Okimbo was a murderer in uniform; that managers were involved in planning the attack on Goro; and maybe that its employees piloted the boats and helicopters used in the attack.” He looked from Bara to Marissa. “There’s also the matter of proving that there was a massacre. You’re Bobby’s wife; some confirmation would help.”

  “From whom?” Bara demanded.

  “Soldiers involved in the attack. Survivors hiding in the forest. Personnel from PGL—if there are any—who witnessed the massacre.”

  “And are eager to tell the truth?” Skepticism bled from Bara’s voice. “More likely, I suppose, than that soldiers would speak against Okimbo and themselves, or that those who fled the soldiers would put their lives at risk. But how much chance is there that the tribunal would hear such witnesses? None. They will say that what happened in Goro is irrelevant—that it came after the lynchings Bobby’s charged with.”

  “Not before I make an offer of proof—brutally specific—and force them to try to cover up the massacre. There’s no way they can hold Bobby’s trial in secret now.”

  Bara shook his head. Quietly, Marissa said, “Tell Damon what you’ve learned.”

  Bara looked somber. “I have a relationship with the prosecutor, Patric Ngara. He tells me that two Asari youths claim to have heard Bobby order the lynchings.”

  Though he should not have been surprised, Pierce felt dismay. The stories could be fabricated; they could also be true. “Do we have names?” he asked.

  “Not yet.” Bara glanced at Marissa. “No doubt they were threatened, or bribed.”

  Pierce heard a sliver of doubt, perhaps undetectable to Marissa. “Can you try to find out?”

  Bara shrugged. “In theory. But who admits to lying in a country where to tell the truth is death?”

  The remark, Pierce realized, could also apply to Bobby Okari. For a time he looked at the moonlit water; the glow of flaring gas; the lights of the oil freighters awaiting their loads, stolen or not. “Someone ordered those men killed.”

  “Okimbo,” Marissa said. “Or FREE. Or Asari acting on their own. Whoever did it wanted to frame Bobby. Now they need to conceal who they are.”

  Pierce nodded. “True. But in order to convict Bobby, the prosecution needs these supposed witnesses. If we can find out who told them to lie, then we know who ordered the lynchings.”

  Bara shrugged again, as though to acknowledge the conundrum. “The immediate problem,” Pierce told him, “is who does what.

  “I’m keeping my four associates in Waro—hopefully, they’ll be safe at the hotel and at PGL’s headquarters. The only member of my team I’ll put at risk in the delta is me. I’ll help you look for witnesses.”

  Marissa shook her head. “State security will follow you wherever you go. White men are easy to spot.”

  “So is Atiku, and so are you. We’ll have to do what we can.” Facing Bara, Pierce said, “You must still have a network of people who tell you things.”

  “Only a few. But more people than I trust.”

  Pierce saw Marissa look away. Whether in distrust or despair, he could not guess. “Even lies,” he answered, “may tell us something.”

  Bara studied the table. “We’ll start in the morning,” Pierce suggested. “Your family will be glad to see you.”

  “Yes,” Bara answered softly. “Assuming they’re still at home.”

  Once again Pierce reflected that Bara, like Marissa, was a hostage—at least until the moment of betrayal. Pierce hoped the moment would never come.

  “SO,” MARISSA INQUIRED in the darkness. “Do you trust Atiku?”

  They sat at the table, their faces half visible to each other, the remains of dinner between them. Briefly Pierce thought of other dinners, l
ong ago, where their talk was of stories, and the quickening urgency he had felt to keep her from going to Luandia. Then the future was unknown, and much was possible; now they were here. “I have to,” Pierce answered.

  Reaching across the table, she touched his hand, gazing intently into his face. “I say things like that to myself, all the time. It makes me sad to hear you say them. Because I know why you came back.”

  Pierce stared at her hand on his. “For you, of course. For Bobby, too. But also for myself.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m a romantic—you told me years ago. Cowardice is not romantic. Causes are.” He looked up at her again. “I’m more than a little serious. It’s true I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t asked. But you asked because I’d prosecuted war crimes. My need to do that wasn’t about anyone but me.

  “I believe the world is the sum of who’s in it—that in some way what we do makes other lives better, or worse. So do you; so does Bobby. The two of you are the greatest romantics of all—you risked your own lives for a cause. For one brief moment, it’s my turn. Like you and Bobby, I’ve got no kids to consider if I crash. Except that I’m flying alone.”

  Marissa’s gaze deepened. Her lips parted, as though to speak. A moment passed, and then she squeezed his hand. “You must be tired, Damon. Let me show you where your room is.”

  SHORTLY AFTER DAWN, Pierce and Bara reached the prison. They waited for an hour. Then Major Bangida appeared, curtly telling Pierce, “The colonel wishes to see you. Alone.”

  Like an automaton, Pierce followed him past the gallows to the open door of Okimbo’s office. Catlike in his chair, Okimbo stared at Pierce, the look in his eye glassy and abstracted. On the desk was a half-empty glass of a liquid that looked like whiskey. “Close the door behind you,” he told Bangida.

  As the door shut, Pierce saw the truncheon in Okimbo’s lap. “So,” Okimbo said softly, “you come here again, having blackened my name in your country.”

  Pierce watched him caress the truncheon with the fingers of one hand. “I’m here to see Okari, not you.”

  Okimbo kept stroking the truncheon. “What if I start with your genitals. From that, I can gauge your tolerance of pain.”

  Pierce tried to detach himself. The voice issuing from his throat was a fair semblance of his own. “That would anger my government and embarrass Karama. As you say, I’ve made you known far beyond the delta.”

  Okimbo’s fingers on the truncheon tightened, as though he were weighing the benefits and risks of sating his desires. Pierce was quite certain that Okimbo imagined killing him, but not before stripping him of humanness. “You wish to visit Okari?” Okimbo said. “Then I wish you to experience his life. Within fifteen minutes you’ll be screaming to get out, with no one but Okari to hear you.”

  Pierce filled with apprehension. “Just take me there,” he said. “My friend is waiting.”

  Okimbo’s laugh was grating. “This is Luandia. You have no friends.”

  He stood, circled his desk, and walked up to Pierce. Pierce could smell his sweat and the liquor on his breath. Then Okimbo strode to the door and beckoned Pierce with a waggle of one finger. “Okari’s lonely. Perhaps, at leisure, you can describe for him your evenings with his wife.”

  Deeply unsettled, Pierce followed him up the steps, Okimbo’s broad shoulders brushing the walls. Halfway to Bobby’s cell Okimbo stopped, studying a bloodstain on the stone. When Okimbo looked up at him, Pierce sensed that the wrong word or gesture would alter the connections in the man’s synapses, sending him to a place where violence was his sole release. Coldly, Okimbo said, “Have Okari tell you of the amusement I arranged for him. However briefly, he enjoyed the company of his people.”

  Okimbo led Pierce to Bobby’s cell. There was no light there; Pierce could detect no sign of movement. He was hit by a stench of feces and urine so strong that he stopped abruptly, his throat working as he suppressed the urge to gag. Laughing harshly, Okimbo fished the keys from his pocket. “The law is a hard mistress,” he said. “Serve her well.”

  Before Pierce could respond, Okimbo shoved him into the pitch-dark cell. Staggering, he stumbled over a bucket of waste, then braced himself against the wall. Okimbo locked the door. His footsteps echoed off the stone, diminishing until there was only silence. Pierce fought against panic.

  A soft voice said, “They took the light away.”

  Staring down, Pierce saw the fetal shape of a man sitting in the corner, arms resting on his knees. “That must be you, Damon. Forgive me if I don’t stand.”

  In a dispirited way, Bobby sounded as mad as Okimbo. Leaning against the wall, Pierce tried to steel himself against the smell. “What have they done to you?”

  “Aside from what you see? No visitors, little food, dark always.” Bobby spoke with precision, as though practicing how to match words with meaning. “They keep me from sleep. Or they chain me in positions so painful I pass out. When I awake, darkness closes around me.”

  Pierce crouched in front of him, touching Bobby’s shoulder with his hand. “One night,” Bobby continued in a hollow voice, “they put an Asari man and woman in the nearest cells, and left them alone with soldiers. As they screamed in agony, Okimbo told me what each sound signified—the insertion of a cattle prod in the woman’s vagina; a man with a razor wire tightening around his penis. ‘This,’ Okimbo told me, ‘is your legacy among the Asari.’ Then the screaming stopped.”

  Pierce forced himself to believe that he remained a lawyer, free to go. Finding Bobby’s wrists, he gripped them tightly. “Before I left, Gladstone made you an offer. I’ve got way more leverage now that there’s a lawsuit. Let me try to get you out of Luandia—for your sake and Marissa’s.”

  And mine, Pierce thought but did not say. Curling forward, Bobby rested his face on his knees. “If I leave the Asari,” he whispered, “our sacrifice means nothing. Imagine me in London, begging for alms at cocktail parties until no one cares to come. I’d sooner die or go insane.”

  A fresh wave of odors made Pierce swallow. Softly, he said, “Maybe you already are. Dying brings you nothing but a martyr’s grave. For the Asari and Marissa, less than that.”

  “I’m not insane.” Suddenly Bobby’s head snapped up, and there was a hard edge in his voice. “I can embody courage for my people, or take it from them.”

  “You face Karama’s tribunal. If you live.”

  Bobby drew a breath. “How long until my trial?”

  “Thirteen days.”

  “Thirteen days. At least there I can speak for the Asari. Surely I can last till then.”

  His tone was at once weary and determined. Despite his misgivings, Pierce felt an unfathomable pull that compelled him to respond. “If you do,” he said at last, “I’ll be there.”

  Bobby’s torso sagged again. “In Berkeley,” he murmured, “how little I understood you.”

  Pierce waited for a moment. “About the trial: there’s something I must tell you.”

  “Yes?”

  “There are two witnesses against you. They claim to have heard you order those workers lynched.”

  “To whom did I give these orders?” Bobby asked with quiet despair.

  “We don’t know.” Pierce hesitated. “Do you know who might have said this?”

  “Yes.” Bobby raised his face. “Someone who wishes me to die.”

  Footsteps echoed on the cobblestones. At once, Pierce felt both fear and hope. Head turning at the sound, Bobby said quickly, “Tell me about Marissa.”

  “She’s scared for you. But safe—at least for now.”

  “Then she must stay strong. Please, do not tell her how you’ve found me.”

  Okimbo’s massive frame loomed above them. When Pierce stood to face him, he could smell Okimbo’s whiskey breath between the bars. “Do you wish to go?” Okimbo asked. “Okari doesn’t.”

  Relief flooded Pierce’s mind. He touched Bobby’s shoulder. Then Okimbo opened the door, and Pierce stepped onto the stone path outsid
e the cell. He heard the click of the passkey as Okimbo secured the lock.

  Pierce began walking. Behind him, the measured thud of Okimbo’s footsteps echoed as before. Only when they reached the prison’s metal door did Pierce trust himself to speak.

  “Feed him,” Pierce said. “Let him sleep. It’ll mean less trouble for you, trust me. He’s not alone anymore.”

  Okimbo’s smile was a ghastly stretch of lips. “What trouble? What you just experienced never happened. The lies Okari told you are a symptom of insanity.”

  Pierce stared at him. But he could not risk saying more—he had to catch a flight to Waro. Tomorrow, across the table, Michael Gladstone would take an oath to tell the truth.

  5

  ESS THAN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, PIERCE STUDIED MICHAEL Gladstone.

  In that time, Pierce had barely slept. His first task had been to contact Grayson Caraway, human rights groups, Joshua Kano, and their publicist in Washington, detailing Okimbo’s treatment of Bobby Okari. Then, cloistered with Rachel Rahv and their team at a hotel in Waro, he had reviewed the documents they had culled from PGL, preparing for his cross-examination of Gladstone and, on the following day, Roos Van Daan. Then he had briefly called Marissa, telling her a semblance of the truth that omitted only the worst of Bobby’s ordeal; in the back of his mind, he worried that Okimbo imagined her as his prisoner. The thought shadowed his consciousness: sitting across from Gladstone and his lawyer, Clark Hamilton, Pierce felt as though his last two days did not belong to the same life.

  PGL’s headquarters was like a corporate compound transported from America to Waro, gated and walled, with a golf course, gym, meeting center, dining room, and executive housing. The sole difference—elaborate security apparatus and an armed complement of Luandian police—completed its isolation from the city. Across the lacquered conference table, Pierce contemplated Gladstone in his handmade suit and silk tie, the human embodiment of these contradictions—a man of superior intelligence, caught between his American overseers and his appreciation, however reluctant, of PetroGlobal’s entanglement in the tragedy of his native country. Pierce hoped that this complex psychology had left cracks he could exploit.