Pierce had no time for hesitation: Karama’s last phrase, seemingly a throwaway, might be an invitation. “There’s something more,” Pierce told him.
From the darkness of the zoo came the bestial growl of a lion. “There is only one thing of interest to me,” Karama said in a low voice. “What you implied at the trial.”
Pierce reached for his last reserves of determination. “Some of this I know,” he said. “Some I believe. What I know for certain is that you’re surrounded by a web of deceit. Ajukwa urged you to trust Okimbo. Ajukwa forced PGL to hire Van Daan. Ajukwa ships oil stolen by General Freedom. Okimbo let General Freedom escape from prison. General Freedom hit PGL’s facilities and raided Petrol Island. Every step empowered Ajukwa and FREE. And every military action by FREE enabled Henry Karlin—Ajukwa’s American partner—to make a killing in oil futures.”
Karama’s face showed nothing. “There’s one more thing,” Pierce continued. “Okimbo and Van Daan planned to wipe out Goro a month before the lynchings, knowing this would decimate the Asari movement and empower FREE.” Pierce slowed his speech, speaking each word emphatically. “Ajukwa knows you well. He knew you wanted to be rid of Bobby; he knew that you believed Bobby wanted the delta to secede. So he ordered Okimbo to lynch those men on Asari Day, certain that you’d blame Okari and give Okimbo a free hand. Then he counseled you to execute Okari. With Okari dead, General Freedom has more power. So does Ajukwa, his ally—”
“Give me evidence, oyibo.”
“Before the lynchings, Karlin placed another bet on oil futures. He knew the price of oil was going up, because Ajukwa knew about the lynchings before they happened. If you get records of Ajukwa’s bank account, I’m confident you’ll find millions in kickbacks in the last three months—”
“Ajukwa’s rich already,” Karama interrupted. “I have made him so.”
“Not as rich as you are. There’s only one way to become that.” Pierce softened his voice. “In Luandia, money is power—you know that better than anyone. So are friends in the military, like Okimbo; and a well-armed militia leader, like General Freedom. Ajukwa wants to be president.
“You know how to make your enemies speak the truth. I suggest you ask Ajukwa if he’s Jomo.”
Karama stared at him. Pierce had the eerie sense that Karama could read his thoughts—could tell that, despite his weaving of facts and guesswork, Pierce had no idea if his surmise about Ajukwa was true, any more than he could predict what this accusation, reverberating in Karama’s brain, might cause this man to do. Then there was the most dangerous imponderable of all: if Karama himself had ordered the lynchings, the whole of Pierce’s argument turned to vapor. In a tone of molten anger, Karama said, “You forget Okari’s history. Long before these men died, he spat in my face. He refused a position in my government. He used his gifts to hold me up to ridicule.” A corrosive envy filled the words. “No matter who carried out the lynchings, Okari disdained me as a man. There is no balm in my soul for that.”
Pierce stared into the pieces of black glass. “Nor is it a cure,” he answered, “to kill Okari for Ajukwa’s reasons.”
Impassive, Karama folded his arms. “Do you wish Okari to live?” he said at last. “Then tell him he must start his life all over again, like a baby crawling on his knees. Only now he will crawl to me.” His voice became commanding. “It is not enough for him to disown your lawsuit. He must go on television to denounce his movement; ask his followers to abandon their secession; apologize to me for his disrespect; and beg my forgiveness in memory of our former friendship. Oh, yes, and confess to murder.” Karama’s smile, a gelid movement of his lips, raised the flesh on Pierce’s neck. “If his speech is truly pleasing, I will let him rot in jail until the last ember of his movement has died. Then I will set him free to roam the world, yesterday’s man, trying to resurrect his tattered reputation until his testicles turn to raisins.
“Tell him that. And if he finds death more attractive, tell him that his wife and I will watch his final spasms on film, in the moments before I enjoy her for myself.” Karama’s voice became as intimate as a whisper. “Did he tell you we once shared a woman? When he is dead and you are back in America, I will not have to share Marissa Okari. I will leave the rest to your imagination, Mr. Pierce. She will not be able to tell you about it.”
Pierce felt the awesome power of this man to inspire fear and hatred overcoming his self-control. “You cannot do that.”
“Because she’s American? Perhaps the people of your country will rise up as one, demanding her salvation, and this single half-black woman will replace the ravaged women and starving children of Darfur.” Karama gave a terrible laugh. “I haven’t checked today. Has your president sent troops on their behalf?”
Pierce could not respond. Karama watched his face, and then the trace of a smile played on his mouth. “You are heartsick, I see—no doubt for your friend Okari. But I am not without mercy. If Okari crawls to me, I will forswear his wife and let her return to the country she abandoned. Then, perhaps, you can have her.
“I trust you to persuade Okari on her behalf, and yours. Then you won’t have to wish in secret for a client’s death.” Pointing to the door, Karama said softly, “Go to him while he’s still alive. Neither Okari has much time.”
Karama turned his back and walked to the edge of his zoo. “Sleep, my darlings,” he said into the darkness. “There’s much for us to do.”
Pierce walked in the other direction, scarcely conscious of his surroundings. From the tangle of emotions one thought surfaced: Karama had not refuted his accusation of Ajukwa.
16
WHEN PIERCE CLIMBED INTO THE SUV, VORSTER LOOKED AT HIM keenly. After that, he asked no questions. Neither spoke. Only after they passed through the entrance to Savior Rock, headed for the hotel, did Pierce take out his cell phone.
Though it was past two A.M., Caraway answered. “This is Damon,” Pierce said. “I just saw Karama.”
“After I did? What’s your impression?”
“He’ll kill Okari if it suits him. Karama thinks we and the rest of the world will do nothing. To him, Bobby’s a secessionist, a test of his power. But his feelings are far more personal than that and include Marissa.” Pierce struggled to capture his feelings. “It was worse than I’d imagined. He’s completely rational, and utterly insane.”
“Yes,” Caraway responded in a tone of weary recognition. “Tonight he spared me the overt psychosis. But he brought up Okari on his own: he says he needs a free hand to ‘stabilize’ Luandia, and wants us to back off. It’s clear that this is his condition for giving us what we need to rescue our soldiers.”
Staring at the empty streets of Savior City, Pierce felt despair seeping into his soul. “We have human rights groups appealing to the presidents of the U.S., South Africa, and France, and the prime ministers of England and Australia. But Karama thinks it’s all a joke.”
“Karama,” Caraway answered, “understands geopolitics. In my latest conversations with the Europeans, they seemed most concerned about being seen as caring. We’ll get public statements asking for clemency, and nothing with any bite.” Caraway’s tone betrayed frustration. “As for us, events are moving too quickly. In the best of times, it’s hard to focus the full attention of the government on anything less than a Cuban missile crisis. Now our crisis is these soldiers. By the time that’s resolved . . .”
His voice trailed off. After a moment, Pierce asked, “Have you figured out who Al Qaeda in Luandia is?”
“No. Karama claims not to know. Perhaps that’s even true. But some of our intelligence people wonder if they exist. That leaves some pretty novel theories.”
“Including that they belong to Karama,” Pierce said. “Or maybe Ajukwa.”
Caraway did not answer directly. “If so, we’ll get our men back—just as soon as they’ve served their purpose.” His tone grew pointed. “Whatever the case, the kidnappings drove up the price of oil by four dollars a barrel. Okari’s death would s
pike it more.”
Pierce hesitated. “When I met with Karama,” he said, “I floated a theory about Ajukwa. The short of it is that Ajukwa’s involved with Okimbo, Van Daan, and General Freedom in a scheme to acquire more money and more power. One aspect of which is lynching these workers and blaming Okari.”
There was a long silence. Softly, Caraway inquired, “How did Karama react?”
“I’m not sure. But I sensed him taking it in.”
“God knows what he’ll do with that,” Caraway answered. “You’re toying with the psyche of a murderer.”
“No doubt. But Karama offered to spare Okari’s life. The offer is so bad it’s almost credible: in return for mercy, Bobby has to apologize to Karama, repudiate his movement, confess to murder, and spend an indefinite time in jail—from which he may never emerge.” Pierce paused. “He finished with threats about Marissa. I believe in those.”
There was more silence. “If you’re asking about Ms. Okari,” Caraway said, “there’s nothing new. It would be better for all of us if she weren’t here.”
“Well, she is,” Pierce snapped.
Caraway’s voice was level. “What I’m saying is that you know people. I’m aware that she’s watched by soldiers. But if there’s some unofficial way to get her out, we have an embassy in Accra. Ghana’s fairly close.”
“And if I can’t manage that?”
“Then Okari should consider Karama’s offer, no matter how humiliating. As my grandmother used to say, you’re a long time dead.” Caraway paused. “There’s a story about Karama. During one of his entertainments—the videotape of a particularly gruesome execution—a colonel fainted. Standing over him, Karama said, ‘And he calls himself a soldier.’ I don’t want the Okaris to become another grisly test.” The ambassador’s voice flattened. “I’ve said enough. If I hear something you should know, I’ll call.”
Hanging up, Pierce sat back, silent. As they neared the hotel, Vorster said, “This doesn’t sound good.”
“No. But I’ve got a question for you.”
“What is it?”
Pierce turned to him. “If I could get Marissa clear of the compound, is there a way to take her to Accra?”
Vorster puffed his cheeks. “I do business here. So does Dave Rubin. Something as volatile as this can’t have our fingerprints on it.”
Pierce felt disheartened. “And so?”
Vorster hesitated. “I know someone—a Frenchman with a plane who’s crazy and likes money. Maybe . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know that he’s still around. If he is, and wants to do it, then he’d have to get himself to Port George. It could take time.” He studied Pierce. “How would you slip her past those soldiers? I don’t think there’s enough money in Luandia for that.”
“That’s my problem. Can you work on this?”
Vorster frowned. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Then just drop me at the airport. I’ve got to see Okari while I can.”
IT TOOK SEVEN wasted hours for Pierce to book a flight; another six to reach Port George. Clellan flew with him. By the time they reached the barracks, dusk had fallen.
“I’ll wait,” Clellan said. “Good luck.”
When Pierce presented himself to the sentries, Major Bangida appeared. “Okimbo wants to see you,” he said.
This is what Pierce had anticipated, and dreaded. He followed Bangida inside.
Okimbo looked up at Pierce with his hands flat on the desk, as though preparing to rise. His eye did not blink. With silken quiet, he said, “You are here by the grace of President Karama. You’ll be allowed to leave only for that reason. But should you break any of our laws, from now until you leave our country, you will belong to me.”
That Okimbo expressed this as a simple statement of fact made his words more chilling. “Go see your friend,” Okimbo told Pierce. “This is his last chance to save all three of you.”
BOBBY SAT IN a corner, his profile illuminated by a single bulb. The stink of his waste was worse; gripping the bars, Pierce felt a wave of nausea. “Forgive me,” Bobby said in a wan voice. “But it’s hard to stand. It seems I’m not being fattened for the slaughter.”
Pierce felt too edgy to respond. “Karama’s made an offer, Bobby.”
“Which is?”
As Pierce told him, Bobby listened stoically. “If you can believe Karama,” Pierce concluded, “at least you’d live.”
Pierce followed Bobby’s gaze to a dead rat in the corner. “Is this a life?” Bobby asked.
Quietly, Pierce said, “There’s also Marissa. Karama reminded me that you and he once shared a woman.”
Bobby’s eyes closed. “What about diplomacy?”
Pausing, Pierce felt his sense of urgency overwhelm pity. “There is none. The Americans are obsessed with these hostages, and the Europeans are vamping. The calculus is brutally simple: it’s Karama, not you, who controls the flow of oil.”
Bobby slumped. “Karama asks too much of me. I’m afraid only for Marissa.”
“What do you gain by dying?” Pierce demanded. “In some inner-city neighborhood in America, they’ll name a charter school the Okari Academy. Maybe your friends will start a scholarship fund for exiles. And in time you’ll be forgotten. In far less time than that, your people will lose all hope, and FREE will use your death to justify more violence. Your legacy will be a slaughterhouse.”
Bobby seemed to shudder. “And if I renounce my cause by crawling to Karama? What then? Only the hope of living until I’m exiled, the pitiful human remnant of public cowardice. Compared to that, hanging is a mercy.” As Bobby gazed at Pierce, a plea surfaced in his eyes. “No, I must believe that each mistake Karama makes will advance our cause. If that requires my death, better than a life of cravenness.” He paused, then finished softly: “Before he left, Bara came to see me. If I die, he believes, I may be mentioned for the Nobel Peace Prize.”
Somehow this last hope touched Pierce more than what had come before. “There’s no peace prize for a pointless death,” he forced himself to say. “Or for sacrificing the living.”
Bobby watched his face. “Were it not for Marissa, would you say this?”
Pierce weighed his answer. “If it weren’t for Marissa, I’d have no right to say it.”
“Then you must get her out of the country, any way you can.”
“Even if she’s a widow?”
“She’s sacrificed too much already.” Bobby inhaled. “You know of the escape tunnel. Take her, and go.”
“And if she refuses?”
“She can’t,” Bobby insisted. “She must carry on the work. A widow can be a powerful force, and Marissa has the gifts for it.”
Even now, Pierce thought, there were more sacrifices for Marissa to make. “Even if I could get her out,” he said, “I don’t know that she can leave you.”
“Then lie to her,” Bobby demanded. “Tell her that you’ve arranged all this with Gladstone, and that I’ll be joining her soon.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You will do that.” With terrible effort, Bobby stood, taking two steps forward before gripping the bars. “For your sake, and mine. If afterward she feels you’ve betrayed her, at least she’ll be alive.” Reaching through the bars, Bobby rested his hand on Pierce’s shoulder. “Please comfort her for me. Tell her that I died consoled that she will live, not only for our cause but for herself.”
Pierce had no words. Perhaps, despite Atiku Bara’s beliefs, Bobby had always known that he would die. Now he was asking Pierce to help him die alone.
Tears came to Bobby’s eyes. “So many years, Damon, since we met in Berkeley. So many complications, so much sadness. Perhaps some good will come of it.”
Pierce felt his throat constrict. “What should I tell Karama?”
“That I’m reflecting. I’ll refuse him once she’s safe.”
Silently, the two men embraced through the bars, foreheads touching. For a last moment, Pierce looked into Bobby’s worn face. Then he turned
and walked away, hoping that, by not looking back, he would convey to Bobby Okari a sense of purpose.
CLELLAN DROPPED PIERCE at the Okaris’ compound. Under the watchful eyes of the soldiers, Pierce told Clellan quietly, “Go back to the hotel. If I need you, I’ll call.” Then he walked through the iron gate, perhaps to be imprisoned with Marissa.
He had no time to think of this. When Edo answered the door, Pierce asked, “Where’s Madam?”
“Sleeping,” the houseboy said gravely. “She took some pills, to rest. I’m to waken her in an hour.”
Thanking him, Pierce went to her bedroom.
Marissa lay on top of the covers, stirring slightly. Though she was asleep, Pierce saw the circles of weariness beneath her eyes. He had no heart to wake her. For a quiet moment, he watched her face, peaceful in repose. Then he hurried to Bobby’s den.
Glancing around him, he called Vorster. “Time’s running out,” he said. “Any luck?”
“No.” Vorster’s voice was flat. “I can’t find this Frenchman.”
“Keep trying, for God’s sake.” Pierce stopped himself. “Do whatever you can. I don’t want to lose her, too.”
Vorster promised and got off.
Sitting at Bobby’s desk, Pierce rubbed his temples. Then he placed another call.
17
POCKETING HIS CELL PHONE, PIERCE SWIFTLY CLIMBED THE STAIRS to the patio.
In the distance, the scattered lights of Petrol Island blinked against the vast blackness of the Atlantic. He gazed down at the beach, studying it closely until the orange glow of the oil flares revealed two armed soldiers. Then he hurried to Marissa’s bedroom.
Bending, he touched her shoulder. She stirred, still drowsy, then abruptly started, eyes wide with fright until she recognized his face. Pierce spoke under his breath. “You have to dress, Marissa. We’re leaving.”
She stared at him in incomprehension; then her thoughts cleared. “What about Bobby?”
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