“You should have stayed in and washed my socks.”
They laughed.
“When is your next race?” Ivernia asked.
“In about three weeks, I will run the Grant Valley Half-Marathon.”
“I’ll come out and cheer you on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
VIOLA HILL COULD FEEL HER TRICEPS BURN AS SHE crested the hill at the end of her first loop of Ruddings Park. On Sunday mornings, the park’s Perimeter Road was closed to traffic, so she flew past walkers, joggers and slow cyclists. People didn’t anticipate a wheelchair athlete racing up behind them, so she kept her whistle hanging from a string around her neck. One loop to go. Ten more kilometres. She could cover that in less than thirty-five minutes and would have the afternoon free to dig into her story.
That story about Yvette Peters was her ticket to success. Who was that girl? If she was born in Freedom State, why was she deported so rapidly? Had there been no effort to check her identity? Viola knew that in every story, there was somebody getting screwed and somebody doing the screwing. Peters had been screwed. And then deported. And then executed. Fine. But who did it to her? It had to come down to some sort of decision in the immigration department. But who wanted to see her gone, and why? She needed an interview with the immigration minister. She had called the schmuck five times already.
Viola coasted down a hill, negotiated the curve at the bottom and came into a flat, isolated section of the park. A couple of hundred metres ahead on her left, a van was parked illegally on the side of the road. The driver’s door was open. It was not a park vehicle. And the road was supposed to be closed to traffic today.
She coasted, slowed down and put the whistle in her mouth. Then she saw it. A commotion on the grass, just beyond the van. One man was kicking another, who was down on the ground. The aggressor was shouting. Viola let it rip: two super-shrill blasts of her whistle, followed by two more. The attacker scrambled into the van, and then it screamed down the road.
Viola pulled up beside the victim. Slim black man. Face down, with hands around his head and knees pulled up under his chest. He rolled onto his back. Groaned. His face was bleeding. Keita Ali! In his running gear. No knapsack. No way in hell’s half acre had this sonofabitch been rolled for a dollar.
WHEN ANTON HAMM THREW HIM TO THE GROUND, KEITA tried to imagine that it was a friend roughhousing with him in the schoolyard. Hamm went for his stomach and his face. Keita raised his forearms to protect himself, and Hamm kicked them too. Kicked so hard he lost his wind and could not breathe. Was Hamm going to kill him? Was this it? Had he been interrupted in the last run of his life? Hamm kept shouting. It was hard to concentrate, to pick up the words, amid the pain of the blows.
“Deliver, you bastard,” he shouted. “Ten thousand dollars, or you will never run again.”
Keita heard the shrieking whistle. A whistle, but no cars and no voices. He waited for the sirens, for the officers, for the handcuffs. Now they would send him home—if you could give that name, home, to the country that had killed your father and kidnapped your sister. He would be no good to Charity if he was in prison too. They would both end up dead. Their bodies would be deposited naked in the square in the heart of Yagwa, but nobody would come for them.
“Hey, man, are you alive down there?”
A woman’s voice. It seemed vaguely familiar. He could not place it.
“Earth to Keita Ali or whoever you are, do you read me?”
Keita heard the squeak of a brake and a grunt, and then he felt a body crawling up to him, pushing his shoulder.
“For you, I got out of my wheelchair and hauled my ass over wet grass. So would you do me the service of opening your eyes and telling me whether or not you plan to live or die?”
Keita opened his eyes. He felt warmth on his face. He wiped it off and looked at his hand, red and wet. He was bleeding from his lip and eyebrow. He rubbed his face again and looked at the woman who was lying on the ground beside him. A black woman. Her legs ended in stumps at her upper thighs. Her arms were sculpted like a weightlifter’s. She was in training gear.
“Let’s start with basics,” she said. “Do you know who you are?”
“Keita Ali.”
“Is that truly your name, or did you make up that one too?”
“It’s real.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Ruddings Park.”
“Do you know who did this to you?”
“No.”
“How about this. Do you remember me? Viola Hill. Clarkson Evening Telegram.”
Keita did remember. She had written the story about his race in Buttersby. And about the girl who had been wrongly deported to Zantoroland. Since then she had emailed him repeatedly, asking for an interview.
She flipped open a cellphone and took his picture. He was too weak to protest.
“Shall I call 911?”
He was suddenly very cold: it was just fifteen degrees Celsius at seven thirty in the morning, and he was lying on the wet morning grass wearing nothing but shoes, shorts and singlet. He told her that she would be doing him a grave disservice by calling the police.
She asked if he could get up. He struggled to his knees, while she rolled over twice to reach the side of her chair and hoisted herself back up on the seat.
“You are in shape,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Roger Bannister, I am in shape, and at this moment in slightly better condition than you. Here”—she pulled a knapsack from the back of her chair, removed a water bottle and a cloth and handed these to him—“I come prepared for all eventualities,” she said. “If you don’t wish to attract attention, rinse the blood off your face and apply some pressure.”
Keita took the bottle. The water stung, but he squirted and wiped until his face felt clean.
“That guy really pummelled you,” she said. “How do you feel?”
“Sore,” he said, “but nothing broken.”
“It was Anton Hamm, wasn’t it?”
Keita said nothing.
“You’re lucky he didn’t kill you. Why was he beating up on you?”
“Don’t know.”
“You lie! What did he want?”
“No idea.”
“He wants money from you, doesn’t he? But he doesn’t want to hurt you too bad, because you’re his meal ticket. Is that it?”
It didn’t hurt any more to walk than it had to lie down and take the blows. As he walked and then began to jog along the road, Viola Hill wheeled along beside him.
“Come on, why did he do this to you?”
“Private matter,” Keita said.
“Buddy, I just spared you the worst part of a mugging.”
“Thank you. But you write for a newspaper, and I know what that means. My father was a newspaper man.”
“Not the famous Zantorolander journalist Yoyo Ali?”
“Yes. He was my father.”
“You’re kidding. What do you mean, was?”
“He died recently.”
“How did he die?”
“He was murdered.”
“Jesus. That’s awful. I’m so sorry. Does the world know about this?”
“No. But . . . I have to go now.”
“Why was your father murdered, Keita?”
“Look, I’ll answer if you promise not to write anything about what happened to me today. If this gets out, people will think I can’t run anymore, and my sister’s life could be in danger.”
“All right, talk.”
“My father was working on a story. Something to do with corruption tying Zantoroland to Freedom State.”
“What kind of corruption?”
“Not sure. Freedom State officials were paying off their colleagues in Zantoroland. Something to do with refugees.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all I know.”
“Who was he writing it for? Someone must have details.”
“There was a Canadian journalist who knew my
father for many years. They were good friends. He might have an idea.”
“Name?”
“Mahatma Grafton.”
“Where is he?”
“I think he’s an editor with the New York Times.”
“What’s your relationship with Anton Hamm?”
“He was my agent. But I fled from him, and now he says I owe him money.”
“Why did you flee?”
“He would have sent me back to Zantoroland, and I would have been killed.”
“Why?”
“Being the son of a dissident is like being the dissident himself.”
“Who killed your father?”
“His body was left in the fountain of the public square in Yagwa. Check with Amnesty International. This is how the authorities in Zantoroland always dispose of the bodies of their dissidents. And now they have jailed my sister, Charity.”
“Unbelievable. What do they want from her?”
“They want me to pay ransom money.”
“How much?”
“Fifteen thousand dollars.”
“So Hamm is after you for money, and so are the Zantoroland officials?”
“Yes. But you can’t write about that. My sister’s life is at stake.”
“Holy shit.”
Keita began to pull ahead of her. “I really must leave you now. Thank you for saving me.”
With that, Keita Ali headed off across fields that Viola could not traverse in her wheelchair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ROCCO AGREED TO MEET DARLENE IN THE SAFEST place that he could imagine: the running path by the reservoir deep in the heart of Ruddings Park. There couldn’t be recording bugs there. And if anybody was following them, Rocco would notice. He wore his running shoes, shorts and shirt. He carried his house keys and five hundred in cash in a fanny pack. And no ID.
Darlene showed up on time. She wore runners too, and sweatpants and a sweater with the hood pulled up.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Citizenship papers.”
“Can’t help with that.”
“Yes you can. You’re the fucking immigration minister. And I also need money.”
“Why?”
“My money was stolen from my apartment. I can’t even go get my clothes. They’ll be watching my place.”
“Who?”
“Lula. Or the government people. I’m not sure. Some guy stole my stuff and came after me with a gun.”
“I was threatened recently too.”
“Really?” she said. “Was the guy black?”
“No, he was white and huge.”
“Serves you right. You sent away my friend. And she died in Zantoroland.”
“I didn’t send her away.”
“Somebody did.”
“Yeah, and I’m trying to find out who. But you have to tell me what you know.”
“The story’s yours—in exchange for my papers.”
“You think I just dash off passports and citizenship cards on a notepad? I can give you money, but that’s it.”
Rocco pulled five hundred dollars from his fanny pack and gave it to Darlene.
Darlene said she had been out back behind the Bombay Booty smoking under a tree the night Yvette entertained the prime minister.
“The prime minister?”
“It was Graeme Wellington. Believe me.”
Darlene told him about the man in a car marked Reliable Security Services. She’d gotten a good look when Lula went out to speak with him. Tall, about six-three. White. Four-inch scar like a pickle carved down his right cheek. Brown hair. Buzz cut. Maybe forty, forty-five. Solid build, like he did time in the gym.
“He went straight upstairs and came back down in five minutes, with Yvette in handcuffs. The girl was crying, but not resisting, because there wasn’t a thing she could do.”
“Is that it?” Rocco asked.
“No, that ain’t quite.”
A week later, Darlene said, Lula took her aside. “I want you to treat a client extra special, extra nice. Give him everything he wants, and more. This a man we have to please.”
Darlene knew better than to ask why. She just got ready and went to meet him. He was the man with the scar running down his cheek. She gave him what he wanted and then got him talking.
“Hope you satisfied,” she had told him.
“Hell, yes,” he said with a grin.
“Better than you get at home?” she said.
“Since I live alone.”
“I ain’t seen you here before,” she said. “Maybe you could ask for Darlene again, so Miss Lula know I’m popular and desired around here.”
“Don’t know if I’ll be coming back.”
“Expensive, I guess.”
“It’s not that. A freebie for me, here.”
“You extra important?”
“Not in the grand scheme of things. I’m a runner.”
“You run marathons?”
“No. I run people to the airport. Then someone else takes ’em right through security and gets ’em on planes.”
“You police?”
“No. Private security, but I do just as good as any cop when it comes to deportations. I’ll say something nice about you on the way out. And have yourself a good night,” he said.
Darlene said to Rocco, “That’s what the fucker who took away Yvette Peters said to me. Have yourself a good night.”
Rocco wasn’t sure about any of this. How credible was she? She had told him the company name on the vehicle used to seize and deport Illegals. She’d mentioned that the guy was private security, not a cop, and it was true that the government used a private contractor to take deportees to the airport. He didn’t know what this was all about, but he knew one thing for sure. He had recently, and discreetly, interviewed the head of security for his own immigration department, and not a single person working for him had issued or carried out the order to deport Yvette Peters.
“I got something else for you,” Darlene said. “But I need papers.”
“I told you—I can’t do that.”
“You know the time you came to see me? In the Bombay Booty?”
“What about it?” Rocco said.
“It was videotaped. The whole thing. On Lula’s say-so.”
Rocco stared at Darlene. “If that tape gets out, or if the PM gets hold of it, my career is over.”
“I have an idea about how to get it. How about those papers of mine?”
“Your papers are looking a little more possible.”
“And don’t worry about the prime minister. He’ll be keeping his own mouth shut,” Darlene said.
“Why is that?”
“He was videotaped too. On the night he was with Yvette.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THEY MET IN THE MEDIA TENT BEFORE THE START of the Grant Valley Half-Marathon.
“Whatcha doing here?” John asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Viola said.
“I’m doing what you’re doing,” John said. “Research.”
“Fine. As long as you do not get in the way of my camera, enjoy it.”
“Did you know that Yvette Peters was deported right after she was alone in a room with Prime Minister Wellington in the Bombay Booty?”
“Get out,” she said.
“I can prove it.”
“Tell me more.”
“So, what will you give me, if I give that information to you?” he said.
“I’ll explain things to you that you don’t understand,” she said.
“I understand everything, except, well, who is paying off whom in the Freedom State government, and why our government would be in cahoots with the people in power in Zantoroland.”
“Anything to stay in power,” she said. “Let’s talk after the race.”
“Deal.”
When John left the tent, Minister of Immigration Rocco Calder was walking right by.
“Mr. Minister! How are you doi
ng?”
“John. You are everywhere.”
“Still working on that assignment,” John said. “Good luck in the race.”
“I’ll see if I can beat that Roger Bannister fellow,” the minister said.
“Dream on,” John said. “Wait, Mr. Minister. Let me take a clip of this.” He aimed his video camera at the immigration minister. “Mr. Minister, can you win this race?”
The minister smiled. “I can win the race against myself,” he said. “I hope to run the half-marathon in less than ninety minutes. If I can beat that time, I’ll be happy.”
“Anything you’d like to say to Keita Ali? I hear he has registered.”
“Tell him that I wish I could run with him.”
“A losing proposition, Mr. Minister. If he runs well, he’ll finish half an hour ahead of you.”
“Then I’ll have to train harder.”
“Hey, Mr. Minister, one other thing?” John checked a piece of paper in his pocket. “In the immigration business, what does the acronym IRBL mean?”
The minister frowned. “Illegals Returned Before Landing. Look, I’ve got a race to run.”
“Okay,” John said. “Thanks, and good luck!”
Viola emerged from the tent and wheeled in between them. “Mr. Minister, I am Viola Hill, Clarkson Evening Telegram.”
His face clouded over, but she pressed on. “Why was Yvette Peters deported to Zantoroland? The girl was born and raised in Freedom State.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Come on, Mr. Minister. I’m just doing my job. Why did you sign the deportation order?”
“I did no such thing,” he said.
“Sure you did,” Viola said. “The only way to deport someone is for you to sign the order.”
“Not true. And I signed nothing.”
“Then who did?” she said. “Who can explain what happened to this girl? People want to know.”
“I can’t help you. Gotta go.”
Rocco Calder pushed into the throng of runners lining up for the start of the race.
“Way to scare him off,” John said.
“Are you kidding?” Viola said. “I’ve got him on record insisting that he did not sign the deportation order. That means someone else did it. Only so many people are authorized.”
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