John spoke into the camera. “That was Keita Ali, the runner, trying to steer yours truly away from the riot. We are going to try to escape now. We are trying to get to the perimeter of the crowd.”
Whistles blew. Police yelled through their own megaphones: “Disperse. This is the police. If you do not leave, you will face arrest.” The last sound that John captured, before he was knocked to the ground, was Lula.
“Mr. Prime Minister, we are waiting for you. But our followers cannot wait any longer. They all long to know what is in our lost and found from the Bombay Booty in AfricTown. The first item is a piece of official government identification belonging to—”
John struggled back up. Police officers had rushed the stage. And behind him, hundreds more uniformed men had blocked the park exits.
BLINDS COVERED ALL THE WINDOWS, IN CASE THE DEMONSTRATORS in Ruddings Park had it in their minds to spy on them with binoculars. And since everyone knew the prime minister’s office was on the fourth floor, it was Geoffrey’s idea to set up a war room on the eighth. They would have an even better view of the demonstration below, and they were less likely to be spotted peering through the blinds.
Geoffrey had three different cellphones going. He had a line to the Clarkson police chief, so that they could discuss containment. And although it was highly unlikely that the crowd would storm the Freedom Building, there were five hundred soldiers on standby inside the Parliament Building just across the street. Geoffrey also had a line to their chief plant in the demonstration, Saunders, whose job was to beat up on white people—also plants—in the demonstration. In case things got nasty, they would need photos of blacks attacking whites to justify the police intervention. Geoffrey could stage a chess match like nobody’s business.
“Let’s send Rocco out to address the crowd,” the prime minister said. “We should appear calm and accessible.”
“There’s nothing for him to say, Bossman,” Geoffrey said. “He’s going to stand out there and make a fool of himself.”
“He’s a fool anyway,” the PM said.
“Yes, but if he goes out there and makes an ass of himself, people could really get riled up. He might have trouble getting out of there. He could get hurt. Or the officers escorting him might get hurt. Then we would have a major incident. Not worth the risk.”
“I don’t like this. We look indecisive.”
There was a knock on the door. Geoffrey opened it to Rocco Calder in his gym wear.
“Out for your constitutional?” the prime minister asked.
“I was running in the park, saw the disturbance and thought I would come right to the office.”
Geoffrey snickered.
Rocco wanted to call him a half-pint mama’s boy, but instead, he walked up to stand beside the prime minister, body-checking Geoffrey on his way. Just a little shoulder, to throw the jerk off balance. The prime minister didn’t even notice. He was busy peering out the blinds.
“Mr. Prime Minister, I think I should go down there.”
“And do what?”
“Give a statement. Tell them that we are considering their requests and will have a response in a matter of days.”
“You can’t go down there, Rocco.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not safe,” the prime minister said.
“Sir,” Geoffrey broke in. “There it is! A projectile. Straight down there, to your right. Time to unleash the first wave.”
“Get the police chief on the line,” the PM said.
“I’ve got his chief of staff right here,” Geoffrey said, pointing to the cellphone.
“Tell them it’s time to break up the demonstration. Lula claims to have the ID of government officials. That would constitute stolen property. Arrest the bastards, search them and confiscate their goods.”
“Sir,” Rocco said, “there’s no need to crack heads over this. I’m sure we can contain this and disperse the crowd with a promise to investigate.”
“Too late,” Geoffrey chirped again, “heads are already cracking.”
BASTARDS. CANDACE HAD PREDICTED IT. HER RADIO CRACKLED. Officers were instructed to hold their ground and to arrest anyone seen throwing rocks, speaking into a megaphone or attempting to run away. She saw children, women and men running as the police pressed in. She saw the instigators drop their rocks and cans and attempt to blend in with the crowd.
She spotted Keita running nearby with two officers in pursuit. She silently wished him luck. But her partner, Devlin James, a smartass cocky bastard who was good on his horse, gave chase and caught up to Keita. Devlin whacked him on the shoulder and jumped down to distribute his own brand of justice. By the time Candace reached them, Devlin had zip-cuffed Keita and was demanding ID. Good thing she outranked him.
“Let him go, Devlin.”
“He was fleeing.”
“He threw nothing. He caused no harm. And I know him. He’s a good sort. A marathoner. Let him go.”
“I’m taking him in.”
“Cut through those zip-cuffs and let him go, and that’s an order.”
“Cut him free yourself,” Devlin said and rode away. She could see that she had made a permanent enemy of him, pulling rank in front of a civilian. Some guys couldn’t take being outranked by a woman.
Candace got down from her horse. With her Swiss Army knife, she cut through the zip-cuffs.
“I told you to get out of here.”
“I was trying to do that.”
“Well, try harder. But stay away from Freedom Gates. That’s where the police are concentrated.”
“Thank you.”
“Call me!”
He ran. She watched, and nobody caught him this time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
GRAEME WELLINGTON COULD NOT MEET LULA AT the Bombay Booty. Or in the Prime Minister’s Office. He suggested that they meet in the back of his limo, but she said that a black driver could not be trusted just because he said “yes sir, no sir.” She told him to meet her at Patty’s Doughnuts in downtown Clarkson.
He wore shades, although he knew that if anybody stopped to look, his tall frame would give him away. She wore tinted glasses and a sun hat that made it hard to look into her eyes unless you got close and stared. And nobody would. There was something about her that people didn’t mess with. It wasn’t that she was as unflinching as a rugby winger scoring a try. It wasn’t that she was as dark as night, and as hard to read. It wasn’t her voice, which rang out like a military commander’s. It was, as Graeme himself had said thirty years earlier, something to do with her aura.
He hadn’t been invited to enjoy that aura since she was young and beautiful and on the verge of creating an enduring business in AfricTown. Even when Lula drew him near, something about her exuded, I dig you, baby, but if you double-cross me, I’ll tear you apart.
She was one of the only people who knew. And maybe the only living person. His parents had died long ago, and he had no siblings, and he had long ago cut off most ties to his past. He got by, saying that he spent a lot of time in the sun, playing rugby and tennis and all that, and that there were Italians in the family. Swarthy, he would say, to anyone who asked. But long ago the media had stopped asking about his dark good looks. He had, after all, been in politics a long time. Grooming himself for office during decades in opposition. Even his own wife did not know.
Certainly, the rugby team that he had led to the world championships didn’t know. Three decades earlier, it was still a whites-only team. No mulattoes, quadroons or octoroons. He had passed over to the other side, and with flying colours.
Now Lula stirred her tea and said, “Graeme, I can’t have this.”
“We’ll come to an arrangement,” he said. “We always have before.”
“You’re all up in my business, raiding for real and arresting my own people.”
“Let’s just map out a peace treaty.”
“We better. Because you, Mr. Prime Minister, have as much to lose as I do.”
&nbs
p; “I’m asking you to stop demonstrating.”
“And I’m asking you to stop raiding AfricTown. And I want goddamn electricity and water services, right to the south end. You keep denying us, and it will come right back in your face. Have you no shame?”
“None of that,” he said. “We agreed.”
“Okay. No more comments about your shame, wherever it is buried.”
“I mean it, Lula. I will walk out of here and send raid after raid, and your business will be shut down.”
“Political suicide,” she said. “I would tell the world where you’ve been at night.”
“Let’s not get personal.”
“You always say that. It is personal for me, Graeme.”
“If I call off all raids and commit to electricity and water services over, say, the next two years—”
“Two years?”
“Can’t do these things overnight, Lula. Anyway, if I commit to that, I need some commitments from you. First, I need my ID back.”
“I might be able to help with that.”
“And I need the USB back.”
“What USB?”
“Don’t give me that poker look,” he said. “I know you, Lula. I know how you lie.”
“Of all the men I took into my bed, you’re the only one I regret,” she said.
“You didn’t mind it at the time,” he said.
“You had the equipment,” she said, “and you had some decent moves—not bad for an octoroon.”
He raised a finger to his lips, his expression firm. “One more word, and I’m out of here.”
“You can threaten all you want, but I know you’re not going to walk out that door till we’ve settled up,” she said.
“Not one more word,” he said.
“Fine, fine. Lay it on me, white boy.”
He stood up to leave. She grabbed his hand and pulled him down. “Okay already.”
“I want the USB, and you know what the hell I mean. I heard about it, and my source is good.”
“Saunders!” she said. “His days are numbered.”
“I want it, and I know who has it.”
Lula sat back and cracked her fingers. “And who, pray tell, is that?”
“The Roger Bannister fellow.”
“The runner,” Lula said, with a sudden smile. “Keita. You know him?”
“I do now. Why has every Freedom Statonian heard of this Illegal? Why is he not on a plane out of this country?”
She smiled and said nothing.
“I want the USB,” he repeated, “and I want him too.”
“Can’t give him to you quite yet,” Lula said.
“You’ve given me others, and we’ve paid you dearly. What’s the problem?”
“Not yet, I said.”
“Non-negotiable,” he said.
“He has my protection until the Clarkson Ten-Miler.”
“The what?”
“He has a big race he has to run. June 21. Right in Clarkson. For a road race, it’s the highest purse in Freedom State.”
“What’s the payout?” he asked.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars to win. Fifteen for second. And five for third.”
“Peanuts.”
“Not if you’re a refugee,” she said. “After the race on June 21, you’re welcome to him.”
“What are you advocating, Miss Support the Poor and Downtrodden?”
“I want peace again in AfricTown. No more raids. No more bullshit about taxation. No more deportations. I don’t care where you catch your other Illegals, but leave me alone in my own territory. And I need that electricity and water. I’m giving you two years. If it is not in place before your next election campaign, every citizen in this country is gonna know who yo mamma was.”
He stood to leave. “Lula. Always a pleasure. I believe we have an agreement.” He shook her hand. “Your skin was so soft, once.”
“Yeah, and you knew who you were, once. Was it worth it, Graeme? Are the silk sheets smooth out there in the white man’s world?”
“I guess you’ll never know.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
VIOLA HILL DID NOT WANT TO BE PART OF ANY pack of journalists and felt best about a news story when she alone was writing it. Still, it offended her that nobody else seemed to care about the death of Yvette Peters. A black sex worker from AfricTown had been deported to Zantoroland, where she died in prison. Out of sight, out of mind. But not for Viola.
“Why should I send you to Zantoroland?” Bolton said. “Airfare, hotels! It’s not a page one story.”
“So this girl’s life and death only matters as a news story if it lands on page one?” Viola said.
“I have a limited travel budget. Why should I eat into it to get a couple of paragraphs that will end up buried on page twenty-three?”
“I want to find out who deported her, who killed her, and why. There had to be some sort of coordination between the governments of Freedom State and Zantoroland. That is a news story, and once I get it, every other media outlet in Freedom State will be chasing it.”
“I can give you airfare and two nights at a hotel in Zantoroland.”
“I need four nights.”
“Three, then. And you’d better file a page one story.”
Viola knew that Yoyo Ali had been killed for working on a similar story, and that the government of Zantoroland persecuted other dissidents. For security, she announced her travel plans to every person or group that mattered: the Freedom State embassy in Zantoroland, Immigration Minister Rocco Calder, Amnesty International and PEN International. She told John. And in her car, which was retrofitted for a paraplegic driver, with accelerator and brakes activated by hand controls on the steering wheel, Viola drove to AfricTown to speak with Keita about her trip.
She found him running on the AfricTown Road, with a security car driving ahead of him and hundreds of children scattered along the roadside to cheer him on and offer him water. Viola waited for him to finish his run and then met him at his container.
While Keita untied his shoes, wiped the sweat off his face and drank, Viola told him she was going to travel to Zantoroland.
Keita put his bottle down and looked at her urgently. “Maybe you will get word of my sister. Maybe you can do something to help save her.”
“It should shake them up to find out that a journalist from Freedom State is onto her case.”
“Or maybe you will be in danger too,” he said.
Viola asked for more details on the story Yoyo had been writing at the time of his death.
“All I know is that it had something to do with officials in Freedom State bribing their counterparts in Zantoroland,” Keita said. “Go to my house. Look for the teapots on the kitchen shelf. My father kept notes on political stories in the yellow teapot.”
“How will I get into the house?”
“Easy. I will give you the key.”
The last thing Viola did before travelling to the airport was to use a paint scraper and olive oil to remove the I dig dykes on wheels bumper sticker from her wheelchair. Every bit had to disappear before she showed up in Zantoroland.
IT OCCURRED TO VIOLA, AS SHE WAS BEING SERVED TEA AT 32,000 feet, that refugees on an overcrowded fishing boat might take three weeks to travel the distance that she was covering in three hours. Three weeks for the refugees—if they made it at all. Viola wondered how bad it was in Zantoroland for people to risk their lives on those boats. You’d have to be convinced that you would die if you stayed home and had nothing to lose by trying to leave.
Viola had checked the numbers before she flew to Yagwa. According to Amnesty International, the Zantoroland authorities had executed at least twenty dissidents and had incarcerated dozens more in the year 2017 alone. In addition, the government or its mercenaries were killing members of the Faloo business class, and even friends of Faloos among the Kano majority. This had incited even more Zantorolanders to attempt the passage across the Ortiz Sea.
After landing
at the Yagwa airport, Viola haggled successfully with a taxi driver and then checked into the Five Stars International Business Hotel. Soon after, she wheeled outside to look for another taxi. She had the name of Yvette Peters’ grandmother and the name of her neighbourhood.
On the street, while she waited, a group of eight boys surrounded her.
“Where are you from?”
“Give me money.”
“What happened to your legs?”
The boys started patting her stumps, touching her head and asking why she had no hair, and demanding American dollars.
As she wondered how she would get rid of them, a man who looked about twenty years old approached and smacked the boys, cursed at them and sent them running. Viola found herself looking into the clean-shaven, baby face of a man whose irises were so dark that they appeared to merge with his pupils.
“Victor Jones, at your service,” he said, shaking her hand. “And what is your name?”
“Viola Hill.”
“What does Madam fancy? A visit to the President’s Promenade? Lunch Chez Proust? A nice strong Zantoroland man to take you into his private room and give you a little hah hah hah?” With this, Victor shook his hips suggestively.
“Hah hah hah?” Viola said.
“You don’t appreciate hah hah hah? Not to worry. What is your fancy?”
“I want to find someone named Henrietta Banks. She’s in her late fifties and lives in the Latin Quarter. Can you help me with that?”
“Victor can find anybody,” he said. “Twenty dollars, American.”
Already he was in the street, hailing her a taxi and berating the driver who pulled over until he reluctantly got out and opened his back door, muttering that there was no room for the lady and her wheelchair.
Viola pivoted into the back seat, grabbed her wheelchair, folded it flat and hauled it in with her.
“Room enough? Let’s go.”
The taxi driver demanded more money, but Victor launched into another tirade, so Viola got off with a two-dollar fare.
Once they reached the Latin Quarter, and she was sitting in her wheelchair on a potholed street lined with shacks bearing scribbled signs for Shoe Doctor, Witch Man and Crocodile Powder for Male Bone, Viola found herself surrounded by street urchins. Victor had disappeared. He came back a minute later and shooed away the crowd.
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