The Informationist: A Thriller

by Taylor Stevens

  Bradford nodded.

  “Okay,” she said, waited a beat, and then, “Let’s go.”

  On each of the corners that connected the street to the coastal avenue, police officers clustered into groups of three and four, their demeanor shifting from attentive to festive and back again. Very few carried firearms or had access to a vehicle, their sole power appearing to lie in whistles and citation booklets. Munroe and Bradford passed, and the officers, more focused on traffic than on pedestrians, paid little attention to them. They had reached the other side and were nearly beyond the road leading down into the port when an officer blew his whistle.

  “Ignore him,” Munroe said under her breath. “Don’t even turn.”

  The whistle blew again, and they kept walking. It was only after the officer yelled in their direction, commanding the two blancos to stop, that Munroe slowed and threw Bradford a warning glance.

  chapter 9

  Two officers walked toward them with brisk strides, navy blue uniforms frayed at the hems, ill-fitting and spotted with stains. The older of the two wore a piece of industrial cord as a belt and, in addition to the whistle, carried a black baton-shaped stick slipped through a makeshift loop on his pants. He didn’t stop until he had invaded nearly all of Bradford’s personal space, and then he said loudly, “You must obey the law, you must obey!” and demanded to see Bradford’s papers.

  “He speaks no Spanish,” Munroe said, and the officer, inches from her face and smelling of cheap beer, commanded that she interpret.

  He examined Bradford’s residency card and after a few moments handed it back and demanded to see Munroe’s. He looked it over and then gave a grunt and waved it in her face. “Your residency is invalid,” he said as if in triumph. “You have only two names. You are here illegally.”

  Munroe stared at the ground, bit down hard on her lip, and, when the urge to laugh had passed, looked into his eyes and with a voice full of humility said, “I apologize for having only two names. Sadly for me, I was only given two names at birth. It’s not unusual where I come from.”

  The officer’s face darkened, and he placed a hand on his baton. “It doesn’t matter how things are done in your country. You are in the Republic of Equatorial Guinea, and you will respect the way of our land and our laws. You have only two names. Your residency is invalid.”

  “I understand what you are saying,” she said, “but I was only given two names, and the representative who signed my permit understood this.”

  The officer scowled and said again, “You are here illegally. The law provides peace to the republic, and foreigners must also abide by it.” With slow and deliberate movements, he placed the card in his chest pocket. “Present yourself at the police station tomorrow morning. Until that time I will retain your document.” Then, with the younger officer following, he walked stiffly to the cordoned-off avenue.

  Bradford watched them go and in a whisper said to Munroe, “What was that all about?”

  She hooked her arm in his, drew him around in the direction of the hotel, and started walking. “That,” she said, “was an example of why this country is what it is. No matter how much the well-intended try to intervene or how much oil is pumped out of the ground, some things are unchangeable or made worse by the presence of money. When nepotism is de rigueur, today’s goatherd becomes tomorrow’s despot, and a shiny new whistle and a used uniform are all it takes to create a new tyrant.”

  She looked over her shoulder toward the officer who stood again on a corner with three others dressed in blue. “The laws are arbitrary. It’s fine to drink and drive, but you’ll be cited for having a dirty vehicle. It’s illegal for you to offer a bribe but permissible for them to accept one. According to him I’ve broken a law by having only two names.” She sighed in quiet amusement. “As for us, the only thing to do is flow with it and do our best to stay out of trouble.”

  “Are you going to try to get it back?”

  “The residency card? Nah. If I want it back, I’ll need to spend the better part of tomorrow and possibly the rest of the week at the police station attempting to figure out who has it and what hoops I have to jump through for it—not to mention shelling out a small fortune.” She gave his arm a playful squeeze. “I had the cards made so that I wouldn’t have to deal with that in the first place.”

  They stayed in the hotel that evening, Munroe preferring to avoid another encounter with the police while the city was cordoned off. Instead of roaming the streets and socializing with the locals, they dined on the hotel’s patio, where each of the umbrella-capped tables hosted its own assortment of oil-related patronage.

  When the waiter came to clear the table, Munroe stopped him and nodded toward the far end of the dining area, where two of the Shadows nursed imported Spanish beer and occasionally passed a furtive glance in their direction. “Do you know them?” she asked.

  He followed the direction of the nod and then, looking back at the table, said, “Perhaps it would be better not to know them.”

  She requested three of what they drank, and when the waiter returned with the beer, she took the cans and stood to leave the table. As she did, Bradford stopped her with a hand on her forearm.

  “Where’re you going?” he said.

  The warmth of his fingers wrapped around her skin, and Munroe’s vision blurred to gray. She waited a heartbeat and took a breath, then leaned down toward him, looked him full in the face, and said softly, “I’ll tell you this once, Miles, because I like you. Touch me that way again and I swear I’ll break every one of your fingers.”

  He removed his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Bad habit.”

  “To answer your question,” she whispered, “I want to know who they are and what they want.” And then she straightened and walked across the patio to where the Shadows sat.

  She stood in front of the men with a smile of demure innocence. In Spanish she said, “I’ve seen you around town,” and then, placing the beer on the table, “Can I join you for a drink?”

  There was a moment of silence. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled out a chair, and with a teasing glance in the direction of the one who’d been so focused on her at the airport, she sat. She leaned toward him with girlish coyness and stuck out her hand. “I’m Michael.”

  After a second’s hesitation, he took her hand and returned the smile. “Nicolas.”

  His hands were small and thick, and the grip was solid. He wore a heavy gold ring and on his wrist a Fendi watch. Across the table his companion sat with arms crossed, and in Fang he whispered a warning. Nicolas said nothing and instead turned to Munroe and motioned toward his companion. “My cousin Teodoro.” She flirted in Teodoro’s direction, offered her hand, and said sweetly, “Are you scared of me?”

  Both men laughed. It was a nervous laugh, but it was the opening she needed. She pushed a beer at each of them, then popped the top of her own and raised it in a mock toast.

  They drank, and she engaged them with harmless questions about life in the city. In turn they asked about Bradford.

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  She gave a playful smile. “No, he’s not.”

  “Your husband?”

  A pout. “Not that either.”

  “Are you married?”

  Raised eyebrows and wide eyes. “Are you looking for a wife?”

  Laughter.

  Munroe ordered a second round of drinks. Behind her, Bradford sat, leaned back in the chair with his arms draped loosely across his stomach, legs stretched out under the table. His eyes were half closed, and though to anyone who might have noticed he appeared pleasantly relaxed, to Munroe he screamed attentiveness. She ignored him.

  For the fourth round of drinks, Munroe switched to distilled alcohol, knowing that the boys were used to chasing beer with the harder stuff. During village celebrations, half-filled glasses would be refilled with the nearest bottle, lending to mixtures of vodka, whiskey, wine, and more—she would bring it on.

 
A few more rounds and Munroe shifted the conversation from the mundane to their homes and families. Children? Yes. Wives? Only Nicolas. Teodoro could still not afford to buy one—pay the dowry rather—but he had girlfriends and children. Brothers and sisters? Many. Famous parents? A chuckle. Maybe one day.

  “You speak Fang,” she said. “Are you from the mainland?”

  “Yes. From a large village, an important village.”

  She smiled in adoration. “The most important village in the country?”

  Laughter. “Of course.”

  Shock. “But nobody’s village could be more important than the president’s village.”

  “That is our home!”

  Pay dirt.

  The questions continued, friendly and noninvasive: the landscape, the animals, the tribal customs, each innocent detail building on top of the last as she constructed a composite picture of the Mongomo area, of the roads, military presence, and security on the mainland, knowing what to expect and what had changed. After the boys had put away their eighth round, her questions shifted to why they’d been following her, and at that, Nicolas stood and excused himself and Teodoro followed suit.

  The conversation was over.

  Munroe watched them stroll across the patio, their walk not quite as coordinated as it had been when they’d come in, and once they passed through the doors leading out to the front of the hotel, her posture tightened and the look on her face changed. The charade was done, the information gleaned far beyond what she would have hoped to gain, all but the most critical piece. She returned to the table, where Bradford still sat stretched out with half-shut eyes. “With both of them drunk and gone,” she said, “Shadow Three will soon be in the vicinity. I’m heading to bed.”

  He tilted his head back to look at her. “Sit with me? I have a question.”

  She pulled a chair from the table. He was silent for a moment, his eyes studying her, and she sat quietly, watching in return. Finally he spoke. “Why do you do it?”

  He gave a breathy chuckle, ran his fingers through his hair, and leaned forward. His expression straightened. “Why debase yourself, put on that doe-eyed doll act, the performance? I don’t get it. You’re one of the most brilliant people I know. To watch you stoop to that level, it’s so … I don’t know … insulting … painful.”

  “If I’m making an ass out of myself, I’m the one who’s the fool—why should it bother you?”

  He shrugged.

  Munroe sat forward in her chair, mirroring his position. “Listen, Miles, there are a lot of things in my life I’m not proud of, but tonight certainly wasn’t among them. I do whatever it takes to get the information I need to be able to do my job, and the doe-eyed doll act, as you put it, was what those guys would respond to. It’s why I’m paid what I’m paid to do what I do—the information I need is out there, and I will always find a way to get it. Tonight was child’s play.”

  She stood to go and then placed her hands on his shoulders, bent down, and whispered in his ear, “I know just as well as you do why it bothers you, Miles.” And she walked away.

  LIFE IN THE tiny capital started before dawn in preparation for the coming of the water. It was accumulated in the mountains during the night and then released to flow through the pipes of the city. By seven or eight, the stream trickled into droplets and the faucets ran dry, and whatever water remained, collected in buckets and containers, would have to last until the next release. Those living in more elevated areas would be fortunate to collect enough water to bathe, wash dishes, and flush toilets. For a country with one of the highest rainfalls in the world, water in the capital city was a scarce commodity.

  At eight, Munroe and Bradford hailed a taxi for the five-minute trip to the ministry. The blockades that had shut down the city the day before were gone, and the narrow roads were already teeming with life.

  They were not the first to arrive in the foyer of the minister’s office; an elderly woman, no doubt recently arrived from a village, sat at one end of the sofa. She wore a bright floral-patterned dress that had obviously been kept and cared for over many years. Her shoes were from another era, laced-up leather, worn and resoled, clean and polished. Her hands, gnarled from decades of hard work, lay folded in her lap.

  The woman hailed from the mainland, a survivor, one of the few left from the missing generation, those who somehow managed to survive the genocide of Macías Nguema and his decade of terror. Through the waiting of the morning, she graced Munroe with stories rich in history and legend.

  It was nearly noon when the minister arrived. He was without his entourage, and as he passed through the foyer, he nodded at Munroe and Bradford. A short while later, the secretary directed the two of them toward the closed door of his office, and the elderly woman remained on the sofa, silent, giving no protest that her turn to speak to the great man had been overlooked.

  When the minister received them, he remained seated behind a large wooden desk. His handshake was as soft as his hands, and he wore a tailored Italian suit. He spoke in English, his voice dry and raspy. He gestured for them to sit in the chairs facing his desk—plush and antique, upholstered in well-worn deep red velvet.

  Having dispensed with the pleasantries and ample humility and praise for the Republic of Equatorial Guinea, Munroe handed him a photo of Emily Burbank followed by a sheet of paper with Emily’s physical data. “We are looking for a friend of ours,” she said. “She has been missing for a while, and we have reason to believe that she is or was in Río Muni, possibly in the Mongomo area. Knowing the reliability of your government and the care with which you treat foreign visitors, we had hoped that Your Excellence would know something of our friend, perhaps having received word about her. We are checking with you first before traveling ourselves.”

  He took the photo, looked it over intently, and followed with an air of disinterest. Then, while he gazed indifferently at it, he said, “How long ago did she enter the country?”

  “We’re not certain of the exact date,” Munroe replied. “About four years ago.”

  “It’s a long time,” he said. “So many things can happen in four years. I wasn’t the head of this ministry four years ago.”

  “I understand.”

  “And her purpose for entry? Which company was she working for, or perhaps a church?”

  “She was here as a tourist,” Munroe replied. “At least that is what we understand.”

  “Do you mind if I keep this?” he said, and then, without waiting for a reply, tucked the photo and the sheet of paper into his breast pocket. He eased back in his chair. “Nothing comes readily to mind, and I make no promises, but I can have my people look into it and then get back to you. I would suggest you return tomorrow morning. I will be in the office by nine.”

  They left the foyer for the stairs, and on the ground floor was the minister’s H2, black and shiny, parked under the center of the building. Munroe stopped in front of it and stared at her reflection in a window.

  “What do you want to bet that vehicle is the only one of its kind in the country?”

  “Should it matter?” Bradford asked.

  Munroe shrugged. “Not to me or you. I’m sure it will to the owner when it comes time for new parts, but who I’d think it would matter to most is the woman on the vinyl sofa upstairs waiting to speak to the great man who before the discovery of oil was just as poor as she is.” She turned from the Hummer and walked toward the street. “And he has no driver,” she said.

  “I suppose that means something?”

  “Yes,” she said, almost as if to herself. She stopped and turned for a second look, then stared at the ground for a moment. Finally she said, “People of importance are rarely without an entourage or at least a driver. The president came into town yesterday, which means that most of the sycophantic ministers are not even showing up for work today.” She was quiet. “He came alone.” Another pause. “You know, it’s possible he came to the ministry for nothing more than to see us.”


  THE DOWNPOUR STARTED in the early evening and continued on through the night, a heavy pelting of water that thundered against rooftops and drowned out the sound of all else. By morning the city streets were shallow rivers rushing toward the ocean. Pedestrian traffic was light; when the water’s onslaught against shoes and clothing came as much from the ground as it did from the air, only the most desperate ventured into it. And like the population of the city who watched the rain from doorsteps and windows and under porticoes, Munroe stared out the balcony window, debating against returning to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and knowing that she would go anyway.

  By the time they arrived and assumed the position on the sofa that they’d filled for the past two days, they were drenched. The foyer was empty, even the secretary absent. “He won’t show up,” Munroe said. “When it rains like this, everything shuts down for a de facto holiday. Between the rain—which is over half the year—and all the official holidays, it’s surprising any work gets done at all.”

  Bradford flicked water off his neck. “If you’d told me that at the hotel, I would have worn my bathing suit instead.”

  “That I’d’ve liked to see.”

  Without a second’s pause, he pulled off his shirt and, wrapping it around his fists, wrung it out. The water joined a puddle by his feet, where a stream of droplets from his pants had already collected. “How long do you plan to keep doing this?” he asked.

  Munroe smiled at his torso. “The waiting?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With three weeks until Christmas and then everything shutting down through mid-January, we’ll have to get what we can in the next week. If we don’t have it by then, we head to the mainland.” She paused for a second and then pointed to his legs. “What about wringing out your pants?”