 
Vultures in the Playground

A. Sparrow

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 by A. Sparrow.

All rights reserved.
Chapter 1: Monrovia

The harmattan had come to rob the sky of its blue and its stars. The sinking sun, reduced to a fuzzy red orb, shimmered over a sea of zinc roofing. Even now, in the depths of dry season, the air was a dank and fetid sponge, pungent with wood smoke and burning plastic. Shadows of dead palms stretched like talons. Every surface, every child was coated in dust.

Two men trailed Archie, faces rigid with purpose. They crossed every alley after him. Mirrored every turn and backtrack. Loitered by every vendor he feigned an interest. Their loose and jaunty gaits reminded him of young lions; never had he felt more like prey.

Archie had been indulging his habit of taking a long walk after a long flight. No big deal in a stable country like Ghana, but in Liberia, it begged trouble, especially for someone wearing a smuggler's vest lined with fifteen thousand in crisp hundred dollar bills.

To make matters worse, his usually keen sense of direction had failed him. Instincts dulled by jet lag, he had gotten turned around and found himself wandering through a vast and haphazard informal settlement patched together from rice sacks, pallets and sheets of tin. He had no idea how to get back to his hotel.

The cash was destined for a malaria project in Nimba County. The only bank in town had a habit of embargoing wire transfers until certain exorbitant 'special handling fees' had been paid. Archie hadn't felt comfortable leaving the money behind at the hotel, though it had proved no more secure on his person.

Eyes forward, legs churning, Archie strode on, making a show of knowing exactly where he wanted to go and how to get there. A glimpse sufficed to tell anyone he was lost.

What possible business could a man of his advantages—spotless clothes, white skin—have in the meanest shanty town in Monrovia? Walking alone at nightfall? Men like him were meant to be chauffeured around town in shiny Land Cruisers.

Children waved and laughed and chased him until their worried mothers called them back. 'Boss man,' they called him—a relict term that offended him more than any epithet tossed his way, seething with its connotations of slavery and subjugation. Most of the other names—faranji, mzungu, obruni, oyinbo, yovo—denoted whiteness or foreignness, not just caste or privilege.

Boss man. What a bizarre thing for a nation founded by repatriated slaves and having no colonial history to call its paler visitors. He was no boss man. He was just a man.

The settlement bustled with the commerce of poverty. Women sold charcoal by the chunk, beans by the handful, twigs for cleaning teeth. He stopped at a makeshift soft drink stand little wider than a phone booth, pieced together from scrap plywood and painted Coca-Cola red.

A woman sat inside with a baby balanced on her lap. "Pardon me, ma'am. Do you know how to get to Liberty Hotel?"

For the umpteenth time, asking the same question, he received the same response. She shrugged and looked away.

He bought a Coke with an un-creased twenty dollar bill—further proof of his privilege, its cleanliness clashing starkly against the wad of greasy, blackened singles he received back in change.

This bottle might come in handy if things got rough, serving as projectile, club, or broken, as a blade. Resistance, however, would be his last resort. Better to offer them the contents of his pockets and pray they not discover his money vest.

He tracked his pursuers in his vision's periphery. They remained attentive to his every movement. Yet, their patience was almost lackadaisical. In Liberia, he supposed, no one was ever in a hurry, not even muggers.

Why so cautious? It couldn't be because they feared him. He was easy prey—a pasty, out-of-shape American. To them he must have looked like one of the common breed of international functionaries that came here for consultancies and workshops. The kind who never read State Department security warnings and were ignorant of Liberia's recent history, its civil wars, massacres and chronic lawlessness.

People busy with late-day chores elbowed past him—lugging water jugs, packing up market wares, hauling kindling, bearing bundles of scythed grass for their goats. Crowds were no deterrent to a determined pair of muggers. These folks were survivors. One did not endure years of civil war by getting in the way of other people's dirty business.

If not for the windfall beneath his shirt, Archie might have called the muggers' hand and gotten the whole deal over with. A dummy wallet in the rear pocket of his khakis was stuffed with small bills and expired credit cards. He had left the flap unbuttoned, to further entice and distract. If that didn't satisfy them, they were welcome to the iPod bulging his shirt pocket and the Nikon dangling from his belt.

All of those items were replaceable; they might even be insured. A simple bump and snatch would leave him no more harmed than a gecko sacrificing the tip of its tail.

But the 15K in his vest changed everything. Fifteen thousand USD was worth killing for in this part of the world.

The tangled snarl of alleys he had been traversing finally gave way to a major street. He paused at the corner, figuring he needed to head west towards the ocean and setting sun. But this road ran north and south. Yet another warren dense with narrow lanes lay between him and refuge. At least this next settlement looked more established. Buildings of brick and concrete rose above the shacks—Lebanese wholesalers with razor-wired compounds. Culverts and sidewalks bracketed the dust and ruts.

Sweat dribbled down his torso. He gazed up and down the street. Where were all the taxis? When he was last in Monrovia, their primary colors crowded the lanes as thickly as spawning salmon.

Come to think of it, driving in from the airport, the only vehicles he had seen had UN or NGO insignias. It would be nice to see one of them drive by right about now. Most had policies against taking hitchhikers, but someone noticing his distress might make an exception.

No police were around either, though that was not necessarily a bad thing. These days in Monrovia, the force participated in as many crimes as they deterred. Odds were fifty-fifty he would be taken into a station and hassled for bribes—though he would have taken that bet against a ninety-nine percent chance of being mugged.

An older man in a sport coat and tattered shorts lugged an overstuffed duffel bag bulging with cheap sneakers. He turned to Archie with a weary but kindly expression.

"Are you lost, boss man?"

Archie cringed at the salutation, but let it pass without correction. "Do you happen to know where I can find a taxi?"

"Nowhere," said the man. "Not today. There has been no petrol in Monrovia all week. They are all queued up at the filling stations. A shipment is coming tomorrow, they say."

"I see." Archie sighed and glanced back at his pursuers, who were now lounging against the ruins of a concrete wall. Struts of rusted rebar protruded like ribs on a half-eaten carcass. The men pretended not to look his way.

"You wouldn't happen to know the quickest way to the Liberty Hotel from here?"

"Liberty? I have never heard of this one. Maybe it is new?" The old man hoisted his bag and sauntered off.

Archie made brief eye contact with one of the men following him. This was getting ridiculous. Why didn't they just come after him and get it over with? They did not seem like diffident types. Were they simply that confident he would not be able to elude them?

But with the sun about to collide with the smudged horizon, their strategy made sense. In a city with inadequate lighting and unreliable electricity, they would soon have the complete cover of nightfall to do their deeds.

Archie shivered at the realization and darted off across the road, angling for a busy lane with walks strung with light bulbs and second-hand clothing shops still open for business.

The men crossed behind him and were joined by a third, who carried a dirty Styrofoam box over his dreadlocks. One of them uttered something terse and guttural in the local Krahn that sounded like a command. His companion sprinted ahead, dashing past Archie without a glance, as Archie cringed, certain he would be tackled.

But the man rushed right on by. Had Archie misunderstood their intentions? Did the man with the cooler merely wish to sell him a cold drink?

But no. Archie could see what they were doing. They were setting up a triangle around him. His stomach seized with the realization that something nasty was about to go down.

He still had the empty bottle in his hands, but when he went to get a better grip it slithered through his sweaty palms and he fumbled it. It smashed against the concrete gutter. As he stared at the shards, the faces of passersby flipped his way. They kept their distance like antelope abandoning an injured member of the herd, as if they knew a predator was about to strike.

Panicking, Archie squeezed around a bamboo partition, past a group of ladies chopping onions and cooking rice over charcoal. He squeezed through a gap in a fence into the next alley and ran, aiming for the sunset. The man who had passed him earlier appeared and blocked his way. Before Archie could dodge, something hard and heavy slammed into the side of his head.

A grapefruit-sized rock thudded to the ground. His muscles went limp. He crumpled and rolled half into a ditch beside a black and greasy trickle of sun-reduced sewage clotted with discarded plastic sacking. His vision wavered at the fringes, but he never blacked out. He lost all control of his limbs.

His head lolled to one side just as a cinder block crashed down, barely missing his skull. The block shattered against the lip of a culvert, stony fragments spattering his cheek, showering his eyes with grit.

The men fell upon him like jackals onto a carcass. One took his fake wallet. Another reached into his shirt, tugged sharply and snapped the cord of his security pouch, taking his real wallet and passport. Archie flailed feebly, fending off their probing fingers.

The man bearing the cooler appeared, dropping to his knees while the leader leaned over Archie and held his arm flat, pressing a serrated knife against his wrist. The first nip of the blade restored Archie's clarity and control. He flinched and wrenched his arm free, kicked out a knee, catching the man in the ribs. The man grunted and dropped his blade. Archie squirmed free and scuttled away like a crab, backing up against a fence.

A boy called out. "Soldiers coming!"

A military truck careened around the corner. Two of the attackers fled, but the third, still holding Archie's passport, ducked around the corner of a building and lingered, glaring at him with an inexplicable mix of hunger and hatred that sickened him with its intensity.

"I've got money here!" said Archie, patting his vest. "Please. I'll give you money for that passport. Lots of money. Just let me have it back."

The man just stared back, the rays of the setting sun accentuating tribal scars in triplets across his angular cheekbones. Archie would remember this face. He felt under the weeds for the rock that felled him, gripped it like a softball and was about to fling it at his assailant, when the man disappeared.

Two soldiers staggered out of the troop carrier to pee in the ditch. They seemed startled to find a white man staring back at them from the ground but were too drunk and incurious to give a damn.

Blood trickled into his eyes. Archie reached up and found his hair all matted and sticky. His money vest remained intact. He wished he had thought to zip his passport inside. He felt its absence as surely as if they had plucked an organ from his chest.

Other soldiers bustled out of a warehouse and loaded cases of large green bottles into the bed of their truck. Archie didn't dare approach them for help. They were already blitzed out of their skulls. Friday night was coming on strong.

He rose and limped back to the main road, struggling to walk a straight line. He paused at the corner, scouting the street from behind a display of T-shirts. He was about to step out when the man with the scars came trotting past. The bastard had circled around the block, doubling back to the scene of the crime.

Archie waited until the man was halfway down the lane and then started after him. This man had his passport. Of all the things he could have taken, this was the least replaceable, bearing dozens of multiple-entry visas from three continents that would take months to restore. Even if he couldn't retrieve it on his own, it might be useful to know where it ended up.

The light was fading quickly. Perhaps it was foolish to follow. Maybe he wasn't thinking straight. If his attackers were bold enough to try hacking off his hand in daylight, imagine what they would do under cover of darkness. But darkness worked to his advantage as well, offering concealment. He had turned the tables. Once pursued, now the pursuer. The thought of it thrilled him.

Keeping up wasn't easy. The guy kept veering off through random compounds, tracing a circuitous route as if he knew he was being followed.

Like a zebra sniffing the wind, the man paused to survey his surroundings. Archie dropped onto a stool surrounded by shoe-shine boys. The kids laughed at Archie's flip-flops, but proceeded to clean them anyway with a bit of rag dunked in a can of muddy water.

The man headed straight for a corroded chain link fence backed with metal sheeting and topped with razor wire. He punched a code into a keypad and slipped through a heavy steel gate. The gate slammed shut behind him.

Archie slipped the kids some coins and sidled up to the fence, peering around the edge of the gate. A pack of growling, snapping dogs sensed his presence and harried him around the periphery.

Dump trucks, graders and other construction equipment filled the compound within, some of them stenciled with 'Xtraktiv' in a shattered black font. Two unmarked humvees mounted with fifty-caliber machine guns were parked beside a sandbagged bunker against the main building.

That name—Xtraktiv—rang a bell. At the airport, a van with that logo had picked up a trio of young men who had been goofing around, posing for pictures with a security guard.

A metal placard posted on the gate warned: 'NO SOLICITORS.' But there was a local telephone printed underneath. He pulled a Sharpie from his pants and tried jotting the number on his hand, but his palm was too bloody. He found a clean patch on his forearm and wrote it there.

He staggered off into the twilight, heading back down the alley toward the glow of the setting sun. Blood dribbled down his chin and dripped off his fingertips. Some passersby seem startled to see him. Others barely gave him a second glance, as if bloody-faced white men were a common sight Friday nights in Monrovia.

Generators cranked up. Lights flickered on. Frogs began to croak from a slough. The smell of roast chicken wafted from a grill and sent pangs through Archie's stomach. He wondered if anyone could make change for a hundred dollar bill.

Chapter 2: Liberty

Taxis that night were as rare as okapis. Somehow, Archie lucked into the only one operating on Embassy Row, swooping in as it dropped off a carload of young missionaries at a courtyard restaurant.

"Liberty Hotel, please."

"Oh!" said the driver. "We are very close."

"Good," said Archie. "The closer the better."

The driver winced when he noticed the extent of Archie's injuries. "Jesus Christ, man! What happen to you?"

"Oh, it's nothing," said Archie. "Just my welcome to Monrovia."

"You want to go to hospital?"

"No thanks. The Liberty Hotel will do fine." He had enough food for nightmares for one evening.

He supposed he could relax finally. But the muscles in his neck stayed knotted and his head throbbed in time with his pummeling heart. He stank of sewers and smoke and fear.

The cab cut down a dark lane and turned onto a well-lit boulevard the Archie recognized instantly. It wasn't far at all. He could have easily walked back if he had known where to go.

The taxi turned into the drive leading to the Liberty, which was set back from the road. The sight of its backlit sign induced a smile. Now he could get washed up, tend to his wounds, find something to eat and regroup—not necessarily in that order.

Headlights washed over a pre-teen boy pulling a green plaid suitcase that looked way too familiar.

"Holy shit! That kid's got my bag!"

"What you say?" said the driver.

"Stop. Right here!"

"But sir, the drop-off is over there by—"

"Right here! Right now! Stop!"

Archie bolted out of the cab and ran after the kid, who tried sprinting away with the suitcase in tow. The tiny wheels caught on the rough pavement and threw the bag over on its side. The boy dragged it behind him, frantically trying to right it when Archie caught up, lunged for the handle with his good hand and wrested it away.

The kid screamed. "Teef! Help me! Dis man is a teef!"

Passersby gathered; people emerged from an open-air bar.

"This is mine," said Archie. "Look at the tags. My name is—" He noticed that all the tags and destination stickers had been yanked off. "You little fuck!"

He grabbed the suitcase and zipped it open, pulling out the photocopy of his passport that he always packed in his luggage. He held it up to the light beaming down from a termite-clouded street lamp.

"Look at that. That's me, you little—" But the kid had disappeared into the shadows. The crowd was already dispersing, perhaps fearing the trouble that would ensue once Monrovia's hyper-aggressive and unpredictable police arrived on the scene. Liberian cops tended to err on the side of inclusivity, often rounding up bystanders in lieu of actual perpetrators. And Friday night in Monrovia was no time or place to get entangled with the law.

Archie stormed into the hotel lobby, brushing past an elderly security guard, who smiled and saluted as he entered, as if all was right with the world.

A sleepy young man peered up at Archie from a sofa behind the counter. Archie's bloody face jolted him out of his stupor.

"Oh! What happened to you, boss man?"

"Mugged," he said. "My key, please. I'm getting my things and leaving. I have to say, the security in your establishment leaves something to be desired."

"Sir?"

"I said, give me my key! I'm checking out. If you can't keep these damned kids from breaking into my room, you don't deserve my business."

"But sir, you have reservation for three nights. We have a penalty for cancelling reservation."

"No way am I paying any penalty. I want my key, now. Give it."

The clerk's eyes flickered with anger. He pursed his lips and snatched Archie's key from a nook, slapping it on the counter.

When Archie reached the room he found the door jamb splintered and the lock dangling loose. He didn't even need the key. How both the clerk and security guard hadn't noticed any hanky-panky was beyond him. Were they both sleeping? Or were they accomplices?

He pushed the door open with a simple nudge. As he had feared, the courier bag holding his laptop was missing, but at least his toiletries remained in the bathroom. He grabbed them and stormed back out down the hall, tossing the key on the front counter.

"Sir, if you leave now, you must pay for half a day."

"Fuck you. I'm not paying you a cent. You should pay me."

"Then I shall call the police."

"Go ahead. Call. I'd love to talk to them."

Outside, Archie was glad to see the taxi still waiting. He threw his toiletries in the back seat beside his suitcase and climbed in front.

"You got enough gas to get back to Robertsfield?" He hoped to stay at the former Hilton the airline crews still used, right across from the airport. It was expensive, but had proved a reliable refuge in prior troubles.

"I... don't tink so, boss," said the driver. "My tank, it is almost empty."

Archie sighed. He didn't want to stick around Monrovia. Most of the other hotels were flea bags of the worst sort. But he remembered one he had seen on the way in from the airport, near the old rubber plantation.

"There's a new hotel this side of Harbel. You know which one I'm talking about?"

"It is called... Hibiscus?"

"Yeah. I think that's it. Looks like your needle's not quite pegged. Think you can make it that far?"

"Maybe." The needle of his fuel gauge was well into the red zone near the big 'E.' He sucked air through his teeth and bit his lip. "We try."

"Good man. What's your name?"

"I am called James."

"James, I'm Archie. If we run out, I'll help you push."

"If we run out you give me fifty dollar... plus the full fare... for staying overnight."

"Deal," said Archie.

***

They made it to Harbel with the engine coughing and sputtering in the final throes of fuel starvation. James coasted into the lot, rolling to a halt behind a row of cars lined up before the reception area. The place—the Red Hibiscus—looked promising. Every letter of its lighted sign still glowed. Its brick walls were freshly painted, the ornamental shrubs well tended.

Archie felt a smile lift the corners of his cheeks. This was just the kind of harbor he needed after his rough welcome to Liberia. He hoped they had a vacancy.

The place wasn't nearly as nice-looking inside as out. The mirror in the lobby had a huge crack like a lightning bolt. The carpets were grimy and the dining room looked like it had been vandalized—broken chairs and tables heaped in one corner.

But business seemed to be thriving. The bar, at least, seemed lively enough, thronged with a mix of Lebanese expatriates and well-to-do Liberians.

"Any rooms available?" he asked the petite woman behind the counter, who was fussing over a sheath of invoices.

"We have," she said, without looking up. "But only standard singles. The deluxe rooms are all taken."

"Are they air conditioned?"

"They have fans, self-contained toilets."

"That'll be fine. I'll need two rooms, please. My driver will be spending the night as well."

She handed him two registration forms, but once she looked up, she couldn't stop staring. "What happen to your face?"

"Oh. It was just an accident," said Archie. "Um... I'll have to get James in here to fill this out. I only know his first name."

"Don't worry about it," said the woman, her face fixed in a grimace, as if merely looking at him pained her. "Put them both under your name." She clasped her hand to her chest "Do you need bandages?"

"Um, maybe," he said, remembering that his first-aid kit had been packed in his stolen courier bag.

His stomach sank when he reached the line asking for his passport number. He knew the number by rote. That was not the issue. He had just forgotten it had been stolen and did not look forward to the rigmarole he faced in getting it replaced.

The woman opened a drawer and pulled out a tube of ointment and a box of children's band-aids replete with sparkly stars, dragons and faeries. "Take whatever you need," she said.

"Why, thank you!"

She placed two keys on the counter, each wired to a hefty slab of mahogany.

"I don't know where this porter has gone. I can help you with your bags."

"Oh, no need. I only have but the one."

Archie went outside and found James reclining in the front seat of his cab. He reached through the window. "Here's your key."

"Oh no... That is okay. I will sleep in my car."

"You sure?"

"Is better. For security."

"I don't think that's a problem. This place seems pretty well lighted. And there's a guard over there."

"Is better I stay with my car."

James looked serious and determined. Archie thought better than to argue.

***

Archie's room was clean but spare. It smelled a bit like a moldy basement. The bed was one of the narrowest twins he had ever seen, its sheets ghosted with the dim outlines of old blood stains and body oils, like a modern day Shroud of Turin. The bathroom provided two towels, but they were made of a polyester blend that seemed only to repel water.

Still, it was a welcome haven, set far back enough from the main road to soften the rumble of passing trucks.

The water that dribbled out of his shower was cold, but refreshing. He tended to the wound on the side of his head, picking bits of crusted blood and road grit out of his hair. To close the wound on his wrist, he improvised a butterfly with the sticky part of a glittery band-aid. The porcelain ran with streaks of reconstituted blood.

He was lucky the knife had been dull and that his watch band had interfered. Otherwise, it would have severed an artery. He couldn't imagine what that man had been trying to do to his hand. He couldn't have been trying to steal the watch. It was a cheap-ass Timex Indiglo.

He turned on a window fan and sat naked on the bed, his scalp throbbing beneath a lump over his ear as thick as a wallet. He opened his suitcase, the contents of which seemed mercifully undisturbed. It felt good to slip into some clean clothes. He tossed the shirt and pants he had been wearing into the trash. Slashed and scuffed, they were beyond salvaging.

He sat and stared at the mirror above the bureau through a fog of fatigue and pain. He looked awful, but couldn't blame it all on that brick to the head. The face in the mirror did not match the one in his mind's eye. That soaring forehead. Those creases angling down from his nose. He was starting to look like his freaking father. No wonder he hated looking into mirrors.

***

Archie made it back to the restaurant just before it closed. He had gone looking for James, hoping the cabbie would join him, but had found him in the parking lot scraping the last of his rice and palm oil stew from the bottom of a large bowl.

"Don't worry about me, boss. You take care of yourself."

He found a table on the patio that didn't wobble as much as the others and ordered a large Club beer. Its white-on-green shamrock logo made him wonder how the Celtics were doing in the playoffs. Inside, he was still an Eastern Connecticut boy, even though he hadn't lived in the state since high school.

The waitress didn't bother bringing him a menu. Turned out, the kitchen had only one item available that night: grass cutter stew over rice—the same dish James had enjoyed. The lack of a choice didn't faze him. At least it arrived promptly and came accompanied by fried plantains and a fiery relish of onion and chopped pepper. With a tall beer to wash it down, it certainly hit the spot.

The perfume of rubber trees permeated the smoky air. Giant termites swarmed the street lamps. He ordered a second Club and pondered his situation. Here he was, with no passport, no credit cards, and no netbook. He had planned to hire a car and spend a full day up-country, but that would have to wait.

He had built a day of wiggle room into his schedule and it looked like he would be spending it at the US Embassy. Maybe some of his hosts from Global Change for Children could come down and meet him in Monrovia. He only needed a few hours to go over papers and transfer the money.

He wondered how quickly the embassy could get him a new passport. He doubted they could arrange one by Thursday when he was scheduled to fly to Accra. The last time this had happened to him, in Nigeria, he had been stuck in Lagos for two extra weeks. Of all the places in the world he could be stranded, Monrovia was near the bottom of his list.

Liberia hadn't always been this bad. Founded by former American slaves, it had neither benefitted nor suffered from colonialism, though the Americo-Liberians who dominated its politics managed to cultivate their own brand of oppression.

In the late 80s, when Archie had first started coming here, it had been a pleasant enough place to visit, dictator or no. Sure there had been the usual corruption, bureaucratic hassles and road blocks, but the people had always had a laissez faire attitude towards visitors.

But that was before the civil wars, before the fall of the old despot Samuel Kenyon Doe and the depredations of Charles Taylor, the new despot. He found it difficult to reconcile the friendliness and humanity of West Africans with the brutality that could explode in their civil wars.

Since then, everything that had been bad about Liberia had been made worse—the cities grittier, the people poorer, even the dogs more desperate.

Archie thought it would be good to call work and let them know what had happened. He turned on his trusty old Siemens GSM slab phone. Puzzled when it failed to locate a network, he opened up the back and saw that it still held the Claro SIM card he had installed in Peru. He had forgotten to swap in his global Mobal chip before he left.

No biggie. He could purchase a local SIM in the morning. There were ads all over the streets for up-and-coming mobile companies. At least some areas of commerce were burgeoning.

It meant, though, that he couldn't share his predicament with anyone back home. Not right away, anyhow, not while he had this tremendous urge to vent and commiserate with someone who cared. But who was that, these days? Who gave a damn what happened to him on the other side of the Atlantic?

Not Trudy, his ex-wife. Not anymore. They were still friends, in a sense, on a remembering birthdays and Christmas cards basis, but Trudy had her own life now out on the West Coast.

His estranged younger brother Karl might be amused by the story of his mugging, but why give him the pleasure? Karl had never forgiven Archie for staying in Angola when Mom was in her last days, fading with emphysema. But Mom had understood. Why couldn't he?

Three years had passed since Mom's death. One would have thought that Karl would have gotten over it by now. Of the old nuclear family, all they had left was each other.

Who else was there to call? No one. He had let too many friendships fade after he and Trudy were no longer a couple. He had acquaintances here and there, and colleagues from work, but no one with whom he would feel comfortable sharing a breathless, beer-fueled outpouring of his soul.

That realization sent an icy pang down his core. As time went on, he seemed less self-sufficient yet more isolated—a potentially terminal divergence. He took a swig of his beer and looked out at the pair of distant tail-lights heading up the road to Robertsfield.

Melissa, the neighbor who fed his cats and watered his plants, deserved a call. She only expected him to be gone two weeks. The way things were going, he might have to tag on at least another week or two. He certainly would not be making it to Ghana any time soon, where the bulk of his work awaited. It looked like the Global Fund monitoring and evaluation team was going to have to start without him.

Melissa, at least, might offer a sympathetic ear. She was one of the few people in his life who seemed genuinely interested in what he did, draining entire pots of coffee listening to stories of his travels. She would barrage him with so many questions it could feel like an interrogation.

It was mostly trivia she asked about—what the hotels were like, the restaurants, the food. And she was a sucker for wildlife. She had to know about every snake or monkey he spotted crossing the road, his infrequent encounters with hippos and hyenas. She would gawk at the pictures and wish she had been there.

Talking to Melissa always perked him up. Sure, he was lonely and she was young, pretty and female, but there was more to it than that. She exuded this joy for the simplest things that couldn't help but infect him with the notion that sticking around this world might be worth the bother.

He swigged down the last of his Club. He still felt wired, despite all the beer, but it was nothing a Benadryl couldn't neutralize. First stop in the morning: the US Embassy.

Traces of ink on his forearm had survived the shower. He pulled out a pen and copied the number onto a napkin. These Xtraktiv folks might be interested in knowing that one of their employees mugged foreigners in his spare time. Who knows, maybe if he could get the management to intercede on his behalf, he might recover his old passport and not have to wait for a new issue from the embassy? He stuffed the napkin into his pocket and went back to his room.

***

Despite the Benadryl, Archie spent a fitful night. He was plenty groggy but he couldn't sleep. Roaches swarmed the walls and traversed his blanket like herds of wildebeest crossing the veldt. Mosquitoes whined in his ear and pricked his brow. He could have deployed one of the bed net samples he carried in his suitcase, but couldn't muster the energy to bother. It wasn't till dawn had begun to show that he managed a few contiguous hours of slumber.

He dragged himself out of bed with the sun beating strong on the palms outside his window. His linens looked like a murder scene, smeared with streaks of blood and ointment. Embarrassed, he pulled off the pillow cases off and rinsed them in the sink. He didn't want any maids freaking out at all the blood.

The restaurant was bustling compared to the night before. He was the only Caucasian among the otherwise diverse patrons, including a couple of Francophone businessmen from Côtes d'Ivoire and an African-American family. James nodded and smiled from the doorway. Archie waved him over to the table and they shared a couple of egg sandwiches with finely-chopped hot peppers.

"So... Is there petrol today?"

James beamed and nodded. "Yes."

"Excellent!"

"And it is good we stay in Harbel. The queue was much shorter than it would be in Monrovia."

"Was? Did you already get fuel?"

James nodded.

"Excellent! Listen, I promised to fill your tank, plus a retainer for hanging around overnight." Archie peeled off a hundred dollar bill from his roll and handed it over.

James folded and pocketed it, looking quite pleased.

"Want some more coffee?"

"No thank you."

"Let me settle my bill and we can head to the embassy, alright?"

Archie went to the front desk. The same lady from the night before remained at her post.

"And how you feel this morning?" Her hand flew up to her cheek. "Oh! Your face looks so swollen. Are you sure you do not need a doctor?"

"I'm fine," said Archie. "Just a little sore. Hey, uh... would you happen to know where I can get a SIM for a mobile phone?"

She slid open a drawer. "We have Comium."

"Never heard of that one. Must be new. Do they have good coverage?"

"The best."

"Then I'll take one, plus twenty bucks of air time." He slapped another hundred on the counter and received a new SIM, a scratch card and a wad of grimy, threadbare dollars in return.

Feeling empowered by the caffeine buzzing in his veins and his restored ability to communicate with the outside world, he strode off towards his room.

"Meet you out front, James. I'm just gonna brush my teeth."

Chapter 3: Embassy

Archie went to his room and set up his phone with the new SIM, filling the account with scratch card minutes. He needed to report his travails to the HVI office, but with the four-hour time difference, it was way too early to reach anyone, even though they tended to be early birds. Instead, he called ahead to the US Embassy to try and get things rolling on his passport reissue.

The phone rang about seven times before someone answered.

"Good morning! So sorry for the delay there, I was hoping our receptionist would pick up but it looks like she's not in yet." The woman spoke with a mild southern accent. Northern Virginia, if he had to guess.

"Yes, uh... my name's Archie Parsons and—"

"Hang on, I think she's here. Oh wait, it's just Jeffrey. You know we've had a skeleton crew here since the nonessentials got evacuated, but everyone's starting to filter back. We'll be back to normal soon. Not soon enough. So how can I help you?"

"Yes ma'am, you see, my passport was stolen and I need—"

"Oh, that's terrible," said the woman. "But I can't say it's unusual for Monrovia these days. Sometimes the police confiscate them and hold them for ransom. Can you believe it? The police!"

"I got mugged. That's how—"

"Oh, that's just awful, just plain awful. But like I said, it's not unusual in Monrovia these days. Well, listen... this isn't actually my job, but let me take your information and I can find someone who can help you. Do you happen to know your passport number?"

Archie recited it from memory.

"Just a sec. Let me enter it into the system. You realize that you'll still need to come here in person and file a DS-64... uh... hang on... oh dear... this is odd. Are you sure you gave me the right number? I might have made a mistake in entering."

Archie gave her the number again, speaking slowly, certain that the number he had given her had been correct. It was as deeply ingrained in his head as his birth date.

"Are you certain that's the right number? The system is telling me that the number you gave me is invalid. And there's a strange little flag that's popped up in the database. Never seen that before. Hang on, let me have one of the guys come over and have a look."

She put Archie on hold. He could feel his phone minutes ticking away as Shania Twain twanged her way through 'Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under.' He should have known better than to try to handle the reissue over the phone. He was about to hang up and just wait till he got to the embassy when he overheard snatches of frantic and combative discussion.

"Hang on sir. I need to transfer you to a more secure line."

"Secure? What for?" There was a buzz and a click.

"Hello? Mr. Parsons?" The voice coming over the line was as deep and resonant as a radio pitch man's, and just as devoid of any regional inflection.

"Doctor, actually. But that's okay."

"Sorry to hear about your incident. We'd very much like to provide you some assistance. Do you mind telling us where you're staying? We can send a driver."

"Huh? Since when does the embassy come door to door?"

"Liberia's a pretty rough place these days, as I'm sure you realize. Situations like this, sometimes we go the extra mile for US citizens, especially folks like you who do so much for the hearts and minds. So where is it you're staying?"

"Well... it's called The Red Hibiscus. It's a new place on—"

"We know it. Hold tight. We'll send a team out right away."

"A team?" Something weird was going on. This was not how embassies operated. Did they know of something bad about to go down that they weren't willing to share over the phone? A coup, perhaps? "You know... you really don't have to come all the way out here. I've got a taxi waiting for me in the lot. It's just as easy for me to come there."

"Oh, it's no problem at all," said the man. "They're already dispatched. Can I please have your room number so I can pass it on?"

Archie's skin prickled. The guy he was speaking with had such a disarming manner, but the oddity of the circumstances triggered a vague and primal sense of danger. He had not survived all those years of visiting failed states by ignoring his instincts.

"Um... I'll be out in the lobby. I'll look out for them and... uh... wave."

"Okay, then. Just sit tight. Have a cup of coffee. We'll have someone there within the hour."

"Okay. Um... thanks. I guess."

He hung up. Archie sat there, his stomach squirming. Since when did an understaffed and overworked embassy provide door to door service for someone with some missing paperwork? It wasn't like he was some VIP. He was just some crap operative for an insignificant beltway bandit operation.

Maybe it was those damned psycho-active malaria pills making him paranoid again. When he had taken mefloquine after 9/11 it had turned every Middle Eastern person in Addis Ababa into a terrorist and convinced him that a cab driver named Muhammad was trying to kidnap him simply because he had taken an alternative route to the Ministry of Health.

Archie listened to his gut. He concealed his sweat-drenched money vest beneath a baggy Hawaiian shirt, packed his things hastily and checked out. He found James loitering by the door.

"You are going now?" said James.

"Kind of," said Archie. "I want you to find a shady spot by the exit of the lot. We're going to sit a spell."

James loaded the suitcase and pulled up just off the main avenue under a mango tree with low, overhanging branches. Archie sat with his back against the passenger door, watching the turn-around in front of reception for signs of a diplomatic vehicle.

A grey van pulled up and disgorged three men wearing combat boots and oversized windbreakers. The Xtraktiv logo on the door leapt out like a swastika.

"Hmm. It's those guys again," Archie muttered, as a wave of unease quivered through his gut.

The men disappeared into the lobby. A minute later they burst back out the door, scanning the parking lot and its environs.

"Go," said Archie, seized by misgivings. "Go James. Go!"

"Where do we go?"

"I don't care. Back to Monrovia. Wherever. Just go!"

***

Traffic was backed up for almost a mile behind the checkpoint outside Monrovia. It seemed like everyone who had deferred travel during the fuel shortage had spontaneously taken to the roads. If the Xtraktiv van was following, it was not visible among the train of cars that had accumulated behind them.

Vendors hawking fried dough balls and skewered meat took advantage of the long queue, shoving their wares through the window, some of them so persistent they had to be pushed away.

They passed through an area of overgrown fields, ragged palms and rusted, sagging fences. The old Voice of America compound had stood here before the turmoil of the 1990s had forced a move offshore to São Tomé. Stray dogs and goats ruled the property now.

The checkpoint stop was routine and cursory. A quick peek in the trunk from some sleepy-eyed soldiers and they were on their way again. They were rolling through a hectic market area when Archie's cell phone chimed.

"Hello. Mr. Parsons? Are you still at your hotel?" It was the guy from the embassy, the one with the radio voice.

"Um... kind of... I'm... uh... in the area."

"Well, we just sent some folks to meet you, and the lady at the desk said that you apparently... uh... checked out."

"Well yes. Actually, I did. I decided to try another hotel closer into town. You know... to make it easier to conduct my business."

"I don't understand. We agreed you would stay put. What was the point of us sending a ride if—"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I must have misunderstood you. You know, I am kind of jet-lagged and... my ears—"

"I thought I made it quite clear," said the man, his voice even and calm but simmering under its lid. "So where are you headed now? Back to the Liberty?"

"Back?" Archie's face flushed. "How did you know? How could you possibly know I was there originally?"

"You... told us."

"No I didn't. I never mentioned it."

"Oh, sure you must have. To Elaine, when you described the mugging."

"No. I didn't. I never said a word about staying at the Liberty."

"Listen, this is silliness. It was just a hunch. The Liberty's a pretty common destination for international guests—those who don't know any better. I prefer the Cape myself, but I'd recommend the Royal if you have to stay downtown because—"

Archie hung up the phone.

***

"Where to now, boss?" said James. "We are here, the center of Monrovia, like you asked."

"Just keep driving around. And... don't call me boss."

"Okay man, but where you want to go?"

"Just keep moving. In circles, I don't care. I just don't want them to track these phone calls. I'm not sure they can, with any accuracy. But I don't want to make it easy for them to find us. Understand?"

"Someone is chasing you?"

"Don't know for sure. Probably not. I'm probably just freaking out over nothing, but ... better to be safe than sorry."

James stared at him, blinking. "Okay, boss. Whatever you say. Remember, the petrol is scarce and expensive, but it is your money. How about I take you to Paynesville? Show you some fancy neighborhoods. Where the big shots live."

"That's fine, just... no dead ends. Okay?"

It was still too early to call Melissa or work. He fished the napkin from his pocket and un-crumpled it. He had a weird feeling about what he was about to do.

"Can I borrow your phone James?"

"My phone?"

"Don't worry. I'll pay for the minutes."

"Okay." Eyes wary, James handed over his phone.

Archie called the number he had copied from the placard on the fence.

A man answered, his voice reedy and American. "Octagon Petroleum."

"I'm sorry. I must have misdialed. This isn't Xtraktiv?"

"Well yeah, it is. OPM is our... eh... parent company. Who is this? How can I help you?"

"Well... um... this is kind of awkward. My friend... who's now in the hospital... well he was mugged yesterday. And he said he saw the man who took his stuff run off into your compound. We were wondering if... maybe... he might be an employee of yours."

"Who am I speaking to, please?"

"Um... this is Tom... Tom Brady."

"And what's your connection with this other guy... the one who got mugged?"

"He's a colleague. We've worked together on projects."

"This guy, the one who's in the hospital. Is he okay?"

"Yeah, well... he's a little banged up and... cut."

"Must be serious if he's still in the hospital."

"Well, yeah. It's bad enough."

"Which hospital?"

"Why? You going to send him flowers?"

"If this man is accusing our employees of wrongdoing, we might like to have a chat."

"Wait a minute... what about the guy who mugged him?"

"Do you have a description?"

"Well, according to my... friend, he was about five foot nine, African and—"

"Well, that certainly narrows it down," said the man, sarcastically.

"Let me finish! He had tribal scars in sets of three down both cheeks. His hair was long and braided."

"That right there describes about half of our male employees. Listen, if you're going to accuse us of—"

"I'm not just accusing! This actually happened. I... my friend saw him go through your gate. He had key code access."

He heard some indistinct muttering at the other end.

"What hospital is he at? That Catholic mission place?"

"Um... Harbel. He's at the clinic at Harbel."

"Okay Tom. I'm glad you contacted us. All I can say is... uh... we'll look into it. I'd recommend you not mention anything to the local police... because... well, you know how they are."

"Yeah. I know."

"You haven't yet, have you? Contacted them?"

"No. We haven't."

"Mind me asking who you work for, Tom?"

"Um... Global Change... for Children."

"Oh, that's nice. Alright, then. Thanks for letting us know. We'll be in touch with Dr. Parsons and get this straightened out."

"Wait... how do you know my—?"

But the line had already gone dead. Archie stared at a stand of banana trees, their large leathery leaves flapping and rustling.

"Here we are," said James.

"Where's that?"

Archie looked out over an upscale neighborhood of concrete slab houses. Broken beer bottles topped cinder block walls. Dark red soil ringed newly planted and recently watered palms and shrubs.

"This here is Paynesville," said James. "You like?"

"It's... nice. Who lives here?"

"Bankers. Ministers. Some white men."

"Why are we here?" said Archie.

"You tell me just to drive. So... I want to show you. It is a good place."

"Okay." Archie watched a hen squeeze under a wrought iron gate followed by three tiny chicks. Passersby began to accumulate around the taxi and stare. Apparently, foreigners were a curiosity even here.

"Where to now?" asked James.

Archie's head swam with confusion. He wasn't sure he could believe everything his brain was telling him. Had that embassy operative really been acting squirrely? Had he not mentioned his name to the Xtraktiv guy? He was having difficulty piecing together thoughts and making decisions. It had to be the residue of a mild concussion.

"Let's get out of town for a while," he said. "Just drive. Anywhere. I don't care where."

***

The taxi kicked up a cloud of dust as it hurtled down a series of dirt roads cutting through a massive but abandoned rubber plantation. They passed clusters of old plantation worker housing that looked like oversized rabbit hutches. It amazed Archie that people still chose to live in these places.

Archie's phone kept ringing. At first he ignored it, but when it kept happening, he turned it off completely.

And then James' ring tone went off—James Brown—old school funk.

"Don't answer it."

"It is okay," said James. "Maybe it is my brother."

"Please, don't answer. Please."

James shrugged and let the call go to voice mail.

"Any place I can buy another SIM?"

"Sure," said James. "Many place sell them."

"Take me."

James made a right turn at the next intersection and went back out to the main road. He pulled up in front of a small Lebanese grocery next to a filling station that was already out of petrol for the day. A tiny shack out front sold cell phones and accessories. Archie bought two sets of SIMs and scratch cards for an alternative service called LoneStar.

He came back and handed a set to James. "Here. Put this in your phone. Stop using the other one."

"But my friends, my family, they know this number. They will not know how to reach me."

"Call them. Give them your new number. I'll get you all the minutes you need. Just don't use that old one while you're with me. Okay?"

James looked askance at him. "What did you do, man? Why are they chasing you so?"

"Nothing. I didn't do anything. I don't know what's going on. It's probably nothing. I'm just... being careful."

He clapped his hand on my shoulder and gazed deep into my eyes. "Listen, man. I don't need no trouble. This taxi is food for my family. You pay me some good money... but I am thinking maybe the trouble is not worth it. Do you know what I am saying?"

"I promise you, I didn't break any laws," said Archie. "Whatever they're after, there's no way this is a problem for you. I mean, you're just a taxi driver."

James gave him a long look. "I am saying this, man, because you are making me nervous. I see the fear of death in your eyes."

"Death? Oh no. Nobody's killing anybody. That's ridiculous."

"I am just saying; this is what I see in your eyes."

"No. Everything's gonna be fine," said Archie. "I'm just... being cautious, until I know for sure. This is how we're going to do things."

James stared straight ahead out his windshield. A tattered Liberian flag dangled from the awning of the phone shop and wafted in the breeze.

"I just don't want no trouble, man. I am tired of it."

"I understand. I'll let you know... if things get hairy."

James sighed. "I am going to need some more petrol soon. This place would only give me a few liters last time."

"Let's go find some, then," said Archie, climbing into the passenger seat. He checked his watch. "Meanwhile, I'm going to make a few more calls."

Chapter 4: Harbel

Highlife music blared from a shack selling bootleg CDs as James' taxi crept forward in the petrol queue. At the current rate, it would take another half hour to reach the pumps, but at least this establishment had fuel, unlike the first two they had tried.

Archie glanced at his watch. It was almost seven a.m. back in Maryland. He decided to give Melissa a call. She stayed at his place whenever he was away on lengthier excursions—the missions that sent him country-hopping down the west coast of Africa. Sometimes he would find traces of her lifestyle when he returned—lacy panties under the bed, ratatouilles in the freezer and bottles of cheap Merlot in the recycling bin.

She would be making her coffee now and feeding Felix and Tony, his kitties. She answered on the second ring.

"Hey, Melissa. It's just me, checking in."

"I was wondering when you would call. How was your flight?" It was a horrible connection. Her words echoed and buzzed.

"The flight was fine. It was the walk that got a little bumpy."

"The walk?"

"I was mugged. They took my passport and credit card."

"Oh my God! Were you hurt?"

"Not too badly. I'm a little sore, but it could have been worse. I've got kind of a... a strange situation brewing. The embassy is acting all weird, and... I've had some odd dealings with this company, whose employee, I think, took my passport."

"Weird? In what way?"

"I don't know. It's hard to explain. It just feels like... someone's out to get me. Sounds wacky, I know. Probably nothing. Just the malaria pills making me delusional."

Digital ghosts crackled in the background.

"Melissa? You still there?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Just trying to absorb it all."

"Well, don't worry about it. I'm here, I'm doing fine now. I'll let you know if anything changes."

Silence.

"Maybe... I should let you go."

"You... you take care of yourself, Archie. Stay away from that... company. They sound like bad news. Let the embassy help you."

"Yeah. Well. We'll see."

"It was nice to hear from you. Felix and Tony say hi. Stay safe."

"Bye."

Melissa seemed a lot less talkative than usual. Maybe she was having a party, or a gentleman friend was staying over. Understandable, given it was only his second night away and she was coming from a three-roommate, two-bedroom living situation to a three-bedroom condo all to herself. He wasn't crazy about the idea of some strange guy shagging his house-sitter on his own mattress, staining his sheets, drooling on his pillow cases. But what right did he have to expect her to match his hermitic and celibate existence? At least she kept the place tidy. He always came back to green plants, vacuumed carpets and happy cats.

He called his workplace next. By seven, most folks would already be in. Early birds were common at NGOs centered on sub-Saharan Africa, given that most of their business was conducted in time zones at least four hours later. Not to mention, hitting the road by six helped avoid the worst of the DC-area traffic.

"Health Ventures International. How may I direct your call?"

"Hi Beth. Archie here. Any chance Michael's in yet?"

"Oh, Dr. Parsons! HR's been trying to reach you."

"HR? Really?"

"Hang on. I'll forward you."

Archie sighed. He really didn't want to talk to HR about some quirk in his 401K withholding or whatever. He needed to speak to Michael Boone, his program manager, to let him know that Global Change for Children would not be receiving their cash allotment anytime soon.

"Alan Tibbs here."

"Alan, this is Archie. I'm not sure why they connected me with you."

"Oh my gosh, are you in Liberia already?"

"Um, as a matter of fact, I am."

"Well, congratulations! I wish we could have reached you before you traveled. It would have spared you a trip."

"Huh? Congratulations for what?"

"That position you applied for at PMI. You got it!"

"What? I didn't... I never...."

"You didn't expect it? I don't see why not. You're perfect for the job. I mean, talk about qualifications."

"Alan. I never applied." In fact, he would never have gone near an opening with the President's Malaria Initiative. It was a USAID-affiliated outfit stuffed with political baggage out the gills, and rumored to be infested with CIA spooks.

"Whoa! That's pretty aggressive recruiting," said Alan. "I don't see how you could say no. It's a GS-14 with a 30% post differential plus all the usual perks and allowances including POV shipment. We'll sure miss you here."

"Hang on, Alan. I'm not leaving HVI just yet."

"Oh really? But I thought you had requested termination. In fact, I'm looking right here at a termination order, effective immediately. They don't even need you follow through on your current mission. They'll send someone else to take up the slack. Hey, if you want, I can have someone at the travel office book a flight out for you. There might be seats out tonight on KLM."

"I can't fly, Alan. My passport was stolen."

"Oh. That sucks. Well, the embassy can get a new one pretty quick. You'll have to go there in person to re-apply, so they can verify your identity. But we'll keep you on the books till you're safely home. That way you get the benefit of our insurance."

"Listen, I need to speak to Michael. I think there's been a mistake."

"It's going to be hard to reach him today. He's in DC for a workshop. He's not taking calls.

"Just... great."

"Oh, and about that cash you're carrying? The accounting folks would like you to deliver it to a contact at the US Embassy in Monrovia, a man by the name of John Smart."

"How interesting. All roads lead to the embassy."

"What's that?"

"Nothing. It's just... I'm finding this all very curious."

***

The taxi was all gassed up with no place to go. Archie handed James another hundred dollar bill. "Pay for the gas and keep the change."

James grinned. "Every time you pay for something it is one hundred dollars."

"You're a good driver, James. Stick around and I'll keep it coming."

"No problem. I stay."

"So, do you like driving taxis?"

"Yes. It is good. With customers like you. Very good."

"Well, it looks like you might have some competition soon."

"How so?"

"I just lost my job."

"Oh! I am so sorry to hear this."

"It's okay. Someone apparently gave a new job. One I never asked for, never wanted and actually there's no way in hell I'm going to take it."

"Oh? You no want to work?"

"Not for them," said Archie, grimacing as he uncrossed his sore left leg. He might need to find some ice to help get the swelling to go down in his knee.

Maybe there was a way to get that passport back without dealing with those shady folks at the embassy. The guy at Xtraktiv seemed straightforward enough. He had responded like any subcontractor would, protective of his workers, skeptical of unfounded accusations and savvy to the law enforcement challenges of a rebuilding country.

Archie had played it wrong, mentioning the mugging. He should have known better. Direct confrontation was not the way to get things done in West Africa, not even with expatriates. Here, all manner of business and crimes were conducted with a smile. Maybe he could start from scratch, in person, and do it right this time.

There was a way out of this predicament that required only a little care and patience. He had done this dance before. If he could just find who took his documents they could both pretend that the passport had been simply misplaced and he could reward the finder with some of the money he was carrying for GCC.

"James? Let's head back to Monrovia. I want to see about getting my passport back."

"You want to go to embassy?"

"No. There's this company I want to go see. They're called Xtraktiv, with an X?" said Archie. "Near the clothing markets."

"Oh, yes! I know these people," said James, tucking his chin firmly as he made a U-turn through a dodging crowd. "They are the mercenaries."

"Say what?"

Chapter 5: Solicitor

James' taxi weaved around potholes in the dusty alley, passing shops bursting with bolts of bright Chinese fabric, rubber boots and aluminum cookware. Vendors swamped the cab, hawking bags of cut pineapple, chewing gum and small packets of facial tissue.

Archie's heart accelerated as they passed the ditch where the brick had taken him down. The brick still lay where it had landed. He realized how lucky he had been. If it had struck him just a little more squarely, he might have suffered a fractured skull and bleeding on the brain. He might also be dead.

Second thoughts plagued him. He didn't quite believe James that this company was a front for a mercenary force. Why then would they need all of those bulldozers and dump trucks? But what if James was right? Mercenaries were not something to be messed with. They would not take kindly to his snooping around their operations.

Yet he felt compelled to take the risk. What harm would there be posing as a bed net sales rep? Was anything less threatening than a mosquito net? The worst that could happen was that they would turn him away.

But if they let him in, once inside he could look for the man who mugged him. They hadn't sounded too interested in turning in the guy, but maybe a discreet one-on-one conversation and a few Benjamin Franklin's would be all that was necessary to coax his passport back into his possession. It seemed the quickest way to resolve his problem without having to go through the embassy.

They came to a larger road and Archie spotted another building he recognized from the other night—the shell of a multistory structure that had been taken over by squatters. It had either been damaged in the war or never completed. It had no interior walls. The living quarters were separated by with tarps and reed mats.

"Turn here," he said.

They crept down a rutted lane until they reached the fenced compound where the man who had taken his passport had taken refuge.

"Okay, this is the place. Stop right here and pop the trunk."

Archie put on his floppy hat and sunglasses—the best he could do for a disguise. He went around to the open trunk and fished through his suitcase for a bed net sample and a stack of brochures.

"Park around the other side and wait for me, there. Okay?"

James nodded.

Archie worked his way around the periphery of the fence to what looked like the main entrance. In the shade of a booth, a guard with a billy club sat atop a stack of crates. Three bony dogs lay sprawled in the dirt at his feet.

Archie rapped his knuckles on the gate. The dogs exploded into action, attacking the gate, snarling and barking.

"Yes? Who are you?" said the guard. "What do you want?"

"I sell bed nets."

"You have appointment?"

"Yes."

"With whom?"

Archie's stomach sank. His head was still fuzzy from the mugging. He wouldn't be surprised if he had suffered a concussion. Even if it was a mild one, it impaired him. He was in no condition to improvise his way through this mess. It had been a mistake to come here.

"I... uh... don't remember. I just spoke to him on the phone. He's in logistics or supply." He glanced at his watch. "We're already late. They're going to be very upset if you don't let me in to see him."

"What is your name?"

He glanced at the business card attached to the bed net sample he carried. "It's... um... Joseph." He peeled the card free and picked off the bits of scotch tape still clinging to it. "Joseph Cunningham of Vestergaard Frandsen."

"Wait, please." The man took out his phone. "Ah yes, good afternoon, Mr. Dieter, I have a Joseph Cunningham here to see you. He is a salesman. Yes. He has the mosquito nets. Oh? Okay. Yes." The guard looked up. "There is no appointment, but you should come."

The guard scolded the dogs to stop their yapping and pointed a remote control box at the fence post. Servo motors whirred and the gate clicked open, to reveal three restless mongrels sitting on their haunches and growling.

Archie entered the compound, and the gate clicked shut behind him. There was a ton of activity going on around the construction vehicles. Two white men with shaved heads were loading a pair of trucks with cases of MREs, and plastic-wrapped bundles of water bottles. They wore cargo shorts and baggy shirts. Archie saw no sign of his mugger.

The guard led him to a door opening into a glassed-in foyer embedded in a tall smooth wall of concrete block. With a kerchunk, safety bolts slammed into sockets in the jamb. His heart started to pound.

In a small waiting room on the other side, a paunchy, graying man with a thick mustache waited with his hands in his pockets and puzzlement in his eyes. The interior was as chilly as a meat locker. Archie's sunglasses immediately fogged. Archie adjusted his floppy hat to conceal his head wound.

Two hard plastic benches lined the wall across from a glassed in reception area, not unlike a bank or a Forex bureau. Thumb-worn trade publications were scattered across a coffee table. Most dealt with earth moving and mining, with the odd bass fishing and gun collector's magazine stuck in the bunch.

"Who the fuck are you?" said the man as Archie passed through the inner door. He had a strong Afrikaaner accent. This was not the person he had spoken to over the phone.

"I'm sorry. I thought a meeting had been arranged. My company was supposed to have set something up."

"So you're a salesman?"

Archie nodded and stuck out his hand. "Joseph Cunningham. I sell insecticide-treated bed nets for... Vestergaard."

"Dieter Martz," said the man, who gave his hand a brusque shake. He had yet to smile. "I have to say, we're not used to solicitors here. It's such a curiosity I had to let Alfred show you in."

"I really apologize for the cold call. It's not at all how I like to conduct business. But in a place like Monrovia, sometimes... it's the only way to make contact with potential clients. Well to keep it short, we at... uh... at uh...." He glanced down at the business card. "Vestergaard. We, as you may know, manufacture the gold standard of long-lasting insecticidal nets. In a field like yours, I assume your workers spend quite a bit of time in the field, in lodgings that expose them to malaria vectors?"

"You might say that."

"Well, we offer nine ounces of prevention in this little bag. Medical evacuation for malaria can be very expensive, not to mention the high mortality rate."

"We take pills. The guys, they don't like your nets. Too stuffy and too difficult to hang in the kinds of places they sleep. They'd rather sleep in a coffin."

"Oh, but we have a new model that's free standing for easy installation, and it has a larger mesh, so it's better ventilated and more comfortable to sleep under." There was no such product. Archie was just riffing to keep the man's attention.

Mr. Martz cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. "What's to keep the mosquitoes from squeezing through those bigger holes?"

"A higher dose of insecticide. It repels as well as kills."

"Hmm. Got a sample?"

"I... um... I only brought the standard model with me... but I can arrange—"

"If you really want to sell us something useful, you'd give us something for the ones that bite outdoors. Our people, you see, they spend quite a lot of time out and about at night."

"Sorry, but that's not our business. Though the mosquitoes that carry malaria don't come out in force until the middle of the night when people are sleeping."

"Someone better tell the bloody mosquitoes that, then. Up in Nimba County, they can hardly wait till sundown."

"I take it you're a mining company? Exploration perhaps?"

"We do service that industry. But we're actually more... security-oriented."

"Do you have many locals working for you?"

"Some. But we don't worry about them so much. These guys treat malaria like a common cold. Some of them even come to work when they're sick."

"But giving nets to take home keeps their families safe, minimizes lost work time and maximizes productivity."

Mr. Martz shrugged. "Again. No worries there. Our guys don't miss work. They don't show, they're out of a job."

"You know, I'd really love the chance to talk to your local workers about nets and how they feel about them. It would help me understand their needs and concerns."

A Mercedes SUV pulled up outside and a tall, gangly man with a ginger buzz cut hopped out.

"Well, you'd have to go to Nimba County. That's where we employ most of our full-time locals. The men we use in Monrovia do mainly odd-jobs. They're casual labor, mostly."

The gangly man from the SUV dashed into the lobby. He did a double-take and squinted at Archie. "Dieter, who the fuck is this guy?"

"Salesman."

"Well, show him out. We got ops coming in." The red-haired man punched a key code and vanished into an inner sanctum.

Mr. Martz rose. "You heard the man, it's time to go. But uh... stop by if you can get us a sample of that new net. The one that keeps you cooler. Heck, I might even use it myself. Bloody mosquitoes, drive me batty."

"Please. Take my card," said Archie, wondering if he would be causing any problems for Mr. Cunningham.

Mr. Martz glanced at the card and pocketed it. "Sorry I can't reciprocate. We don't do cards here. But you know how to get a hold of me." He went and opened the inner glass door. "I apologize for the bum's rush. Alfred will show you to the gate."

The guard was waiting by the outer door. Waves of heat assaulted Archie's face. It felt as if the sun had set the parking lot ablaze.

"Mind if I go out the back way? My taxi's waiting for me there."

The guard shrugged, reversing direction, strolling across the lot, slapping his billy club over his shoulder. The dogs sprawled in the shade of an overhang.

Around the corner, a group of local laborers uncrated generators on a loading dock. Another group of men leaned against a stack of palettes and shared a cigarette.

Among them stood a man with spiky dreads and tribal scars in sets of three—one of the guys who had assaulted him.

"Excuse me a moment," said Archie, veering away.

"Sir... you need to go this way... you need to go out."

"I'll just be a minute."

Archie strolled up to the men, accompanied by the guard. The men stopped their banter and froze, their eyes shifty and uncertain.

Archie pulled off his hat and sunglasses. "Hi there! Remember me?"

The mugger rose abruptly and turned to face Archie, his arms loose at his side. The guard looked nervous, hanging back as if he expected something bad to happen.

"I just had a nice talk with the management and we've agreed not to involve the police in this matter."

"Police? What police?"

"I'm talking about... your mistake. The misunderstanding. The one regarding my missing passport. I've come to collect it."

The mugger looked incredulous. "You a crazy man. You lucky you alive. Why you come back?"

"I told you, I just spoke to your boss. It was all a misunderstanding. I can compensate you for your trouble, if you'll kindly return it."

The mugger barked something in Krahn to his friends. One of them ran off, vaulting onto the loading dock, disappearing into the warehouse."

"I can give you one hundred dollars right now. Just hand me the passport."

"You stupid for coming back. You a dead man now."

"I don't think so. Seems that you are the one who's in a speck of trouble with the management, mister. But we can make things right—right here, right now. You give me my passport, I give you two hundred dollars. I go on my way. And that's that."

"I don't have it. But you are the man. I am sure. You are the man they wanted."

"George, what is the problem?" said the guard.

"Shut up, Alfred. It is not your business."

The gangly, red-haired man came bustling out onto the loading dock. He gaped. "Holy Christ! I thought he looked familiar. That's the bloke we're after. Get him!"

Chapter 6: Robertsfield

The man with the tribal scars bulled into Archie and grabbed him, trying to wrestle him down to the ground. Archie pried loose and spun free, swinging his fist with all the velocity he could muster, catching the man square in the temple. He crumpled to the blacktop. Archie sprinted for the back gate.

"Stop!" said the guard, trotting after him, cudgel raised high over his head. Something pinged off the metal fencing followed by loud crack from the loading dock. Archie glanced over his shoulder. The workmen had scattered and taken cover. The red-haired man stood, carefully aiming a pistol at him, taking potshots.

The guard stopped chasing and dropped to the ground.

"Alfred! Get the fuck after him. I'm not going to shoot you!"

Archie zigged and zagged. Bullet strikes converged on his destination—the back gate. He dove behind some sacks of Portland cement stacked on a pallet. Rounds ripped into them, creating puffs and cascades of powder.

The white men who had been loading the truck rounded the corner building. Both carried assault rifles. Before they could get their bearings, he scrambled to the gate, undid the latch and pushed, diving into the gap, rolling in the dirt as semi-automatic bursts tore into the corrugated steel.

People who had been walking on the street ducked behind parked cars. Archie ran in a crouch, picking his way through a stretch of shattered curbing. He spotted the cab parked just ahead, but there was no sign of the driver. He sprinted over and peered in the window. James lay sprawled across the seat, looking groggy and puzzled. He cringed from Archie's sudden appearance at the window.

Archie pounded his fist against the door.

"Get up, goddamnit! We gotta go. Now!"

James slid behind the wheel and turned the key. The engine coughed to life. Archie hopped into the frayed and sprung front seat and slammed a door that sagged on its hinges.

James popped the clutch into gear just as the men with the assault rifles burst out of the gate on to the sidewalk. Children fled. A woman screamed. The taxi kicked up a cloud of dust as it surged away, narrowly avoiding a group of spectators who had begun to gather. The men held their fire.

"Why were they shooting at you?" said James, his voice all rushed and agitated. "What did you do in there?"

"Nothing. I just offered to buy my passport back from the guy who stole it. Is that a crime?"

James made a sign of the cross. His forehead glistened with sweat.

"Here. Have another one of these." Archie flipped him one of the hundreds he had planned to spend on a bribe to recover his passport.

"I don't want your money," said James, panting. "I am finished. You tell me where to take you and then it is goodbye. This is your last ride with me. I am not risking my life."

"I'm sorry, James. I had no idea that was gonna happen."

James turned onto the larger road that cut through one corner of the shanty town. It was the road Archie had been looking for the other night, the one that led to the embassies and the Liberty Hotel. How close he had meandered lost! One alley removed from safety.

He stared straight ahead, pondering an alternative universe, drinking Club beer in the hills of Nimba County, as they rolled down the wide avenue, lined with yellowed and dying palms.

"So where to boss? Where do you want to go? You tell me and I take you. And that will be it. Understand?"

Archie nodded, but he didn't know what to say. He had no idea where he should go. The French Embassy? The Cubans? Sneak across the Sierra Leone border and hope he got a better vibe from US officials in Freetown?

The only option that made sense was to go back to the US Embassy in Monrovia, but he was still weirded out by that phone call. But what would be the risk? It was the middle of the day. The place would be busy. Too many witnesses for them to try attempt anything nefarious. Besides, he was a US citizen. He shouldn't be fearing his own government. Should he?

He pulled out a bandanna and wiped his brow. The embassy was out of the question. He just couldn't summon the courage to tell James to take him there. His instincts wouldn't allow it. Too many little things still nagged.

James kept glancing over as he drove, patiently awaiting instructions. Archie's pulse pitter-pattered double-time. He wasn't ready to deal with anything stressful right now. He needed time to decompress.

"Let's get out of town. Do you know of some place with internet? Some café."

"Near the airport, there is one."

Archie nodded and slunk down in his seat. "Let's go. Stay off the main road if you can. And watch out for beige Humvees."

***

Vendors selling skewered meat and balls of sweet fried dough lined the road leading up to the airport. At the corner of the drive leading up to the terminal, James pulled up to a concrete shack with corrugated steel doors. It looked dark inside. The place had no sign.

"This is it? The internet café? Are they even open?"

"Yes, they are open. You just go inside."

"So I should pay you now. You need to go, right?"

James shrugged. He avoided Archie's gaze. "It is okay. I can wait for you."

"But I thought—"

"It is no problem, man. I was just a little freaked. Everything is cool, now. I can stay."

"Alright." Archie pulled out his wallet. "Listen, James. Any sign of trouble, you take off. Don't worry about me, okay?" He handed him another two hundreds.

James shook his head. "So much. This is too much, man. It is not necessary. "

"Hazard pay. For all the risk I'm putting you through."

James took the money and pocketed it. Archie got out and entered the shack. Its shadows harbored four desks with beat-up Dell computers sharing a single dial-up line. A young woman sat before one playing Tetris as a battered fan kept the hot, dusty air aswirl. Over a radio, a man blathered on in dialect so fast and inflected, Archie barely recognized it as English.

The woman rose and pointed to a rickety plastic chair across from her.

"How much?" said Archie.

"Two dollars for one hour."

Archie handed over a pair of greasy singles. He sat down at a keyboard that retained only the ghosts of the letters that once graced the keys.

A rotary dialer clicked, a modem squealed and buzzed. "You want Hotmail?" The woman reached over his shoulder and took the mouse.

"Um... Actually Gmail. But thanks, I can handle it from here."

He spent the next ten minutes waiting for Google to load. "Christ! Is it always this slow?"

"In the morning, it is faster," said the woman. "Now is now the busy time. Don't worry. It is loading. It will come."

He tapped his fingers and waited patiently, watching each element of his home screen accumulate one graphic at a time.

The monitor flickered and went black. The radio went silent. Seconds later the power returned, and Archie watched as the computer rebooted back into Windows.

"Ah, fuck it. Just keep the money." He got up and left.

He got out his phone and called Melissa. It was late evening in Baltimore. She picked up after a few rings.

"Archie?"

"Hey. Can I ask you a favor? Can you go on-line and look up something for me? There's this company called Xtraktiv. They spell that with no 'e' at either end and a 'k' swapped with the 'c'. I'd be grateful for anything you can find out."

"Like...what exactly do you want to know."

"Just... what they do, who they work for. Stuff like that."

"Are you okay? You sound funny. A little strained or something."

"Well... it's been a long day and I... uh... I've been laid off."

"What?"

"But supposedly I've been offered some other job I never applied for. I don't know. None of it makes any sense."

"Does this mean you're coming home?"

"Well. Yeah. But not until I get that passport re-issued. Maybe you can help me out. There's a photocopy of the face page in the top drawer of my desk. Take it to the Post Office and find out what it takes to get me a new one. I'll pay for expedited service."

"But... why not just go to the local embassy?"

Archie sucked air through his teeth. "It's... complicated. Let's just say... I can't."

"Archie, they won't just re-issue your passport to me. I mean, it's your passport. Why would they?"

"I don't know. It's worth a shot, no? Tell them my situation. See what they say. See what they let you do for me."

She issued a long sigh. "Okay. I'll try." A steel drawer slammed. "Found your copy."

"Thanks, Melissa. You're a gem." He strolled out of the internet café, studying the traffic for anything untoward. "So... how's everything on your end? Wild parties? Cooking meth in the basement?"

"Oh yeah. All that and more. Orgies. Oh! I forgot to tell you. My mom's visiting this weekend. I hope you don't mind if she stays in—"

"Oh, you don't have to ask. She's welcome anytime. Hey, how are my kitties doing?"

"They act like you never left. I think they like me better."

"Traitors."

"So, anything I find out about this company, want me to email it?"

"Um, no," said Archie. "I don't have access. Call me."

"Will do. You stay safe. Okay?"

"I'll try." The line clicked off.

Archie started towards the taxi, but then paused. He held his index finger up to James and turned back down the drive towards the terminal. If things had gone to plan, he would have been returning to Monrovia tomorrow to catch a flight to Ghana. No chance of that happening now. While he was here at the airport, he might as well go ahead and cancel.

He slipped through the glass door, into only slightly cooler, much mustier environs. The terminal was dead. The earliest flights to Europe didn't leave until eleven. Only a few local hops were listed on the departure board, including a flight to Bamako on Air Mali.

He shuddered in remembrance of a flight he had once taken on one engine through a nasty thunderstorm. Some expats called that airline 'Air Maybe.'

Check-in for a flight to Accra on Ghana Airways was just finishing up. The woman behind the counter was wrestling with the last overstuffed suitcase. She hoisted it onto a conveyor belt and turned, startled to see him. "Can I help you?" she said, with some annoyance.

"Yeah... um... I was due to fly to Accra tomorrow but I think I need to reschedule or... maybe even cancel."

"What is your name?"

"Parsons. Archie Parsons."

She stooped over her terminal, and clicked away at a keyboard. She squinted and pursed her lips.

"You have already checked in."

"Excuse me?"

"Your flight, it was rescheduled and you have checked in. Your bag is already on the plane. It is to be boarding soon."

"What are you talking about? I never—"

"I am sorry, sir, but you have checked in. My colleague checked you."

Archie's skin prickled.

Another woman came walking out of the luggage bay. "Johanna, do you remember checking in this man?"

The other woman gawked at Archie. "This man? I don't think so."

The first woman huffed and set her chin. "But I saw him, I am sure. Here." She pointed at the terminal screen. "Archibald Parsons. He has a seat assignment, a boarding pass, no?"

"Boarding pass? What? How could I—?"

"May I see your passport, please?" said the first woman sternly, her eyes narrowed to sharp slits.

"I... I don't have it." Flustered and confused, Archie turned away from the counter and stormed across the lobby to the exit.

He started out the door. Down the drive, a police van had pulled in front of James, lights flashing. "Oh shit."

He went back inside, finding a bench tucked between two posts that offered a view outside. He picked up an evangelical tract that someone had left and pretended to read it.

A white man emerged from a snack bar at the end of the corridor, one of the few Caucasians in the terminal. That alone sufficed to draw Archie's attention, but his eyes were drawn as well to the navy blue courier bag slung over the man's shoulder. It was just like the one that had been stolen from him at the Liberty Hotel—Swiss Army logo with frayed white on red embroidery; electrical tape covering the strap where the leather had cracked. What were the odds that this was not his bag?

The man wheeled around and came towards him. Archie pulled down the brim of his hat and studied the Holy Roller pamphlet, learning of the many ways he was destined for Hell. This was old news to him. He had already been there and done that several times over.

He felt the man's gaze brush him. Archie glanced up and was startled by how much this guy resembled him in the general topography of his face, the geometry of his eyes and mouth. He even dressed like Archie.

Their eyes never met. The man passed him and continued down the hall.

Something about the way he carried himself bothered Archie. He walked with long, loping, athletic strides. And he held his chin too high, as if the back of his skull held a counterweight. When a woman with a cane impeded his progress, he seemed annoyed, as if he were someone who expected a clear path through life, for whom the world was his private playground.

When the man was a good ways down the corridor, Archie got up and followed, trying not to make it too obvious, moseying down along the row of ticket agents as if he were shopping for a vacation.

The man stepped into the washroom. Archie hesitated outside the door until a righteous fire had built inside his chest and stoked his courage. Stomach sinking, he followed after the man, his footsteps echoing in the nearly empty terminal.

The washroom floor was puddled with water dripping from a leaky sink. The man went into a stall and closed the door. Archie walked up to the door of the stall and stood before it, trembling.

"Occupied!" boomed the man in the stall. He was American.

"Who... who are you?"

"Say what? Get away from me. Fuck off."

"That's my bag you've got. Where did you get it?"

There was a scuffing and a scramble as the man tried to open the stall, but Archie grabbed the top of the door and held it closed.

"That's my bag. Give it back! Slide it underneath and I won't say anything."

Something heavy pounded into Archie's fingers. His grip released. The door pulled inward and the man burst out of the stall, pants unzipped, belt buckle dangling. He lunged at Archie with what looked like a Nokia phone, but with a protruding, three inch trapezoidal blade.

Archie lurched back, narrowly avoiding the blade. The man's shoes squeaked and gave way. He skidded on the sopping floor and hurtled face first against a heavy porcelain sink. There was a nasty crack of bone. His fingers went limp and dropped the cell phone blade in a puddle. He collapsed like a sack of dirty clothes, wheezed twice and went silent.

"Oh my God. Are you okay?"

The man lay still in the puddle, his head cocked at a grotesque angle, water seeping into his clothes. Archie pressed two fingers against the man's neck. He detected no pulse.

Archie crouched over him, glancing nervously towards the door. He slipped his courier bag off the man's shoulder and found a boarding pass tucked into his thick, dog-eared American passport. Archie opened the cover to find an eight years younger version of Archie Parsons staring back at him.

A distorted woman's voice bellowed from an overhead speaker.

"Flight 66 to Accra is now ready for boarding. Please proceed to the gate."

Chapter 7: Accra

Archie queued up to go through security, but he kept glancing back at the washroom door. He kept telling himself that what had just happened to that poor man was an accident. It was not his fault. The guy had attacked him with a knife. And besides, he was a criminal. He had Archie's stolen passport, for God's sake, and was planning to use it.

A more responsible, less paranoid person would probably report the incident. Walking away was wrong. Maybe if it had happened anywhere else but Liberia. This was the wild west of Africa. Who knew how the police would react? Running made sense.

Archie wondered if the man had his wallet and credit cards. He should have checked. He was tempted to go back and see, but there was no way he could return to that washroom now and face that corpse. Any minute now, someone would walk in and discover the body and pandemonium would break out. The shit would hit the fan and he would be in the middle of it. He was lucky the terminal was so vacant this time of day, lucky they had so few security cams.

As he passed through the checkpoint he felt certain he would be seized or at least questioned, if nothing else, for the panic that reddened his face, for the sweat soaking the back of his shirt. He probably even smelled guilty.

To his surprise, they let him through, unmolested other than having to remove his shoes and belt, just like the innocent passengers before him. The flight was boarding. He went to the gate, down some stairs to an exit opening onto the tarmac. A wash of heat enveloped him; humidity invaded every pore.

A burly airport guard watched his every step. Archie piqued his ears for the outcry that would signal the discovery of the body in the washroom. He was certain someone would tackle and handcuff him.

"Enjoy your flight," said the guard, and Archie stepped out into the sweltering afternoon, crossing the tarmac to the waiting plane.

In a daze, he climbed the steps leading to the little Ghana Airways turboprop and entered the plane. It was an odd-looking airliner, boarded from the rear, with high wings hanging above the windows, and a vertical luggage compartment directly behind the cockpit. There were only twelve rows of seats, two by two across.

He hunkered down into a window seat. The armrest was missing its foam cushion. His forearm contacted cold, bare metal. The vacant seat in front of him angled back in full recline. It offered no resistance when he pushed it, and flopped back when he let go. Its hinge was broken.

He peered through the windows of the terminal for signs of a security contingent, scanned the tarmac for vehicles flashing their lights, but all remained calm. The cabin doors closed. The stairs pulled away. Luggage bays slammed. To his disbelief, the plane began to taxi.

Archie felt like a murderer. He had witnessed death before, but had never been so intimately responsible for one. It felt wrong to be ditching Liberia like this, yet he couldn't help feeling relieved. The respite was likely temporary, though. Murders had a way of catching up to people.

While he was in transit, it was likely that the authorities in Accra would be contacted. He was certain that airport security would be waiting for him when he landed. This could very well be his final few hours of freedom.

As the plane rolled onto the runway, he remembered James. He checked to make sure the stewardess wasn't looking and slipped out his phone.

"Hello?"

"James, it's me. Everything okay?"

"Hello? Who is this?" He sounded all croaky, like he had swallowed a frog.

"James. I made it onto a flight. Get your ass home, and get rid of that SIM card I gave you."

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

"James?"

"Please... eh... who is this I am speaking to?" The voice was Liberian, but it didn't belong to James.

Archie hung up and switched off the phone. His heart raced like a marathoner's. Sweat soaked his money vest. He shivered as the engines revved up and the air conditioning kicked in.

As the plane maneuvered into takeoff position, a pickup truck with a yellow flashing light came screaming across the runway. Archie closed eyes. This was it. He was headed for a Liberian prison.

The engines roared and the plane surged ahead. Within moments they were angling steeply over the informal settlements ringing the airport. The plane banked over golden beaches and mangrove islands and set a course straight down the coast to Accra.

***

Archie wondered how different his life would have been had he changed careers when he had the chance. He would still be married, for one thing. It was all that time away that had ruined things with Trudy. He had averaged five months a year away from home during the first two years of their marriage. Given the chance at a mulligan he would have taken on more desk work and traveled a lot less. Maybe that would have rescued his marriage, or at least postponed its demise.

And yet, he couldn't imagine a life spent cycling endlessly between home and a fixed workplace, embedded in a landscape that never changed, always delivering the same vistas and horizons. He loved the unpredictability and variety of traveling, to a point. He could do without some of the drama of these failed states.

He'd had several opportunities since his separation to become involved with interesting and attractive women, but he never followed through. He could not bring himself to admit defeat and give up any chance of reconciling with Trudy.

They had been apart now for three years now with no signs of reconciliation. She was already living in Oregon with some guy she had met on a Caribbean vacation. Their once weekly phone conversations had dwindled to birthday greetings twice a year.

But even the strongest relationships could crumble without warning. Archie knew that as well as anyone.

The lone stewardess brought around a bag with a tiny bottle of Voltic water, a cardboard carton of orange juice and some white bread smeared with a pinkish paste that was apparently some sort of tuna spread.

He napped a bit after his snack, but was jarred awake when his head smacked the window. Already, the small plane had swung around into a landing pattern. The steepness of the descent alarmed him. The ocean seemed to be coming up way too fast. But that was how these smaller planes flew. Their pilots just flung them around the sky.

Archie braced himself for what awaited him in Accra. He almost wished the damned plane would simplify his life and crash.

***

Archie stood at the baggage carousel, stunned at having breezed through immigration. The line had been short and the official had barely glanced at him before stamping his passport. He never expected to get this far.

A sticker on his boarding pass indicated that the man from the washroom had checked one bag. He didn't want to press his luck. Only one short customs queue lay between him and freedom. He would probably be more conspicuous, though, without a bag. What American ever traveled to Ghana without a suitcase?

He went to the carousel and watched the luggage go round. He had no idea what the bag looked like. He let the other passengers claim theirs first, while sneaking glances at the tags of those that went unclaimed.

It startled him to see his name on an unfamiliar tartan valise. The number matched the one on his ticket. It was heavy for such a small bag. He took it and rolled it through the 'nothing to claim' section of immigration. He tried to look nonchalant and calm. They waved him on.

Coming down the ramp, he almost tripped over his feet when he spotted his name on a placard for Labadi Beach Resorts. Without thinking, he tipped his head to the Ghanaian bearing the placard. It would have been wiser to ignore it.

"Welcome to Ghana, Mr. Parsons," said the man. "Akwaaba, as we say. Please let me have your bag. Your van is waiting."

***

Thousands of fruit bats swarmed the sky as the car crept through the heavy traffic near the presidential palace. It had been a while since he had visited Accra. The place seemed to sprout huge hotels and sprawling shopping malls every time he came. All that shiny, new oil money was paying for lots of commercial development.

Archie had some tough choices to make. The right thing to do would be to report the incidents in Liberia to the authorities. But which authority? The US Embassy? He still felt uneasy about that proposition, even now that he was in Ghana.

He had no reason to fear the law. What had happened in the washroom was an accident. There were plenty of mitigating circumstances. For one thing, the man who had his stolen passport was obviously a criminal.

But Archie had no confidence that he would ever receive a fair hearing. There were powers at large that had wanted his identity wrested away and used for nefarious purposes. How could he know in advance who or what was arrayed against him?

Going home to Baltimore to sort things out seemed to make sense, but not if the American government was in on this plot. Taking his chances in an American court sure beat exposing himself to African court systems and jails, but he couldn't be certain some agency didn't want him taken out through extra-judicial means.

All of this uncertainty and fear only made him want to keep running. But where? How could a white man melt into the crowd and remain anonymous in Africa? Not in Ghana, surely.

Namibia, though, was a place that had always intrigued him. The sheer diversity of its landscape, culture and climate amazed him. It was like a distillation of all Africa into one, humid and tropical up north, arid and temperate along the coast and in the south. Warm, sunny days. Cool nights. A thriving middle class. And how many African capitals juxtaposed San Bushmen with German food and oompah bands? Windhoek did.

Perhaps he could volunteer in some needy clinic somewhere, practice medicine again. It wasn't like he had much to return to in Baltimore.

Two cats? Melissa would make sure they found a good home. Heck, she might even adopt them herself.

The van passed through Nkrumah Circle and then Danquah and Osu until they finally reached the oceanfront. They turned along the shore past dumping grounds that spilled over onto the beaches. Burning piles of trash sent acrid fumes into the air.

He had heard of Labadi Beach but had never stayed there. It had always been way too rich for his per diem, not to mention his tastes. They passed the casino of the La-Palm Royal Resort and turned into a drive lined with manicured palms and gardens, pulling up under a canopied turnabout.

An attendant opened his door. A porter already had his bag. Archie tipped the driver too generously. The smallest bills he had left were twenties.

He entered a tall ceilinged lobby with exposed beams of dark-stained mahogany, wary of anyone who glanced at him. As he approached the reception, the woman at the counter flashed him a smile too bright to be earnest. "Good afternoon Dr. Parsons, we've been expecting you."

"You have?"

"Of course," she said, as if she thought he was just being playful. "We have reserved for you one of our oceanfront suites. I hope that will be acceptable?"

"Um, sure. That'll be fine."

He reached instinctively for his wallet, forgetting he had been without it for days.

"No worries. Your room is prepaid." She handed him a pair of key cards.

Archie went through the motions, following the porter up to his room. The door opened into a suite far cushier than any NGO drone in a developing country had a right to sleep in. There was a leather sofa and a loveseat, a separate bedroom with a king-sized bed. The pristine bathroom was larger than his kitchen at home. Floor to ceiling sliding doors opened onto a balcony overlooking a pool. Beyond a coconut grove, waves crested and broke in the sea.

He stared blankly as the porter went through his ritual of turning on lights and demonstrating the remote before tipping him with one of his few remaining twenty dollar bills.

A black briefcase sat atop a huge desk with an array of unmarked manila folders and Tyvek envelopes were fanned across the front. The closet door lay open with an array of shirts and slacks on hangers, outfits from tuxedos to camouflaged shorts with cargo pockets, all neatly pressed. Archie opened one of the drawers in the bureau. It contained underwear, socks and handkerchiefs.

Archie stank. He needed a shower badly, but there was no way he could stay in this room. He couldn't even bring himself to sit down. He would be a sitting duck for whoever had made these arrangements.

He grabbed a cotton laundry bag from a drawer, inverted it to hide the Labadi Beach logo and stuffed it with some socks and underwear, along with a shirt and a pair of pants that looked like they might fit him. He tossed in some complimentary bottles of shampoo and a disposable tooth brush from the bathroom.

He stared at the folders at the desk. On impulse he grabbed several and crammed them into the laundry bag, along with a banana from a basket of fruit on the coffee table. He had barely stayed in the room five minutes before he left it.

A black man in a business suit startled him outside his door. The man's jacket hung open, revealing the edges of a shoulder holster. "Good evening, sir."

Archie fumbled for words.

"Security," said the man. "At your service."

Archie nodded curtly and continued down the hall. He punched the elevator button, but took the stairs, exiting the rear of the hotel and circling around to the parking lot where he came upon a parked Jeep Cherokee bearing the Xtraktiv logo on its door. The sight jolted him and made him hesitate. He veered away, giving it a wide berth, and stepped up his pace down the hibiscus–lined walkway that exited the resort. A cab driver called after him, but he waved the man off as he hurried off the grounds onto the main street.

He walked along the road straight into the sinking sun, passing the La-Palm resort and several fuming garbage heaps. He kept on walking as twilight consumed the city, feeling none of the panic that had plagued him in Liberia. He felt safe here. Darkness was his accomplice, shrouding his race, concealing his very existence in the voids between street lights and headlights.

He hailed a taxi in a poorer neighborhood where no driver would suspect he was a guest of the Labadi Beach Resort. Two miles later, past Independence Square and its stadium-like presidential reviewing platforms, they turned left down a pitted, dirt road.

At the far end, past the outbuildings of obscure ministries, they reached a modest but tidy hotel called the Afia. He checked in under a false name and passport number, promising to pay in cash. He made his way to his room—a tiny bungalow with a deck looking out onto a dirty beach. He turned on the air conditioner and collapsed onto his bed.

Chapter 8: Afia

Archie woke up shivering, hungry and confused. A faint aroma of burning trash permeated the room. Breakers crashed against a beach. The sun was down. The shades were drawn. The room was absolutely dark. He thought he was still in Liberia.

He flailed at the nightstand, nearly knocking over the lamp, before finding the switch and flicking it on. He relaxed when he found himself in a familiar place—a bungalow room in the Afia Hotel. He had left Liberia for nice, stable Ghana, the place some guidebooks called 'Africa for beginners.'

But then the whole chain of unsavory remembrances came flooding back, centering around that man lying dead on the washroom floor. A painful knot formed in his gut.

Someone had wanted him dead, but he had survived a vicious mugging only to witness the death of a man who was attempting to impersonate him. And then some people in Ghana mistook Archie for the dead man.

The situation posed a conundrum far beyond his ken. This was no mere logjam of African bureaucracy and logistics, the kind of problem he was adept at sorting out. There were too many unknowns, too many absurdities. Who would ever want to impersonate Archie Parsons, an anonymous and unremarkable drone for a Beltway Bandit operation?

He turned off the air conditioner with the remote. Hobbled into the bathroom. Stripped off his clothes.

The shower was blessedly warm. He stood under the trickle nearly half an hour, rinsing out his rancid money vest, shampooing gingerly around his scalp wound, still raw and painful and quite possibly infected.

The clothes he had taken from the suite at Labadi were a tad long on him, but at least they were clean. He made do by rolling up the cuffs and sleeves. After a quick shave, he felt human again. He wandered out to the restaurant to see if could find someone to serve him breakfast.

The restaurant wasn't quite open yet, but he persuaded one of guys in the kitchen to let him have a bread roll from a basketful that had just been delivered from a bakery. He strolled back to his bungalow, munching on the crusts.

Back inside, he sorted through the contents of his courier bag, finding it pretty much as he left it, including the Wired magazine he had read on the flight to Monrovia.

He washed his dirty clothes in the sink, finding one of the Labadi Beach key cards in the pocket of his jeans. If he had a lighter he would have burned it right there and then, but for now he stuck it in his shirt pocket. He hung his clothes over a shower bar and went back to his bed and turned on CNN.

His eyes kept wandering to the envelope he had taken from the suite. He slid it off the end table and opened the clasp. It contained a two page itinerary detailing stops in Malabo, São Tomé, Libreville and Luanda—all West African, all situated in and around the Gulf of Guinea, all pretty much run by despots, save for São Tomé.

Oddly, the listing showed no specific dates, just days of the week, flight numbers and departure times. They had booked him, or his doppelganger, some open tickets perhaps. Too bad he hadn't the slightest interest in visiting any of those places. None brought him closer to home. None offered a reasonable place to hide, especially since they were all linked to Xtraktiv. And unfortunately, that list included Ghana.

Was it better to lay low or keep moving? And if he left the country, wouldn't he be more likely to elude detection traveling over land than by air?

Delta and United had direct flights to DC, but those were out of the question. Their flight manifests would be closely scrutinized by whoever was looking for him. Perhaps a series of short hops with obscure local airlines, each leg moving him closer to Europe—maybe that would be his best bet.

These smaller operations, with their paper records and archaic computers, would be less easily tracked by the bad guys. But flying meant exposing his face at the airport. With all of those long, slow queues—it was the perfect trap. His pursuers could pick him off at their leisure. There were regional airports in places like Takoradi and Tamale, but they were few and these people had the resources to cover them all.

Clearly, he had to leave by land. Ghana managed dozens of border crossings into Togo, Burkina Faso and Ivory Coast. The odds, especially at the more obscure checkpoints, would be in his favor.

But he wasn't going anywhere for the time being. The last two days had spooked him good and he still had his tail stuck between his legs. He didn't even want to show his face at the reception desk, but if he was going to arrange anything, he needed a new chip for his phone and some scratch cards.

He stepped out of the bungalow just as the first rays of sun were glinting off the waves. The morning sky was hazy, though not as thick as Monrovia's had been. It was late in the season. The harmattan would soon dissipate. The brush fires would cease once the rains returned.

He noticed some specks of blood on his shoes. It was probably his own blood, left over from the mugging, but just in case it was not, he scraped them clean with a crumpled leaf plucked from a shrub. He had to be more careful. Anything that invited attention or suspicion was a problem.

Up in the lobby, there was no one manning the desk, so he stepped back outside. He didn't want to leave the hotel compound, but practically everyone and his brother sold mobile phone minutes in a country like this. He shouldn't have to walk far to find some.

But the neighborhood was devoid of merchants. It was mostly store rooms and warehouses for government operations. Every step farther from the safety of Afia left him feeling more nervous, particularly as he approached the main road. If anyone was out looking for him, he would be easy enough to spot. But he needed that SIM card. It was his life line. So he pressed on, beyond the gates of the hotel compound.

He found a little drink shack just opening up and purchased two SIMs for Vodaphone and MTN, along with enough scratch cards to satisfy a telemarketer. He paid in dollars, keeping his eyes on the busy main road, only steps away. Cars rushed by and people certainly noticed him, but no one cared.

As he headed back to the hotel, he replaced the SIM in his phone, tossing the LoneStar chip into an open sewer, and added five cedis worth of air time. He considered calling one of his many Ghanaian friends. They were scattered all over Ghana, in Navrongo, Kumasi, Ada. On second thought, maybe it wasn't so wise. Why risk entangling them in this dangerous situation if he could avoid it? He would hold them in reserve, until they were really needed.

Pocketing his phone, he rushed back towards the hotel, ashamed for being so much the opposite of bold. It clashed with his self-image. Before all this happened, he considered himself an inveterate traveler, ready for any contingency. In truth, he was an amateur and a scaredy-cat.

With great relief he retreated to the refuge of his room, already gone stuffy with the air conditioning off only an hour. He turned it back on and collapsed onto crumpled sheets. It was well after midnight on the East Coast, but he needed human contact. By default, he called Melissa. He worried his call might be traced, but SIM cards were cheap and ubiquitous in Accra.

Surprisingly, she answered right after the first ring.

"Sorry to bother you so late, but—"

"Archie? Archie Parsons?" she said, with shock in her voice.

"Well... yeah... duh. How many Archies do you know?"

There was a long pause.

"How many cats do you have?" Her tone was suspicious and accusatory.

"Melissa? What the hell—?"

"What are their names?"

"Felix... and Tony. Come on, Melissa. You're wasting my minutes."

"Your... your brother called." There was a hitch and a catch in her voice, as if she had been sobbing. "He said they found you dead in some men's room. He gave them permission to cremate. He said it was cheaper to ship your ashes."

Chapter 9: Melissa

Archie would remember what his brother had done when it came time to dispose of Karl's earthly remains. That is, in the unlikely event that he outlived his younger sibling.

"The bastard," said Archie. "Can't say I'm surprised he would tell them to cremate me."

"Not... surprised? Archie, everybody thinks you're dead. What the hell is going on?"

Archie sighed. "It's... complicated."

"Where are you? Still in Liberia?"

"No. I'm in Accra."

"So when are you coming home?"

"I'm not. I can't."

"Because of the passport?"

"No, I found the passport."

"Then what's stopping you? You'd better get home quick and straighten this out. Your brother's already making plans to sell your condo."

"Freaking asshole. What the fuck? I mean, Jesus! But... I can't travel if I'm dead. Right? I mean, any scan of my passport will show me as officially deceased."

"But you're not. I mean... you're alive. Obviously, it was all a mistake."

"But Melissa. A man did die. This guy, he attacked me with a knife. But then he slipped and conked his head on a sink. Turned out... he had my passport. They're probably gonna cremate him under my name. Because I... I didn't stick around."

"Holy shit! Archie!"

"I'm thinking... these people were planning to use me... my identity. For whatever reason. God only knows. But I doubt it's anything good. I have no choice. I've got to lay low."

"Jeez Archie. You need to get this straightened out. Go to the embassy. You're in Ghana, now. Things should be fine, there."

"Yeah, but... I'm not sure I can trust them, either. The guy who died, he was headed this way. I flew on his ticket. I checked into his hotel. They had a reservation, under my name."

"Whoa! So they were gonna use you, but now they think you're him... pretending to be you."

"Sure looks that way. He might have had my wallet, my other IDs. He even looked like me a little bit. Maybe the locals wouldn't have noticed the difference. You know, all us white guys look alike. I was probably the one they expected to find dead. And this guy... he was some kind of... professional."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. But you should have seen his room. The Labadi's one of the fanciest hotels in Accra. And the closet was stocked with all these expensive clothes."

She didn't respond immediately, but when she spoke, her voice took on a harder, more serious edge that he hadn't heard before. It seemed out of character from the happy-go-lucky slacker that he thought he knew. "You need to get out of that hotel. Right now. Once they realize their mistake, you're gonna have some serious problems."

"Oh, I'm already gone," said Archie. "I didn't stick around."

"Good. And do not tell me where you are, in case... in case someone's listening on this end."

"You think they bugged my home phone? Why? I'm a nobody."

"Archie." She paused revealing the faint and scratchy static of their less than perfect connection. "There are things you don't know about me. Things I didn't tell you when you hired me."

Archie blinked,

"Like what?"

"I'm... I am—. Now is not the time or place to talk about it. But from the sounds of it, you're in some serious shit. So far, it seems like you're doing all the right things, but you're gonna need some help dealing with this."

"Do you really think I should contact the embassy down here?"

"No," she said, her tone remaining grave. "Do not go there. Do not! I don't know what I was thinking."

"Yeah. I wasn't planning to, actually. I don't trust them. Frankly, I don't know who to trust."

"You trust me apparently."

"Should I?"

"Yes," she answered immediately.

"I'm sorry Melissa. I never should have burdened you with all this."

"Oh no," she said. "You did the right thing."

Archie remembered the reason he called. "Did you manage to find out anything about Xtraktiv?"

"Not much. Their web site says they do geological consulting. Oil and mineral exploration. Stuff like that. But that doesn't mean anything. It's just their public face."

"Geology? With fifty caliber machine guns? I think my taxi driver was right. It's a front. I think they're some kind of mercenaries."

"Oh jeez, Archie. I had no idea. That's bad news."

"You think?"

"Deep. I guarantee you that."

"Book a flight to Europe. European carrier. Get your ass out of Africa."

"I don't dare. Don't want my name on any manifest."

"But don't you see? This is your window of opportunity. You need to move now while they're still in the dark about your true identity."

"They're gonna find out eventually."

"That's why you should leave now."

"I can't. Honestly, I'm scared. I just want to hunker down. Lay low."

Motes of digital dust hissed softly in the silence between them.

"Okay. Tell you what. I'm coming out there."

"What? That's ridiculous."

"I mean it. I can help you."

"How are you supposed to help me? You're my freaking cat sitter."

"Archie." Her voice went all husky again. "I'm more than that."

"That came out wrong. I mean, I know you went to Georgetown and all."

"Not just that," she said. "Trust me. There's lots of stuff you don't know about me. Places I've worked. Things I've done. That I can do. I can help you, Archie. I really can."

"What are you saying?"

"I used to work... for the agency."

"You're... one of them?"

"Don't get all paranoid on me, mister. I'm on your side and don't you forget it. I'm gonna book a ticket and fly out tonight if I can. I've always wanted to go to Ghana. You my sister had one of those genetic profiles done and we're part Twee. That's a tribe. From Ghana."

"Melissa, this might not be the best time to come hang out and sight-see."

"Archie. I can protect you. I know how these people operate."

"Pardon me if I find that a little hard to comprehend."

"You need me. I have skills. Knowledge. Intuition. Perspectives. And besides, do you know how it feels to know your ancestors come from a place and never get to go see it? But the white guy whose cats I feed and whose litter boxes I clean goes there like six times a year?"

"Sorry. I never realized...."

"No worries. I'm coming out there now. My mom can take care of your cats until your brother comes. I got money saved. I was planning go to Club Med in Jamaica, but this is way more important... and way more cool."

"Melissa, no. It's way too dangerous... and way too expensive."

"It's done. I'll call you when I'm there. Give me a couple days. You might want to turn your phone off in the meantime."

"Please Melissa. Don't do this!"

She had already hung up.

Chapter 10: Club

The last thing Archie needed was for Melissa to come here. Having her in Accra would only complicate things and put another life at risk. He called her right back to dissuade her, but she didn't pick up. He left a message for her to return his call.

He couldn't imagine she would go through with her promise. The cost of the flight had to be prohibitive. She could barely make her rent every month. It was just her inner Good Samaritan talking.

Melissa was a do-gooder, a genuinely helpful soul. She brought Archie chicken soup when he had the flu, and had even shoveled out his parking space when he had torn his rotator cuff. Though it wasn't that she gave him special attention. She was an angel to everyone she encountered. She regularly picked up prescriptions for the old ladies who lived in their building. Bought groceries for the homeless couple living in the abandoned factory next door. That was probably how she stayed so poor.

She was an odd duck, that girl, a soufflé of contradictions. She was African-American but had white bread sensibilities. She insisted she was Republican and had voted against Obama. She played rugby, sewed needlepoint. Listened to Taylor Swift and Nickel Creek. Spent hours watching old Firefly and Battlestar Galactica epidodes. Read Sartre and Camus with the same fascination she held for Rowling and Sparks.

She was also the nosiest neighbor he had ever known. Practically a roommate. Even when she wasn't watching his cats she would come by to whine about politics and cajole him to tell her all about his travels, even though his stories seemed totally mundane, maybe because his mind's eye had become jaded with the cataracts of repetition. Too bad she was almost two decades younger, because she was quite the charmer.

He kept his phone charged and by his side, hoping to hear back from Melissa, but his phone never rang. The drone of the air conditioner lulled him to sleep.

***

Light seeping between the drapes told him it was morning. His TV remained on and he froze beneath a thin sheet. He reached up and flipped off the wall switch that controlled the air conditioner.

He retrieved his phone from under a pillow and dialed his apartment. A canned message told him that the number was no longer in service. His brother Karl was a fast operator. Either that or something more sinister was at play. He feared for Melissa's safety.

He called the front desk and ordered room service. About an hour later there was a knock on his door. He opened it with trepidation, but as he should have expected it was only a man from the kitchen staff with a platter holding some limp slices of French toast and a bowl of cut fruit that he could barely bring himself to eat.

A maid came by around ten. Archie tried to send her away but she refused to leave without making up his room. He sat in a wicker chair while the nervous woman cleaned his bathroom and made his bed. He then spent the rest of the day holed up in his room like a vampire, skipping lunch, emerging only after nightfall for dinner, showing his face to as few people as possible.

Back in his room, while Al Jazeera news covered the latest drone attacks in Pakistan, he couldn't stop thinking about that suite at the Labadi and all those papers he had left arrayed on the desk. They were the key to explaining what this was all about. If only he had the presence of mind to grab them.

But going back now would be insane. Surely, these people were onto him, lying in wait, ready to spring their trap. Sitting tight was the only sensible course of action. He imagined squads of armed men wandering the neighborhoods and expat watering holes of Accra, searching for him. But things would eventually settle down. They would relax their vigilance and then he could make his way north or east. Slip across the border to Burkina Faso or Togo. Make his way to Nigeria. His friend Charles in Abuja could provide him indefinite refuge, no questions asked. Archie had once saved his hide by sheltering him from Boko Haram militants in Kano.

Archie felt so much less brave now than during his early years when he had ventured some of the most dangerous and unstable places on the continent. What passed for courage then was probably more blissful ignorance. Over the years he had witnessed too many of the bad things that happen where the rule of law is too weak or too strong—disappearances, retributions, detentions, tortures, even beheadings. These things happened not only in failed states like Congo and Somalia. In the back provinces of relatively stable nations like Ethiopia and Kenya, anything goes.

And now here he was, twenty years later cowering in his room like a frightened tourist. He had never felt so useless and feeble. Even the girl who watched his cats took pity on him. Could it get any more pathetic?

***

The next morning, Archie again summoned the courage to leave the grounds of the hotel. He went up to the gate and peered down the pot-holed access road that led through the out-buildings and warehouses of some of the lesser ministries. Finding nothing untoward, he wandered down the block to the cross street leading to the dump, turned around and came back. That no one jumped out of the woodwork to ambush him, he took as an extremely encouraging sign.

These were baby steps, but they emboldened him. Less than two days had passed since his arrival in Ghana, but an insatiable itch was already growing to get out of the Afia and get on with his escape, prudence be damned. He hated feeling so cooped. It was against his nature to be stuck in one place.

He passed his time scheming potential escape routes. A taxi would provide the most discrete mode of travel. He had plenty of cash to convince a driver to take him as far as Kumasi. From there he could take a succession of STC buses and tro-tros to the northern border. Burkina Faso would probably be the last place anyone expected him to flee. And the border there was porous, so he wouldn't have to risk showing his passport. After reaching Ouagadougou he could work his way town to town to Nigeria and eventual refuge with Charles. Once there, he could worry about the next steps.

To have a plan again was a salve for his soul, even if he was still not quite ready to make his move. Impatience here could be dangerous. Haste could get him killed. He needed to wait for his trail to go cold, for things to settle down and his imagined pursuers to look elsewhere or give up their chase. Then and only then would it would be safe to make a run for it.

Back at the hotel, he gorged at the breakfast buffet, making up for the spoiled appetite that had plagued his last twenty-four hours. And then it was back to his room for another day of crushing boredom, watching Nigerian soap operas and an endless cricket match.

He had a late lunch of red-red and plantains, along with the first of what was to become too many large bottles of Club beer. Drinking was not usually a problem for him. He could go weeks without a glass of wine. Buying a six pack at the grocery store was usually an afterthought. But there were times when his cravings, fueled by nerves, spun out of control and he binged. This happened to be one of those times.

Three beers and a passel of inhibitions lifted, he found himself wobbling down the beach with the sun at his back, headed in the direction of the Labadi Beach Hotel. He patted his shirt pocket to make sure he still had the key card. Sloshed as he was, he retained enough presence of mind to wonder whether he was setting down a path of no return.

Chapter 11: Labadi

Archie walked the sands as far as Independence Square before cutting in towards the road. The beach in front of Osu Castle was off limits to pedestrians and heavily guarded by military. The former slave castle was now used by the president as the seat of government.

He passed through dense and bustling neighborhoods. Kids in school uniforms kicked half-deflated footballs as their mothers cooked dinner over charcoal. A sturdy breeze came off the water, sweeping the smoke of their cook fires inland.

The notion penetrated his alcohol-addled brain that what he was doing might be suicidal. The thing was, that might actually be a-okay with him. Maybe it was the beer thinking, but he couldn't deny that things would be so much simpler if his life just ended.

He stopped to pee against a wall of a petrol station, and bought another beer from the stand next door. Waves roared against the bluffs as the sun dipped below the horizon.

None of the streetlights along this stretch of road were working. Embers glowed beneath smoking piles of trash. He passed people in the darkness, visible only as deeper swaths of shadow. Passing headlights illuminated them briefly before they were swallowed up again by the night.

He passed the La-Palm and turned onto the grounds of the Labadi, breathless and exhilarated. He downed his last swig of beer and dropped the bottle into an empty receptacle, raising a racket as it clanked against the bottom.

He paused by the back door and took a deep breath. The exercise had cleared his head enough to allow some trepidation to come trickling back. He exhaled forcefully and pulled the door open. The chill air struck his face like a glass of ice water.

He crossed the lobby, a bit wobbly, veering only slightly out of line. A course correction brought him directly in front of a bank of elevators. As he waited, he surveyed the mostly European clientele scattered about the lobby.

A burly man with a graying crew-cut looked up from a newspaper and smirked. He put the paper down and rose from an armchair. He strode over, a faint smile on his face, his eyes fixed on Archie's. Archie reached deep into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his blackjack.

"Uncanny, really. You look just like that that bloke," said the man. His accent was South African. He handed Archie a sealed envelope. Archie nodded to him and grunted. He didn't dare open his mouth. The man walked away and exited out the main doors.

The elevator pinged and made Archie jump. He waddled in, staring at the envelope, which bore no markings. When he reached the top floor, Archie stepped out. A young Ghanaian woman napped in a chair among a semicircle of chairs in a pocket lounge.

Archie went and peered around the corner. The hall was vacant. He wiped at the sweat trickling into his eyes and hustled down to the door of the suite. He slipped the key card from his shirt pocket and swiped it.

A light was on inside. A man rose from a chair in the corner.

"Ah!" Archie lurched back and threw up his hands protectively.

"Good evening, sir. Sorry. I did not mean to startle you." He was the same security guard who had been there the first night. "It's good to see you again, sir. Busy days?"

"Um... yeah... yeah... quite busy."

"I've been asked to tell you... the hold had been lifted... the operation is a go... to commence at your leisure, of course."

"Of course."

The guard sidled around him. "I'll summon the woman. And then I'll be right outside, at your service as always."

"The... woman?"

The door clicked shut, leaving Archie astounded. These people thought that he was actually the man who had attempted to impersonate him; the man who was likely now a pile of ashes in an urn on his brother's mantle. Could they really be that incompetent?

He hesitated in the foyer of the suite. Everything in the room was as he left it, the bedspread un-rumpled, the documents fanned across the desk. A new pair of fancy-wrapped chocolates graced the pillow cases and there was a wallet on the night stand he hadn't noticed the first time. He opened the closet to find several new items added in his absence, including fatigues in a jungle camouflage pattern.

He took and opened the wallet. It was stuffed with large denomination Ghanaian cedis and West African francs. A small stack of HVI business cards were tucked into a slot along with an array of credit cards including a platinum American Express card with a sticker denoting a $100,000 credit limit. The name embossed on the card was 'A.F. Parsons.'

"Jesus Christ!"

One card stood out. It was made of black, matte carbon fiber with glossy black type in the center. It read:

'DISCRETION'

And underneath:

'5YybCz8L'

Archie hesitated, before closing the wallet and sticking it in his pocket. He sat down on the bed and waited for his heart to stop thumping so hard.

There was a knock at the door.

He got up. "Yeah?"

"I am here... for you."

It was a woman's voice. Ghanaian.

Archie opened the door to reveal a muscular lady in tight jeans and a bright tank top. A cotton shawl draped loosely about her shoulders. It was the woman who had been napping across from the elevator. She flashed a wide smile at him.

"Can I help you?" said Archie.

"Silly man. I am here to help you." She slid past him and sashayed into the suite. "My name is Sylvia."

She had to be a call girl. She obviously didn't recognize him or else she would have known that he wasn't the man intended to occupy this room.

"I have been waiting for two days in the lobby for you to come. You must be a busy, busy man."

"Yeah, well... in fact, I'm kind of busy right now. Would you mind coming back... um... later?"

"Oh? You don't like what you see?" She pouted.

"Oh no, it's not that. I like. Very, very much. You're very attractive. Athletic and... pretty... and everything I like in a woman. I'm just... busy."

She got up from the leather armchair and smirked. "Of course. You have another girl coming, don't you? A girlfriend, perhaps?"

"I'm... sorry. I can pay you anyhow."

"Oh, you are too sweet! The other girls who say they know you are most uninformed. Have no worries. I get paid no matter what. I can watch the music television at the bar, have my dinner, sip my tea. I promise to be faithful. I am here exclusively for you. You know where to find me if you want a little more attention later, yes?"

"Of course. Thanks... for dropping by."

She blew him a kiss with her immaculately glossed lips, and slipped out the door.

Archie caught his breath, too panicked to be titillated by what he had just rebuffed. He just stood there, staring into the lavish bathroom, wondering how hot that water got, how strong the pressure. Strong, he bet. Must be nice to work for Xtraktiv. But what kind of work did this man do?

He gathered the briefcase, stuffing more envelopes into its outer sleeve, and headed out the door.

The security guard sprang up from his chair. "The car is on call, sir."

"No need," said Archie. "I have... uh... other arrangements."

"Understood."

***

Safely back at the Afia, Archie rushed to his bungalow and double-locked his doors. He laid the briefcase on the bed, pulled the papers from its outer sleeve and started to pry at the lock but found he didn't need to—the combination had been left unset.

He opened the lid. One glance at the contents was enough to make him dizzy: two hand guns, one a stock and snub-nosed wedge of blackened steel, the other a sleek, long-barreled affair with a molded grip, all couched in custom foam. Both were stamped with the logo of a dragon arching its wings. A wicked looking hunting knife with a serrated blade was ensconced beside them, alongside magazines crammed with ammo, a laser sight and a silencer.

The briefcase might just as well have been filled with writhing vipers. Archie slammed the lid back shut, hyperventilating like a locomotive.

He ripped open one of the unlabeled Tyvek envelopes. It contained campaign posters for Simon Appiah, a presidential candidate for the upstart People's Vision Party which, for the first time, was mounting a serious challenge to Ghana's entrenched two-party system.

Archie didn't understand why anyone, especially an outsider, would want to harm this man. He was no threat to anyone. The campaign pictures made the bespectacled Mr. Appiah seem grandfatherly, with pudgy cheeks and a hefty mustache framing his smile. He looked like the kind of man who would lop open a coconut for you with his machete if you were passing through his homestead on a hot day.

Besides, Ghana had a two party system. No third party like the PVP had ever seriously challenged for the presidency. Power usually flowed to the NDC and the NPP. The PVP existed only for dreamers and losers.

A dossier listed Appiah's campaign schedule, his home and office addresses, favorite night spots, his commuting pattern. An executive summary explained that he was running on a platform of nationalizing all extractive industries in Ghana and rolling the revenues into a Social Development Fund that would support health initiatives, poverty reduction and environmental conservation.

Archie couldn't help but feel cynical. He had seen such arrangements devolve into gigantic slush funds for patronage by the ruling party's inner circle. It had happened repeatedly in places like Chad, Gabon and Equatorial Guinea.

To Archie, this man's positions were not nearly radical enough to warrant an assassination. All of this populist posturing was probably just his way of fishing for votes. What were the odds of him even getting elected? And even if he won, did they really think he would interfere with the designs of multinational corporations? Apparently someone knew differently or wanted to ensure those chances were nil.

Archie's phone rang, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He stared at the incoming number. It was local. He wondered where the nearest cell tower was and how close someone with the right equipment could triangulate his location. He was all packed and ready. If need be, he could run. He chanced it and took the call.

"Hello?"

"Archie! It's me, Melissa." The connection sounded clear and strong.

"Oh God. Are you here?"

"Yup. I'm in Ghana!"

Chapter 12: Sofitel

Melissa's voice triggered an odd mix of relief and dismay. It was good to know she was okay, but having her in Accra only deepened his troubles.

"What are you doing here? What were you thinking?"

"Well gee, that's quite a welcome Arch. How about: 'Melissa, how nice to hear from you, how was your flight?'"

"But I told you not to come!"

"And I told you I was coming."

"You had no reason to—"

"Listen. When your brother told me you were dead. I just about lost it. And then you called and you sounded so defeated, so... pathetic... so unlike you... like you'd already given up. I had to come, Arch, I just had to."

Archie's head spun with the absurdity of it all. His cat-sitter had flown all the way to Africa to rescue him. There was no way she could be allowed to stay, not in light what he had just discovered. These were hit men he was dealing with—professional assassins.

"How are you supposed to help me? You had no business coming here. I'm having enough trouble taking care of myself."

"Well, excuse me mister. If I want to go somewhere to help a friend in trouble, I will go ahead and do that. I'm a big girl."

"I'm sorry, but you have no idea what you're getting involved with."

"Well, why don't you fill me in?"

Archie grew antsy just thinking about it. "I don't know where to begin. It's... complicated. And I can't tell you over the phone. They might be listening."

"Say what? Don't be so paranoid. I mean... no one's listening. Why would they? How could they?"

"I can't be sure. I need to be careful."

"Archie, you need to calm down. Let's talk this through. First, you're not making me go back home, not after all the trouble I took to get here. Do you know how long it took me to get an entry visa at the airport? I got off the plane about two, and I was there hours waiting in lines, getting hassled by the desk clerks. They said I should have told immigration I was coming. How was I supposed to know?"

"You showed up without a visa?"

"Well, yeah. The guidebook said you can get them on entry. They didn't mention the rigmarole they put you through. Would have been a lot harder if I wasn't a girl. All these security dudes kept passing me their numbers."

"Are you at a hotel now?"

"Well, it's more of a hostel. You know. Shared bathrooms and all. It's a bit run down, but clean, and the people who run it are so friendly."

"Oh no. That won't do. You're a sitting duck in a place like that. You need to get to a hotel with real security. Maybe the Sofitel. It's in Central Accra. Walking distance of my place. A long walk, but...."

"There's no need for that, Archie. I'm already checked in here and it suits me fine. I mean I looked into some of the bigger hotels, but they're so expensive here! I had no idea. But this place is only fifteen dollars a night."

"Melissa. You have to leave. You're not safe at a hostel."

"Why don't I just come to wherever you're staying?"

"No. Nuh-uh. That would link you to me. Once these people find out who I really am, they might want you silenced."

"Silenced?"

"As in dead."

"Now you're talking like a crazy person."

"Melissa, I'm serious. You have no idea what kind of people I'm dealing with. Now, get your ass over to that Sofitel. And be careful. Tomorrow morning, we're going to book you a flight back to the States."

"The hell you will! I just got here. And... this is my vacation. I didn't come all the way out here to Ghana just to turn right around and—"

Archie sighed. "Melissa, you're not listening. You must be tired. Maybe we should talk in the morning. Go to the Sofitel. Don't worry about the money. I'll pay. Get some rest. I'll meet you there for breakfast, say about seven, and then we can talk."

"Seven's kind of early. I'm not a morning person. Though, I suppose with the time difference and all it might be okay."

"It's a date, then. Do not give your real name to anyone. And don't tell anyone where you're from. Once you're checked in, stay in your room. Get room service if you're hungry. I'll cover it. Money's no object."

"Jeez, Archie. Is all this fuss really necessary?"

"I tried to warn you. I really wish you hadn't come."

"I'm here," she growled. "Deal with it."

***

Archie tossed the phone onto his bedspread and leaned back against the pillows. He closed his eyes and listened to the surf as he willed his breathing back down to a normal rate. The tremor in his hands slowly eased.

He stared at the black briefcase, wondering how to dispose of it. He wondered if it would float or sink. All that metal made it heavy, but all that closed-cell foam might provide enough buoyancy to compensate. He wished he knew when the tides came and left.

A knot of pain in his gut reminded him that he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. He checked his watch. The hotel restaurant would be closing soon. He burst out of bed and slipped the briefcase into his dresser, locking it.

He exited into the soupy air and trotted up the dark walk to the outdoor restaurant pavilion. He took a table under a thatched rotunda facing the registration area, with quick access to the stairs leading down to the bungalows and the beach.

Most of the items on the menu were no longer available, but the waiter was able to accept an order for red-red and joloff rice with fried plantains. Archie avoided the beer this time, going for an orange Fanta.

The restaurant was nearly empty, but not vacant enough to suit him. He studied the clientele, trying to reassure himself that they posed no risk. A woman sat with a pile of receipts and a ledger book, probably a manager or owner. Another table harbored a shifting host of twenty-year-old American boys in T-shirts and shorts—college kids from a place called Bentley, if the logos on their shirts meant anything.

Only one table worried him. A bearded man sat by himself near the bar and he never seemed to look Archie's way. That struck Archie as suspicious, given how often Archie glanced and stared at him. Archie kept one eye on the man and one eye on his food.

***

Sleep came in bits and snatches. Archie awoke for good just before sunrise. He got dressed in the dark, took the briefcase and left the bungalow, ignoring the appeals of the cab drivers waiting in the shadows outside the hotel's main gate. Traveling on foot made him feel more in control of his fate, whether that was really true or not. The briefcase weighed heavily on his arm.

He took a circuitous route, past the Ministry of Agriculture warehouses, through a shanty settlement bordering the garbage dump. Scavengers swarmed the latest leavings, their children running alongside Archie, reacting to his presence as if he were an invader from Mars.

Parents scolded the kids and they drew back. He had intended to ditch the briefcase in some smoldering heap, but the presence of the children dissuaded him. He couldn't live with the thought of the tragedies that could spawn if children got a hold of its contents.

He cut through the production end of a traditional arts and handicrafts colony. Men chiseled away at lengths of mahogany, shaping djembe drums and carvings of lions and elephants, animals long exterminated from most of their former ranges in Ghana.

Archie slipped between a pair of zinc-roofed shanties to the main road, crossing it far from the major intersections. He wove a course, zigging and zagging down the side streets, alert to the possibility of being followed.

One of the streets had construction underway on a culvert running beneath. Square pits, partially covered with warped and delaminating plywood, ran down the mid-line, opening into a subterranean stream rank with sewage.

Archie removed the envelopes and slipped the briefcase through a slot between wood and blacktop. He watched it splash into the water and drift into the darkness. A woman emerged onto a balcony and did a double take at this odd picture of a white man crouching over an open sewer. He rose up and strode away briskly, without looking back.

Ghana's newfound oil money was evident in the building cranes and steely I-beams leaping into the sky on every horizon, courtesy of Chinese contractors. In this part of town, banks outnumbered NGO offices, and stood like out jewels amidst the dull concrete with their facades of glass and polished marble.

The Sofitel Hotel was situated near the city center, separate from the rest of the major hotels strung along the airport road. Its grounds were surrounded by a high brick wall topped with razor wire. The guards at the gate were alert and professional. They had a metal detector, but reserved it only for locals, waving any white person through. This sort of profiling and reverse racism seemed the standard practice across much of Africa. Archie had it made if he ever wanted to be a suicide bomber.

It was not quite seven, but he found Melissa already in the restaurant, sitting at a table by the window, reading a guide book. The kitchen staff was in the process of setting up a large breakfast buffet along one wall.

Melissa took off her reading glasses and beamed a broad smile as Archie approached. "So great to see you, Arch!"

She got up and gave him an emphatic hug, which he returned only limply. Her long, glossy hair lay flat against her shoulders, still damp from a shower and redolent of ginger and lemon.

Archie tensed when he saw one of the gate guards gazing back at them. "Mind if we move? This table's kind of visible."

Melissa smirked. "Well, sure. That's the whole point of a window seat. You know, to enjoy the view?"

Archie ignored her, striding across the room to a table in the corner. She gathered her purse and followed reluctantly.

A waitress came by and poured them each a cup of coffee, leaving behind a steaming pitcher of milk.

"Are you eating okay? Looks like you lost some weight."

Her comment barely registered. He pulled a timetable from his back pocket, his hands trembling. "I did some checking," he said. "There's a KLM flight to Amsterdam this evening. There's usually no problem getting seats on that one. If you don't mind waiting till after midnight, you might be able to take a direct flight to Dulles on United. And once you're home, you pretend you don't know me. I'm just some guy who hired you to watch his cats. Got it?"

She screwed her almond eyes at him. "I'm not going back tonight. I just got here."

"Melissa, you can't stay. It's too dangerous."

"What's going on? For God's sake, will you tell me?"

Archie glanced at the waiters joking at the far end of the buffet. Only a few guests had come to breakfast so far, and all sat well out of earshot. He lowered his voice and leaned across the table.

"That guy in the washroom, the people he worked for think it was me who died. They think he's still alive and that I'm him."

Melissa scrunched her nose. "O-kay."

"I think they were after my identity all along. You see, me and that guy, we kind of resembled each other, and I gather, to these border guards, all obruni look alike."

"Obruni?"

"White men."

"Archie! That's borderline racist."

"It's true. I mean, that's how people think. Not me, but lots of folks focus on the superficial similarities and differences... like skin color."

He could see Melissa simmer and fight back a scowl.

"So... anyhow, somehow they got it all bollixed. They think their man's still alive and that I'm him. Is this making any sense to you?"

"You're saying it's a misunderstanding? A case of mistaken identity?"

"Well, it's more than that. This guy who died... I think he was an assassin."

Melissa raised a corner of her lip. "What makes you say that?"

"For one thing... he went after me with a knife. And they shuttled me to this fancy hotel. A room was prepaid under my name. They left me this briefcase full of weapons. Guns with silencers and stuff." He slid the Tyvek envelope across the table. "And this."

She opened it up and picked through the papers inside. She pulled out a photo. "Who's this guy?"

"Simon Appiah. He's running for president. He's the guy they want to kill."

Melissa slipped her glasses back on and perused the various lists and summaries. "I don't see anything here about any assassination."

"Put two and two together, Melissa. The guns. The speaking schedule. What else can it mean?"

"Maybe that guy, the one who died, was a bodyguard?"

"Please." He pointed at a sheet detailing Appiah's campaign platform. "Read that."

"'Rebuilding a society of opportunity... Transformation and modernization of the economy... Winning the enduring war against mass poverty.' Sounds like typical Afro-politician-speak."

"Farther down. Read the part about the oil."

Melissa squinted at the page. "So he wants to kick out the oil companies and take over their wells. That's a bad thing?"

"It is if you work for an oil company."

"But this is just campaign speak from a guy who's probably got no chance of winning. I mean, according to this, his party isn't even in the top three."

"Yeah, but look at this." Archie pointed to a survey of prospective voters taken in Ghana's rural north. "In some districts he's got almost 70% support. And his popularity in the south is growing."

"Holy shit."

"See why they want him taken out?"

"We need to tell the US Embassy, or Interpol. Somebody."

"No. Not the embassy. I have a feeling they're in on this. And Interpol's not an actual police force. I mean, they do some investigation, but mostly they liaison between countries."

"Okay, so we need to warn this Appiah guy. How about we call him? Send him an e-mail... anonymously?"

Archie shrugged. "Someone in his position probably gets death threats every day. His handlers would just blow it off. He needs to see the hard evidence, in person."

"Like these papers."

"Yeah... maybe."

"Then we should go see him. Request an audience."

"An audience? He's a politician, Melissa, not the Pope."

"A meeting, then. I don't know. Whatever." She pushed aside her coffee. "Man, this is fucked up. I don't feel like breakfast, now. I've completely lost my appetite."

Something burned in Melissa's eyes as she re-read the executive summaries. "Man, this commentary really gets me. They talk about him like he's some commie devil. But all wants is for Ghana to hang onto more of the oil money, use it to reinvest in roads and hospitals and stuff. Archie, we need to help him."

"We?"

"Yes, we. You think you can show me something like this and then tell me to bug off?" She pulled out the list of campaign stops. "Look. Tomorrow he's gonna be in these towns—Bolgatanga and Navrongo. Do you know these places? Are they far?"

"Too far to drive."

"Then we'll fly," she said, scraping her chair back against the tile. "Give me a minute to freshen up and we can head to the airport."

"Now? You want to go now?"

"Time's a wasting. That man's got assassins on his tail."

"Yeah well... supposedly that assassin is me. So maybe he'll be okay."

Melissa peered over her glasses.

"What makes you think they don't have a Plan B?"

Chapter 13: Tamale

At the domestic terminal of Kotoka airport, Archie waited in a queue at Antrak Air while Melissa tried CiTylinK. Their goal: a flight to Bolgatonga or Navrongo. As it turned out, neither airline served these border towns.

An international flight left early the next the morning to Ouagadougou, just across the border in Burkina Faso, but that would require Melissa to get a visa on short notice. Charter flights were available but would take even more time to arrange.

Archie noticed an Antrak Air flight leaving for Tamale within the hour. "Any seats on that one?"

"It is fully booked," said the attendant. "But we can put you on the standby list."

"Tamale?" said Melissa. "Where the heck's Tamale? I thought we were going to—"

"Tamale gets us pretty far up country. Bolgatanga's another hour and a half north."

"Oh. Cool. So then we just rent a car?"

"Or hire a taxi. It's not like they'll have Hertz or Avis up there."

"We will call you if the seats become free," said the lady at the counter.

"Thank you." They went and found some plastic chairs unoccupied at the far end of the lounge. "Well, cross your fingers," said Archie.

Melissa leaned back, arms folded, and smiled. "This will be fun. Save a man's life. Do some sightseeing."

"Fun." Archie rolled his eyes. "Don't count your chickens. We still need to get on that flight."

Melissa leaned close to him. "You know Arch, something about this whole deal doesn't make sense. Why would they pick a white guy to kill an African politician in the middle of Ghana?"

"Melissa. Please. Let's not talk about it here."

"I'm just saying."

Her remark made sense, and managed to stir a dissonance in his mind that he struggled to resolve. "Places like Tamale and Bolgatonga, there are tons of NGO and missionary types. We're as common as goats."

"What if you're not supposed to be the shooter? What if you're the contractor?"

"Huh?"

"You go there and hire some local thug. That would make more sense, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose, but... do we have to talk about this in public?"

"I'm not talking that loud," she whispered, louder.

"Please!"

Melissa folded her arms and re-gathered her posture. "You know Arch, here you're a totally different person than you are at home."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean at home you can be all funny and jokey and laid back. Here, you're all uptight. You're scared of your own shadow."

"Not without cause, considering...?"

The lady behind the counter went up on tip-toe and waved. Archie surged to his feet. "Looks like we've got seats."

***

Dark stems, bright caps—thunderheads sprouted like mushrooms in the sky. The little ATR 42 maneuvered deftly between the isolated storms, responding like a feather to the slightest turbulence.

As the stewardesses prepared for landing, Melissa pressed her nose to the window, studying the landscape. Archie stole a glance over her shoulder. A patchwork of forest and savannah was punctuated with compact villages and sprawling towns.

The pilot executed a tight curve, tilting his wing tip almost vertical as he came around to shed airspeed and get into position for the runway. Archie dug his fingernails into his seat, waiting for his stomach to catch up with the rest of him. He held his breath as we waited for the plane to level. He imagined the wing slashing a groove through the treetops.

"Wheeee! This is fun!" said Melissa.

Archie re-commenced his breathing once the horizon was again flat and level. They landed with a triple bounce and pulled up to a drab terminal of concrete block. The doors opened. A blast of muggy air assaulted the cabin.

"Man. It's even hotter here than it was in Accra," said Melissa.

"Yeah, that's how it is up here. Oppressive."

"Actually... I kind of like it."

They retrieved Melissa's suitcase from the lone carousel at the baggage claim. Archie had no luggage other than the clothes he had washed in his sink, still damp and stuffed into a grocery bag.

"Where to now?" said Melissa.

"Well... no sense going to Bolgatanga just yet. Simon Appiah's in Wa all day. Let's just get ourselves some rooms."

"Know any four stars?"

"Here? I doubt they exist. But it's been a while since I've been through Tamale."

Melissa wrinkled her nose. "I was only joking." She strutted over to a yellow taxi. "Sir, do you know of any nicer hotels nearby?"

"The Bziga is very fine, and is very close," said the driver.

"The Bziga, it is," said Melissa, hopping into back seat, waving at Archie to join her. Archie climbed in, but as the cabbie was about to pull away, a man walked in front of his taxi. He held up a placard that read: "Dr. Archie Parsons. Gariba Lodge."

"Oh my!" said Melissa.

"What the fuck? How do they know I'm here?" He thought about ignoring the placard, but reconsidered. He scrambled out of the cab. "Go ahead and check into the Bziga. I'm gonna—"

"But Archie, we should stick together."

"Listen. They know I'm here. I have to follow through or they'll sense something's wrong."

Melissa looked concerned. "You be careful. Call me."

Archie shook his head. "Don't you dare use that phone. Not till you get a new SIM card. See you later. Okay?"

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Be careful!" said Melissa as her cab pulled away.

He let the man lead him to a white Toyota Land Cruiser in the parking lot. A transparent sticker with the black Xtraktiv logo was plastered on the door.

***

The Gariba Lodge had a prepaid room waiting for him, just like at the Labadi. According to the desk clerk, the room had been sitting vacant and ready for several days now. Apparently, the unseen powers behind the operation had not known exactly when he would be arriving. That provided some comfort to Archie, along with the observation that, other than the driver, there were no other support people evident in the hotel.

He plugged a strange key card into the door knob. It was metal and shaped like a dog tag. Dropping it in the slot allowed the mechanism to engage. A wall of cold air struck him, the air conditioning set low enough to crack bones.

Archie stepped into the room cautiously, half expecting a security guard to pop up out of a chair. He peered out into the hall, making sure he was alone, before shutting the door.

A dresser stood open, displaying a subset of the clothes that had stocked the closet at the Labadi. He selected a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of khakis and crammed them into the bag containing his other clothes.

His gaze drifted to a black briefcase atop a glass coffee table. He went over and clicked it open. Three small, cheap revolvers, serial numbers sanded off, lay encased in the foam. No silencers this time.

He pulled them out and tossed them together into a plastic bag from a waste bin. He went out onto a balcony, knotted the bag and tossed it into a dense cluster of hibiscus.

He went back in and riffled through the contents of the briefcase's outer sleeve. It contained copies of the papers they had given him in Accra, but Simon Appiah's appearance schedule seemed to have accrued more detail.

A black business card fell out onto the tabletop. Two lines of glossy type glistened over the matte background:

'Clear and Present.'

'TTy43bB9.'

***

Archie found Melissa in the restaurant sipping some fruity-looking drink with a straw. He stuck the briefcase, emptied of all hardware, under the table and took a chair. Melissa's eyes were wide and expectant.

"How did it go?"

"Weird. It was just like Accra. New guns. New clothes. And these." He slid the briefcase out and removed some papers from the sleeve.

"You have guns?"

He shook his head and frowned. "Not anymore. I ditched them. But have a look at these." He slapped a portfolio onto the table."

Melissa looked them over. "Oh, look at this. There's times and stuff now. This should make it easy to find him."

Archie nodded. "He's stopping in Navrongo for lunch. I say we go to the restaurant early and be there when he arrives. That way we're already in the door. That's how we get close to him."

"What's this thing here about crocodiles?"

"Oh, that's just part of a sacred grove. The local tribe preserves this pond for their ancestors and now they feed the crocodiles that live there. It's become something of a tourist stop."

"So you know this place?"

"I've been through a couple of times. It's near one of the main border crossings to Burkina Faso."

"Can we go see these crocodiles? I mean... if we get the chance?"

"Um. Yeah. I suppose." He pulled the black cards out of his back pocket and put them down on the table. "There are these as well. I can't figure out what they are."

Melissa picked one up. "Weird. It's all black."

"Yeah, but... if you tilt it up to the light there's glossy type on it."

Melissa held one up and squinted. "No there's not. It's totally black."

"Let me see that." Archie took the card from her and found only a speck or two of gloss remaining on the surface. "Huh. How strange. It's like it evaporated... er... sublimated."

"This other one still has printing. Looks like a password or something."

"For what, though?"

Melissa shrugged. "I guess you have to be in the know to know."

"What do you suppose they mean by 'clear and present?'"

"Clear and present danger? Isn't that a Tom Clancy novel?"

"That doesn't help me."

"Maybe the coast is clear and Simon Appiah is present versus absent."

"Maybe."

Melissa stretched her arms. "You know, it'd be fun to get a look around town. Find a market and stuff. Do you still have that guy driving you?"

"Actually, I ditched him and took a cab."

"Why'd you do that? Won't they be suspicious, you blowing him off like that?"

"I don't know what they'll think. I just want to minimize my contact."

"So let's get a cab and go for a ride. What do you say? Let's go see some Ghana."

"Melissa. I think maybe not. It's better that we lay low."

She slumped in her chair. "Boy, you're no fun."

"Melissa. I just want to get this over with and get the hell out."

"So what are you gonna do? Where are you going to go after this?"

"I don't know. Go and hide under a rock somewhere?"

"Don't you want your life back?"

"What life?"

"Oh, go on! But come to think of it, you don't have a job. Your family thinks you're dead. You have an opportunity to redefine yourself. Create a whole new life, make a new Archie Parsons. I mean, if you wanted to."

"Melissa. Honestly, I haven't thought that far ahead. I just want to get through this ordeal and go someplace safe."

"Are you sure you'd be safe in the States?"

"I would hope so. I mean, it's my own country."

"But what if you're not? What if... like you said... the government is in on this?"

"There's got to be someone I can trust. Someone with some authority."

"Like who? You don't even trust your own embassy."

Archie shrugged. "The FBI... or maybe the New York Times."

"Maybe WikiLeaks," said Melissa.

"Please, Melissa, my head hurts enough as it is. Let's worry about that other stuff when the time comes." He patted at the money vest under his shirt.

She slurped the last of her drink. "I wish we could go for a ride."

"Listen, I need to give you something, but I can't do it here. Can we go up to your room?"

"Um, sure." Her eyes betrayed a bemused curiosity.

They slid their chairs back and rose from the table. Archie followed her upstairs to a small, dim room that smelled of mildew. Water dripped from a window air conditioner and puddled on the tiled floor.

As soon as she closed the door he pulled up his shirt tails and undid the buttons.

"Archie! What are you doing? What prompted this?" she said, grinning.

"Calm down, I'm just taking off my vest." He peeled the nylon from his sweaty back, and stood there bare-chested, and self-conscious of his flab. He laid it down on the bureau, its four long pockets bulging with bank notes.

"I want you to have this, in case something happens to me. I'm sorry if it smells a little funky. There's almost fourteen thousand in hundreds here. Use whatever you need. The money actually belongs to a project in Liberia. I'll find a way to pay it back somehow or another."

"Holy crap, Archie. You expect me to carry fourteen thousand dollars in my purse?"

"I suggest you wear it, though you might want to wash it first. The airports around here don't do body scans. And I've never seen them frisk a lady."

Melissa was looking at him funny. Archie thought he sensed some trepidation.

"It's not too late for you to back out. We can fly you back to Accra. Get you the hell out of Ghana. There's no reason to risk your skin over this. I can handle things from here."

Melissa smirked. "Not a chance, buster. I told you, I'm part of this now. Whether you like it or not."

Chapter 14: Control

Gus Henson had been crunching numbers for his tax deductions when the latches on the control room door clicked. His heart lurched. He minimized the open window and tucked it into an encrypted folder, hoping the auto-save would retain his latest entries. Keeping personal data on a company drive breached protocol, but what choice did he have? Since his twin boys had been born, he had no time to work on such things at home.

Harry Andersen entered the room with a couple of visitors in tow. Gus reached over and clicked open the main surveillance program, letting it spread across a field spanning three HD monitors. Thumbnail views from a thousand security cams spiraled in a vortex around the leftmost flanking screen. Close-up views of corridors and storage yards cycled through the center. Text-based alerts and message traffic scrolled down the screen on the right. Satisfied that nothing urgent required his attention, Gus settled back in his chair and watched Harry do his thing.

Harry was running the visitors through the deluxe dog and pony show. His guests looked quite spiffy in their traditional African attire, a departure from the khakis and blue blazers favored by Xtraktiv's usual Houston-based clientele. They had to be Nigerian. Gabonese execs spoke French and favored Italian suits.

Harry came through spewing his standard spiel. "This is our primary situation room, the command and control center for all security operations. Most of its basic functions are automated, but we have a man on duty twenty-four hours to keep an eye on anomalies." He nodded towards Gus.

Harry had a habit of never introducing Gus to any visitors by name. That was perfectly fine with Gus. It wasn't rude. It was discreet. The guests probably valued their anonymity as much as Gus valued his.

Gus brushed some cookie crumbs off his lap and rose from his chair, nodding and bowing. He hoped that token greeting sufficed and that they wouldn't want to shake his hand. He always screwed up that three part African handshake with the finger snap at the end. He could hardly snap his own fingers, never mind a stranger's.

He took his cue from Harry and sprang into his own pitch. "And how are you gentlemen doing today? What we have here is our main surveillance console. Of course this is a redundant system. We have security on-site as well, but we find it handy to have a second pair of eyes. It makes for a more robust system and helps with the validation and troubleshooting. All of this comes to us by satellite. We have our own geostationary birds over every stretch of the tropics from Brunei to Ecuador."

The Nigerians looked sleepy-eyed and bored. They had probably flown twenty hours direct from Lagos and had been dragged straight from the airport into this facility tour. Each had high level clearance tags dangling from their collars, indicating that they had been fully vetted and cleared. They were top dollar clients for sure, no mere oil company hacks.

"Go ahead and click around. These are all touch screens. Each thumbnail is labeled with the facility location. You might be particularly interested in the cluster on the lower left corner. Those come from our Niger delta facilities."

Gus showed them how to pan and zoom and let them have a go. One of the men leaned in and maximized a window for a security cam watching over a recreation area at an ExxonMobil facility in Calabar. He chuckled and said something to his colleague in Hausa, pointing to someone they recognized among a group of young men kicking around a football.

"How goes things? Busy?" said Harry.

"Not particularly. I mean, there are some ops going on, but no action till tomorrow at the earliest."

"You heard from Agent Black?"

"Nuh-uh. Not yet."

"Dang, that makes two checkpoints he's missed."

"Not unusual for him. There are rumors that he's with a girl."

"Jesus. Who does this guy think he is, James Bond?"

"No worries. All the secondary sources indicate that he's right on schedule. Might just be him trying to maintain some deep cover. He's certainly keeping a behavior profile consistent with an NGO geek—cheap meals, cheap secondary hotels. He's even watching his bar tab."

Harry inhaled through his teeth. "I don't know. This would never fly in Malaysia. Seems mighty unprofessional. But then again, this whole Africa thing is new for me. You all must know better, I suppose."

"Like I said, no worries. This is how Black works. He'll contact us when he needs to. Believe me, it's better this way. He leaves fewer traces."

"It's just... unorthodox, to say the least. Reminds me of how the Soviets used to operate. Rogue agents. Kind of a get 'er done approach. Worry about the mess later."

"No messes. Not with Black," said Gus. "And so far so good. He's right where he's supposed to be at about the time he was expected. Too bad it's his farewell tour. This guy, he gets things done."

"Unlike White."

"Pfft. Agent White. What a head case. I hear they're trying to replace him. But talent's hard to find. Lots of competition these days. REDfour. Xe."

"You should jump back in the ring, Gus. I hear you've still got the chops."

"Yeah, right. I'll tell Linda you said that. You can deal with the blowback."

Harry grinned. "No one told her to go and have twins. Well, listen. Keep an eye on our man. Give me a heads up if things go haywire."

"Not a chance," said Gus. "This op is wired."

Harry's eyes fluttered. "I sure hope you're right. And... um... just so you know, I should tell you that we've sent some assets out to Paga... just in case things get ugly."

"Assets? You mean the B team? Does Black know about this? You know he likes to work alone."

"No need to tell him. They'll lay low until needed. We just sent them for damage control. Just in case."

"Jesus, Harry! You mean you didn't tell him? That's a good way to get someone killed. This ain't White we're talking about here. If Black notices any strange operatives in the area, he might take them out."

"Not a problem. Like I said, they're laying low. It's just a teeny-tiny response team. For insurance, only. If Black gets the job done, then it's just a junket for joloff and beer for them. No harm done. Nothing linking them to Xtraktiv. As far as the Ghanaian government knows, they're just a bunch of diesel mechanics."

"Well Jeez. Thanks for letting me know, I guess. We'll see about this time tomorrow if the shit hits the fan or not."

"So you know for a fact he's aiming for that first mission window?"

Gus shrugged. "We don't know crap. I mean, I see no reason why not. Both he and the target are on track."

"I just wish he'd phone home." Harry bit his lip. "Maybe it's technical. Why don't you ship him a new sat phone in the next transfer? The shop's got crypto working on the Iridiums."

"Will do."

Harry clapped his hands. "Gentlemen. How about some tea? We have quite the well-stocked mess."

"Mess?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I meant to say cafeteria. I mix up my terminology sometimes."

"Tea would be lovely," said the taller of the two Nigerians.

Chapter 15: Paga

Archie booked a room at the Bziga on the second floor, one floor down from Melissa's. The young porter, startled by Archie's lack of luggage, insisted on carrying the briefcase up for him. Archie tipped him much too generously.

The room seemed nice enough, a bit worn at the edges, but clean and cozy apart from the sulfurous vapors emanating from the bathroom drains. He pulled the curtains aside to a view of a scrubby hillside with a dirt road snaking up to a radio tower. The sun was starting to settle in low over the trees. It was that time of day when the brutal edges of the heat began to wear and the atmosphere approached bearable.

He decided a quick walk before his shower would help him gather his wits. He went back down to the lobby and dropped his key on the counter. He never made it out the door.

The car that had brought him to the Gariba Lodge was parked in front. The driver leaned against a post and chatted with the gate guard.

Archie reversed course and retrieved his key. How did they know he was here? Were they watching and following him?

He went back to the room and relieved his mini bar of a Guinness stout and a tiny bottle of cheap whiskey, not caring for a change how much the hotel would gouge him.

With an empty stomach, it didn't take long for the alcohol to wrap its soothing fingers around his brain. He went in the bathroom and turned on the water heater, surprised to find it worked, and that the pressure was strong. He would have to make a note of this place, in case he ever came through Tamale again. For interior Ghana, the place was a jewel.

He soaped up under the heavy stream, noting a reduction in his paunch—from all those long walks and skipped lunches, no doubt. He shampooed gingerly around the tender spot where his head wound had scabbed over, picking bits of dried blood from his hair.

A knock at the door made him lurch. He slipped on the slick tile, nearly tumbling out of the stall. He braced himself against a corner. Visions returned of the dead man in the Robertsfield washroom.

"Just a minute!" He rinsed off quickly, toweled off and put on the clean clothes he had taken from the Gariba Lodge.

"That you, Melissa?" There was no answer. "Hello?"

Silence. He wondered if he should even open the door. He glanced out the back window, wishing this room had a balcony exit like at the Gariba.

Another knock came. Lighter. Sharper.

"Yes? Who's there?"

"It's me, Melissa."

"Jeez Melissa! Why didn't you answer me the first time?"

"Because it wasn't me. There was some other guy at the door."

"Some other guy?" Archie undid the latch and threw open the door. He blinked at Melissa and gazed down the hall. "What other guy?"

"Think it was your driver. He gave me this note." Melissa handed him a slip of paper. Archie unfolded it. It bore the numbers '545' scrawled in pencil.

"What the hell is this supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. A room number, maybe?"

"This hotel only has three floors."

"Maybe it's a time?"

He glanced at his wrist, finding only a pale, hairy band flanked by a ruddy tan. "What time is it now?"

"It's a little after 6."

"Could be a pick up time for tomorrow morning. We're gonna have to leave for Navrongo earlier, then. By five at the latest."

Melissa shrugged. "I'm game. I'm still stuck on Baltimore time, so I'll be wide awake by two. I'm ready to crash now, but I was thinking we should eat first. I heard there's a place down the road that—"

"No, we're not leaving the hotel. We have to eat here."

Melissa twisted her face in disgust. "Have you seen the food in this place?"

"I'm sorry, but they less they see of me the better. We can't let them find out the truth about me just yet."

She sighed. "Fine. I suppose I can order some soup. Maybe some bread. How badly could they screw that up?"

***

The soup was over-salted and laden with gobs of fat; the bread tainted with a moldy aftertaste. Whatever the Bziga offered in physical comforts, it lost points with restaurant fare that would make a prison cafeteria seem haute cuisine.

Melissa dunked her bread and ate without complaint. "Hey Arch. You ever have the French onion soup at the Chameleon Café?"

"Can't say I ever have," said Archie, as he scoped the other guests. They all looked pretty ordinary—a few Europeans in pastel shirts, locals in business suits—but he just knew that one of them had to be a spy.

"Oh, it's the best. But you know... a few more vegetables, some melted cheese and this soup might actually be edible."

"Melissa, I'm sorry. I didn't think it would be this bad."

"Yeah, well. Next time dinner's on me. But I get to pick the place."

"If there is a next time."

"What do you mean?"

Archie leaned back in his chair. "Well. I was just thinking... there's no need for you to go up north with me. I mean, I've enjoyed your company and all but, why don't you stay down here? Do some sight-seeing. There's a national park not far from here. I forget the name, but it's supposed to be really nice. When you've had your fill, you can you can head back to Accra. See some slave castles at Cape Coast. Head home, when you're ready. I promise, I'll keep in touch."

Melissa's face went rigid. "No way. I'm coming north with you."

"Yeah, but the thing is, I've got this multi-entry visa for Burkina Faso. I was thinking, after I warn this guy I could just slip over the border. Book a flight to Paris. You know. Lay low for a while."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Archie. I've had just about enough of this constantly trying to ditch me. Will you give it a rest? I'm coming with you till we get this thing done. Afterwards, you can do whatever you want. I don't care. Go to fucking Paris... without me. I just wish you would appreciate some of what I'm doing for you."

"Melissa, I do appreciate all the support you've given me by coming out here. I mean, I'm glad to have your company. It's just so unnecessary to... to put us both at risk."

"Fine. Go to France. I'll take care of this."

Archie tittered. "That's not what I had in mind."

"Then get it into your thick skull that we're in this together. You try to shoo me away one more time and I'm gonna kick your ass."

"Yeah, right."

"Oh yes I will and I'm fully capable. Just try me. I taught RAD back in DC."

He sighed and took a bite of stale cake. "I don't get you, Melissa."

"What's not to get?"

"You're my cat-sitter, for Christ's sake. My own wife would have never flown out here to help me. I mean, not even when things were good between us."

"Help is what I do. I've always been... helpful."

"Yeah, but... this ain't exactly like checking my mail or watering my geraniums. This is way beyond that."

A flicker of worry crossed Melissa's face, but shifted into a wistful expression.

"You know, Arch. I always wanted to come to Africa. Ever since I was a little girl. I've saved up for years for an adventure that never happens. I get my chance and now you want to stifle it? Is it any wonder I'm resentful?"

"This is not a vacation, Melissa. This all is some serious business we're dealing with."

"I realize that." She twirled a piece of candied mango on her fork. "Doesn't mean we can't have fun while we're at it. Now shut up and eat your dessert."

***

Archie needed no alarm to get him up the next morning. He didn't bother taking another shower. He just rinsed his face in the sink.

His original set of clothes had finally dried. He crammed them into the briefcase, stuffing socks and underwear into the foam cutouts that had held the pistols.

Downstairs, he had to rouse the desk clerk from a deep slumber on one of the couches in the lobby.

"I need a cab. No. Make that two. Is it a problem this early? I should have arranged it the night before."

"Is no problem," said the man, his eyes heavy, voice raspy. "I will call."

Melissa came bounding down the stairs with her suitcase, beaming and excited.

"Shucks. You beat me."

"I didn't sleep a whole heck of a lot."

"Really? I did great. It was short but sweet."

"Two taxis will come," said the clerk, as he prepared an invoice for check-out.

"Two? Why two?" said Melissa.

"I'm thinking, we should travel separately... in case something happens."

Melissa squinted and blinked. "We'd be safer traveling together. No?"

"Having two cabs give us more options."

"I think you're over-thinking this, Arch."

"Just... humor me. There's a method to my madness."

Two taxis pulled up in front, one right after the other. To Archie's relief, there was no sign of the driver from Xtraktiv. They could make a clean getaway. As Melissa loaded her suitcase into the trunk, Archie took her cabbie aside.

"You know this little town called Paga... on the border?" he whispered.

"Yes, I know."

"There's a restaurant by the crocodile pond. The Chicken Palace."

"I know this place."

"Take my friend there and wait. I'll join you by lunchtime."

He turned and nodded at Melissa, who had settled into the back of the car with her travel pillow.

"Archie. This is weird. They probably think I'm your mistress."

"Don't worry about it. I know what I'm doing. I think."

He got into the second cab and the pair of them pulled away down the long drive leading up to the hotel from the main road, turning north towards the airport and Bolgatonga beyond.

The landscape loomed grey under these earliest stirrings of dawn. For an hour and a half, Archie rode alone with his thoughts, watching the color return to the tree-studded savanna and millet fields, plunging through verdant strips sheathing the rivers. Hardly any traffic shared the road at this hour—just a few tractor-trailers heading south for the coast.

Archie daydreamed of France. He pictured himself checking into some modest guest house in the countryside, resting his mind, getting his spirit back under him enough to deal with recouping his identity.

As they approached the outskirts of Bolgatonga, Melissa's cab pulled into a service station.

"No need to follow. Just keep on going," said Archie. But the driver stayed on the tail of the other cab

"I said no—"

"I need petrol," said the driver.

"Oh. Okay."

Melissa hopped out and trotted over to the attached convenience store.

Archie's phone went off, triggering a spurt of panic.

The caller ID was blocked. Reluctantly, he answered.

"Hello?"

In the background, he could hear what sounded like several TVs broadcasting news on different stations. A man coughed. The line clicked off.

Archie got out of the cab and ran into the store. Melissa stood at the counter, counting out change for several bottles of Voltic mineral water.

"Hi Arch. Oh look, they have chocolate! I love Bounty bars."

"Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, sure. Everything's fine."

"Someone called my cell. I thought it was you."

"Nope. You told me not to. That's why we had to pull that maneuver with the taxi. I hope you don't mind. I forgot to get water at the hotel. Need some?"

"We need new SIMs. Do you have SIMs here?"

The clerk shook her head. "There are some shops in Bolgatonga. MTN. Vodaphone. Tigo."

"Jeez. Why are they calling me? Are they tracking us?"

"Oh, don't fuss about it, Arch." She handed over a bottle of Voltic. "Hey, does my driver know where we're going? Because I sure don't."

"Chicken Palace in Paga. Half a klik from the border crossing. You go there. Have some breakfast. I'll catch up with you later."

"Excuse me?"

"I was looking through the papers and I have a new plan. I'm going to stop by the party headquarters in Bolgatonga and Navrongo. Appiah is scheduled to make stops in both places before lunch."

Melissa's expression soured. She glanced at the other cab, flung opened the door and climbed in the back next to Archie. He scrunched his face at her.

"And what do you think you're doing?"

"You stinker. You were going to ditch me. That's what these two taxis were about, wasn't it?"

"No. That's not true. I planned to join you in Paga. Later. If things didn't work out."

"And if things went wrong? If you were arrested or something? What then? Who'd be there to help you? How would I even know what happened?"

"I just thought it would be easier if I handled it myself."

"I wish you'd treat me like an adult for a change. I'm getting tired of this, Archie. I'm the one who comes all the out here to help you and you just keep trying to shunt me away."

"It was just a last-minute idea I had. I figured, we're up here early. Why not?"

"Without me?"

"Melissa. There's a reason for these precautions. It's not like I haven't thought this through."

"Fine. Let's go."

"Your suitcase is in the other car. Shall I get it?"

"You stay put. I don't trust you." She tapped the driver on the shoulder. "Daniel... can you please fetch my bag from the other taxi?"

***

They pulled out of the petrol station and passed a series of mud-walled Talensi compounds with interconnected dwellings with mud roofs and parapets typical of northeastern Ghana. They looked like little fortresses for dwarves.

Melissa chugged her cold and dewy liter bottle and gasped for air. "Have you noticed how different the houses are? Why don't they thatch their roofs like they do down south?"

"Not sure. All I know is that it gets pretty damn hot up here. People actually sleep outside on their roofs."

Melissa's presence in the cab calmed him. It was nice knowing he wasn't totally on his own for a change. But having her involved only doubled his worries. He would be a heck of a lot less nervous with only his own skin to worry about.

"You know. I was thinking, Arch. You should let me approach this Appiah guy. I bet he'd find it a lot less intimidating having a nice black girl like me walk up to him."

"Yeah, but... would he take you seriously?"

Melissa bristled. "What are you saying? Why wouldn't he?"

"Well, you're a woman. And, this culture—"

"Culture? And you say you know Ghana? This isn't Afghanistan, mister. West African men listen to their women. Besides, I'm a different beast. I'm American. And I'll have those papers to back me up."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"Just stand behind me and look serious. You can be my gravitas. What do you think of that plan?"

She did have a point. In her fancy jeans and blouse she could easily pass for a wealthy Ghanaian, at least until she opened her mouth.

"Mmm. Let's see how it goes."

***

They weaved around potholes and pedestrians in the flat sprawl of concrete and zinc that was Bolgatonga town. Both taxis parked between the bus station and a central market. One of the drivers managed to locate a teen-aged boy willing to lead Archie and Melissa to the People's Vision Party office. They didn't have to walk far. It was just around the corner in one of the few brick and I-beam office buildings in Bolgatonga that was not also a bank.

They stepped over the chain threaded through scarred blocks of concrete that kept any potential car bombers from parking too close to the façade. They passed into a dim and spartan lobby where a man in a suit sat with a laptop behind a bulky mahogany desk. The creaky ceiling fan above his head seemed determined to shimmy out of its socket and fly away.

The man seemed more dyspeptic or annoyed than curious about their presence.

"How can I help you?"

"We're here to see Mr. Appiah," said Melissa.

His brow wrinkled, and he cocked his head askew. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Well, no. We just wanted to say hello and tell him about something very important."

"We do not accept solicitors. Did you not see the sign?"

"Oh, we're not selling anything," said Melissa. "We just... found out about something that would be very helpful to him... and to you. Isn't that right, Archie?"

Archie wrung a smile from his weary face.

"So? Can we just pop in and see him? It'll only take a minute."

"Mister Appiah is not around."

"But he was scheduled to be in Bolgatonga, no?"

"And how do you know this?"

"We were... told."

The man took a sip of his tea. "He was here earlier this morning, but now he has gone."

"Where? Is he still in Bolgatonga?"

"I'm sorry. Let me take your name. I can let him know that you wish to see him, if he comes back around."

"So, you're expecting him back?"

The man shrugged. "He is a busy man. So many people want to see him. May I ask, who am I speaking to?" said the receptionist.

"Um, I'm Melissa Wray, and this is Archie Parsons, from Health Ventures International."

"NGO? I don't know this one."

"Yeah, well. We're not one of the big ones," said Archie. "We're small."

"I can take your name and number and maybe he can contact you if he has time."

"Oh no. That won't do," said Archie. "We need to see him in person."

"It is the best I can do."

"Where is he now? Has he gone to Navrongo?"

"How do you know these things?"

"Like Melissa said, we were told."

"Give me your name. I may need to do a background check before we schedule anything."

"I told you, I'm from Health Ven—"

"Yes, yes, but it is basic security. You see, there are those who would like to see Mr. Appiah harmed."

Archie's stomach bottomed out.

"It is nothing personal," said the man. "It is just the sad nature of politics."

"How long would that take? Could we see him today?"

"He is not coming here today. He is in Navrongo. Tomorrow he comes back, and then he goes to Kumasi. But it seems you already know this."

Archie nudged Melissa. "Let's try our luck in Navrongo." Archie wheeled and made his way back out into the dust and sun.

***

Navrongo was a smaller town, only about twenty kliks up the road. Once they arrived, they found Simon Appiah's face plastered over every wall and pole, but could find no sign of the man in the flesh.

The PVP office was a humble shack of zinc and eucalyptus, identifiable only by an even denser collection of Simon Appiah covering it from curb to rafters. The place was closed. A man told them that Appiah had gone to visit some millet-growing villages on the outskirts.

There seemed to be some kind of festival going on in the center of town. Pickups and flatbed trucks bore scads of people drumming and dancing, their bodies painted in the national colors of red, gold and green.

"What's all this?" said Archie. "A political rally?"

"It is for the Black Stars," said the driver. "We defeat Cameroon in football." The driver's phone sang a highlife chorus. He spoke briefly and then looked up into the rear view mirror. "Sir, it is Marcus, from the other taxi. He would like to know if it is okay for him to go back to Tamale."

"No. Not yet. You have him wait right here in town. I will pay for him to wait for us."

"Archie, we really don't need that other cab."

"I'd rather we keep it. You never know. It might come in handy."

Archie checked his watch. It was not even ten a.m.. He sighed. "What the heck. I'm tired of chasing this guy around. Let's just go to the restaurant."

***

The last shanties of Navrongo trailed off into farmland. They passed into an area of irrigated millet fields and more family compounds with those mud walls and turrets that made them look like little castles. They soon caught up with a small and slow-moving motorcade of black cars with tinted windows, a white pickup with a loudspeaker, and a flatbed lorry crammed with standing people.

"This has to be our man," said Archie, sitting up taller in the seat. "Wouldn't you think? I mean, who else could it be?"

"If we had gone with your original plan, we could already be at that restaurant, waiting." Melissa knocked her fist against his shoulder, playfully. "But no, you had to get all fancy pants."

Archie looked over the itinerary. "According to this, he's not due in Paga till noon."

"Maybe he got hungry. Like me. Maybe this means we can finally get ourselves some breakfast. Er, brunch."

"If we can even get a table," said Archie. "With all these people, I'm not so sure."

As the motorcade approached a checkpoint, a counterbalanced wooden pole swung high in the air, letting it pass through without pause. Their taxi snuck through as if it belonged with the rest of the group. As soon as they passed, the pole descended, blocking all following traffic.

They passed down a long straightaway with a row of ponds to the left. Off in the distance was a series of squat cinder block buildings—the Burkina Faso border station.

"Are these the crocodile ponds?"

"Yeah."

"Cool!" Melissa pressed her face against the window. "I wish we could stop. Maybe after?"

"Oh? Would you buy a chicken?"

"Excuse me?"

"Didn't you see the sign? They sell live chickens to tourists to feed to the crocodiles. They let you grab their tails and pose for pictures."

"Um, I'll pass on that last part, thank you. I'm happy just to see a croc. If I'm gonna get a chicken, it's gonna be for me. Grilled or fried. Do you suppose they have corn on the cob?"

The taxi pulled into a cindered parking lot. The Chicken Palace was a hodgepodge of pavilions and cook shacks painted in primary colors. A giant hen of wood and straw perched on a faux thatched roof over tin that showed through the thin spots. The main, glassed-in seating area overlooked a marshy pond.

They sat in the taxi until the cars had from the motorcade had unloaded and most of the people had entered the restaurant. A small group of people waited near the door with placards. Supporters?

"I think I saw him!" said Melissa.

Archie slipped the papers back into the outer sleeve of the briefcase. "Let's go." They stepped out of the cab. Heat radiated off the dark cinders.

Melissa touched his arm. "Archie, that briefcase is empty, isn't it?"

"Yeah, sure. It's just papers and photos. I got rid of that other stuff."

"Just checking."

As they approached the door, the people they thought were supporters turned out to be a meek group of college kids, both men and women. Their placards read:

"Respect your Ancestors, Conserve our Sacred Groves."

"Save Ghana from Fanatic and Evangelist."

A woman in traditional garb scolded them. "Why are you coming here for protest?" she said. "Simon is on your side. Have you never heard him speak? He is an environmentalist through and through."

Another woman in a dark skirt, perhaps the restaurant's manager or proprietor, stood inside the door flanked by a pair of blue-bereted security guards. She greeted Archie with sharp eyes and a sharper smile. "I am sorry sir, but this restaurant is closed for a private function."

"Of course. We're here... for that function," said Archie. "We've come to meet with Mr. Appiah."

"Do you have an invitation?"

"Well, no. But—"

A youngish man, apparently an aide, came bustling over. "I'm sorry, but who are you?"

"Archie Parsons, Health Ventures International."

Melissa extended her hand. "And I'm Melissa Wray, his assistant."

"Is Simon expecting you?" The aide's eyes were wary, but respectful.

"It's a personal matter. It's critical that we see him. I promise it won't take long. We're not lobbying or protesting. I just need a minute to show him some papers."

"Give them to me. I will make sure he sees them."

"Um... actually, we need to explain this in person. The papers alone won't mean anything. It's very important that we get to speak to him."

"Archie, I thought you were going to let me—"

"Shush!"

"Shush? Don't you dare shush me!"

The aide glanced nervously at the long bank of tables that had been set up in the center of the dining room. Bottled beer and soft drinks were being distributed to a loud and boisterous party. A guard stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the crocodile pond.

Archie spotted Simon Appiah—a roly-poly, bespectacled man sitting at the middle of the table, facing the door, like Jesus at the Last Supper, surrounded by His Apostles.

"I'll be right back." The aide jogged over to the table and whispered into Mr. Appiah's ear. The politician glanced to the door and his eyes found Archie's. The politician nodded. The aide returned.

"Mr. Appiah agrees to speak to you, but please make it brief."

The security guards came over and frisked them. One ran a wand over the briefcase. It warbled slightly.

"Open it," said the guard.

"It's... there's nothing in here... just papers."

"Open."

Archie stomach squeezed into a knot. He took a deep breath. "I just want you to know in advance," said Archie. "What's inside, I can explain."

Archie undid the latches with his thumb. The lid lifted to reveal the foam cutouts of the three small revolvers that Archie had discarded at the Gariba Lodge.

"Uh! Ah!" The guard slammed the briefcase shut and recoiled. "Guns! They have guns!"

The restaurant owner shrieked and scuttled back in her heels. Chairs scraped and clattered. People exploded from the tables and rushed for the exits. The braver of the two guards came stalking after Archie with a billy club.

"I can explain," said Archie holding up his empty palms and backing away.

A panicked man in a business suit stumbled and bowled into the guard, knocking him into a table. It overturned, taking with it a tray full of large bottles of Club and Star lager that a waiter had just brought. Green glass shattered. A tsunami of beer sizzled and foamed across the floor.

A burly bodyguard wrapped his arm around Appiah and bustled him out a side door. Archie felt a tug on his wrist. "Come on." Melissa yanked him towards the main entrance.

They rushed out onto the lot. People shrank from them as if they were green mambas.

A pair of men, shirt-tails flying, shoved Mr. Appiah into the back of one of the black Hondas and the car started rolling before the doors were even closed. It screamed out of the lot, kicking up cinders and dust, straight into the path of a twenty-two wheeler gearing up for the twelve hour haul to Accra. With a sickening crunch, steel crumpled, glass exploded across the blacktop. The Honda's punctured fuel tank went off like a bomb.

"Oh my God!" Melissa squeezed Archie's hand and hid her face behind his shoulder as a wiry, bearded white man in a slouch hat sprinted towards them with fire in his eyes and a sidearm under his flapping vest.

Chapter 16: Backup

Archie stood transfixed like a jack-lighted frog. The man who had intercepted them in the parking lot had startling red hair and eyes that bore into him like twin blue lasers. His ruddy face was beaded with sweat.

"Move," he grunted.

"Who the heck are you?" said Melissa.

"Backup," said the man, shoving Archie along. "Move! We only got a short window before the border police come down on our asses."

They followed the man around the back of the restaurant to a marshy strip separating two ponds. A crude path had been slashed through the tall reeds by machete. In rainy season it was likely a morass, but now, the dried mud made it passable.

Archie glanced back to find Melissa stopped. She stared into the weeds.

"Melissa, come on! Run!"

"S-something splashed."

"Keep it moving," grunted the man guiding them.

"Melissa, don't worry. Come on. It's okay."

She set her gaze straight down the path and sprinted. Archie stepped aside and let her pass him. He trotted after her, bringing up the rear.

The reeds grew thicker, the ground soggier. Something shaggy leaped out onto the path. Melissa screamed and flung up a karate kick that badly missed its mark.

"He's one of ours, ma'am. Calm down!"

The shaggy creature was a man in a ghillie suit, and he was quickly joined by another man similarly attired. They both carried assault weapons wrapped and draped in strips of gauze and bits of string dyed to match the marsh reeds.

They crossed into a strip of forest. The landscape rose and they came upon an abandoned farm compound—one of the dwarf castles, its earthen walls eroded and shattered. A taupe Kia Sportage was parked amidst the ruins, its driver already revving the engine.

"Get in!"

Archie looked at Melissa, whose face was as blank as her eyes were wide. One of the shaggies shoved her into an open door and slammed it shut. They tumbled into the cargo compartment through the rear hatch. Archie scrambled into the backseat beside Melissa. His door wasn't even shut before the driver gunned it over the rubble of a mud wall. Soon they were tearing down a long straightaway of red dirt road, kicking up a rolling ball of dust in their wake.

"Quite a stunt you pulled," said one of the men in the ghillie suits, as he peeled off his camouflage.

"Uncanny," said his friend.

"Huh?" said Archie. "What do you mean?"

"The way that car went straight into that truck's path. How'd you get him to do that?"

Archie stared. He didn't know what to say.

"Guys, back off," said the ruddy-faced man "This man's a professional. Give him some space."

Melissa leaned over and whispered close to his ear. "Do you know these men?"

Archie shook his head and mouthed the word 'no.' He touched his finger to his lips to keep her silent.

***

The three men got out at the airport in Tamale, leaving Archie and Melissa alone in the Kia with the Ghanaian driver. They had stuffed their ghillie suits and weapons into two large duffel bags.

"Headquarters thinks it's better you don't fly just yet. But Andrew here will get you where you need to go."

"Um, thanks," said Archie, at a loss at what else to say.

"Take 'er easy, Black. It was nice meeting you."

"Yeah man," said one of the other guys. "It's been good working with you."

"Oo-rah!" said the third man. "You're a fucking legend."

The car pulled away sharply from the curb, and the men waved. Archie waved back after a moment of hesitation.

"Black? Did he call you Black?" said Melissa.

"Yeah."

A storm of disquietude roiled her features.

"That poor man. Appiah. Do you think he survived?"

"Nah." Archie shook his head. "Not a chance. It looked bad. Real bad."

"Yeah. It sure did," said Melissa, kneading her trembling hands. "Why are you... how can you be... so calm?"

"I don't know. It's not that I'm calm, I'm just... exhausted."

Her semi-permanent smile flattened. "You know, Arch," she said, almost sadly. "There's something I never told you about my cat-sitting. It's no accident that you hired me, of all people."

"Well, you are my next-door neighbor."

"You have other neighbors. What I'm saying, is... even my being your neighbor was all arranged by these... investigators. I don't know exactly who they were. I have my inclinations, but.... At first they just sort of kept me on retainer. It was kind of low-key and casual. But then they really starting bearing down on me during your last trip... the one you took to São Tomé."

"O-kay." He kept his eyes trained on her, expectant. "Go on. What exactly were they after?"

"Just... stuff. Like how often you're gone... where and for how long? And stuff like... your papers and phone messages."

"You gave them my phone messages?" said Archie, hackles rising.

"Archie, they paid well. Very well. And when I signed up... I didn't know you. I didn't know what you did. You could have been a spy or drug smuggler or something. I didn't know you just... helped people stay healthy."

"Strangers. You helped complete strangers pry into my business?"

"Like I said, I didn't know who they were. They could have been FBI."

Archie huffed, took a breath and huffed again, searching for words. "How come you never told me any of this before?"

"They... told me not to."

"Oh Jeez. You know what Melissa? This kind of thing would have been good to know earlier."

Melissa sighed. "I tried telling you... at least I thought I did. I mean, it's the whole reason I came out here. To right my wrongs. I'm sorry, Archie." Her eyes plumbed the depths behind his pupils.

Archie turned away and looked out the window. They were barreling through central Tamale, passing a vacant school. Four vultures huddled beside a rusty swing set, their heads turning in unison as the SUV sped past the playground.

***

It took them six hours to reach the outskirts of Accra only to get trapped in a wicked traffic snarl just west of the city core. Vendors plied the gaps with heads piled high with consumer goods of every order—bicycle tires, electrical adapters, apples. Their abundance and diversity suggested that this stalled traffic was not a fluke.

Two hours later, they finally reached Makola market and the ocean road.

"Where exactly is he taking us?" Melissa whispered.

"Don't ask me," said Archie, shrugging. "Ask him."

Melissa cleared her throat. "Sir? Where... may I ask... are we going?"

"It is the usual place. Labadi Beach Resort."

"Oh, you're gonna like this place, Mel," said Archie.

"Beach resort, huh? What's not to like?" She lowered her voice. "But we're not actually going to stay there. Are we?"

Archie took a breath. "Why not? I'm tired of fighting... what seems to be a losing cause. At this point, I'm tempted to just go along for the ride... let things play out."

"What the hell are you saying? You mean like... go to work for them? Or give ourselves up?"

"No, I... that's not what I mean. I... I don't know what I'm saying. I'm just... tired." Archie thought twice about the wisdom of sleeping in the wolf's den.

"Archie, I mean I know things didn't go the way we planned but... it wasn't our fault. We tried our best."

"On second thought, giving up sounds good. Maybe we should go to Paris. Lay low. Hide out."

"We can't do that yet! Not yet. We can't let them get away with what they're doing."

"Let's not talk about it here," he whispered, glancing up at the driver, who seemed oblivious to their conversation. "Let's get to the hotel and we can figure things out from there."

***

"Whoa!" said Melissa, as they passed into the mahogany vaulted chamber that was the lobby of the Labadi Beach Resort. "Way cool!" She gawked at the ceiling all the way to reception.

Archie studied a group of jocular and paunchy men in cargo shorts for signs of body armor and concealed weapons, but they seemed only to be businessmen checking in for a conference.

Melissa noticed his skittishness. "Don't worry, Arch. There's no reason at all for them to be unhappy with you considering what happened to that poor guy up north."

Archie wiggled his hand. "Not so loud," he hissed.

"Room number?" said the woman at the counter. Before Archie could answer, her manager rushed over with a key card taken from the top drawer of his desk.

"Welcome back, Mr. Black."

That was a good sign, calling him Mr. Black. "Thank you," said Archie. He peeked at the key card. They gave him the same room as before.

"Archie, should I get a room here, too?"

"Um... I don't think we should actually stay here," Archie whispered. "I thought I'd just go up for a peek. See if they left us anything."

"Oh, really?" Melissa looked disappointed.

A porter took Melissa's suitcase and followed them upstairs. The guard who had surprised him the last time he had visited stood in the hall outside the door.

"Good to see you again sir. I'll be right out here if you need anything."

He swiped the key card and pushed the door open. They stepped into the room.

"Who's that guy?" Melissa whispered.

"My private security guard."

"No way!" She strode into the room. "Ooh, nice!" She pranced around and leapt onto the bed, rolling over on her back her hands folded over her tummy. "Thick memory foam. Whoa. I'm just like melting into it. Man, this must be a six star."

"Not quite," said Archie. He searched the room for another black briefcase. There was no briefcase this time. That meant no guns to dispose of, just a sealed Tyvek envelope with a black business card lying on top.

He picked it up.

"Slick," it read.

"7KzQv1T1."

He yanked open the seal. Two sets of paper airline tickets fell out.

"Holy shit," said Archie. "There're tickets in here for you."

"Really? Where to?"

"Never mind where, that's not the point!" said Archie. A renewed panic eroded some of the calm he had managed to cultivate. "They're onto you, Melissa. Someone's been watching us."

Archie opened the closet door. It was stocked with fresh clothes again, but this time in two groups, an entire set of dresses, skirts and blouses hung alongside a mix of men's casual and formal wear.

"Jeezus! They've got clothes here for you, too."

"No way!" Melissa hopped up off the bed and rifled through the hangers. She checked a label. "And it's even my size... er... close enough. Not that I would wear most of this stuff. Though, that skirt's pretty nice. And I like that blouse over there."

Archie descended to the end of the bed. "Oh my God." His heart thumped like a war drum. "What the fuck is going on?"

"So what do those tickets say? Where do they want us to go?"

"EG—Equatorial Guinea."

"Cool! But wait... I don't have a visa."

"You don't actually need one. You're an American citizen. The oil companies negotiated a deal that allows Americans to enter EG, both mainland and Bioko, the island capital, with just a passport."

"Oh. Cool. Is there wildlife there?" Her eyelids looked droopy.

Archie could only sigh. "Melissa, what are we supposed to do in EG?" He looked through the papers. "Oh crap."

"What's wrong?"

"There's another picture here. And another itinerary. I think they want us to do another hit."

"On whom?"

"Michael Kremer. I've heard of this guy. He's some kind of activist. Environmental or anti-poverty. Something like that. He's South African, I think."

"They want to kill him, too?"

"Well, duh."

"Well, shit Archie. Then we're not done. We need to go to EG and warn him."

"Oh? Just like we warned Simon Appiah?"

"We'll be more careful this time. This time we go empty handed."

Archie scratched his stubbly chin. "You know, I bet this guy reads his own e-mail. How about we just warn him from Paris?"

"I don't know." Melissa squinted and lifted one eyebrow. "I think this is something we need to handle in person."

"But why? Don't you think a simple warning should be enough?"

"What if it's not?" she said. "What if he doesn't believe us? What if chooses to ignore us? We need to be there to make the case."

Archie rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his greasy hair. "I'd feel better if we worked through some reporter. Show him what we've got. We could do that someplace safe, and let him get the word out to Kremer."

Melissa cocked her head. "Archie. We have a responsibility here. Another man's life is at stake."

"But all we have to do is to get this story out into the media. Once these people realize they've been discovered, they'll go underground. They'll turtle up. No?"

"Not necessarily," she said. "They might get wind of us talking to reporters, and snuff this poor guy before anything gets out."

"Alright," said Archie, feeling defeated. He was hoping to slip out from under this burden as soon as possible.

"But that doesn't mean that contacting the media isn't a good idea. I mean, we should do both. Contact Kremer and then we can go to some newspaper. Rolling Stone magazine. Someone who would listen. Maybe even a blogger.

"These papers should be enough, don't you think?" He handed over a sheath.

Melissa thumbed through them. "I don't know, Arch. I don't see enough here that's incriminating. Just background information. I think we need more evidence. Some actual orders to kill. Or maybe those weapons they keep giving you. At least pictures of them."

"So you think we should go on to EG?"

"Well, yeah," she said, as if it were obvious they had no other choice.

Archie rested his chin on his open palm. "I have to warn you, this place is nothing like Ghana. They're Spanish-speaking, for one thing, with an absolute basket case of a government. One of the worst dictators alive."

"Sounds like fun," said Melissa, smirking. "Will there be monkeys?"

***

It took two mini bottles of scotch and two Guinness Stouts for Archie to calm himself down. He kept going over a brochure he had taken from the lobby listing every outgoing flight to Europe. Tomorrow there were flights to both London and Zurich. He was considering sending Melissa out on one flight while he took the other, but had yet to broach the idea.

"Hey Melissa, are you awake?" She didn't answer. He heard snuffling from the bed. She had fallen asleep in her grimy clothes, tangled in the bedspread.

Archie sighed and let her rest. He fetched a tiny bottle of white wine from the mini bar, went over and scrunched up on the love seat, turning on the TV with the sound down low. The news on the local channel was all over Simon Appiah's death, calling it a tragic accident in the midst of an attempted assassination. A white man was being sought by the authorities, and according to witnesses, he was apparently an Englishman. Close-ups of the shattered and burned black Honda in Paga looped continuously. Archie couldn't take looking at it anymore. He switched over to CNN and its coverage of some demonstration in the Middle East.

Eventually, Archie drifted off himself, and was woken hours later by bright light pouring through the sliding door of the balcony. The sun had risen. Melissa was sitting up in bed, hair frizzed out, eyes all puffy, scrunching her face at him.

"Archie? Whatcha doing in my room?" she said, her voice all sleepy and slurred.

"Nuh-uh. This is my room," croaked Archie. "Remember?"

"Oh, right."

"How are you feeling?" said Archie, his voice gravelly from a parched throat.

"Fine." She sniffed at her shirt. "But man, I need a shower."

"Me too. Why don't you go first?"

"So are we leaving today? EG?"

"Go take your shower. We'll talk about it after."

She went and selected a simple cotton shift from the closet, and some of her own underwear from her suitcase.

"You want breakfast?" said Archie. "I can order room service."

"Really? Um... sure. Some eggs I guess. Poached preferably. Eggs Benedict if they have it. Boy... this is fun."

Archie placed the order and reclaimed his bed while Melissa was in the bathroom. He had just dozed off again when a toilet flush woke him up.

Melissa trounced into the room in a bathrobe and a towel turban. "All yours."

"Okay," he said, rousing himself. He rubbed his crusty eyes.

"Man, you look like crap, Arch."

"I'll feel better after a shower and a shave."

"So... are we going to EG or not?"

Archie sat up and swung his legs off the side of the bed. Would being in Europe make things any better? Could they even get to Europe if they tried? The authorities would likely be extra vigilant about any male passengers traveling to London after the assassination. That went for Zurich, too. Bata? Perhaps not so much.

"Yeah. Let's go," he said, without much enthusiasm.

***

A new driver and vehicle waited for him outside the hotel. This time, Archie made no attempt to avoid him. He waved the man over. That Xtraktiv logo on the ID clipped to his pocket gave him pause, but it was no longer a deal-killer.

"How do you do? My name is Amberson," said the Ghanaian driver. "Are you ready to go to the airport?"

"Yes, but can we stop at a supermarket on the way? We'd like to pick up some snacks."

"Of course."

The man took them to an upscale market in Osu where they loaded up on water bottles, soft pretzels, chocolate and brioche, along with a one cedi bunch of bananas from the fruit vendors across the street.

Accra's daily newspapers all blazed with gory pictures of the truck encounter that killed Simon Appiah. People were abuzz with shock. From their reaction, it was clear that he was more than some local politician. Every grieving throng reinforced the sting that Archie felt for his role in the man's death.

He climbed back into the car, on the verge of hyperventilating. He looked forward to getting out of Ghana and putting the incident in Paga behind him. The distance might help clear his head.

Maybe they could set things right by saving this Michael Kremer fellow. The guy seemed well connected with media and the like. Maybe Kremer could even help extricate them from this mess.

But this time, they would have to be more careful.

Chapter 17: Moka

The biting midges had returned to Moka. Scalding acid trickling into a pin prick—that's what a ceratopogonid bite felt like. By the time you felt it, it was too late to slap. The tiny biting gnats that caused them were either gone from your skin or had already left their calling card—this pain inducing salivary fluid that served to keep their victim's blood flowing into their guts, though Curt Hodges wouldn't put it past Mother Nature to have included it simply to torture bad men like him.

Midge season in Bioko's cool, green uplands was reason enough to relocate to his second house in Ureca, the fishing village at Bioko's southern end that was accessible only by sea or by a barely passable jeep trail skirting the base of the Gran Caldera to the defunct port town of Luba.

He went from his open veranda to a sun room screened with an expensive and fine mesh that was supposed to be midge-proof, but seemed to serve only to filter the bugs so they came through the windows one by one rather than a swarm.

He retreated into the kitchen where his house boy, Moises, was chopping up a goat on a butcher block counter. The legs retained their hooves and a sheathing of piebald fur.

"Time to get the fogger out, Moises," said Hodges, in Spanish. "The flying teeth are back." He plopped down on a rickety chair, fired up his ham radio, booted up his antiquated Dell Pentium desktop, and flicked on the satellite modem.

"Now?" said Moises, reaching in the pantry for a can of insecticide.

"Finish what you're doing for Chrissakes. I don't want bug juice all over my meat." Hodges' gaze flicked to the heap of flesh on the butcher block. "Who's going to cook all that? Isn't Natalia up in Malabo today?"

"I will cook it," said Moises.

"You? Oh, just great. Here comes the food poisoning."

"There is no food poison," said Moises. "The meat is fresh."

The secure intranet came up and Hodges did his daily log-in, typing in the latest password key: "H7ezD4i3"

Two messages popped up.

"So what fixings you planning to make to go along with that meat?" said Hodges, scratching at the thicket of curly hair nestling in the folds in the back of his neck. "And don't tell me its beans again."

"How about plantain?" said Moises. "Some greens?"

"Nice. Haha! Got another fix-up job in Luanda. Some rigger's got himself tossed in the slammer. Oh man, this fucker tangled with someone from the ruling family. Jeezus, when will these assholes ever learn? You don't pull that shit in Africa." He looked over at the butcher block. House flies coated a goat shank shoulder to shoulder, as thick as fur.

"Hey! How are all these flies getting in? You got a door open?"

"The door is closed," said Moises, rinsing his hands in the gravity-fed sink.

"Well, cover up that damned meat when you walk away. I'm not letting you give me food poisoning again."

"No poison. The fire is hot. I am cooking right now."

"Whoa!" said Hodges, decrypting the second message. "Look at this. We got ourselves some company coming. That Luanda jailbird is gonna have to wait. Oh, nice. This one's a boat job, too. I've been wanting to get back down to Ureca. Especially now that the goddamn teeth are back. Ouch! Godamnit! One just got me on the back of my fucking leg. Moises, will you please get that damn fogger going?"

"But I am cooking!" said Moises. "You say for me to—"

"Get one of the kids to do it. Your little cousin, what's his name? Can't be that hard to spray a little bug juice around the place, just see that they don't take a bath in it." A name, newly decrypted on the screen, caught his attention.

Contractor: Xtraktiv LLC. Subcontractor: Adolfo Black.

"Hooiee! Fuck Luanda," said Hodges. "Blackie's coming to town."

Chapter 18: Bomé

The plane rolled to a halt. Hatches opened front and back. Steamy air billowed down the aisle, wrapping the antsy passengers in its embrace. The air seemed just as smothering as Accra's, with perhaps a tad less smoke. Archie nodded to Melissa. They exited out the back.

The clouds overhead were looking mighty puffy. The ITCZ, mother of all monsoons, was shifting north again. Equatorial Guinea was not actually on the equator, but a few degrees closer than Ghana, and would see the seasonal rains first. Another couple of weeks and the place would be deluged. Every unpaved road would become a trap.

They strode across the tarmac to the terminal. The immigration line was mercifully short, its sneering border agents careful but efficient. They passed through unscathed after an emphatic stamping of their passports and immigration cards.

Melissa giggled. "You were right, Archie. No visa? No problem, if you're American. It's just like going to Canada."

"Not quite," said Archie, scanning the baggage claim area. Again, he spotted a man with a placard bearing his name. This time he did not play coy. He waived at the wiry fellow holding the sign and walked right up to him. Melissa yanked her suitcase off the conveyor and skipped after him.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Parsons. I am Arcadio. I will be helping you."

"Are you our driver?" said Melissa.

"Not just driver. Helper, too. Anything you need, you let me know."

"Cool," said Melissa.

He led them out to a van with a Chess Petroleum logo on the door.

Melissa flashed a nervous smile. "This is exciting, heh. Can't wait to see what the next hotel is like. That Labadi place was marvelous."

"Don't expect too much," said Archie. "This is EG, not Ghana. It's not exactly a big tourist destination."

"No hotel," said Arcadio. "I take you to headquarter."

The van pulled away from the curb.

"Oh crap," said Archie, softly.

"Is that a... problem?" said Melissa.

Archie turned slowly to face her. "Do you really want to meet our sponsors?" he whispered.

Melissa's eyes got very wide. "Do you think we should we get out of the car?"

"Is something wrong?" said Arcadio.

"No. Everything's fine." Archie patted Melissa's hand. "If it looks bad, we'll have him turn around. Tell him you need to stop for... feminine supplies... or something."

Melissa smirked. "If you say so."

"You will like the camp in Bomé," said Arcadio. "They will feed you very well."

***

Archie had visited Bioko once or twice—the little island off the coast of Cameroon that harbored the capital city of Equatorial Guinea. Mainland EG, however, broke new ground for him. It was one of the few places in West Africa he hadn't visited before, having criss-crossed the region from Angola to Senegal too many times to count.

EG was one of the few Spanish-speaking countries on the continent and notorious for its dysfunctional governance. Not quite a failed state, but ranking high on indices of corruption and inequity.

Someone passing through the city of Bata might get the impression that it was a nice town, what with its tinted concrete oceanfront promenades and elegant fountains. But Archie saw immediately through the façade. This quaint seafront neighborhood was merely a showpiece for the dictator, a Potemkin village. The fountains probably only flowed when foreign dignitaries came to town.

On the outskirts of Bata, they crossed over estuaries lined with mangroves. The pavement ended and Arcadio cut south down a strip of sandy dirt knifing between swamp and beach. They passed a rusty freighter run aground, clusters of smoky huts, people mending fishing nets on the sand.

When they reached a barren red dirt lot stacked with shipping containers, the van turned up a nicely manicured drive and stopped before a guard house outside a chain-linked compound. The checkerboard Chess Petroleum logo was splashed across a large welcome sign.

Archie's nerves flared with each second of delay at the gate, the guard calling ahead to some authority for clearance. But then the guard waved them on and they passed through a large, landscaped area of lawns and offices and residences with tiled roofs. Arcadio took them straight to a house on the beach side of the compound, which looked deserted apart from a couple of people tooling around on little white golf carts.

"My God, this looks like some suburb in Tampa," said Melissa.

"Houston," said Archie.

"It's like... hermetically sealed. Do these people even know they're in Africa?"

"Arcadio, whose place is this?"

"It is yours," said Arcadio, as he clambered out of the driver's seat. "This is where you stay."

"The whole house?" said Melissa. "Oh my."

Archie insisted on carrying his own small bag. Arcadio wheeled Melissa's suitcase up the walk, which now bulged with some outfits she had grabbed from the closet in the Labadi along with her dirty laundry.

Melissa dashed excitedly from room to room. "Hey, they left a fruit basket! Papayas! I love papayas. Ooh. Look at this bedroom! I call dibs on this one."

"Take... whatever you want," said Archie, looking around the sitting room, his eyes seizing on the inevitable briefcase on the table. It was black as usual, but this time made of brushed titanium. He sighed and shuffled over to it.

A battered white pickup truck pulled up behind Arcadio's van and its engine stuttered to a halt. A short, burly man with sandy brown hair popped out and came bustling up the walk.

"G'day," he said. "Mr.... eh... Parsons?" The corner of his mouth hooked up in a wicked smirk. His accent was strong and Australian. His eyes red-rimmed, the essence of hard liquor wafted from his pores.

"Uh... hi."

The man stuck out his hand. "Carter here. Carter Voss. I manage the compound. They told me to leave you two be, but that's not my style. That's no way to show hospitality. I just wanted to let you know, it's good to have you mate. You need anything at all you just give me a buzz. There's a camp directory by the land line inside. We can send a cook for your meals. Just let me know when you want to eat in."

"Um... thanks," said Archie. "I'm sure we'll manage."

"No please. Our Lucinda at the main mess is a great chef. She's Swiss. She'll cook anything to order and we'll bring it over hot. But if you prefer to eat in, the pantry and fridge are fully stocked. The kitchen has any utensil you might need. There are extra cases of Evian mineral water in the utility closet in case you run out. We've got a doc at the infirmary. Wi-Fi throughout. Anything you need you let me know."

"Will do," said Archie, as Melissa stood by his shoulder, beaming.

"Alright then," said Carter. "Make yourself at home. I'd best be off, then. I won't pester you any further."

"Thank you!" said Melissa. "The place is just wonderful."

Carter tipped his hat, wheeled about and strode back to his truck, waddling with a slightly bowlegged gait. Just as he touched the door of his vehicle, he turned back around

"Oh... I almost forgot. Your boat will be here in two days. Six a.m. sharp."

"Boat?"

"He can't get here any quicker. But we figured you might need the extra time, though I dare say the support folks have done a thorough job with the legwork. Should make things easier for you. You'll find it all in that briefcase."

***

Mr. Voss had it right. The contents of the briefcase provided an exhaustive dossier on the domestic habits of this Michael Kremer, a South African environmental activist and humanist. Maps indicated the location of his bedroom within his apartment block and the homes of his two girlfriends in the fringes of Bata. Diaries detailed his every visit to the latrine over the past two weeks. It noted where and when he bought his bottled water, scripts of every key press on the computer of his favorite internet café in Bata—passwords, love letters, everything.

He seemed like a nice enough guy, despite his womanizing. Too bad they wanted to kill him. He had been in EG for almost a month, recuperating from a machete attack in the Nigerian delta where, until recently, he had been active in assisting the resistance of local communities to destruction of the mangroves in the estuaries bracketing Bonny Island. Not one to rest, he had gotten involved in similar issues in EG, where environmental advocacy had hitherto been relegated to a few poorly financed ECOFAC initiatives supporting Monte Alen National Park and a primate reserve on Bioko Island.

His threat to industry came from the loud megaphone he held with the western media. The briefcase held clippings from the Guardian, the New Yorker, and the Financial Times. He was an adept fundraiser, a multilingual mobilizer of local opposition. Archie found a lot to admire in the guy—the same qualities that made him a sworn enemy of the petroleum interests.

Archie passed each sheet to Melissa as he read them. "Jesus. Why do they want to go and kill off all the cool people?"

"He's dangerous," said Archie. "People don't ignore him. Unlike most advocates."

"So how do we help him?"

Archie nestled his chin over knitted fingers. "He's probably easier to approach than Appiah was."

"Poor Simon." She rose from the table, went to the window and peered out over the ocean.

"Don't worry. What happened was a fluke. We just need to get Kremer some of these papers. He's got a voice... a platform. We get him filled in on all these goings-on and there'll be coverage on every continent. Transparency, that's the key. That'll get the authorities riled. This whole sordid operation will have to shut down."

He turned to the next dossier. This was one had nothing to do with Kremer. There were several documents written in Portuguese. Surveys of oil fields in the Gulf of Guinea. Maps of the islands—São Tomé, Príncipe, Annobon.

His Portuguese skills were poor, but he dug in and tried to skim some meaning out of these papers. It seemed to be background on political maneuverings regarding a Nigerian oil claim and a Social Development Fund derived from future profits. There were no names, no targets indicated, as far as he could tell.

"Hey Melissa, this file is kind of curious." He went to pass her a folder, but she had left the room. "Melissa?"

He got up and checked the kitchen. The bathrooms and bedrooms were vacant. He went to the window, and saw her on the other side of the chain-link fence, skipping across the beach in a blue bikini, a towel tucked under her arm.

He sighed and started out the door, paused, and went back to the briefcase. This time it contained a small Glock pistol and an odd rifle with a detachable stock and barrel. It was so light and skeletal. It almost seemed like a toy. He extracted the Glock from its foam, clicked a cartridge into its receptacle. It was as easy as connecting Legos. He looked for a safety toggle, but couldn't find one. He stuffed it under his belt, careful not to touch the trigger.

He went out and crossed a scraggly lawn to a gate in the fence manned by a guard sitting on a stump stool under an awning. Archie nodded to him as he slipped past.

He popped off his shoes, pulled off his socks and trudged across a fluffy dune to the hard-packed sand near the water line. The baking sand burned his soles. "Yo!" he called. "Thanks for telling me you were going to the beach."

Melissa twisted around, propping herself on one elbow.

"Sorry. You looked... occupied." She squinted under her sunglasses. "Take off your damned shirt, why don't you? See if we can even out that farmer's tan. I swear, you look like vanilla in the middle and like a brother from the neck up, and elbows out."

"Yeah, well. I have sensitive skin."

"Oh, a little sun won't hurt you. Seriously, you should grab yourself a towel and lay out. The sun is glorious. And the sound of the waves...."

"Tide's coming in," said Archie. "You're gonna have to move soon."

"That other sand's too hot. This stuff's cool. I don't mind the damp."

"Yeah, but—"

"Take off the damn shirt already. Party pooper. Why so glum?"

"Melissa... this is not a vacation. We... we killed a guy."

"We?"

"Okay. We got a guy killed."

"We?"

He sighed and pulled off his polo shirt, wrapping the Glock in the bundle and descending to a lotus position beside Melissa.

"Nice breeze," he said.

"Look at you," said Melissa, iPod earphones bright against her mocha skin. "You haven't been eating."

"What do you mean? I eat at the same places you do."

"But you've lost your pudge... that dough-boy look you used to sport."

"That's a good thing. No?"

"Not... necessarily." Her brow crinkled. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Fine." He shrugged. "Tired."

He pried a little gray sand dollar out of the sand. It was an odd one, with deep indentations around its circumference, making it look part disc, part star.

A dull roar came to them upwind from the direction of Bata. Archie squinted down the beach to see a red truck barreling down the damp sand just beyond the lap of the waves, about a hundred meters away. Did someone know he was here? Someone on the 'good' side? Coming after them?

"Melissa, we gotta scram!" said Archie, fumbling for the gun.

She mumbled: "Why? I like it just fine where I am."

"Melissa. Move!" In a blink, the truck had closed half the distance between them.

"So let the tide come in. It'll cool my toes."

He swiped at her earphones, ripping them out of her ears.

"Archie? What are you doing?"

"Melissa, I'm not talking about the damned tide, there's a truck coming after us!" He grabbed her arm and yanked her off the towel.

The truck blared its horn. Melissa saw it bearing down on them and shrieked. They stumbled together into the fluffy, hot sand above the tide line as the truck screamed past.

Carter, the caretaker, came trotting up the fence line from the next gate down. "You folks okay?"

"Yeah," said Archie, struggling to catch his breath. "We're fine."

"Oh my God! That was close," said Melissa, palm over sternum. "They were going so fast."

Carter skittered down the slope of a dune. "I should have warned you. There's only bad roads or no roads going south along the coast, so the locals use the beach like a superhighway. If you want to sunbathe I'd recommend the pool at the Rec Center. Better security. Cold drinks to boot. Though I see you've got the security part handled."

The Glock lay in the sand, having tumbled out when Archie retrieved his shirt. Melissa dipped her chin and glared. "Archie! What are you doing with that gun?"

The caretaker snorted and guffawed.

***

Arcadio took them to Bata at sundown. Michael Kremer roomed with a group of young, local activists in a concrete house outside the outside beautified Potemkin zone. Most of his Equatoguinean friends rotated in and out of jails, but the presiding government was reluctant to lock Kremer up because of the acquaintances he had made with some of the college-age progeny of the ruling family. Not to mention, his connections with the international media made them think twice. They didn't want to be the ones to make a martyr out of him.

They found Kremer at his favorite table at the Café Tierra right at six o'clock, just as the notes in the briefcase indicated. His arm was bandaged and tucked in a sling. Long, dirty blonde locks poured from a red bandanna.

Archie made a beeline for his table, with Melissa right behind him. Kremer gave them a startled glance. He shot to his feet and reached into a vest pocket. He held up a can of pepper spray.

"Whoa! It's okay. We're friendlies."

"What's that bulge under your shirt?"

"Bulge?" Archie patted the Glock in its shoulder holster.

"I tried to tell you, Arch," said Melissa. "You should have worn something baggier." She scrunched her nose at Kremer. "He never listens."

"Listen, I brought this for our own protection. This has nothing to do with you."

"You're with those guys that've been tailing me, aren't you?"

"No."

"Then, who? I'm not used to having armed strangers just walk up to me at my tables with a purpose in their eye."

"Purpose? Did I look like I had a purpose?"

"You did, Archie," said Melissa. "You kind of just stomped up to him like a big old grizzly bear. No tact at all, this one."

Archie took a breath. "Listen. It's a long story. Too long to tell. Let's just say that there's been a massive fuckup, and I'm here to help you."

"I don't need any help."

"You don't understand. Your life's at stake."

"So what's new? I've had a bounty on my head ever since I got involved with the mangroves. At this point, it's been such a hassle, I might even welcome my death. It'd be a net plus for the cause. Get people to notice, finally."

"What is your cause... exactly?" said Melissa. "Archie tried to explain but it kind of eluded me. Something about trees?"

"Mangroves. But not just mangroves. The entire ecosystem and the communities that depend on them for fishing, farming and the right to drink uncontaminated water, breathe uncontaminated air. It's not just about mudskippers and angel fish."

"Listen, this is all nice," said Archie. "I mean, great cause and all. I'm all for protecting mangroves. But you need to lay low for a while. These people, the ones who've been following you...." He glanced around the patio and lowered his voice. "They think I'm their assassin. But... there's been a mix-up. They think I'm some other guy, who's dead. I get all his communications. They shuttle me around everywhere as if I were him."

Kremer contorted his face. "But that's absurd!"

"Yeah, I know," said Archie, shrugging.

Kremer relaxed a bit. A grin took root and spread across his lips. "Have a seat. I want to hear more."

Archie pulled up a chair. "There's not much else to say, other than you need to make yourself scarce. Get your ass out of here. Disappear somewhere safe. I'm gonna give you some papers that will blow this wide open. Once you're safe... I want you to release them to your friends."

"My... friends?"

"Yeah, you know. The media."

"The media's not my friend," said Kremer, exasperated. "I'm lucky to get a mention once every two years. I mean it was sheer luck to get that story in the Guardian about the LNG plant on Bonny Island. The bloke reporting it was coming through on holiday. Of all places to go—"

"Well, you're better situated than we are. But you need to disappear fast. They're not only watching you, they're watching us. Once they realize we let you slip they're gonna come after you with the B team."

Kremer looked befuddled. "Who exactly are you people? How did you get involved in this?"

"I'm... nobody special." Archie slumped back. "Just some wuss who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Speak for yourself." Melissa leaned over. "Hi, I'm Melissa Wray. It's so nice to meet you."

"Melissa, this is no time to flirt."

"I'm not flirting, just being polite."

Archie handed Kremer a manila envelope with the surveillance info they had gathered on him. He thumbed through it.

"How is this going to help? It's just random stuff about me. Where and when I scratch my ass. None of it's incriminating."

"Oh yes it is. Some of it is. I mean, there are names and logos. I think they even use the word 'elimination' somewhere in here."

"But most of it's just... surveillance. Nothing illegal. I don't see any instructions telling anyone to commit a crime. I hate to tell you, but I'm not the right person for this job. You are. If you're privy to their communications, then you're the one who needs to get this message out. They'd only consider me a wacko... one of those conspiracy nuts."

"But... you're somebody with a presence. I'm... nobody. What am I supposed to do, go and broadcast this on Voice of America?"

"Maybe," said Kremer. "If that's what it takes. Listen. I'm going to have my dinner here. You're welcome to join me. If what you say is true, then we're all screwed. They're probably watching us now, and if you don't shoot me, they're going to realize something is wrong. But I'm going to have myself some barracuda filet so if you'll kindly hold off the assassination until I have my... possibly... last meal."

Archie huffed. "But I'm not... I wasn't going to assassinate you."

Kremer rolled his eyes. "I realize that. Listen. I intend to take your advice. Head up to Cameroon for a while. It's a nice time to be up in the hill country around Mount Fako. I could use some fresh, cool air for a change. I might suggest you do the same."

"Go with you to Cameroon?" said Melissa, her eyes widening.

"No. I meant... you should lay low as well. Somewhere else, preferably. Keep away from the bad guys. Again, if what you say is true, you're in big trouble. These people don't fool around."

"How about... you pretend you're dead?" said Melissa. "Stay completely out of sight. Totally out of contact with anyone. Just for a while. Make it look like we did our job?"

Kremer shrugged. "Hmm." He took a sip of his water. "That could be arranged." He sipped again. "You know... that's not a bad idea, actually. A little bit of disappearing would do me some good. Heal up. Clear my mind. Get the goonies off my back. Funny. I thought that's what I thought I was accomplishing by coming down here to Bata."

A waiter brought a steaming platter of whole barracuda, with piles of pepper and cabbage and shredded carrot. He took up a forkful. "But don't expect me to be able to get your message out. That's something you're going to have to do yourself."

"What do you think, Archie?" said Melissa.

Archie frowned. "Yeah. Makes sense, I suppose. Maybe it's the best we can do for now, but the question is... what next?"

Melissa stared at a platter shared by a couple at another table. "I don't know about you, but I'm going to try some of that shrimp."

Chapter 19: Houston

Gus usually ate lunch in his basement office, but it was such a balmy spring day. He felt a need to connect with the world in a way that didn't involve satellites and hyper-secure servers.

The consortium sponsored a nice mess with a salad bar and a Starbucks—all complimentary, but he never liked to mingle with the general staff during a sensitive op. All those prying eyes and ears forced their conversations to become awkwardly oblique.

He went out into the courtyard and found a bench under a cherry tree. He unwrapped his capicola and provolone on ciabatta, popped open a can of aranciata and was about to enjoy his lunch in peace when Harry came bursting out of the atrium.

"Oh! There you are. I thought I might find you out here."

"Hello Harry," he drawled listlessly, snatching a mouthful, before Harry got him going.

"Yeah, I wouldn't bother you here normally. I know how precious your quiet time is."

"So why did you?"

"Well, the high mucky-mucks want to know what's up with Black."

"What's to know? He's on track."

"Is he making his checkpoints?"

"He don't need no stinking checkpoints... apparently. I think he's given them up for Lent."

"But he's on track? You're sure?"

"Sure seems that way. The mangrove kid seems to have vanished."

"Really?"

Gus swallowed what he had in his mouth and took a sip of his soda.

"Yep, and it's all correlated with Black. Our observers spotted him having dinner with the kid last night."

"Really?"

"Yep. Sounds like they had a nice, calm little chat, once the kid put his pepper spray away."

"Interesting. You got sound on that?"

"Negative. He was on to our wires. He kept switching tables."

"You should have wired up Black."

"Yeah right. As if...."

"Too bad. I would have liked to have heard what they chatted about. I presume he kept in character?"

"That's the whole idea. To everyone but us, he's Archie Parsons now. We've been suppressing the obits. Word of mouth is the only way anyone over there would know he was dead, and this Parsons fellow was a bit of a hermit in his latter days."

"Well, that's good. We wouldn't want his cover blown before he goes after the big fish. He's still going after the big fish, isn't he?"

"That's the plan," said Gus. "He hasn't indicated otherwise. He's got his pre-briefing. Got a pickup planned for tomorrow."

"Great. The fellows upstairs will be pleased. They wanted this to be a three-fer to make the risk worthwhile. Some of them only really cared about the big fish. Fernando is the biggest monkey wrench in their machinery. This will give them good value. This Black fellow is really going out with a bang, isn't he? Tahiti, they're sending him after this. Can you imagine retiring in Tahiti?"

Gus took advantage of Harry's soliloquy to enjoy some more of his capicola. Harry just stood there and watched him eat. Such a tight ass, this Harry with his crisp, starched shirt, perfect buzz cut and perfectly knotted tie, so tight on his neck it had to impair the supply of oxygen to his brain. Maybe that explained that vacant gaze of his.

"So you think Black did Mr. Mangrove in?" said Harry.

Gus shrugged. "Seems that way. He didn't leave his weapons at home this time. This time he was packing iron."

"Any proof?"

"What do you want? A scalp? An ear? That's not how the man operates. He's all about clean. That's why the mucky mucks like him and why they pay him so well. Bottom line is... no more Kremer. The kid went home after dinner. Got a bag. Had a taxi drop him off at some shanty town. And that was that. Our observers never saw him come out. And in the morning, one of his girlfriends files a missing person report. A good sign. The other girlfriend shows up at the Bata jail looking for him, then after, goes to the first girlfriend's apartment and—"

"Cat fight?" said Harry.

"No. They commiserated. An even better sign."

"So... just like that? No more Kremer?"

"No more Kremer," said Gus, reaching for his soda.

"Huh. Imagine that. Then I guess you're right. That guy is pretty slick."

"He's Mr. Clean. No body. No blood."

"Unlike the beast from the east," said Harry.

"Heh! You mean Agent White? The basket case?"

"Yeah, I know. He's a fucking butcher. I can't believe they're sending him to check up on Black."

Gus nearly inhaled his aranciata. "What? You've got to be kidding me." He gasped. A trickle dribbled down his chin.

"Nope. The folks upstairs are worried about the checkpoint issue. They don't like being left out of the loop, having to depend on me... and you... for status reports."

"How's White gonna help with that? He's just gonna muck things up."

"He's backup. In case Black can't deliver the big fish. President de Marazul is the one the really want. These others are just... gravy."

"Well if you want my two cents, they should keep White the fuck in Ethiopia. Black's got things under control."

"White's already got orders cut," said Harry, folding his arms as if that was that.

"Are they fucking nuts?"

Harry inhaled through his teeth. "All I know is, he's on his way to STP."

"Jesus!"

"It's okay. They're just going to have him lay low. Sit on a beach. Enjoy some R&R. But he'll be in place in case we need some assistance."

Gus sighed deeply. "Well, they'd better send a cleanup crew... if White's gonna be involved in this."

"We'll have damage control on site, not to mention this Hodges guy. But I can't believe White's as bad as you make him out to be."

"He's worse," said Gus. "I've been on ops with him. This man is cruel... and sloppy. A bad combination. He's all about overkill. Collateral damage means nothing to him."

"Well, the way Black's been going, maybe there's nothing to worry about. We can let him do his thing and White can have himself a nice little beach vacation. I'm sure he'll enjoy it. I hear Addis is chilly this time of year."

"Addis is chilly every time of the year," said Gus, who had somehow managed to finish his sandwich. "Especially when White's in town."

Chapter 20: White

Agent White loped through Siddist Kilo, passing knots of nervous and excited students who were beginning to gather to protest the flaky results of yesterday's national elections. Every neutral poll had affirmed that there was no way in hell the ruling party could have won in a fair contest, yet here they were declaring victory yet again.

Ridiculous, the idea of these corrupt bastards garnering majority support in any constituency. For months now, the underground newspapers had been ablaze with news of their latest corruption and incompetence, not the least among them, giving away mineral rights for peanuts to the Chinese. Everyone on the street was onto them by now, not that the opposition leaders would prove any better.

White could sense Ethiopia about to ignite, and it tickled him. Chaos was the fuel of change and bedlam brought opportunity. Beyond the extra contracts he could garner he found pure entertainment value in civil turbulence.

Even though he had no dog in this fight, he remained very much an interested spectator. When it came to pastimes, this revolution stuff beat English Premier League hands down.

He made his way to his favorite café near the National Museum, where the remains of Lucy, the three-million-year-old Ethiopian mother of all humanity reposed. He ordered 'spris'—spiced tea layered over coffee and watched the show.

Soldiers piled out of trucks. Policemen strapped on battered riot gear. Across the street, he could see some students with cardboard shields stoop to gather rocks. Idiots. Did they think the cops and soldiers would bother with rubber bullets?

Spris drained, he called the waiter over and ordered a papaya, mango and avocado smoothie, which came layered and thick in a tall glass. This was his liquid lunch. He had gained a bit of weight during his recuperation and now it was time to get trim again.

His employers had given him time to heal, or so they said, farming projects to others while promising to include him in future operations. He hated the feeling of being tucked aside on a shelf, watching the world go on without him. The intricacies of the East African theatre were too great to expect second-tier contractors to handle them properly. The clock was ticking. Every day that passed without a job was another day for his employers to forget him.

Disabling headaches still struck him down almost daily, but what could he expect from such a severe concussion? And it didn't thrill him to have that flashy new scar along his jaw line. A distinguishing feature like that interfered with his ability to disappear into a crowd, which had been one of his more useful traits as an assassin.

Apart from his strong and distinctive brow, he had an ideal visage for someone whose success depended on not being noticed. His bland Cushite features made him an everyman in any East African city. His skin, not too dark, not too light, allowed him to pass for a Kenyan as much as a Zambian, Somali or Sudanese.

That he had grown up in London posed no handicaps whatsoever. His Brixton neighborhood had hosted immigrants from every corner of the continent—Sudanese lost boys, Congolese refugees, Francophones, Anglophones, Swahili. He knew every culture and quite a few of their tribal tongues. He had a talent for tongues, absorbing languages and dialects the way cotton gauze wicked blood.

A chant sprung up. Signs in Amharic and English appeared among the coagulating protest crowd. The road between Arat Kilo and Siddist Kilo was to be the front line. With Addis Ababa University to his back, he had a front row seat to the festivities. He checked his pocket for the custom ceramic and polymer two-shot zip gun he carried to beat the metal detectors.

He could have gotten away with carrying a regular pistol. The doormen at the Sheraton knew him (and his tips) so well they waved him through security. But he never knew when he might visit a place where he might be wanded with a metal detector. So for now, his primary firepower remained tucked away in his safe at the Sheraton.

Of late, anyway, he had been trying to wean himself away from ballistic weapons. Bullets had this nasty habit of carrying on their merry way after missing their targets and plowing into people he never intended to assassinate.

It had been three months since his last botched gig in Lusaka and he sensed that his employers had lost confidence in him. He had accidentally killed two innocent bystanders in that op, and had to bash in the face of a police officer who tried to apprehend him.

Nobody warned him what tough sons of bitches those Zambian copper miners could be. His target had not gone down easily and he himself had taken a shovel blade to the chin that had sent him stumbling and staggering down a riverbank in retreat.

He had gotten no help whatsoever from the worthless extraction team they had sent in support. The B team, they called themselves. B for bad, botched job, bloody incompetent. They had been late to the scene and the bastards couldn't even find him when he had passed out bleeding under a hedge.

But Addis was as good a place as any to wait things out. He could reach any part of East Africa—his assigned territory—from Bole Airport in a few hours time. He enjoyed the food and the climate appealed to him immensely. It was sunnier than London, but at 2,400 meters, the air was thin and the nights were dank and cold, just how he liked them. Good sleeping weather.

A man in a blue smock came bustling out of the kitchen and began hauling down the steel security doors. The waitress came over and shyly handed him a bill.

"Sir... we have to be closing... due to the student troubles."

"Troubles?" He downed the last of his smoothie and his coffee-tea. "This is no trouble at all." He slapped several filthy birr notes on the glass table. "Bunch of pansies, these AAU kids. Look at them lurk. Look at them hiding behind each other. That's not how you protest. They need to send some folks up from J-burg or Cape Town. Give 'em some lessons. Show 'em how to do it properly."

"Sir. I beg to differ," said the man in blue. "Last time we had elections. Ten students were shot dead on this very street."

"Oh? And how many policemen fell? How many soldiers? In Cape Town the protesters give as good as they get. Here, the coppers here got nothing worry about. They can punish with impunity."

"Sir, if you would not mind my asking. Which side do you sympathize with? This is not clear to me."

"Sympathize? I've got no sympathy for any of these blokes. The government's rotten to the core and the people get what they deserve for putting up with them. I'm not a fooking Ethiopian, so what do I care? I'm just passing through."

"Yet you wish for the students to show more resistance? I do not understand."

"I'm just looking for a bloody good show. That's all," he said as he slipped out the door. "That's all there is to it." He glared across the street. "Bunch of pansies."

A man in a striped shirt stepped out of a pizza shop just as White hit the sidewalk. His narrow, weasel-like features looked all too familiar. He had crossed paths with this guy too often that day for him not to be a tail. Yemeni operatives were scattered throughout Addis, and some had been stalking him for months.

Such pests they were. Nothing aggravated White more than constant surveillance. He treasured his solitude.

It all started after a contract in Balhaf, Yemen when he had snuffed the wrong target not once but twice. Third time was the charm but by then he had gotten himself on some of the most exclusive shit lists in the Horn of Africa. He had tribal Imams after him, multinationals, the Yemeni Secret Police, maybe even Al Qaeda.

He patted the zip gun in his jacket pocket. If things got noisy and violent enough in this crowd, it might provide an opportunity to take him out in public. He would have to do a switch and get behind him. Get close enough for the small caliber, low velocity projectile to do its work properly.

Crowds were marvelous for sowing confusion, but doing the deed in such close quarters risked collateral harm to bystanders. His record was already littered with black marks for imprecise kills. It was the biggest strike against him when it came to issuing new contracts, and likely the reason he had gone without work for several months.

Maybe instead, now that the sun was falling, maybe he could take advantage of the cover of darkness and circle behind Arat Kilo to the unlighted street that harbored his hideaway, a little guest house near the Armenian Club. Somewhere back there he could do the deed and quickly disappear into his haven.

The little guest house had all the characteristics a man like him needed: steel gates street side, a high cinderblock wall topped with glass shards, hot showers and a non-inquisitive proprietor.

He had hired all four rooms. That way he could choose a different one to sleep in every night by flipping a shilling and a penny. Two heads and it was Room A. Two tails—Room B, and so on down the line.

He had kept his room at the Sheraton because it had a roomy safe and the consortium felt better about sending their couriers to a five-star hotel. Unfortunately, the place crawled with visitors from Yemen. Some, no doubt, were aware of his notoriety in Aden, and some were probably assassins just like him. Only rarely did he sleep there, though he often used it to impress dates. Rumpling the sheets now and then helped make his room seem lived-in.

Even with the long-term discount, the Sheraton's daily rate was more than twice the monthly cost of his four rooms at Zeta Guest House. He tipped the landlord and his staff amply to protect his privacy. He told them that he was a singer, a celebrity from LA and that he had come to Ethiopia seeking a quiet place to write songs.

The ladies who cleaned his rooms, enchanted by his purported celebrity, hovered close whenever they could and made a game of guessing who he was, blurting out the names of well-known singers and rappers.

"Snoopy Dog," the older one had guessed the other day upon bringing him a tray of oatmeal and toast.

"Sorry. No."

"Black Eye Pea," said her young assistant, wiping the same window over and over.

"Guess again."

The elderly owner, a retired university professor had stepped into the room and the ladies quickly put their heads down and got busy.

"Good morning," he had said. "I trust these ladies are not disturbing you?"

"Not at all. These two are a hoot. I enjoy their banter." Of course, he had already slept with the younger of the pair, but that was between the two of them.

"If they disturb your peace too much, you let me know. In fact, you tell me if you find anything here unsatisfactory. Anything at all."

"Everything's brilliant. It's a marvelous establishment that you run here."

The owner stared down at the paving stones, hissed through his teeth and winced in that distinctly Ethiopian way. "I am sorry to tell you, sir. We have tried very hard to be quiet about your presence, but I am afraid some paparazzi may have located you."

"Paparazzi? How... how do you know they're paparazzi?"

"They have cameras," the owner had said. "And they have rented the house across the street."

This had been his first indication that the Yemenis had located his hideout. He wasn't worried about his safety as much as his privacy, and the safety of the girls he brought back to the guest house. He hadn't heard from one in a while and now he had an inkling that her disappearance had something to do with these Yemenis. They used kidnapping and torture to gather information as casually as some people used Google. Perhaps it was time to curb their enthusiasm.

The guy tailing him in the striped shirt he recognized from the shoeshine stands in front of the Orthodox church near Menelik Square. White's favorite restaurant was around the corner, and the Yemenis knew it. They were probably recording his movements, detecting a pattern with which they hoped to destroy him with a well-placed, well-timed bomb or, if necessary, a knifing. They weren't the most discreet of operatives. He and they had much in common that way.

He ambled down the walk, maneuvering through and around those who had come to gawk at the protests. He paused now and them to feign curiosity at the proceedings, while tracking the location of his pursuer in the corner of his eye. The striped shirt made it easy. Such bad form, wearing such distinctive clothing on a tail. What did the guy think this was, 'Where's Waldo?'

White turned off the main road and entered the deep shadows of a side street stocked with a smarter breed of rubbernecker, people with sense enough to remain out of the crossfire that would likely ensue between the protesters and police. Once he pushed past this throng, he was alone with a few stubborn and curious grade-schoolers who darted this way and that for a view of the action, ignoring the pleas of their parents.

He turned left, away from home, one a side road paralleling the main road leading towards the city center. This part of town rested on a shelf above a steep ravine harboring a stream that was more open sewer than water course. He cut down some stone steps that led into the ravine. There were few lights along the way. In places, under the trees, the darkness was nearly absolute.

A quick glance revealed Mr. Stripe Shirt illuminated by the street lamp at the top of the stairs. He lit a cigarette and pretended to linger but White could tell he still intended to follow.

Halfway down, he reached a terrace with side paths leading to neighborhoods dense with shanties in either direction. He turned down the darker path and tucked himself under some overhanging vegetation. It would be a shame to waste his plastic pistol on this poor bastard. Two shots and this kind of gun became useless, its barrel too fouled and warped to make it worth reloading.

He fished in the pocket of his jean jacket for his garrote—a coil of braided wire with sticks attached at either end. He listened to the footsteps coming down the stone stairway, heard them pause, turn the wrong way, then double back.

He held his breath, grasping the sticks and spreading the garrote as wide as it would go and crossing his wrists to make a wide loop. A glimpse of dim stripes through the leaves. White leapt out into the path, startling the man into a stumble. A knife flashed out. White whipped the loop of wire over the man's head and yanked the sticks as far apart as he could.

It was as simple as drawing a bow string. His pecs flexed. Something cracked in the man's neck. The knife fell. The man gurgled and kicked. White maintained the pressure until Mr. Stripe Shirt went still. And that was that.

Voices. People were coming from one of the neighborhoods. White rifled the man's pocket for a cell phone, a notepad and a wallet and shoved him into the underbrush.

He walked briskly back the other way and turned up the stairs, watchful in the wash of lamplight up top for another Yemeni who might have been supporting his partner.

His cell phone buzzed. He sighed. This was no time for a chat. He glanced at the screen. It was Houston. He had to take it. He enabled the encryption app on his touch screen and answered, eyes scanning the knots of people emerging from the shadows of the un-illuminated side road. The hash function came up verified. Satisfied, he flipped it open.

"White here."

"Crypto secure?"

"As always."

"Got a mission for you. West Africa. Backup for Black."

"Say what? West Africa is Black's territory."

"Yeah. I know."

"So what's the deal? Since when does Black need backup?"

"Guys upstairs are getting nervous. They're after a real big fish. I mean, game-changing big. But Black's been acting rather funny lately. Missing checkpoints. Trashing weapons for no good reason. Might have something to do with this girlfriend he has tagging along."

"He's doing an op with a girl? That's bad form. Totally unprofessional. Is she an operative?"

"Kinda. Sorta. I mean, she's on payroll but—"

"What do you mean? She an operative or not?"

"I mean, she's an informal hire. Piece work. One of these rent-a-spy types. A paid informant, really. Practically zero clearance. We never intended for her to go to Africa."

"Holy fook. You think he's taken a fancy to her?"

"I guess. It must have been lust at first sight, because they only met for like ten minutes during a briefing. Doesn't seem to have hurt his efficiency. He's two for two on contracts. Both as clean as a whistle."

"Yeah, well don't rub it in. Where do you want me to go and when?"

"STP and ASAP."

"Where the fook is STP?"

"You'll find the details in your room at the Sheraton. I suggest you get yourself some sleep."

"Bloody hell! You fooking ignore me for three months and now you want me to ship out the next morning?"

"Don't give me that. You know how this business works. So? You on?"

White turned back towards the protests on the main drag. He could tell things were getting wild from all the shouting and bloody faces passing him in the other direction. A cloud of CS gas billowed into the alley. He grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose, squinting through the tears.

"I repeat. Are you on?"

"Of course," he said, coughing and hacking. "Have I ever said no?"

Chapter 21: Cigarette Boat

Archie and Melissa picnicked in the fluffy sand just outside the fence, hep now to the cars and trucks using the wave-packed flats near the water line as a major thoroughfare. Some people waved, others just stared as their vehicles screamed past. During the long gaps in between, they were lulled by the regular crash of waves and the lilt of a woman singing away her chores in the little settlement beside the camp.

Arcadio had brought them a cooler packed with langostino salad on soft rolls, and sliced and salted cucumbers with grape tomatoes from Cameroon, and sliced papaya drizzled with lime. A separate compartment held coconut macaroons along with a bottle of South African Chardonnay and two stemmed glasses.

"So what will you do in Paris?" said Melissa, belly down on a beach towel, an empty glass tipped beside her as a baby crab investigated the nature of grape sugar and ethanol.

"I don't know," said Archie. "Eat crepes. Feed pigeons. I'm not even sure it'll be Paris that I end up. Might be cheaper and safer to hole up in the countryside."

"You realize, eventually, you'll have to get the government to correct the official records. I mean, you can't just go on being dead."

"Why not? I kind of like being dead. Why can't I give myself a new name and start from scratch? I hear they've got great health care in France. Number one in the world. Not to mention the rest of their social safety net. Doesn't even matter if you're illegal."

"Would you be able to work without... a history?"

"Work? Oh, I'm not worried about work right away. I've got enough money stashed from all these briefcases, even after we pay back HVI. And if I run out, I'll sweep floors, trim hedges. I don't care."

"I've always wanted to see France," said Melissa. "Those cute cafés. The Louvre. That film festival in Cannes."

"They're pronounced 'loov' and 'kahn.'"

"Whatever."

"I've even got friends at the Institut Pasteur. But I'm not sure I'll let them know I'm there. It'd be nice going solo for a change."

"For a change? Archie, you've always gone solo. Ever since I've known you."

"Not always," he said, watching a fishing boat, sails full, dart past the breakers in a stiff southerly.

Melissa sighed. "I have no idea how I'm gonna get home. My return ticket says Accra. And I was supposed to leave like yesterday."

"The airline should still be able to issue you a credit. Just tell them you were hung up somewhere. Happens all the time. This is West Africa. They're used to it. After that, you can rebook. There might be a penalty, maybe fifty or a hundred dollars, but I'll cover it. From here, they've got flights that stop in Zurich or Madrid, and then it's non-stop back to DC."

"Not... Paris?"

"I doubt it. Not from EG. From a Francophone country, maybe."

Melissa gave him an odd, pouty look that barely registered with him. He was busy pondering what route he should take out of EG. Unlike Melissa, he had the visas to cross any border in West Africa. His options by land were either Cameroon to the north or south to Gabon. Douala was a bit more accessible by road than Libreville, but Kremer was supposed to be in Cameroon. It might be awkward if they crossed paths.

"You'll keep in touch?"

"Um... maybe."

"Maybe?" She twisted around on her blanket. "After all we've been through?"

"We need to be discreet, Melissa. I don't want them to connect you with me."

"Huh? Isn't it too late for that? They know all about me Arch. They even got my dress size right this time."

"These Xtraktiv characters are going to want to track me down. They'll be watching your email, tapping your phone."

"If we stayed together, that wouldn't be an issue. Would it?"

"It would make it harder for us to run, to hide."

She tipped her brow and stared at him, her eyes flat and hard. "So we don't. Let them come. We can find a place to make a stand. We've got weapons. I'm not as helpless as you think, Arch."

Archie looked away and sighed. "I'd just feel better keeping you out of this. I just want you to be safe."

Her eyes rolled skyward and she shook her head. "It's too late for that. Don't you see? It's way too late."

"Melissa, once they figure out that Kremer is alive. That... Archie Parsons... the real one... is alive. I'm just afraid the shit's really gonna hit the fan."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe they'll sweep it all under a rug. Chalk it up as a mistake and move on."

"I don't think so. Especially not after I talk to The Guardian or Sixty Minutes."

"Say what?" Melissa's chin dropped and dangled.

"Wishful thinking, maybe. But this story needs to get out. I can't let them get away with this shit."

"Archie. I'm just as upset as you that they do these things, but you should let bygones be bygones. These dudes are dangerous."

Archie stared out over the water. Something buzzed far beyond the breakers—a strange motorboat with a long and low profile. It glinted in the sun and zipped across the whitecaps like a missile. Something Melissa had mentioned the other day still bugged him.

"Those guys who visited you while I was away. What exactly did they ask about me?"

The muscles in her shoulders tensed. Her eyes panned the dunes, avoiding Archie's gaze. "I don't know, besides your travel schedule, it was basic stuff. Your favorite beer. Foods you liked and didn't like. Whether or not you smoked. Trivia, really. It was like they were planning a surprise party."

"Or doing research on how to impersonate me. Why didn't you just tell them to go away? That this was private information?"

Melissa shrugged. "The stuff they asked seemed... harmless. And for all I know, they might have been the FBI. If I didn't cooperate—"

"Didn't you ask them?"

"Ask them what?"

"Who they were."

A dull roar carried across the wind. Archie thought it might be another truck, but it was that motor boat, the odd one, skipping across the breakers, coming closer to shore.

"They didn't say exactly. I just kind of figured—"

"Did they pay you?"

"Say what?" Melissa sat up abruptly, grimacing and crossing her arms, as if she had been insulted.

Arcadio came down the path, trundling Melissa's suitcase and carrying Archie's belongings in a plastic sack along with a new briefcase, this time blue and metallic.

"The boat is come."

"What boat?"

"Your boat. It is come."

The engine of the motor boat cut off and the long, sleek craft drifted in close to the beach, rolling with the breakers. A man tossed an anchor out of the wheel pit.

Archie just stared at Arcadio.

"You must go now," said Arcadio. "The boat cannot stay. People will see."

The man in the boat whistled to them long and loud.

Carter hustled up to the gate and pointed at the waiting boat. "You guys better get a move on. Hear those sirens? Those are police cars screaming down the marshes from Bata to check things out. Some fisherman with a mobile must have tipped them off. Coast Guard will be out patrolling before you know it."

"But where are we going? I need a shower."

"You can shower in Ureca."

"Where?"

"Ureca. Next stop on your grand tour. Don't worry. It's all in that briefcase."

Melissa shook out her towel and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Come on Arch. Let's go." She waded out towards the boat.

"Pleasure working with you Mr. Black," said Carter. "Good luck, you two!"

Chapter 22: Ureca

The cigarette boat was a smuggler's dream, long and sleek with twin powerful turbines and planar surfaces designed to skip atop the water like a hydrofoil. It looked more like a spaceship than a watercraft.

Archie waded up to his waist into the surf. The water was bathtub warm, but he should have taken off his leather shoes first. They were likely ruined. What was he thinking? All this rushing about with those sirens going off and his heart pounding made it hard to think straight.

A stocky, mustachioed man with a fringe of gray around his ears threw a rope ladder over the side of his craft and helped Melissa aboard with one hand bracing the small of her back and the other firmly around her wrist. She nearly jiggled out of her bikini as she landed on the deck.

"Beach blanket bingo. Oo-rah!" said the boatman.

Arcadio had waded out with them, balancing Melissa's suitcase atop his head. Archie hoisted the briefcase over the side and started up the ladder with difficulty as the boat lurched and bobbed in the heavy swells.

"Fucking A! Agent Black. The... Agent Black. Man, I've been dying to meet you. Some Navy Seals in Djibouti told me all about your escapades, you rascal."

"Hi," said Archie, meekly as he lowered himself with care onto the heaving deck.

"Name's Curt. Curtis Hodges." He thrust out a calloused right hand missing the tips of his ring finger and pinky.

Archie shook it, conscious of his own scar-free, baby soft fingers. "Good to meet you."

"Well, off we go. Can't afford to stick around with the dang equatos on our ass." He rushed to the wheel. The engines growled to life, rumbling the boards underfoot. "We're lucky. Today the choppers are grounded."

"Choppers?"

"El Presidente's pride and joy—a pair of Russian Hind helicopter gunships. They follow him around like puppies wherever he goes. He's off in Mongomo at the moment. Far end of the country. He's actually got five of them birds, but the others are off-line, getting worked on in Bata and Malabo. Never seen 'em up and running all at once. The upside is we got nothing to bother us by air. By sea, it's no contest. This baby'll outrun and outmaneuver anything they got."

"But why would they? We haven't done anything wrong."

"He-heh. Good one, Black." He hauled up the anchor as Arcadio gave the bow a shove to orient it out towards the open sea.

"Bye Arcadio! Thanks for everything," said Melissa, blowing a kiss to him. "Bye everyone!" She waved to Carter and the guard at the gate. "Aw, I wish we could have stayed longer. I liked it here."

The alarms pealed louder from the Bata road. Two vehicles with red and blue lights surged off the road and onto the beach, fishtailing in the dunes.

"Hang on!"

Mr. Hodges threw the turbines into gear. The bow leapt out of the water and they exploded out towards the reef. Archie tumbled and rolled against the deck, knocking his head against a storage bin.

"I told you to hang on. This baby's got quite the kick."

***

The shoreline dwindled to a faint and rumpled line on the horizon. In the other direction the tops of oil platforms began to pop up like little Eiffel Towers in the Gulf of Guinea.

Archie leaned against the side, hair flapping wildly as the cigarette boat skipped like a flat stone over the tops of the waves. Melissa stood next to Mr. Hodges, making small talk, her towel flying straight back like a superhero's cape.

Hodges kept glancing back at Archie. "You're looking a little green, Black. You're not fixing to hurl, are you?"

"Nah. I'm just beat."

"There're two cabins in the bow if you need to crash. It's gonna be a few hours before we reach Ureca."

"Yeah. Maybe I will."

"Watch your head, they're kind of low. Like pup tents, really."

Archie grabbed the briefcase and crawled through a hatch that reminded him of a doggie door. The frame of the boat thrummed with the vibrations of the muscular turbines. That was fine. He could use the massage.

The cabin was fitted with a full-sized poly-fill futon and a pair of waterproof pillows. He flicked on an LED lamp, made himself comfortable and flipped open the briefcase.

No weapons this time, but there was something new embedded in the foam. It looked like a smartphone, but more angular and bulkier than most he had seen. It carried no model name or corporate logos, no identifying marks whatsoever. He left it stuck in the foam, afraid to turn it on lest someone call him.

He shuffled through the papers, finding yet another black card.

"NOTIFY! & VERIFY!" it shouted in glossy capitals. "tR8bL56q." He stuck the card in his shirt pocket with the others.

The papers included the usual cryptic background material, but this time there were names and photos and places—another target. He picked up a photo smiling, nappy-haired mulatto man with Portuguese features. The guy looked familiar. He turned the picture around and found a printed caption: Fernando Armando Carlos de Marazul, President of STP.

"Holy shit!"

"What's wrong?" said Melissa, poking her head into the cabin.

"Look at this guy. I know him." He handed her the photo as she clambered in and knelt on the mattress.

"You know... a President?"

"Well, not personally. I was part of a group that wrote a successful Global Fund proposal. The President brought us in during an M&E visit to thank us. He's a real down-to-earth guy. Does his own farming. He was really pleasant to talk to."

"Why would they want to kill him?"

"It's... not clear. Probably for the same reason as those other guys. He's in the way of something they want to do." He thumbed through the paperwork. "Something tells me it has nothing to do with mangroves this time."

Melissa pulled a folder out and started reading. "Looks like it has something to do with oil."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Archie... I'm trying to help." She glared for several long seconds before turning back to the papers. "Lots of stuff here about contracts with Nigerians. Here's something about a rigged bid for an exploration block, whatever that means."

"Let me see that." Archie crawled closer and peered over her shoulder. "Huh. They're accusing him of putting up for bid zones he knew to be dry and withholding the juicy ones, the ones that have a chance to be commercially productive."

"Here's a speech he gave. Translated. He says something about how oil wealth can be a curse for a country and how he wants to avoid the 'petroleum disease.' Not taking the path that ruined Gabon and Angola. He wants to reserve São Tomé's oil for the future. Not only will it be worth more then, they will be better equipped to handle it without external help."

"Save it for later generations? How weird. Who thinks that way?" said Archie.

"De Marazul, obviously. That's why they want him out of there."

"So... this one's gonna be easy," said Melissa.

"How so?"

"You already know the guy."

"Oh, I doubt he'd remember me. I was just another pale face in a crowd of consultants."

"But I'm sure he remembers the grant you got for him. That should be your handle. So... you get an audience... a meeting... with him, or someone close to him, pass on the bad news and we can fly away to safety. A big cheese like him should be able to raise a public stink on his own."

"Maybe so," said Archie. Somehow, he didn't think it was going to be as easy as she made it sound.

"Can you get to Paris from São Tomé?"

"Not directly. Looks like we'll have to fly through Lisbon."

"Oh wow! I hear that's a wonderful city. Have you been there before?"

***

Archie dozed off, lulled by the hum and thrum of the turbines. When he awoke, he found Melissa snoring beside him. He peeked out a little porthole, hoping to see land, but finding only choppy seas toothed with foam. The cloud cover had increased, and the sky looked like it was fixing to burst.

He didn't feel like going outside so he reached into the briefcase and retrieved the one folder he hadn't yet looked at. He was intrigued to find that this one contained some of Black's personal mail. All of it had been opened and looked like Swiss cheese. Parts had been redacted with an X-Acto knife to protect the identity of Black's family and acquaintances, probably more to protect Black than to protect them.

It was clear that one note came from his mom and another from a lover.

"Hi Sweetie,

Not much new here. The woodchucks are trashing Dad's garden as usual. He wishes you were here to shoot them. He doesn't have the stomach to do it himself. Heck, if I had a gun I'd do it for him. Those bastards are even going after the tomatoes.

Aunt _______ came to visit the other day with her new Yorkie pup. That little creature was adorable. We miss you. I hope you can find a way to stop by the next time you're in _______ even if it's for a couple of hours. It'd be nice to see you.

I know it's a hard thing that you're doing and you made the right decision to get out. I never realized that this altered identity thing was going to stick to you for life. Kind of makes it hard to have a normal family life. I wish you had never gotten involved with this outfit. I know it pays well, but it can't be good for your psyche, not to mention your karma.

Well, take care. They told me to keep these letters short. Just know that Dad and I think about you every day. I asked him to write his own little note, but you know how he is.

Love, Mom.

Archie paused to marvel at how much more human this beast of a man's life seemed than Archie's own life. How many months had it been since he had been in touch with his own mother? She was probably mourning his death, and he had made no attempt to reach out to her, or to anyone else in his family, other than his estranged brother.

How had he gotten so withdrawn from the human race? Was it all that travel? Was it the ridicule he got from his wealthy cousins with their Wall Street and Main Street occupations?

For a man whose own occupation supposedly focused on saving as many human lives as possible, he had become quite the automaton—a bed net shilling robot. Maybe he was better off being Black.

He picked up another letter, this one scented heavily with perfume.

Darling _______,

They promised they would get this note to you but I don't believe them. I am writing on faith alone. You promised we would meet when you returned to _______ but you never said where. You know where to find me, though, don't you? I won't budge until I see you again.

I still have the shirt that you left behind. It smells of you. I sleep with it every night. Call me silly for getting so infatuated with a man over the course of a single weekend. It's never happened before to me. I've abandoned my boyfriend. There was no point in seeing him anymore after being with you.

You said I was special and it made me feel special, as if the magic of your voice could make it so. I hope you really believe that, enough to need seeing me again as much as I need to see you. Those others can't possibly give you what I have to give you. And you know it don't you? I can't wait to remind you in person.

Archie put the letter down. He couldn't imagine a woman penning such a letter to him. What did this guy Black have that he didn't, besides a pulse?

The snoring ceased. Melissa rolled over. "Are we there yet?" she said, groggily.

"Not quite."

She lifted herself to a sitting position and yawned.

"Whatcha reading, Arch?"

***

They reached Ureca just before nightfall. The shoreline looked like a scene from an old Tarzan movie, with thick forest growing right up to the black sand beach and backed by a huge volcanic caldera peeking out of the mists like some lost valley of the dinosaurs.

What passed for a village was just a sparse array of wood and stucco structures tucked into some groves of oil palms. Mr. Hodges pointed the boat towards a cluster of tile-roofed cottages at the head of a narrow inlet cut by a stream that tumbled out of a jungle gorge. He cut the engines just past the surf line and drifted into a crude dock of logs lashed together with sisal twine.

"We'll spend the night here and head for Príncipe in the morning. We'll be island-hopping from here on out. Be a couple days before we hit São Tomé."

"But I thought this was São Tomé," said Melissa.

"This is Bioko, hon. Big difference. The only things they got in common are dead volcanoes and expensive beer."

"Two days, huh? Why didn't we fly?" said Archie.

"Fewer traces," said Mr. Hodges, as hooking up a fuel line and pumping by hand. "Cleaner insertion, extraction. We get stopped at sea, remember, this is a fishing charter."

"Pfft," said Archie. "Some fishing boat."

"Don't laugh. I do okay. I've landed sharks on this baby."

A tendril of smoke curled up from an open cook shack and a young man stepped out to fetch more wood. "Oh crap," said Mr. Hodges. "Moises? What the hell are you doing here? Where the fuck is Natalia?"

"She is at Moka, like you want."

"No, you friggin' idiot! I wanted her here. What's the point of having my best cook in Moka when I'm not there to eat her stuff?"

"No worries. My cooking is getting better," said Moises.

"Yeah, well, don't fool yourself kid."

"No. It is good. You will like. Natalia show me this one. Is stew."

"What kind?"

"Fish and monkey."

"Did he... did he say monkey?" Melissa's lips pursed, eyebrows arching.

Chapter 23: São Tomé

The Ethiopian Airlines flight had shuttled White across the continent with an alacrity that would have been unheard of only five years ago. Back then, the crossing still had to be done in a series of questionable hops on battered old ex-Soviet airliners, with days of delay in between legs. The only other option had been to ping-pong up to Europe on a major carrier.

Thus, the same-day arrival in Douala had startled him. He had arrived with plenty of daylight to charter a boat plane for the next morning and recover his weapons cache from an old friend. After a mirthful evening of palm wine and brochettes he caught a couple hours sleep on a straw-filled sack. Before the roosters could crow, his friend had rushed him to the docks still half-asleep, and after a dreamlike journey through the perpetual equatorial mists, they had put down at a lovely cove called Praia das Sete Ondas, just south of São Tomé town. He kept the pilot on retainer and on call, in case he needed to get away in a hurry.

Now here he was in place, blades sharpened, guns cleaned, and Black had yet to enter the country. From all indications, White could have handled the job and skedaddled before Black had even cleared customs. If only he could convince the consortium to cede the contract to him. But such was the fate of a man on a shit list. He had to hurry up and wait for something that might never happen.

With a sack of Sagres cerveja between his knees, White toured São Tomé town from the back of a three-wheeled jitney. He felt like a warrior lord in his chariot, master of all he surveyed.

This was a lazy place, full of sleepy dogs and idle people, like a page ripped out of an old National Geographic. The island was a back eddy in the stream of ages that the times had not yet overtaken.

But sleepy natives were good news. It meant that the security was likely naïve to threats and slow to respond. It was an island thing, this laxness. Like those flightless birds, dodos and whatnot, that evolve in places too small to harbor predators. A place like this had no experience with terrorists and corporate assassins.

The pink stucco presidential palace had the usual array of glaring soldiers in faded, far-from-uniform uniforms brandishing AK-47s in the open, as if that could deter a man like White. They had stuck concrete blocks here and there to impede traffic and erected a half-assed bunker with an occluded kill zone that just asked to be taken out with a grenade. The security felt 1970s retro, pre-9/11 for sure. A competent mercenary force could crack it with a mere squad.

And some had. The country had experienced two coups since 2003, yet de Marazul, the man in charge then, still held power. How was that possible? Well, the first coup happened while he was away on business in Gabon. The defense minister, upset that his interests were being neglected in the ongoing oil negotiations, had simply declared himself leader. A single phone call and some tender reassurance was all it took for de Marazul to regain power.

And then it happens all over again six years later, but this time the perpetrators are apprehended. So what does de Marazul do? He pardons them. Lets them go from prison on the promise they would behave. He was such an old softy—a soft target, from White's perspective. And the old man wondered why these coups kept happening.

Taking out such an incautious fellow would be cake for White. No challenge at all. The man would never know what hit him. But with Black at the fore, he might never get the chance to display his skill. Black had inside access and weapons that were precise and clean. If Plan A failed, he probably had a Plan B, which made White's presence super-redundant, a Plan C at best.

Still, he should be grateful that the consortium called on him at all for this backup task. It meant that he was showing up on their radar again, getting back into their good graces. If he just stayed calm and kept his hands clean, better work would follow. He might as well kick back and enjoy himself.

These damned Portuguese. This place reminded him of Luanda and Maputo twenty years ago. Parts of it looked like a cheaper, more run-down version of old town Lisbon. Stucco and tile everywhere. Ornate posts and railings. Window boxes. A plaza with a pocket cathedral.

What did he expect? The place wasn't even really African. The islands had been uninhabited when the Portuguese stumbled onto them in the sixteenth century. All who walked here were either Portuguese, descendents of the Angolan and Cape Verdean slaves they brought to work the cocoa plantations, or some mix of the two. Even the music sounded like something you'd hear in some village up the Tagus River in Portugal.

The jitney passed dumpsters and trash barrels overflowing with waste. Some of the dumpsters had been set on fire to consolidate the trash. They smoldered like steel volcanoes. Was it always this filthy here? Or were the sanitation workers on strike?

"Turn here," he said, and they passed down a road with a channelized stream running down the middle of it. There were dogs everywhere, and nearly as many pigs, picking at fly-speckled piles of garbage.

Seeing all those pigs got his appetite going. Between all the Muslims and Orthodox Christians in Addis, it was next to impossible to find good pork. And it would be nice to have a meal without that fooking injera crap for once.

"Okay, that's enough," he told the jitney driver. "Take me back to the hotel." He was staying at the Marlin Beach, a great spot for surveillance. The main road between airport and town passed right in front, so when the president's motorcade passed, he would know. Across the road, there was a nice, if littered, beach to walk at sunset if he was feeling contemplative.

The driver turned back towards the bay. They passed a massive crafts shop in a warehouse where the wood carvers seemed to outnumber their customers fifty to one, and turned left at the Hotel Miramar, where the president was known to take dinner on occasion.

They buzzed along the whitewashed railing that topped the seawall. Schoolchildren in uniforms were taking dips in the waves. A dog trotted along the road ahead of them in the middle of the lane, weaving from side to side, oblivious to the traffic. The jitney driver slowed, unwilling to pass it with a column of trucks coming the other way.

"Out of the way, you fooking cur!" White tossed his half-empty beer bottle. It glanced off the dog's shoulder and crashed against a post. The dog yelped and cowered, raising a paw.

As they screamed by, White couldn't stop laughing.

Chapter 24: Príncipe

The sun was barely up when Hodges came into their bungalow banging on a pan. "Rise and shine. Rise and shine. Another half hour and it's all aboard my boat."

Melissa groaned from the top bunk. The rickety frame rattled as she rolled over. A paperback plummeted, slapping hard against the plank flooring. Melissa followed, leaping down and landing like a cat, her beach towel from the day before draped over her shoulders.

"How's that shower tent?" she said.

"Eh. A little rustic, but nice."

Archie had been awake for some time, having showered in the dark under a gravity-fed rain cistern, its water still tepid from yesterday's sun. It was so nice to feel clean again, but the near absolute humidity ensured that the stickiness returned in a matter of minutes. It wasn't so hot—maybe eighty degrees or so—but the air felt about as thick as Moises' stew.

"My laptop's hooked up to secure satellite if you want to check in."

"Check in?"

"Yeah. You know. With your black card?"

"Oh yeah! Right."

"Here. I'll get the site pulled up so all you have to do is plug in your code."

Archie sat down in front of a laptop computer that looked like it had been built to withstand improvised explosive devices and had done so several times. Its magnesium case was singed and gouged and dented, the corners chipped, its 'x' and '?' keys missing.

The image on the screen was spare—just a blinking white text field floating in a sea of grey. He retrieved the black card from his pocket and typed in the alphanumeric sequence, and then pressed return.

A light grey status bar appeared in the dark grey sea and grew in fits and starts until its entire length had darkened.

The word: 'CONFIRMED' appeared on the screen. A series of new codes scrolled down beneath the words: 'KEYS OF THE DAY'. He had no idea what to do with them, but scribbled them down on an ATM receipt he found on the floor, just in case they might come in handy.

A large, blank text field blinked at him beneath the codes. It was tagged with the words 'STATUS REPORT.' He was afraid to type anything lest the style and content contrast with whatever the real Agent Black would have written, but he didn't want to leave it blank, so he typed : 'OK' and clicked on a button labeled 'SUBMIT.'

Another field popped up: 'ENTER PERSONAL KEY.' He typed in one of the codes he had written down. 'INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN?' came up in red.

Melissa came up from the shower tent, her hair sodden and dripping, its moisture darkening her blue dress.

"Ooh. I should check my Facebook."

"Um. I don't think this is that kind if computer. You'd better ask Mr. Hodges. I'm not sure if—"

"Breakfast is served!" Hodges called up from the dock. Archie peeked out the door. A card table had been set up with three plastic chairs.

"Come on, let's eat. You can do your social networking later."

They went downstairs and surveyed the offerings. There was some fruit, some strange, dense egg-y things, fire-toasted hunks of bread that could have passed for pieces of granite and some kind of blackish jelly. "So what do we have here?"

"The usual," said Hodges, tossing his ditty bag into the boat. "Turtle omelets. Urchin roe."

"Excuse me?" said Melissa.

"Sea turtle eggs with seaweed. It's pretty good, actually."

"Is it legal here to... uh... poach—?"

"Poached, fried. Don't matter. Still comes out like rubber." Hodges chuckled. "Nah, I know what you're asking. Beats me, though. Probably no less legal than shooting monkeys. Doesn't stop Moises."

"Kinda chewy," said Archie, taking a bite. "But not bad."

"Archie! These come from sea turtles. They're probably endangered." Melissa helped herself only to a piece of papaya and a hunk of bread.

"Archie? Huh? You guys are pretty slick. Like method actors, staying in character, 24/7."

Archie threw Melissa a glance intended as a warming. She shrugged and bobbed her head.

"You know... I hate to admit it, but that monkey stew last night wasn't half bad," said Archie. "Kind of reminded me of rabbit."

Melissa rolled her eyes. "We shouldn't be encouraging this."

Hodges chuckled. "Yeah, well. Don't tell Moises. He's got a big enough head already."

Archie dunked a piece of bread in some of the fruit juice to soften it. His eyes wandered to the oil exploration map of the Gulf of Guinea that was stuck to the card table with transparent contact paper. He noticed that Bioko formed the third point of an equilateral triangle, north of Bome and Príncipe.

"Jeez. We really went out of our way to come out here. I didn't realize we're gonna have to double back. We could have gone straight to Príncipe."

"Yeah. Sorry about that," said Hodges. "I didn't think we had clearance to proceed just yesterday. Turns out, we did. I really apologize. The comm on my boat is a little iffy sometimes."

Archie took a deep breath. "That's okay, I suppose. Just means a longer boat ride."

"Of course it's okay," said Melissa. "It's more than okay. Otherwise we wouldn't have gotten to meet Moises and see your marvelous place. It's so pretty here."

"Pretty lonely, darling. Let me tell you, it's pretty fucking lonely. Sometimes it's months between ops. Just me and Moises and Natalia. Oh, and hey. By the way. Moises brought another briefcase down from Moka for you."

"Don't tell me. Black titanium."

"How'd you guess?" Hodges smirked. "They must have gotten a bulk shipment of these things. But I think they're great. I use one as a tackle box."

"See Arch? We wouldn't have gotten this briefcase if we hadn't come here."

"Oh, it would have found you," said Hodges. "By hook or by crook. It would have found you." He slid the briefcase next to Archie's feet.

Archie could only stare at it. He couldn't bring himself to open the latch.

***

The cigarette boat cut through the smooth seas like a switchblade through jelly. The clouds alternately thinned and thickened but never seemed to clear. The sun remained lost above them, a fuzzy patch of brightness. In some ways, Archie was grateful. At high noon, so close to the equator, an unfiltered sun would have fried them.

The sketchy skies did not dissuade Melissa from sunbathing. She stretched out on the deck boards behind Hodges on a towel that was looking quite dingy. Hodges kept sneaking glances at her ample bosom.

"Jeez, Melissa," said Archie. "What's the deal with you and the sun? You bask as much as a freaking lizard."

"I'm a snake woman!" She wiggled her tongue and hissed.

Hodges shook his head. "You're really something, Black. You give hope to us regular guys."

"How do you mean?" said Archie, sitting on a cushioned storage bay.

"I mean look at you, you're not so tall, not at all ripped, and yet the things you do are like... legendary. That shit you pulled off in Kuwait. I mean you were younger then, but still."

"Yeah, well. It wasn't easy," said Archie, hoping he didn't come off sounding too awkward. He pretended to busy himself with the contents of the new briefcase, swinging it up onto his lap, snapping the latches.

He had been afraid to open this one. It was quite a bit heavier than the others. He worried about what it might contain. When he lifted the lid, the first thing that caught his eye was a pocket protector stocked with a row of what seemed to be pens. He peeled off a bright yellow warning sticker emblazoned with black type in a block font: 'CAUTION! WEAPONIZED.'

He read the fine print underneath. These were not what they seemed. Only the Sharpie held ink. The other 'pens' were actually spring-loaded flechette projectors tipped with stalked barbs of porous steel saturated with lethal doses of botulinum toxin. The tips were designed to break off under the skin. The toxins were encased in rapid release liposomes, the dose sufficient to cause total respiratory failure within five minutes.

The case contained guns as well—serious guns this time. An FN Five-SeveN pistol with high velocity, body armor piercing rounds. A tiny Heckler and Koch MP5K machine pistol with plenty of ammo.

A sleeve contained maps and schedules of President de Marazul's daily activities. Other maps focused on the interiors of the presidential palace and several public office buildings where he regularly conducted business. There were even sketches of his garden numbered with the sequence in which he usually watered his own plants. Completing the file was a list of restaurants and drinking establishments that he frequented and a statistical breakdown of his likelihood of visiting them on a given day.

There were no specific instructions. All of this material was simply paint and brushes for the master. The contractors were going to let Black decide how exactly to get the job done.

Obviously, they had intended Black to exploit Archie's prior associations in STP to help him get close to his target. STP was such a small country that there was basically only one degree of separation between Archie and de Marazul. Several malaria control and Ministry of Health folks that Archie knew had close relations with the president, who was known for his informality and lack of pretense. Archie himself had met the man briefly at a reception for his monitoring and evaluation team.

How Black ever expected to pass for Archie was another question. Sure they shared similarities in stature and facial structure but it was not as if they could be mistaken for one another, unless maybe to an African who focused on the superficial and thought all white men looked alike. But that kind of thing was more likely to happen in the provinces, not with a prominent government official.

And once he got close to the president with a weapon, what then? Would he put a knife to his throat? A bullet in his chest? And then what? How would he get away? Surely, the President had bodyguards. Would he have to kill all of them, too?

Archie caught himself dwelling on these morbid details and it repelled him. All of this imagining himself as Black pretending to be him was getting confusing. Who was Archie Parsons now? He felt like a different man altogether from the man who had left Ghana. It was almost as if he had been possessed by Black's ghost.

But maybe it was important to go through the steps Black might have taken. Who knows? Hodges might ask him his plans. Having a realistic answer might help maintain his cover until he could get close to de Marazul.

He worried how he and Melissa would escape São Tomé once the president had been warned. Obviously, they could not depend on Hodges for a ride once their cover had been blown. Perhaps he could have Melissa book some flights to Lisbon and then time his meeting with de Marazul for the very last moment before the flight boarded. It might be hours or even days before the contractors figured out what had happened and by that time they could be thousands of miles away.

But that plan could be too tricky to pull off. It was presumptuous to expect a sitting president to conform to Archie's schedule and not vice versa. What if their meeting was delayed or cancelled? And even if not, what if the contractors sussed them out in time to have some of their not-so-friendly operatives waiting for them at the Lisbon airport with briefcases stocked with some of the same lovely toys?

From what Archie remembered, some flights to Lisbon stopped in Cape Verde to pick up and drop off passengers. Maybe they could catch a freighter to Mauritania, from Nouakchott bus north to Morocco and then a ferry to Spain.

Cape Verde. That was the ticket. Loads of islands to disappear into. Arid. Scrubby. Scads of space. They could see anyone coming for miles.

***

They reached Príncipe just before dusk. The cigarette boat drifted up beside a yacht at the most amazing beach resort Archie had ever seen. Bom Bom, it was called—white sands, turquoise water. Boardwalks crossed several channels, connecting islands. The lodgings looked immaculately maintained and almost mystical with their airy porches, weathered beams and mossy thatch.

The place made Archie feel embarrassed and unworthy, but any fancy hotel in the developing tropics tended to do that. Hodges said the owner, who was South African, was quite loose with the immigration formalities. He had an arrangement with local officials, lubricated with Euros, to allow guests to float in and out of his resort unannounced. He kept his guest registers discrete and his services lavish.

The man had made his wealth through blood diamonds, obtained in arms trades with UNITA rebels. His original intent had been to build a humble fishing lodge for him and his friends, and indeed they had managed to set six world records for billfish and wahoo. The place had blossomed into a world class resort for jet-setters.

"I'm in Heaven," said Melissa, wandering in a daze past a crystalline lagoon.

Archie followed a few steps behind. "Gee Mr. Hodges, you could have found us a nicer place to stay."

"Not possible," said Hodges. "This place is the tops. I spend all my leave time here when I'm not in Houston."

"So. We push off again tomorrow?"

"Bright and shiny. Enjoy the luxury while you can. The place we're going tomorrow is not so nice. Guarantee though, it'll be fully secure, not to mention strategic."

"Oh? What's it called?"

"Boca," said Hodges.

"Mouth?"

"Boca do Inferno—the mouth of Hell."

**Chapter 25: Alive**

A nervous sweat chilled Gus' armpits and trickled down his side. He was in the middle of one his canned talks for a corporate workshop, explaining how his department managed training for local law enforcement institutions in host countries.

He spoke as if in a trance. His eyes flitted about the meeting room but made no contact with any souls, resolved no faces. He clicked through his collection of outdated PowerPoints, showing eager young policemen learning how to disarm attackers and subdue rioting crowds.

Gus hated public speaking. He wasn't particularly good at it, but it was a large part of his job description. Over time he had evolved a competent if mechanical method of presentation, covering all the high points and throwing in a corny joke or two to let him know whether his audiences still breathed.

He always began his talks with a description of the center and its operations. As the third speaker of the day, it was probably a redundant thing to do, but it never ceased to amaze him how many people who worked for member companies had no clue regarding the center's existence or mission. It always amazed him how many presenters got it wrong, misunderstanding the mission of their own organization.

ERICC, the Extractive Resource Industry Contingency Center, handled issues peculiar to developing countries—daunting problems that sometimes required extreme solutions. Its members were mainly members of a consortium of small corporations—petroleum, mining and logging concerns lacking the critical mass to handle extraordinary initiatives in-house, unlike the behemoths of industry.

ERICC dealt with a hodgepodge of messy and shady little things such as how to traffic in humans for labor without being accused of human trafficking; how to skirt environmental protection regs without being noticed, and how to remove security concerns such as rebels, demonstrators or politicians without being accused of murder. In short, they took on the sorts of necessary evils that small companies didn't want to harbor under their corporate umbrellas in full view of shareholders. Some problems could be handled with lawyers, nuance and money. Other situations could only be remedied with brute force.

Good coffee and pastries in the morning, heavy hors-d'oeuvres in the afternoon. To Gus, they were the only consolations of these consortium workshops. Today's victims were a gang of Corporate Social Responsibility execs. He was indoctrinating them on some of the more difficult and disturbing aspects of working in developing countries.

Gus had just given a talk on their local law enforcement training initiatives and was anxious to escape back to his office, but the dang CSR types kept asking him awkward questions, ones he couldn't answer or ones that made him stammer and look like a fool. At times it felt like he was being prosecuted. Where did they find these people? He was relieved to see the moderator give him a nod and tap his watch.

"Okay. One last question and I have to go." He scanned the crowd, homing in on a sharply dressed woman standing near the exit. "Um... you there... the lady in the back."

"Yes, I was just wondering. Who actually conducts this police training? Is it done by your center?"

"Um no... we outsource all security and training. Mostly to an outfit called Xtraktiv. You've... probably heard of them?"

A murmur swept through the crowd, punctuated with snickers and groans.

"And... what happens when things go wrong?"

"Excuse me?"

"What if the police we train turn on the population? What sort of damage control process do you have?"

"Well ... none, to be frank. We wash our hands. Our job is simply to show them the proper techniques. Once we turn them loose, it's their discretion, not our problem."

The moderator stood. "Alright everyone, it's time to move on to the next topic. Let's have a hand for Gus Henson for shedding light on such a fascinating and complex issue."

While the audience clapped, Gus shook the moderator's hand and rushed down the aisle, mind focused on getting back to the office and putting on some nice bluegrass, cracking open a diet Mountain Dew and spend the rest of the afternoon of idle gazing at his monitors. Talking in front of groups sure wore him out.

Harry intercepted him in the hall, face flushed and grim. "Hey Gus, let's find a secure room. I've got something unsettling to show you."

"O-kay," said Gus, his stomach already churning.

***

They slipped into one of the backmost conference rooms, one of the ones with no windows. Harry secured the door.

"Jeez Harry. What's up? Is something wrong?"

Harry slid a picture out of a folder. It was an 8 X 10 printed on a color laser printer.

"Have a look and you tell me."

Gus scanned the picture. People with signs. African. Slogans in French. "Looks like some kind of protest." No big deal. He calmed down a notch.

"It's in Yaounde, sponsored by Greenpeace. Something to do with a national park, some kind of logging bullshit. But that's not the problem." He pointed his finger at the far corner of the photo. "Take a look over here and tell me what you see."

He squinted at a fuzzy picture of a man with curly hair tucked under a bandanna. "Holy shit. Kremer?"

"It sure looks like him... I mean, as far as we can tell. It's a little out of focus."

"When was this taken?"

"About five hours ago. Ten a.m., Cameroon time."

"So he's... alive. How can that be?"

Harry pulled out another photo. "Look at this side view here. Kremer's arm is in a sling, so he was injured."

"Maybe Black thought he had popped him with a kill shot. Left him for dead. But he only had a flesh wound. Got medical attention."

"That's not like Black," said Harry.

"Not like him at all. He's a finisher. Mr. Clean."

Harry nodded and shrugged. "That's why they like him so much upstairs."

"So Black screwed the pooch. Go figure. Maybe something happened, prevented him from following up."

"I would hope he would have informed us of any complications."

"Yeah. One woulda thunk. He did check in today, finally. From Ureca. No report, though. Just a key code."

Harry shook his head. "This bothers me. I haven't told the big bosses yet. What the heck do you suppose we should do?"

"Well... we can't send anyone else after Kremer... not just yet. The B team's already deployed in STP with White. The A team's in Ecuador and none of them speak French. If I were you, I wouldn't say anything. Not until we know more."

"Do you have access to Black?" said Harry.

"Maybe. He should be on a boat with that new guy... Hodges. Might be able to reach him by sat phone."

Gus pondered the latest news in light of all the other anomalies that had been accumulating. At every step of the way, Black's modus operandi had warped, the change too drastic to blame on the girl or a shift in tactics. Something about the almost botched Liberia operation still nagged at him. In the rush to cremation, they had never gotten a positive identification of Parsons' remains.

Or had they?

"Let's hold off on contacting him just yet," said Gus. "There are some things I want to check out."

"Things?"

"Give me a couple hours. I'll figure something out."

***

Gus got on the horn to the American embassy in Liberia and got Albert Kowalczyk, his liaison, to put them on the most secure line he had.

We waited for the click and a wash of overtones, digital debris from the wave-encrypting software.

"Albert? We good?"

"We're good," said Albert, his speech clipped at the borders like a singer with a pitch corrector. "What's this about?"

"Remember that deal that went down at Robertsfield a couple weeks ago?"

"Yeah?"

"Did your guys happen to collect any forensic samples?"

"Um... I can check. We kind of left it for the Liberians to handle. We wanted to be as hands-off as possible."

"Yeah, I understand. I'd appreciate if you could look into it."

There was a pause. He could hear Albert speaking to his staff.

"We're checking. So how're things?"

"Um... a little discombobulated right now."

"Oh?"

"I'm not so sure anymore that this whole goodbye tour for Black was such a great idea."

"Yeah... well... it was ambitious. To say the least."

"Things are kind of uh... getting out of hand. Don't know why we can't do one thing at a time like we used to. Get'er done right from mission prep to retrograde. But not... the big shots got greedy. Wanted everything done at once when they heard Black was retiring."

"Well they gotta use him before they lose him. Operatives like him don't grow on trees."

There was a commotion at the other end. The stray bits of sound that weren't swallowed by the crypto were scrambled and frayed. Albert came back on.

"Okay Gus. My people say yeah they took samples. Some blood and hair off the tile in the washroom, and even some soft tissue."

"How contaminated?"

"Plenty, I would imagine. It's a public bathroom. But with a big enough sample, there's enough signal to resolve something definitive with quantitative PCR. You just want an ID, right?"

"Yeah. But we can do that here. When's your next mail run?"

"We've got a courier flying out tonight."

"Send it. We'll cover the cost."

"Will do. You should have it first thing it in the morning. Sorry, we should have thought to send it on."

"We should have thought to ask. Thought this one as a no-brainer, seeing it was Black involved."

"Hmm... so you got... issues?"

"Yeah," said Gus. "We've got issues."

Chapter 26: Biding Time

The next day, White put on his shoes and simply walked, turning down every jitney and taxi driver who tried to solicit him. He wandered the city almost at random, turning down alleys and avenues on whim and whimsy alone. His only aim was to get a feel for the city and potential escape routes. The casing would come later.

He had gone out minimally armed, in case some authority took offense to his curiosity. Deep in his pocket he had his trusty garrote, along with a sharpened pencil and a worry stone the size of a hen's egg.

At first glance these items might seem innocuous to a frisker. The garrote could simply be a line to dry his socks. But in White's hands, the contents of his pocket provided a weapons array sufficient to exterminate a small village.

His back to the harbor, he walked across the city to the base of the hills. He had yet to glimpse the summits of the larger peaks, obscured as they were by layers of cloud and mist. Sometimes a hint of slope peeked through, like the curve of a woman's thigh through a negligee, but each tease would be quickly obliterated by blankets of fog.

He hiked back to the harbor and bought lunch at a blue shipping container converted into a fish grill, enjoying the most flaky and tender fillet of snapper he had tasted in a long time. He had some chips as well, to remind himself of home, though no one in Brixton had ever served him fish and chips as succulent as this.

After lunch, he walked some more, criss-crossing the avenues, watching the people with all the acute attention of an anthropologist, taking note of how they spoke to each other, how physical or aggressive they were, how closely they invaded each other's personal space.

Only footwork let him gauge the true spirit of a community. Drive-arounds would suffice to gather the gist, if an executive summary was all he was after. But to really know what was going on in the heart of a São Toméan, he needed to witness it up close.

What he found surprised him. The laziness he had thought he had observed the day before, this overarching sense of enervation and ennui, it was actually a stealthy sort of energy, subdued and controlled, released in efficient spurts. He could see it in how they worked, the frantic bursts of activity with which they unloaded trucks and trimmed trees in the gardens of the Presidential Palace. And in between, they would gather their strength and summon their will, rejuvenating.

This told him that São Toméans were scrappier than they looked. He would have to take care in a fight or he might get nicked.

He was watching a man argue with a grocer when his cell phone went off. Not the secure satellite receiver that his employers had given him, but a cheapo Siemens with a global SIM card. He was tempted to ignore it, but it was Alice. He had neglected to call her before he left Addis.

It was thoroughly unprofessional, taking personal calls on the job, but at the fifth ring, he couldn't stand it anymore. What the hell. This was just a boondoggle, anyway. He was just an afterthought on this mission. It was clear, with Black involved, he was not getting anywhere near the 'big fish.' So he picked up.

"Alice, I told you never to call this number."

"And a good day to you too, sir. What a way to greet me!"

"Listen. I call you. Always. Remember?"

"But you didn't. And you haven't."

"You have to understand. I'm at work. My employers... they get upset."

"Two days I've been calling your landlord at the Z. He didn't know where you went. I was worried... and wondering."

"I was gonna call you when things settled down. I'm only going to be here a few days."

"Where's here?"

"Alice... you know I can't say."

Silence. "Aw... shoot," she said, her voice separated from the mic.

"What's wrong?"

"I wanted to have you say night-night to Gabriella, but she seems to have drifted off to sleep."

"Don't wake her up. Just tell her that Daddy loves her, and I will talk to her soon."

"How soon?"

"I don't know, Alice. I don't know. Soon."

"When are you coming home?"

"Am I... welcome?"

"Of course you're welcome. How can you say such a thing? We are a family. Just because I got into a snit the last time doesn't mean—"

"Alice. I can't stay on the line. It's been nearly a minute. You know the rules. Two minutes max."

"I love you, Da—"

"Don't say my name! Not my true name."

"I wasn't going to! I was going to say 'darling.'"

"Sorry. Sorry to be so brusque. I had to make sure."

"Brusque? You yelled at me."

White took a long, deep breath. "This isn't going well."

"No." Her breaths came rapidly. "It's not."

"I'm sorry. I'll make it up—"

"Not if I don't let you."

"Next leave I get. I'm coming back to London. I promise." There was silence at the other end. "Alice?"

"Your two minutes is gone." She hung up.

***

White strolled on the beach in front of his hotel as the sun sank into a haze almost thick enough to prevent it from setting. He kicked at barnacle-encrusted bits of Styrofoam that had washed up, tossing an occasional glance out towards the airport traffic.

Not a single motorcade had gone by since he had come back to the Marlin Beach. He had spotted plenty of military vehicles, but no notable officials with flags on their bumpers or motorcycle escorts. Either they didn't get out much or they went incognito.

He had gathered from shreds of small talk around the palace that President de Marazul did not like staying in the city. He minimized his time in the official spaces, preferring to stay as much as possible at his rancho in the hills above Trinidade.

Thus, tomorrow was going to be a day for exploring the interior. He would turn tourist, a hiker, ostensibly to go look at some of the pretty waterfalls that adorned the slopes behind the president's farm. He hoped Black would be grateful for all the legwork he was doing for the team. As if the selfish bastard would ever return the favor.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He hoped it was Alice calling back, but this time it was the satellite phone. He fished it out, enabled the crypto app and pressed receive. He poked a finger in his free ear to block the sound of the traffic and the waves.

"Secure," he said.

"You're on alert, White." It was Gus Henson, the mission manager from the consortium.

"The mission... is mine? The big fish?"

"Hold your horses. You're just on alert until you hear further. Just be ready in case we make a mission adjustment."

"Will do. I'm ready to go. Whenever you give the word. I don't even need the bloody backup team. I've got this job sussed."

"Easy, easy. You're just on alert. Don't do a damned thing until we tell you to. Just stand by."

"What's wrong? Something happen to Black?"

"None of your damned business. Just stand by. Oh... and White?"

"I'm listening."

"This job may involve more than just the big fish."

"Oh... how interesting!"

The line clicked off and a cold thrill wallowed in the mire where his heart dwelt.

Chapter 27: Boca do Inferno

The sun made a brief appearance, like some diva at a cocktail reception, and then slipped back out of sight. The ocean's glitter turned to lead. Archie clung to the side of the boat, staring at a dark green smudge between water and cloud.

"Out there." He pointed. "Is that—?"

"São Tomé island? Yup. Sure is," said Hodges. He throttled down his craft. "Gotta take 'er easy now. There's some nasty ledges that don't show up on the charts."

A pod of spotted dolphins intercepted them and formed a chevron on either side, riding the bow wave. Archie counted seven with two-toned hides, blue-gray above, mottled beneath. An eighth dolphin, larger, more even-toned and with a wider snout, did not seem to belong to the same pod. It lagged behind the others when they broke away to breach and dive.

A pair of harbors came into view, one packed with docked freighters, the other with fishing boats pulled up on a beach. A city of modest proportions sprawled beyond. Glass and steel buildings mingled with older colonial structures of yellow brick and stucco. Fingers of development spread into the lowermost hills and transitioned into forest where the slopes grew steep.

"Looking good, looking good," said Hodges. "No patrol boats. I get nervous coming this way, but it's funny... they seem to patrol the back approaches more heavily... as if they don't expect anyone to be brash enough to sneak in the front door."

"No big deal for me," said Archie. "I've got a visa."

"Yeah, but I don't," said Hodges.

"Me neither," said Melissa, voice rising in alarm.

Archie felt sheepish. "Sorry, I mentioned it."

They angled closer to shore, swinging uncomfortably close to a rugged palisade that reminded Archie of blunt and blackened teeth. Stepped volcanic ledges battled the ocean, causing even these relatively placid waves to thunder into rifts and blow holes, bursting upward in a detonation of foam and spray. Water swirled every which way. He couldn't imagine what the place looked like in a storm.

"This is Boca," he said. "The mouth of hell."

"I believe it," said Archie. Spooked, he retrieved a life preserver from a cubby—just in case. If the boat stalled here, the clashing currents would capture the craft and smash it against the bluffs.

"If I was the devil," said Melissa. "I'd vacation here for sure."

Archie gave her a queer look.

"What? Even Satan needs a break sometimes."

"This place is magical," said Hodges. "The Portuguese believed that if someone jumped in they would be transported back to Portugal."

"Yeah," said Archie. "In a coffin."

As Archie held his breath, Hodges skirted the base of a promontory. They turned the corner into a surprisingly calm cove with arcs of golden sand backed by coconut palms. A lively creek tumbled out of the jungle fringe.

There being no dock, Hodges set two anchors in a calm place and they had to clamber over the side into waist-deep water and wade onto the beach. Set back among the palms was a wooden house up on stilts with a tiny cook shed and outhouse behind it. It had an open porch facing the sea. The walls were made of vertical planks, warped and streaked with algae.

"This is where you guys will be staying," said Hodges. "A little rustic compared to what you're used to, but it's only for a few days. We're a quarter mile in from the main road, so we got plenty of privacy. Plenty of warning, too. When the B team gets here they'll set up a nice perimeter."

"Are you leaving us?" said Archie.

"Heck no. Gotta stick around in case you need to scoot by sea. I'll be sleeping on the beach under my shelter halves. I'm not leaving that baby out of my sight. Only takes a minute to fire her up. But the boat's just one option. I hear White's got a seaplane chartered. Ultimately, it's your call how you get away. You're the boss."

"White? Who's White?"

"Yeah, good one!" Hodges chuckled and bumped his fist on Archie's shoulder. "That little shit gets no respect."

A vehicle rattled unseen down the track that ran beside the creek bed. Hodges squinted into the dusty weeds. "That must be your ride coming." He glanced nervously back to his boat. "At least... I hope that's your ride." A black SUV emerged onto the beach. "Phew! I was worried for a sec it might be the Policia."

The vehicle pulled up and the driver hopped out, sporting a familiar smile.

"Arcadio?" said Melissa. "Is that you?"

"Si. Es me," said Arcadio, beaming.

"How did you get here?"

"I fly."

"Those ops guys love Arcadio," said Hodges. "He speaks every language under the sun."

"And the Portuguese, too," said Arcadio.

"Well... yeah," said Hodges.

Four small children appeared at the end of the track and peered at them through the fronds of a young palm.

"Aw! Look at the cuties!" said Melissa.

The children looked fairly healthy. No bloated bellies or jaundiced eyes. Their clothes were not nearly the shreds of rag he had seen hanging off kids in Burkina Faso. By Archie's jaded standards, they were relatively well-to-do.

"Vamanos!" said Hodges. He chucked a rock at them. The kids screamed and scattered.

"Mr. Hodges! Don't be mean!" said Melissa.

"No bambinos allowed here," said Hodges.

"Where did they come from?" she said.

"This their house," said Arcadio.

"You're... kidding," said Melissa, jaw dropping. "You evicted this family so we could stay here?"

"Well... yeah," said Hodges. "They didn't own it. They were just tenants. We had the landlord terminate their lease. We're paying triple what they paid."

"Now, that's just not right. Archie, are you hearing this? Tell him it's not right."

Archie appreciated Melissa's concern. This displacement was going to be a severe hardship on this family. Who knew how long they had lived in this stilted bungalow in this beautiful cove? It might have been generations. But as much as he felt sorry for the kids, to intervene would compromise his identity. How would the real Agent Black respond? Would he play it cool, or cater to the whims of his purported girlfriend?

"They were supposed to be long gone by now," said Hodges. "Arcadio, get the landlord on the phone. Look at the crap they left all over. It's like a fucking tornado came through. Now this is just unacceptable." Hodges picked up a crude broom and began sweeping bits of coconut husk from the packed sand.

"Archie?" Melissa's eyes pierced him. "A little support would be nice right about now."

He walked over to the end of the track where the children had fled and peered up towards the main road. The kids had stopped halfway, but resumed their flight at the sight of Archie. Atop the incline a young couple and an old woman sat beside an array of baskets, rice sacks and rolled up mattresses.

Melissa came up behind him. "Jesus!" she said. "That's grandma there with all their belongings."

Archie waved Arcadio over and handed him a small wad of bills, unsure of how much or even if it was the proper currency. "Go see if they need some money for a taxi or a boarding house or something."

Archie glanced at Melissa, hoping she approved. Her face had calmed.

"It's the least we can do," she said. "I almost want to let those poor people have their house back. We can sleep on the beach."

"Unh-unh... that ain't happening," said Hodges. "Bad for security."

"Once we're gone, I'm sure they can come back," said Archie. "Isn't that right, Mr. Hodges?"

"Fuck if I know... or care," said Hodges. "It was a fair trade. Jesus Christ! What a bunch of bleeding hearts. What's with you people?" Cognition flashed into Hodges' eyes. "Ooooh, I get it. You guys... you're method acting again. Staying in character. Holy crap. You really had me going there for a minute."

Melissa called up to Arcadio. "Tell them we're sorry... and we hope to be gone soon. We'll make sure the landlord brings them back once we leave... won't we Mr. Hodges?"

"Whatever you say, ma'am," said Hodges, giving her a sly grin.

***

Archie had Arcadio take them to town in his rented SUV. Hodges tried giving them some money for a case of beer.

Archie waved him off. "It's on me. What kind do you want?"

"Budweiser, if you can find it... which I doubt. But any old cat piss will do."

Hodges insisted they bring the guns along. He and Melissa stashed them under the seats. Their presence troubled him. They may as well have been riding with cobras.

Cocoa grew everywhere, so unlike Bioko where the industry had collapsed. The roads were nearly devoid of traffic. It was hard to believe this was the main thoroughfare. They passed a farm tractor pulling an open trailer packed with standees. It appeared to be operating as a bus, with people getting off and on at frequent stops.

On the outskirts of the city proper, they passed a huge fenced compound spanning an entire peninsula. Nearly a score of towering radio transmitters jutted into the mist like middle fingers to the world.

"What's all this?" said Melissa.

"Voice of America," said Arcadio.

"Oh really? Can you get it on your radio?"

"These one? No. They make short wave. Oh, but I think they make FM too. Let me check." He whirled the dial until he came to an announcer speaking over a tune with an accordion and a hiccupping beat. "Is these one."

"Huh. I didn't know they played music."

"This is the local frequency," said Archie. "They run it as a public service for the community. Keeps them on their sunny side. But the rest of those towers broadcast in all different languages, spewing propaganda over the globe."

Melissa's eyes went wide, her face blank.

"It's true," said Archie. "Pure propaganda. America the Beautiful, 24/7. I avoid it like the plague, though lately the BBC isn't much better."

"Archie, don't you see?" said Melissa. "This is how we can get your message out."

"What? They're not going to interview someone like me."

"We have guns," she whispered. "We can make them."

Archie was flabbergasted. "Make them? Don't be ridiculous."

"We don't have to load them."

"I don't think it matters under the law. We'll still go to prison... if they don't shoot us dead first."

"There are mitigating circumstances. We'd be safe... safer... in government custody."

"Mm-maybe. Maybe not. Depends if the government is in on this or not. It's an interesting idea, Melissa, but I don't think it's viable."

Arcadio pulled over and turned around. "Is everything okay?" he asked.

"Fine, Arcadio. Everything's fine," said Archie.

"We are in the town. Where we go now?"

"Ministry of Health. It's near the market."

"So what exactly is your plan?" said Melissa, glowering with arms folded tight.

"We're going to see my friend Vilfrido."

"Oh? What's he do?"

"He's the Minister of Health."

Chapter 28: The Minister

The Ministry of Health occupied a squat colonial building that looked like a converted train station. Quite possibly, that was exactly what it was. On one of his prior excursions, Archie remembered seeing the rusted remains of an engine boiler half-buried in a field like some iron dinosaur skull. And in the uplands near Bombain, he had hiked past overgrown cuts and collapsed trestles.

The trains had probably hauled coffee and cocoa from the upland roças, and shuttled the governor and his captains of industry from the cool hill town of Trinidade to the sweltering coast. Why the Ministry would choose to base itself in a former train station was another story.

The waiting room was cavernous and dim. Archie and Melissa sank into oversized leather chairs. The cushions bore the impressions of a million rear ends. The arms were chafed into suede. WHO newsletters and AIDS prevention comic books with graphic instructions for how to properly wear a condom littered a low table.

"Are you good friends with this guy?" said Melissa.

"The Minister?" Archie sat up and sighed. "Not really. I mean, we only met once or twice, before he got the position. I'm not even sure he remembers me. But I remember him. He was one of the few people who spoke English. I didn't speak a dang bit of Portuguese. I had no idea why they sent me to work on a Global Fund proposal."

"Was it funded?"

"The proposal? Oh yeah. They got their money. Twice, actually. Once for the initial push and then for complete malaria elimination from the island."

"Oh, really? Does that mean I can stop taking my pills?"

"Um, nope. Malaria's still here and going strong. Things didn't work out quite like they expected."

"Why's that?"

"Biology," said Archie. "Nature doesn't sit still. The insecticides they used don't bother the mosquitoes anymore. They've developed resistance. Using the same stuff on the nets and the walls probably didn't help."

Melissa fished through her purse and pulled out a prescription bottle.

"You haven't been taking them?"

"I missed one day. No big deal." She popped a doxycycline and took a swig of water from the bottle Hodges had given her. "This Vilfrido guy... does he have an in with the President or something?"

Archie shrugged. "He's a Minister."

"Doesn't necessarily mean he can get you face time with the President. Does it?"

Archie took a deep breath. "He did it once before. This is a small country. Things are different here. Everyone knows each other. They don't take themselves as seriously."

"What's he like, this President?"

"Um. He's kind of reticent. Shifty eyes. Careful with words. Reminds me a little of my rich uncle—this new and used car dealer in Oklahoma who got lucky. He had the only Toyota dealership for a hundred miles in every direction. But he was a good guy. He cared about his customers."

"Archie, that doesn't paint the best impression. I mean... used car dealer... really?"

Archie sighed. "I just meant he's the kind of guy who's a little uncomfortable with his success and position. He's savvy and successful, but he remembers his roots."

The receptionist stood and smiled, motioning elegantly with her hand. "The Minister will see you now."

She led them to an air-conditioned office. There, behind a large desk, they found not Vilfrido but a prim and petite woman wearing glasses on a chain and a grey business suit. He had never seen this person before.

"Good afternoon. I am Dr. Consuela de Carvalho."

"Archie Parsons." He shook the woman's hand limply. "And this is Melissa Wray, my assistant."

An awkward silence ensued.

"Is something wrong?" Her English was clear, with a faintly British twist to her vowels.

"Oh... it's nothing. I was just expecting to see Vilfrido."

"Vilfrido Gilberto?" She smirked. "His party lost their majority in the last parliamentary election. That's how it goes around here. It's like musical chairs. Vilfrido is now back with the malaria control team working on IRS and bednet distribution." She motioned to the thinly cushioned chairs lined up across from her desk. "Please have a seat. How can I help you?"

"I don't think we've met, but I've been here before... with the Global Fund consultancy."

"Hmm. Parsons, Parsons. Yes, I recognize that name from the monitoring reports. Well, I must tell you, I am very pleased to meet you. As you well know, these resources have greatly accelerated our malaria programs. I am grateful for your role in their success. But what brings you to São Tomé now? I had no idea you people would be visiting us. The monitoring and evaluation team isn't due until September."

"I'm actually here on... other business."

"Oh? So how can I be of service?"

"Well... I don't know how to say this, but I was hoping to meet with Vilfrido. He had once arranged a meeting for our group with the President and I was going to ask if it might be possible to do so again."

"The President? Our President? You mean Fernando?"

"Yes."

The Minister pondered. "If he is available, this certainly may be possible. He holds your consultancy in very high regard. He often mentions the Global Fund in his public speeches. He has a vision, that if we can rid our islands of malaria we become for Africa what Hong Kong and Singapore are for Asia—a hub and gateway for regional trade. May I ask why you wish to meet with him?"

"Actually, I'd rather not say. It's kind of a... a troubling issue, but something he really needs to know about. I guarantee he's going to find it... disturbing. But he'll be glad to know. I can guarantee that."

The Minister looked alarmed. "I am already disturbed. Does this have something to do with the funding? I have heard that EG has had their funding cut off due to their increased oil revenues."

"Oh no. This has nothing to do with malaria or the Global Fund. It's... a more general issue than that. Personal. Really."

Her face tried to relax, but it only ended up looking puzzled. "Well... that makes me a bit more relieved. I think. Does this have anything to do with the workings of my Ministry? The Ministry of Health?"

"Not really. Let's just say it has more with the President's own, personal health."

"Oh." She seemed taken aback. Relief coupled with concern. "So it's a private matter. Medical, perhaps. I'm surprised he didn't confide in me, but... I won't pry any further. How much time do you need with him?"

"Not long," said Archie. "I don't know. Ten minutes should do it. I just need to show him some papers and... tell him some things."

"I'll see what I can do. As you might expect, he is a very busy man... and he values his private time—a difficult combination for scheduling. But if this is a personal matter... some favor he asked of you. No?" She lifted her glasses and stared. "Let me make some calls. Would you mind waiting outside?"

He rose with Melissa and they returned to the waiting room.

"Why didn't you just tell her?" Melissa hissed.

"Tell her what?"

"What this is all about. Instead of leading her on like that. She's got this idea that you're helping him with some personal medical thing like... anal fissures or herpes. Something embarrassing like that."

Archie tipped his head from side to side. "I don't know, I'd say that murder and assassination are pretty personal."

"But you should have told her. She seems nice enough. And she's got clout. She's a Minister for goodness sake."

"We'd sound like crackpots. Better he hear it directly from us, without his people vetting us and distorting the message. Who knows, if we weird them out too much, they might just throw us in jail before we even get to see him."

"I don't know. I got a good feeling from her. I think she's friends with him. She cares about his health."

"She is the Health Minister, after all."

"Yeah, but I could tell she was worried for him."

"I'd rather get the message to the President unfiltered, if at all possible. I mean, he could just as easily throw us in jail, but at least he'd get the straight scoop."

"Jail, huh?"

"Yeah. Quite possible. But it might be a good thing. We get to tell our story to judges, lawyers... a jury, maybe. Publicity. Thick walls between us and the bad guys. Security guards."

"Honey. You can go to jail if you want. I have friends who went to prison and it was no picnic. And I'm talking Maryland. Can you imagine what conditions are like in a place like this? Maybe they got a special one for lily-white folks like you, but—"

The Minister's door opened and Dr. Carvalho stepped out. "He's agreed to see you... tomorrow morning at nine... at his roça. It's in the hills near Trinidade. Mirabelle can give you directions."

Chapter 29: DNA

Gus hovered outside the door of the squash court. Harry was inside, playing a set with his twenty-year-old intern.

Squash was popular with the upper echelons of the consortium, but Gus could never get into it. Same thing with golf. He got his exercise doing practical things, like chopping firewood or tilling his garden.

As the minutes dragged on, his pulse quickened, his palms grew sweatier. He snuck peeks through the tiny acrylic window. He paced the hall. He leaned his forehead against the wall and listened to the repeated crack and thud, wishing it would stop. He lacked the gumption to interrupt Harry's game, no matter how important the news.

The court went silent. He stepped back, a jolt of anticipation ripping through him. The hatch popped open and the intern ducked through, nodding to Gus on his way to the locker room. Harry stepped out. Gus ambushed him. "We need to talk. Now. Some place secure. And I mean tight."

Harry gawked at him, his face all red from exertion, sweat soaking his white jersey. "Okay. How about in this court? Nobody'll bother us in there, and it's probably more secure than my own damned office."

Gus clambered in after him. Harry watched him slam the door and latch it.

"So. What's up?" Worry lines rippled Harry's forehead.

"You know those samples I got back from Liberia?"

"From the dead guy. Yeah. You got the results?"

"It's confirmed. The samples came from Black."

Harry's eyelids flickered. "You sure about that?"

"It's a 99.9% match."

Harry exhaled abruptly. "Okay. So maybe he was injured? Some of his blood got splattered on the tile. Happens."

"Well, that's what I thought at first. Except one of samples was taken by our embassy liaison directly from the corpse before they sent it for cremation. Hair and skin. They came back with the same match as the blood. It's all Black, and only Black."

"Holy crap! Then who the hell is—?"

"Archie Parsons. It's gotta be. The real Archie Parsons. I mean, who else could it be?"

"But what about those two assassinations?"

"One. One assassination, at most. Kremer's identity has been confirmed. He's as happy as a clam, sipping palm wine on some mountain hut in Cameroon. And I looked carefully at the B team's debriefing notes. Sounds like that Appiah guy's death might just as well have been an accident."

"This Parsons... is he an operative?"

"Don't know."

"But for who? Our competition? Greenpeace?"

"No idea."

"Shit. Shit. Shit." Harry sank to the floor. He laid his racket down and grabbed his knees. "So how do we handle this?"

Gus swallowed around the knot in his throat. "If I were you, I wouldn't mention this to the folks upstairs just yet. It'd be better if we could tidy up a bit first. You know, stabilize the situation. If you went to them now, it would look really bad, like we didn't know what the fuck we were doing."

"That's the truth, though," said Harry. "Ain't it?"

Gus chewed his lip. "How about we activate White?"

"Say what?" said Harry. "After all the crap you told me?"

"What other choice we got? You ready to tell the folks upstairs what happened?"

Harry squeezed the handle of his racket. "Go ahead, then. Mod the orders."

"To finish the hit on de Marazul? Or to go back after Kremer?"

"Both. Eventually. But don't you think we've got a higher priority target?"

"Parsons. Not to mention that girl of his. I don't know who they work for or what they're up to, but we need to get to them before they do any more damage... or squeal."

Harry looked dazed as he struggled to his feet. "Alright. You've got my verbal approval to get things rolling. Authorize White to take out Parsons... and the girl. If all goes well, we'll talk about extending it to de Marazul. I'll make it all official once I'm changed and in my office. But you gotta emphasize to him, he can't be so messy this time."

Chapter 30: Mod

White sat at a sidewalk café sipping sweet tea, scribbling on a sketch pad, listening to the gossip of government workers on their way to work. A chicken scurried under his plastic table to peck at some crumbs in the dirt.

He ordered another cup of tea and worked on the shading of his pencil sketch of the little cathedral across the way, alongside the Presidential Palace. He was no great artist, but had an eye for perspective and light. He did well enough to garner a compliment from the waitress.

He knew better than to draw the Presidential Palace. That would have labeled him as a security threat as surely as if he had clicked away with a telephoto SLR. A church drawing drew less suspicion, but helped explain to passersby and security goons why he stared and studied so intently every movement to and from the Palace.

A true palace it was not. A mansion, maybe. More like a blocky Russian-built monolith with a tacked-on ornamental frieze and a well-pruned garden.

In the two hours he had sat there, he had heard no mention of the President's activities, no sign that the man resided there or had come or gone. His satellite phone buzzed. He was sure it was his satellite phone this time, as he had made sure his personal GSM phone remained off. He didn't need any more of Alice's drama.

"Secure. What do you need?"

"What the fuck, White? We've been trying to reach you."

"I had it turned off. A man's gotta sleep."

"Listen. There's been a mod."

"I'm listening."

"You've been activated."

Delicious words, those. They made him tingle and twitch. "I'm going after the big fish?"

"Um. Not just yet. First we need you to go after Black, except... he's not Black."

"Black? Huh? Repeat that, please."

"This so-called Black isn't actually Black. He's Parsons. Parsons is impersonating him. So basically, we want you to go after Parsons now, and the girl—Melissa Wray."

White chuckled. "It was supposed to be the other way around. How the fook did this happen?"

"Don't ask."

"Well, where the bloody hell is Black then?"

"He's dead. Cremated."

"Holy Mother of—"

"Have you been in touch with Hodges? We haven't been able to reach him, either."

"Um... well, no. You told me to stay incognito."

"Find him and fill him in. Make sure that kid Arcadio is in the loop, too. Coordinate your actions. We want this taken care of quickly... and discreetly."

"You mean... they still think still Parsons is Black? Hoo boy!"

"Yeah, well. So did we."

"But you're across the fooking Atlantic. He's just spent three days with them in a boat."

"Hodges had never met Black. He's been working out of Djibouti."

"Yeah, but, one would have thought he'd have it figured out by now. Parsons is just a fookin' NGO drone. He's not a tenth the man that Black... was."

"Hodges ain't the sharpest tool in the shed. There's a reason he drives boats."

"I should be glad you transferred him out of Djibouti. That's my territory. Except—"

"All of Africa is your territory now, Mr. White. You're the only operative we have left on the continent."

"Whoa. I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Listen, see what you can do. B team should be on the ground soon. They have your contact info. Try linking up with this Arcadio kid as well, but be aware, he doesn't have a sat phone. This is your op, White. You're in charge of the whole shebang. Don't screw it up any worse than it already is."

White grinned. This was much more than he had ever hoped for—a chance to rebuild the confidence of his employers and redeem his reputation. And not only that, he had all of Africa to himself, coast to coast, Cape Town to Casablanca.

"I'll get you those targets straightaway. All three of them."

"But top priority is Parsons. Understand? Marazul can wait. We'll need you to check in twice a day, 0700 and 1700 EDT. There will be new keys waiting for you at the hotel. Oh... and White?"

"Yes, boss?"

"We'd appreciate it if you can keep things a little tidier this time."

"Not a problem," said White. "I've altered my methods. I will not disappoint you. You will not be disappointed."

"Happy hunting." The call clicked off. White sat and stared at a brick wall across the street, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

His guns were back at the hotel, locked away in his room safe. But who needed bullets? They had only caused him trouble and heartbreak. There were cleaner, more precise ways of committing murder.

He guzzled the rest of his tea, threw down a bill, and got up, fondling the latest addition to his modest arsenal—a tiny knife with a honed blade long enough to slice open arteries, but small enough not to alarm a cop.

As he walked, he ripped his sketch off the pad, crumpled it and tossed it on the ground. The hen ran over and pecked at it.

He strode off towards the harbor, peeking into every parked car, looking for a vehicle worth stealing and which would not be missed too soon.

Chapter 31: Morning

Archie spent a hellish night in the stilted bungalow, most of it awake, tossing and turning on a thin and lumpy mattress. Mosquitoes whined in his ears and nibbled at his ankles. He found nothing soothing in the sound of the waves, only torment.

During one brief snatch of slumber, he dreamt of running a two mile race around the cinder track at his old high school. The fog was so thick he couldn't see across the football field. He kept lagging farther behind the leaders. Their red and blue jerseys faded into the mist.

With one lap to go he ducked under the wire, thinking he would dash across the field and catch up with the pack on the other side, without anyone knowing he cheated. But the grass changed to muck. He sank to his ankles and then his knees and then deeper and deeper until the mud penetrated his nostrils. He awoke gasping, face buried in a musty pillow, legs tangled in a dank, threadbare blanket.

Melissa snuffled softly from across the room. She seemed to have little trouble sleeping in any situation. But she wasn't meeting with a sitting president in the morning. She didn't have to convince a man about an international conspiracy to end his life.

He sat up and listened to the crash of the waves against the ledges around the point. It he ever escaped from this place alive, he swore he would sleep for 72 hours straight in the cushiest, most sound-proofed hotel room he could find. It would have air conditioning worthy of a desert night and cotton sheets as fresh as new-fallen snow.

He dragged himself onto the porch with the blanket draped around his shoulders. The morning was more clammy than chilly. Again, the sun was just a patch of slightly brighter mist over the water.

The poles of Hodges' little tent leaned askew. Its walls drooped. Socks and skivvies were strewn across the sand, along with pieces of his disassembled satellite phone. He stood by his unzipped duffle bag, squeezing out soggy articles of clothing item by item.

Archie snickered. "What the heck happened to you?"

"Pitched my tent too close to the water. Kind of underestimated the tide. Got swamped."

"Oh my." Archie glanced out at the cigarette boat, alarmed to see it so much farther away than where they had left it. "Is it my imagination or has that boat drifted?"

"Yeah, the current's been tugging at it, dragging on the anchors. I'll need to haul it back in and set 'em in some boulders instead of the fucking sand. Soon as I take care of this."

"Need help?"

"Nah. You all go about your business. I got this part handled. Arcadio's here, by the way. He can take you anywhere you need to go."

Arcadio, upon hearing his name, stepped out from under the porch, smiled and waved. Archie heard a groan issue from the bedroom.

"Melissa? You awake?"

She staggered out across the creaking floorboards, her eyes heavy-lidded. "I guess."

"Ready to go?"

"Oh yeah. Don't I look ready?" she said, sarcastically.

He glanced at his watch. "Jeez, it's already after seven. We need to get moving."

Her groggy smile vanished. Her eyes cleared slightly. "Give me a minute. I'm gonna go down and wash up by that creek."

***

Melissa joined Archie in the back of the SUV. Hodges grinned and waved. "Good luck! I'll be here. Ready to go. Buzz me." Arcadio swung around the beach. They bounced along the rutted track to the main road.

"I had a lot of time to think last night," said Archie, glancing at Arcadio, who had just slipped on a pair of battered headphones. He lowered his voice. "Here's what we're going to do. Arcadio's going to drop me off somewhere where I can catch a cab. I want you to go with him straight to the airport and book a flight for Cape Verde. One way. Pay cash."

"Just for me?" said Melissa, alarmed.

"For two."

Melissa's smile stretched a bit wider. "But... why don't I take the cab, and you go with—?"

"Guns, Melissa. We have pistols and submachine guns under the seats."

"Oh... right."

"Any flight you get, make sure it leaves no earlier than four pm or so. That'll give me time to do my thing, for us to check in, get through security. Since we can't... we shouldn't use our phones... I suggest we meet up at the Miramar Hotel, in the restaurant. And then we take it from there, depending on what time it is. How's that sound?"

"Um. Okay, I guess. But I was kind of hoping to meet this president with you."

"Melissa. This is not—"

"I understand. We have to do what we have to. If you really think it's gotta be done this way, then... what's Cape Verde like?"

"Dry. Scrubby."

"Dry would be nice, after all this humidity."

Archie sighed, all sweaty and anxious. He watched Arcadio's head bobbing to some private beat. Once they met up again at the Miramar they would have to find some way to ditch him. Maybe they could send him off to have lunch and then skedaddle off to the airport in a taxi.

"Hey Arcadio, what you listening to in those phones?" said Melissa.

He glanced up into the rear view. "Is Bob Marley."

"No way! Why don't you put it on in the car?"

"I do not wish to disturb you."

"Are you kidding? I love reggae."

Arcadio pulled off his headphones and sent 'Concrete Jungle' throbbing through the car's tinny speakers.

"Wow," said Melissa. "Is reggae popular in Africa? I mean it being Jamaican and all?"

"Oh! Is very popular. Everyone knows it."

"Just the old stuff like this?"

"Oh no. In Bata we have a reggae band. Many singers do reggae. Many countries. Even Ethiopia."

"Where'd you learn your English, Arcadio?"

"In school, they teach," he said. "I speak five Europe language. Three tribal."

"Get out!"

"Is true. Je m'appele Arcadio. Und ich spreche ein bisschen Deutsch. And I also have a little bit of the Chinese. The Mandarino."

"Wow, that's incredible," said Melissa. "So where did you grow up?"

"In Bata. My mother, she is Congolese. Refugee from time it was called Zaire."

"So that explains where you got your French skills," said Archie, relaxing a bit under the spell of small talk. "Where did you pick up Portuguese?"

"Brasilia," he said. "I go for working. One year, I stay. Is very nice. But I have a hard time. I have some trouble with my bosses. So I come back."

"With those language skills you should be doing something more than just driving," said Melissa.

"Oh. I am not just driver," said Arcadio.

He cut down an alley past the black market money changers with their courier bags filled with cash. Around the next corner, the open bays of the central market came into view. Vendors sold everything from toilet seats to bicycle parts. Table after table bore heaps of groundnuts, stacks of tomatoes. Several taxi cabs and jitneys idled on the shady side of the street.

"Drop me off here," said Archie. "Here's good."

Chapter 32: Kill Order

Saving the biggest problem for last, Hodges took a deep breath and waded out to deal with the boat. The situation was trickier than it had first appeared. He should have taken Black up on his offer to help.

Even though it was low tide, the water it bobbed in was now chest-deep. He thought it would be simple, just grab and haul on one the lines, but the current fought back. Every yard he gained, he lost in slippage.

A fishing boat with an outboard engine passed by the cove. The men saw him struggling and altered course to see what was up. Hodges tried to wave them off.

"It's okay. No hay problema. I've got things under control."

"Nenhum problema?" One of the fishermen giggled and hopped into the water beside him. The others maneuvered their boat in position to gently bump Hodges' craft along, cushioned by some old, treadless tires.

"Que barco bonito!" said the man at the rudder.

"My boat? Oh yeah. It's a beauty alright. Gee thanks, you guys. I could have handled it, really, but thanks."

They got the boat tucked into a deep pocket in the stream outlet and fastened one of the lines to a small tree. They set an anchor to keep it from bashing around in the current.

As the men nosed their boat around, Hodges dug in his pocket for a couple sodden ten thousand dobra notes. The men waved him off.

"Aw come on! You guys deserve it."

The shook their heads and gunned their little engine for the open sea.

Hodges stood and watched them go, worried that they would spread word about the high-class cigarette boat tucked away in the cove beside Boca do Inferno. Once that happened, it wouldn't take long for the authorities to get wind of it.

But these guys looked like they were headed out to fish. If that was the case, they wouldn't be back to shore for hours. Hopefully, Black would be done with the job by then and he would be screaming across the waves back to Ureca and a cold beer, with or without them.

He strolled back to his tent and set about repacking his gear. The sky was milky. The thin clouds had let enough sun through to dry out most of his things. Only his jeans needed a little more time.

He brushed the sand off the pieces of his satellite phone and reassembled it. He had barely clicked the battery back into his cell phone when it went off.

"Hodges here."

"Where the fuck have you been?" It was Gus Henson.

"I haven't gone anywhere. Sorry I missed the last status check. I had a problem with my phone."

"Your line secure?"

"Oops." Hodges enabled crypto. "It is now."

"You heard from White?"

"Um, nope. But like I said, my phone's been out of commission."

"It working now?"

"I... guess so."

"We'll upload a package with his contacts. Give him a call. There's been a mission mod. He's now your Alpha man."

"Huh? What about Black?"

"The guy you thought was Black... he... uh... he ain't really Black."

"Get out!"

"He there? He with you?"

"He's... uh... on his way to see El Presidente."

"Crap. Listen, Hodges. We need to get to him. There's a kill order in."

"Holy shit! How did all this happen?"

Henson's exhaled breath rustled in the receiver. "It was our people in Liberia. They—"

"Oh, that crew," said Hodges. "Say no more."

***

As he packed up his shelter halves, Hodges kicked at the sand, pissed at letting himself be duped. Of course that guy wasn't Black. What was he thinking?

Sure, Black had a reputation as a consummate shape shifter, a human chameleon who could alter his body shape and facial appearance at will. But even a man like that had limits to what he could do. This Parsons guy was a scrawny, weak-willed puppy of a man. Hodges had seen that from the start but had been blinded by the legend that was Black. He should have gone with his instincts instead of trying to rationalize this cognitive dissonance.

He dialed Arcadio on his sat phone, noticing with disgust that his battery was already down to one bar. Must be a short in the electronics. He'd have to crank up the boat and get it charged.

"Yo, Arcadio. We got a problem."

"Problem?"

Hodges could hear loudspeakers and excited voices on the other end of the line. Arcadio was someplace busy and bustling.

"Where the fuck are you? The airport?"

"Si."

"Hey... look out for the B team, will you? They're supposed to be flying in this morning. It's about time they showed up."

"They are here. I saw them."

"About this problem... anybody in the car with you?"

"No."

"Well, listen. We got a change in plans. These two are not who we thought they were. They don't work for us."

"Que? What you mean?"

"This guy we've been dealing with, he's not Agent Black, he's Archie Parsons. The original. The malaria guy. What this means is that our mission is compromised. White's here on-site and they've asked him to take them out, but they're fair game for us, too. The thing is, we gotta do it discreetly. You just get them back here. Don't worry. I'll take care of the rest. I got some body bags in the boat. A little ballast and...."

A truck or bus roared by on Arcadio's end.

"The woman, too?"

"Yeah, I know. It's a goddamn shame. But these two got tangled up in shit they had no business meddling into. That's how it goes, sometimes. You understand?"

Silence.

"Arcadio? You still there? Do you understand what we need to do?"

"Yes. I understand."

"Okay." Hodges caught his breath. His heart was fluttering like a bird. "They back with you, yet?"

"No. I am still waiting."

"Well, when they get back, all you gotta do is bring them back to me. Just drop them off at the beach and get the fuck out of the way. I'll handle the rest."

"The woman, too? For sure?"

"It's a dirty business, Arcadio, my boy. But that's why it pays so well. Right?" He waited for answer. "Right?"

"Si," said Arcadio, softly.

Chapter 33: Trinidade

Archie got out of the SUV and loped towards the end of the market where the taxis were parked. Melissa moved to the front seat. "Later gator." She slammed the door.

Arcadio stayed put, idling by the side of the road.

"Go!" said Archie, waving him on. "Get moving! To the aeropuerto."

Arcadio ignored him. Melissa stuck her head out the window. "He wants to see what car you take, so we can find you later."

"You don't need to find me. Just go to the Miramar. I'll find you."

A gaggle of loitering drivers interrupted their gossip to descend on him, each vying for his business, their behavior oddly bereft of the precedence and pecking order that usually governed such negotiations. This was a free-for-all.

To spite the pushy ones, Archie chose to ride with the elderly man who had been the least aggressive, hanging back at the fringe of the group. The other drivers laughed. The old man, too, seemed quite amused to be the chosen one.

Archie followed him to a reddish-brown Lada, its finish pitted from sun and salt, its windshield cracked, front fender attached with bits of twisted wire threaded through rusted punctures. The door sagged when Archie opened it. He had to lift it back up on its loose hinges to close it. As he settled onto the shredded seat, he realized he had made a mistake. This taxi was ready for the junkyard.

"Onde você quer ir?" said the driver, lisping severely through his missing teeth.

"Where? Um...." He pointed into the misted hills. "A casa... do Presidente."

"O palácio?"

"No, not the palace. His r _oça."_

"Onde!?"

The man spoke no English and Archie had just about exhausted his Portuguese. Arcadio appeared at the driver side window, coming to his rescue. As he explained Archie's destination to the old man, the grizzled fellow erupted in a wheezy cackle that turned into a belly laugh.

A beige sedan pulled up behind the SUV. Its lone driver rolled down his window and perused them. He looked on with an expression of vague disinterest that was belied by the intensity of his stare. Something about the man's behavior gave Archie the willies.

"He doesn't believe you," said Arcadio.

"He doesn't have to," said Archie, losing patience. "All he has to do is take me there."

"Oh, he will take you. He just think it is so funny that you take such a car to visit de Marazul."

The other drivers were just as amused. They burst out laughing when the taxi failed to start on the first and second attempts. Third time was the charm, engulfing them all in a cloud of blue smoke.

As they lurched out onto the street, Arcadio waved goodbye, unsmiling, his eyes sober and serious. They turned left onto a road that ascended through a series of dense residential areas. The occasional shady plaza separated concrete block apartment houses.

On the outskirts they passed clusters of single-family wooden shacks. Papaya groves were interspersed with smallholder garden plots with sugar cane and maize.

The pitch of the road steepened and they rose above the city, curving back and forth through patches of forest and pockets of fog. The little taxi struggled on the steeper inclines, slowing at times to a walking pace. Every vehicle that came up from behind overtook them, including, at one point, a tractor.

To its credit, the taxi never stalled. It was like 'The Little Engine That Could,' winding ever upward through forests underlain with shade-grown coffee shrubs, their berries burgeoning but still green. The temperature dropped almost a degree for every hundred feet they climbed.

The beige sedan he had seen at the market appeared behind them. It matched their snail's pace up the slope, maintaining a fixed distance as if it were cabled to their back bumper. It finally passed them when they pulled over at filling station in Trinidade, but when they continued onward, it pulled out from a parking space as they went by.

Archie tried to blaming it on the paranoia pills, but this tail was too obvious to ignore. He was being watched again, and the thought unsettled him, even though he should have been used to it by now.

They arrived at the main gate of President de Marazul's estate about ten minutes before the appointed meeting time. The gate opened through a twenty foot wall of stone and brick, beyond which sprawled an airy but not overly ostentatious stucco and tile colonial house, with two main floors plus an attic with sleeping porches.

Four guards descended on them like a pack of jackals. Two searched the car while the others frisked and wanded him. It was a good thing he hadn't let Arcadio drop him off.

A slight gentleman in a baggy suit and round spectacles strode across the gravel drive that looped around a cobbled plaza with a dry fountain. The aide grimaced at the dilapidated taxi. He gave Archie a stern once-over.

"Good morning. I am Octavio Buteira, the President's assistant. I presume you are the American doctor?"

"Well... yes... I'm Archie Parsons."

"Where is your bag?"

"My bag?"

"Your medical kit?"

"Oh. Well, I'm not a medical doctor, just a PhD."

"Ah, I see. Well, that's odd. I suppose... a relief." He glanced at his watch. "You are a little bit early. Let me check if he is available. He had a late night last night. It is possible he may still be sleeping."

"No problem. I can wait," said Archie. He had plenty of time. Even if Melissa managed to book a flight for earliest part of his specified window, he had hours to burn.

The aide placed a call, the tone of his voice shifting to a softer, higher pitch. He said very little, grunting affirmatives, but listening much more than he spoke. He closed and pocketed his phone.

"The President is awake. He is out tending his farm. Come, I will take you."

He led Archie around a tidy path skirting the flanks of the house. Melodious voices—children playing—emanated from a window, its curtain billowing in the breeze. A flagstone courtyard opened to the back, with a modest swimming pool and a patio edged with fire pits.

A narrow back gate crawled with red trumpet vines. It opened to a walled ornamental garden and beyond, cultivated fields bounded by orchards. A tractor pulled a cultivator between the rows, ripping through and overturning a thick layer of weeds, leaving soil as dark as coffee grounds in its wake.

"Is that him, driving?"

"Oh, no," said the assistant. "He is working in the pepper beds. He must be feeling strong. It is a good sign, he is out so early. He has been not feeling so good."

A soldier in green fatigues and a garrison cap un-slung his AK from its shoulder strap and cradled it in his arms. He watched them approach, his gaze unwavering.

Amidst a patch of glossy, spade-leafed seedlings, a barrel-chested man knelt with a short-handled scuffle hoe. He wore green fatigues, a madras shirt and a straw hat coming apart at the rim. A heap of weeds lay wilting in a basket beside him.

"We are here," said the aide.

"Yes, I see," said the President.

"Your Excellency," said Archie. "I'm sorry to disturb your work."

The President smirked as he rose. "Your Excellency? Please. No need for such titles. And I don't consider this work. It is one of my few pleasures."

"Even worse, then, for me to disturb you."

The President brushed the dirt from his fingers and shook Archie's hand. "You must be the doctor?"

"Um... I'm actually not an MD. There seems to be a misunderstanding. I'm not here to look after your health. Not...exactly."

"Who are you, then?" said the President. "What is the purpose of this meeting?" He squinted. "Have I seen you before? You look familiar."

"We sort of met last year, at the Presidential Palace. I was part of a monitoring and evaluation team from the Global Fund."

"Ah... you're one of the malaria consultants. Of course. What brings you back so soon? I thought we passed the review."

"You did. My visit has nothing to do with malaria or the Global Fund."

"Oh? Then what?"

Archie glanced at the aide. "It would be best if we had some privacy."

The President nodded at the aide. "You may as well return to the house, Octavio. I'll bring him back when we are through."

"Sir, this is not a good idea. I don't recommend—"

"I'll be fine, Octavio. Go on. Go back and check your Facebook or something."

The aide forced a smile and trudged back through the loose dirt in his shiny dress shoes.

"Quite a garden you have here... or should I say, farm?"

"Oh, this is not just a farm. It is my experiment station. It is my hobby. Of course, we already have research stations for cocoa production and banana disease resistance and such. But I have my own agenda. I like to try new varieties to see what grows best in the climate and soil of São Tomé. A diverse agriculture is key to our islands' self-sufficiency and sustainability. Without it, we have to import everything. That gets very expensive without a tourism industry to help pay."

"I have to say, the variety of produce I see in your markets is pretty impressive compared to a place like Bioko."

The President shuddered. "Bioko. What a disaster that place has become. The people there don't even raise enough goats and chickens to eat. They have to rely on bush meat. How long can this last?"

"Well... maybe they can afford to import food, with all that oil money."

"For who? The workers are all imported from the Philippines and Indonesia. The local people stay unemployed."

"I didn't realize...."

"Here... look at these tomatoes." His hand caressed the broad leaves of a tomato vine with a stalk as thick as his wrist. "These are Brandywines. They have the best flavor. Not good for our markets, though. Thin skins. They bruise easily and they don't keep. So I grow them just for my family. I wish I could share some with you. They are amazing. You won't find local tomatoes or even maize in the market in Malabo. They import it from Cameroon. They blame it on being an island. Well, we are an island, too. They have simply lost all interest in agriculture. Everything to them is about oil. All that rich volcanic soil going to waste. But let's not talk about EG." He rinsed his hands in an irrigation channel and wiped them with a dirty towel. "They give me enough trouble." He daubed his face with a handkerchief. "So what brings you to visit me? Consuela says it's something about my health. Something urgent, she says. Do you know something I don't know?" He sat down in a nylon camp chair as if it were a throne. "Tell me, we are alone. What is it you want to say?"

"There are people on this island who want to kill you."

"Pfft." The President laughed. "So what else is new? I have already been through two coups. Maybe forty percent of the people on this island want me gone. Anyone else will have to get in line behind my wife and daughter."

"These are serious people. With serious weapons. You are in imminent danger."

"And you know this, how? Rumors?"

"I have the papers to prove it," said Archie, patting the bundle of folders and envelopes tucked under his arm. "These people... they screwed up... they think I'm one of them."

"That sounds preposterous. They send a malaria expert to—"

"Like I said, they screwed up. They wanted to use my identity to assassinate you. And you must admit, it would have worked, because, here I am."

A sour expression came over the President. His eyes shifted back and forth. "And would you do this deed? With your pocket comb? Murder by paper cuts?" Archie saw his hand reach down for his hoe, just making sure it was there.

"A poison pen... believe it or not."

The President laughed again. "I've always said, if the written word could kill, I would be dead a long time ago."

"I'm serious. And the thing is, though you're safe with me. I'm just Plan A. There are other people here ready to step in if I failed."

"So who are all these nasty people and why don't they like me?"

"Best I can figure... it's some kind of paramilitary group contracted to some kind of petroleum industry consortium. Chess is one of the companies involved."

"Chess is part of the group that bid on offshore exploration rights... but they're small potatoes. Why would they—?"

"It's all in here," said Archie, patting the set of folders he had brought. "They think you cheated them, that you're sitting on prime oil resources in the Gulf of Guinea and that you didn't bargain in good faith. You hung onto the best parcels while selling them deepwater rights to zones you knew to be dry. They want you gone so they can get a better deal from your successor."

"Filho da puta!" said the President. "What bullshit! This was a gamble for all involved. Yes we held onto some claims, but we put six out for bid. Yes, one of ours seems to be panning out, but we didn't know which ones held oil. If God has chosen to bless us, so be it."

"If you asked me," said Archie. "I think your country is better off without the oil. It's like a disease, what it does to the little countries that have it. But you've made your choice, and now they're coming after you. What I was hoping for is that you could take these papers and go public. Expose what they are doing."

"And what good will that do?"

"It will get them to stop this... rampage."

A wistful look settled over the President's face. "Why antagonize them? Why stir the hornet's nest? This is nothing new. It is just jealousy. Perhaps my opposition has offered them a deal. It would not surprise me."

"But if this doesn't get exposed, they'll keep on killing any politician or activist who rubs them the wrong way."

"My friend. This is the way the world goes round. Ever since there have been men on this earth, men have wanted things that belong to other men. These people are just culling the careless and the weak. But I have no worries. My security is top notch."

"You could have fooled me," said Archie, looking about the open fields.

"We did. It may not seem so professional to you, but that is what makes it so effective. My foes don't think they need to try very hard. But if you had tried to approach me with your deadly pocket comb or whatever you have, do you see that silo over there?" He pointed to a cylindrical concrete structure. "That's not used for storing grain. There is a man in there with a sniper rifle trained on your chest. But don't worry; he is trained to distinguish aggressive acts from friendly gestures. It is very unlikely that you would be shot... unless I gave him a signal."

"I see," said Archie, feeling suddenly very queasy. "But if I... or the man impersonating me... had a stethoscope. You would already be as good as dead by now."

"How so?"

"You and your people thought I was a doctor. I could have easily vaccinated your rump with ricin and be gone in my taxi before you had any symptoms."

The President shifted in his seat and glowered.

"An impostor would not have gotten so close to me."

"Are you so sure?" Archie glanced over to the silo. "That sniper you have in there, do you pay him well?"

"As well as any soldier of his rank and specialty."

"Who's to say he's not working for someone who pays him better? Someone who's given a nest egg big enough to die for... to his family?"

The President made an odd little gesture with his fingers. Archie's gaze whipped back towards the silo.

"Calm down. I am just playing with you. I gave no signal. So we have both made our points. I would be happy to receive those papers now."

"What will you do with them?"

"Oh, they will make excellent bedtime reading, and in time I will turn them over to our intelligence service. Maybe it will give us some leverage in our future dealings with these companies."

"But you won't publicize them?"

"Why would I? I would lose all my leverage. It would be bad for business."

Archie felt the spirit drain from him.

"Don't feel bad, my friend. You have done the right thing. Those who do these things will pay a price. I will see to that."

"Not if they get to you first."

"You need not worry about me. I am a survivor. I have an army and a police force to protect me. You, my friend, are the vulnerable one. Let me call Octavio back. I can have him provide you with an armed escort."

"Um... thanks, but... I don't think that's such a good idea. If they see me with one of your security people, they'd immediately know something was up. They still think I'm working for them."

"So what do you plan to—?"

"We're making arrangements to leave São Tomé tonight."

"Alright... but I strongly suggest you reconsider my offer. If these people are as nasty as you suggest, if you're discovered, they won't hesitate to remove you."

"Thanks, but I'd rather do this quietly... discreetly. I don't want them to know where we're going."

"They will know it is Lisbon. Where else does one go from STP?"

"Mmm-maybe," said Archie.

"Don't be foolish. Here, let me at least give you Octavio's number. If you change your mind. Call him. He is very good at getting things done."

***

When he stepped out of the gate, Archie thought the old man had gone back to town, but he was parked in a patch of shrubbery about a half a football pitch down the hill. A sullen-looking soldier in crisp fatigues accompanied him down the road. The old man cranked the engine as soon as he saw them. He got it started just as they reached the car.

"Você disse-lhe que eu disse olá!?" said the old man, exposing a random collection of front teeth.

"What did he say?"

"He say: 'Do you say hello from me?'" translated the soldier.

"Oh sure. Tell him, I asked the Presidente to buy him a new cab."

The fan belt squealed as they rattled back onto the road. Archie felt an odd sense of ennui overcome him as he jostled in the sprung front seat. He hoped Melissa had been able to book them that flight to Cape Verde. There was nothing left to be done now but run and hide.

He had retained a few mildly implicating papers collected from the last few briefcases, but the meat of the files had been left with de Marazul. He wondered if they were even worth hanging onto.

Journalists these days were wedded to conventional wisdoms that maintained the status quo. The few mavericks were even more jaded about the ways of the world than Archie. He doubted they would find his story and such oblique documents interesting enough to pursue. Paris and obscurity beckoned.

As the taxi wound down the long, shady stretch back to the coast, they passed the beige sedan that had followed them up from town. It was parked at a shady pull-out for a waterfall, facing downhill.

Archie made eye contact with the driver as they passed him. He was a light-skinned black man with strong eyebrows and vaguely Middle Eastern features. He didn't look like he was from around here.

Maybe the guy was just a hiker. These pangs of paranoia might just be the mefloquine talking again. Archie adjusted the shattered side mirror to keep the beige car in view. If it stayed put, he could relax. As they went around the bend, the car pulled out behind them. Archie's breathing throttled up.

Chapter 34: Miramar

White trailed the cab from as far back as he could and still keep it in sight. Occasionally, a truck or jitney intervened, and he let them. It helped to have a screen.

Had Parsons noticed him? Perhaps. Though what could be suspicious about a black man in a cheap sedan driving on the only decent road leading up into the island's interior. So he saw the same car twice. In a place so constricted, of course that would happen. This wasn't London, after all.

Did it matter that he had been seen? Probably not. What could he suspect? Headquarters wouldn't have informed Black that a second agent had been sent to São Tomé. Why would they? Black was, or had been, a proud man. He had valued his independence. Letting him know a second agent was on hand in case he failed would have been so very awkward.

And even if Parsons thought he was being followed, what could he do about it? He had friends in high places, apparently, but whatever sway he had did not suffice to get him an official driver and escort. This was no VIP we were talking about. VIPs didn't ride around in such shabby taxis.

His little excursion had been doubly productive. He had a firm handle now on the identity and disposition of this Parsons character. He was also able to determine that Marazul presented the softest target he had ever seen for a sitting President.

The man was just begging to be ambushed. The only road leading up to his farm was narrow and full of unsecured switchbacks. One rifle burst would suffice take him out, assuming he didn't ride an armored car. Alternatively, the numerous potholes and washouts provided plenty of places to set an IED, assuming the B team or Hodges could supply him with the proper explosives. There would be no need to infiltrate his palace or his farm.

Now he had all his ducks in a row. Parsons and the girl would be his first priority, in no particular order. He would seize whichever opportunity came first, using no bullets, spilling as little blood as possible, relying on stealth and simple weapons. Marazul, would come next, followed by a dash to either the seaplane or Hodges' boat. Step number four: home to London and Alice and redemption!

He followed the pathetic little taxi back into town. It took no evasive action, cutting down the main promenade past the cathedral to the waterfront and right along the seawall. When they pulled in to the main entrance of the Miramar Hotel, White kept on going through the next an intersection, pulling off into a vacant lot near the stadium.

He parked the sedan in the shade of some ragged palms, as a small gang of boys in dusty school uniforms looked on. He had to separate two wires dangling from the dash to make it stall.

"You boys watch my car and I'll give you some dobra," he said, in Portuguese. "You don't let anyone near it."

"How much?" said an older boy.

"Never mind how much. Depends on how well you watch it."

Two of the boys ran over and started wiping the hubcaps clean with some discarded rags.

White tucked his shirt and smoothed his hair. He checked his pockets to make sure he had what he needed. Satisfied, he strode off towards the Miramar.

***

They pulled up in front of the Hotel Miramar, Archie's eyes following the beige sedan, glad to see it continue on its way. He tipped the cabbie well enough to make the old man laugh again about the absurdity of his day.

"You go get this car fixed up," said Archie. "Reparo do automóvel. Understand?"

The old man winked and surged away, filling the overhang with blue smoke. A doorman waited before an open door.

Archie scanned the cars parked in the turnaround. Arcadio's black SUV was not among them. He entered the lobby, which smelled vaguely of ginger. Melissa was not there, and neither was anyone else, as the room was vacant. He tried to stay calm, but he had been gone plenty long for Melissa to have gotten to the airport, booked a flight and made it back to the hotel.

And then her distinctive, liquid laugh rang out, joined by Arcadio's staccato and resonant bray. They were in the restaurant. Relief trickled over Archie.

He paused in the foyer, spotting spotted them sitting at a table in the far corner. They chatted in Spanish, Melissa leaning over an empty plate, her hand patting Arcadio's wrist as she conveyed something uproarious about a dog.

Those big round eyes burgeoning with life—boy was Archie glad to see her. And Arcadio, he looked so animated—joking, laughing—his voice loud and confident, almost cocky. It was if a switch had turned and selected another personality. He was a different person alone with her, like a high school boy courting. Did he have a thing for her, perhaps?

Melissa spotted him and waved. "Archie! Over here."

Arcadio immediately clammed up. His countenance returned to its previous wary and diffident state. He rose as Archie approached and started to leave.

"Excuse me."

"Oh no, Arcadio. Please stay and sit with us. Did you have something to eat?"

"Oh we ate alright. Didn't we, Arcadio?" said Melissa. "They make great sandwiches here, Cuban style, grilled with pork and pickles and cheese. Like my carving?" She held up an elongated, stylized figure of a woman carrying a basket on her head while a small boy tugged at the hem of her skirt.

"Nice. Where'd you get that?"

"Just around the corner there's a place. Though I see the hotel has a gift shop as well."

"So... were you... successful? At the airport?"

"Well... sort of. No seats, but we're on standby for a six forty-five flight to Cape Verde. They told me that there are always folks who don't show, so there's a good chance we'll get on."

Archie winced. "Maybe we shouldn't be discussing the details. You know... in front of...."

"Oh, don't worry. Arcadio knows better. I told him to keep it under wraps. Opsec and all, you know."

"Opsec?"

"Operational security." Melissa grinned, wickedly, but then her smile flattened out. "One small problem. Our friends from Paga are here. Remember those guys from the crocodile pond?"

"That support crew? Did they see you?"

"Don't think so," she said. "But I don't know how we're going to get by them when we check in. They seemed pretty watchful."

"Why is it a problem? I'm Agent Black, aren't I? I call the shots. If I want to jet off to Cape Verde in support of my mission, I will do so. Who are they to question me?"

"I think your head might be getting a little too big, Arch. You're pushing your luck."

"It's no big deal. They're just here to keep us out of trouble... like a safety net. I think one of them even followed me up to the President's place."

"How'd your meeting go?"

"Fine. But... he kind of blew me off."

"Really? I would have thought he'd have been grateful for the warning. You did tell him—"

"Yeah, I told him. Apparently assassination attempts are no biggie to a guy like him. He was totally blasé about it."

"Fatalistic, maybe? Does he know who's after him?"

"Yeah, I told him. But he wasn't even surprised."

Arcadio's phone buzzed. "Excuse me." He slipped it out of his pocket, and stepped out of the restaurant to answer it.

"Archie, those guys at the airport worry me. Even if they don't try to stop us, they'll see where we're going. Someone's gonna get wise to this eventually... I mean why the heck would we go to Cape Verde with the job undone? Unless we're—"

"But Cape Verde's just the first stop. Once we're there we'll have all sorts of ways of shaking whoever's onto us. I mean there are flights to Brazil. Boats to Senegal and Mauritania."

"I guess I'm just nervous," said Melissa, rubbing her fingers over her carving. "The people running this job can't be as dumb as they seem, you know. I have this bad feeling that things are closing in on us. Arcadio's been acting very strange. It's as if he knows something that he's not telling. Like he's scared for us."

Archie sighed and twiddled with his napkin. "We need to be careful what we say around him. Remember, he still works for them. If he figures out I'm not Agent Black—"

"I don't think he cares."

"What makes you say that?"

"I think he likes us. We could flip him if we wanted to."

"You mean, you could flip him."

"Yeah, I could. He was really laying on the charm before you came. It was kind of cute. He says he's got quite the pad in Bata. Near all the clubs. Did you know that he was a musician?"

"No, I didn't know that. What's he play?"

"Guitar. He said he would play for me next time we're in Bata."

"I bet he would. I think he's got the hots for you."

"Oh?" Melissa's eyebrows bunched. "Jealous much?"

"Yeah, right," Archie chuffed. "As if I had a chance with someone like you."

"Say what?"

"You're way out of my league, Melissa. Not to mention, way too young."

"Too black, you mean."

"That doesn't even enter my radar."

"Hah!" Melissa shook her head and propped her chin on her palm. "To think, after all this time, I had not the faintest clue that you were interested in me."

Archie blushed. "Well... I'm not... I mean...."

"You are a real dork. Do you know that, Archie?"

***

White's sat phone buzzed. It was Hodges. Headquarters must have shared his contact info. He stopped at the corner across the street from the hotel and leaned against a light pole.

"Yes?"

"Yo! Whitey?"

"What can I do for you, Mr. Hodges?"

"Hey... B team just flew in from Cameroon. They're picking up a vehicle and coming to get me. We're ready to rumble. Just tell us where to go."

"That's a negative. You are all to stay put until further notice."

"Aw, Come on! Let us come to town. I mean, we're your assets. You should be using us."

"I said stay where you are. I will call if I need you." He glanced back towards the boys scrubbing the stolen car. "But there is one thing you can do."

"What's that?"

"Call that driver of yours. Find out where he went off to with the girl."

"But she was with Black... I mean, Parsons."

"That's a negative. Parsons ended up going off on his own."

"Oh, okay. Will do. I'll get on that."

"That is all."

White hung up. He didn't want any help if he could avoid it. Going solo, there would be no doubt who would be credited with the kills. He was determined to accomplish them with the same grace and precision that had earned Black his reputation.

As he crossed in front of the Miramar, White dawdled down the sidewalk, pretending to enjoy the sea breeze and the play of light on the waves. Some people were having lunch at an outdoor café beside the hotel. Parsons and his lady were not among them.

What were they doing at the Miramar, anyway? They were supposed to be lodging at Boca do Inferno with Hodges. They couldn't have come here for the food. It was far from wonderful, from what he had heard. The local elite came here only for the perceived ambiance.

Maybe they wanted some relief from Hodges. Understandable. The man was a human gnat, the way he buzzed around, annoying the hell out of everybody. White had only met him once, on an op in Sudan.

Or maybe they wanted to shag in their native environment—a luxury hotel, of which the Miramar was the closest thing São Tomé Town had to offer. The Miramar had the kind of icy sterility that a certain breed of northerner flocked to whenever they traveled south of the Sahara. The Sheraton in Addis was infested with such creatures.

He turned down the walk to the Miramar and smiled at the doorman. He noted the absence of any security guards. A table off to one side had a metal detecting wand and a cheap x-ray unit, probably reserved for visits by dignitaries. It was a good thing they weren't in use. They might have discovered and confiscated his little blade.

The chill air of the lobby made his skin pucker and his arm hair stand on end. He stood outside a little gift stand selling crappy paintings, plastic beadwork and overpriced carvings.

An Angolan gentleman was complaining about his bill at the registration desk. Behind him, his little boy played with a toy robot, feet swinging off a leather sofa.

White strolled past the restaurant, glancing through gaps in the curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. A white man sat at a table with a black man and woman. He pulled out his phone and checked the photo had sent him. The white man bore a superficial resemblance to Black, particularly around the eyes. It had to be Parsons. White could see now why the consortium had targeted him.

The black man was their Equatoguinean driver, Arcadio, an employee of the consortium. His presence disturbed White. He was not supposed to be fraternizing with his charges, particularly since he knew there to be a kill order out on them both. Maybe Parsons had insisted he join them in the way some from the North assuaged their guilt through such token gestures, providing meals to the black-skins who serve them, feigning collegiality. Hopefully, Arcadio knew enough to get out of the way once the killing started. Maybe his presence would provide a useful diversion—a red herring of sorts.

White watched them laughing, joking. Very good. He liked his targets happy and relaxed. They were more vulnerable that way. It would have been like shooting fish in a barrel, if he had only brought a gun.

He found a love seat in the walkway outside the restaurant, picked up a brochure some guest had left behind and pretended to read it. He was screened by a curtain, but through its chiffon he could keep the trio in blurry view. Like a hawk hovering from a height, awaiting his chance to swoop in for the kill.

***

Arcadio shuffled back to the table looking a bit hang dog.

"Hey buddy, what's wrong?" said Melissa. "Everything alright... at home?"

"Is nothing," said Arcadio. He avoided eye contact with either of them.

"Why don't I order us some dessert, cheer everyone up?" said Archie. He called the waiter over and got three orders of Black Forest cake. It arrived as little brownie-sized squares, dense and dry, its frosting crisp and cracked.

"Hmm. Might make a better hockey puck," said Melissa.

"A bunch of these and some mortar would make a good wall," said Archie.

"I will eat, if you no like," said Arcadio. "I like it. I am not so fussy."

"You know, here we are in a cocoa growing country and I bet you all the dang cocoa in this cake probably comes from Brazil."

"Get out! After all those coca plantations we passed through?"

"Cocoa," corrected Archie. "Or you can say cacao. Coca is something completely different."

"Did I really say coca?" said Melissa, smacking her forehead. "Oh, look! They had ice cream on the menu! I should have ordered that instead."

"Only if you like it crunchy," said Archie. "Ice cream and the developing tropics don't get along. Too many power failures and freeze/thaw cycles."

"We should probably get a move on... if we're still going to do this," said Melissa. "We do want to do this still, don't we?"

"Sure. Let's give it a shot. Even if we don't get on this flight, we can try again tomorrow."

"You should give me your passport and let me check in for both of us," said Melissa. "Stay in the car till boarding time."

"What for?"

"I'm less conspicuous. Those guys, Arch. They're out there, watching."

"Oh, I don't need to worry about them. Remember, I'm Agent Black."

"Yeah, you're Agent Black, alright."

"Waiter! Check please?" said Archie, rubbing two fingers together. "Arcadio, can you go get the car?"

"Of course. Give me ten minute and come out to front."

Archie waited till Arcadio left the restaurant. "Hey Melissa," he whispered. "Do you think we should ditch Arcadio?"

"Huh?"

"Send him back to Hodges. We could sneak out the back and take a cab."

Melissa gave him an incredulous look. "What for?"

"Just thought it would be good to make our break with these people."

"But he's got my suitcase."

"I'll buy you new clothes."

"Where? Cape Verde?"

"How about Paris?"

Melissa shook her head and looked away. "He already knows we're going to the airport. We're not fooling anybody. If we leave him now, it'll just raise their hackles."

"Yeah. I don't know what I was thinking. I just want to be rid of all this... the sooner the better."

"Don't be rash. Just let it happen. Why ripple the pond if we don't have to?"

"I'd better use the bathroom before we head out." said Archie. "You?"

"I'm fine," said Melissa. "I might check out the gift shop again. Might be my last chance for souvenirs."

"Meet you outside," said Archie.

***

The driver's eyes nearly popped out of his skull when he saw White sitting in the nook outside the restaurant. He kept glancing back as he headed towards the lobby.

White hissed at him. "Keep your eyes straight, Arcadio you fook, or you'll blow my cover."

The couple settled their bill and rose from the table. White buried his nose in a pamphlet, pretending to be enthralled by the instruction manual for a wireless modem.

They paid no notice to him as they left the restaurant. He let them pass, noting with practiced disinterest where they parted ways, the girl cutting across the lobby to the little gift shop, while Parsons went into the men's room.

White knew an opportunity for murder when he saw it. A hotel wasn't the most optimal venue in terms of body disposal, but at least this one was quiet and minimally secured.

Yes, there would be a big commotion and investigation, but he would be long gone. It would not preclude him from taking out the other targets, including the big fish. A hubbub centered about the hotel might even facilitate his work by creating a diversion.

On second thought, headquarters would be more impressed if he could make them vanish without traces, a trick with which the real Agent Black had made his name. 'The Black Hole,' some called the phenomenon. Maybe it didn't have to happen at the hotel. Maybe he could charm/cajole/bully them into accompanying him someplace where he could accomplish the deed silent and clean.

He put down the pamphlet, rose and stretched, slipping his hand in his pocket to retrieve his little knife. The blade was plenty long enough to slip between the fourth and fifth cervical vertebra and sever a brain's connection to its vitals.

He had practiced on corpses, left hand pressing, feeling for the bony protrusions on the back of a neck, fingers parting, a quick, forceful jab between them with the right hand, and that would be that. Wipe the blade, pocket it, and off we go.

The victim wouldn't bleed much. No significant veins or arteries nicked and his heart wouldn't be pumping for very long. And the hotel was so dead, there was little chance of any collateral damage. Headquarters would be impressed.

He ambled towards the men's room, twirling the knife in his fingers.

***

The Miramar's washroom dazzled Archie. The sinks gleamed. Every faucet provided water at the advertised temperature and every valve turned on and off without a drip. The floor harbored no puddles, the tiles straight and true. It could have passed for a Ritz-Carlton stateside if not for the little brown crab in the corner, trying and failing to climb the wall.

He stepped into a stall with an actual door and a working latch. The toilet smelled of lavender, not urine. Unlike many he had encountered south of the Sahara, its seat remained affixed, with nary a crack and of thick enough plastic to not warp under his weight as he sat, pants bunched below his knees. He did not even mind that they touched the floor. It was that pristine.

The washroom door whooshed open. Through the narrow space between door and post, Archie watched a man wash his hands, look about and wash his hands some more. The man kept looking up and staring at the stalls through the mirror. Archie recognized those eyebrows. It was the guy from the beige sedan.

He came straight to Archie's stall and wiggled the door.

"Occupied!" Archie blurted.

"So sorry."

He entered the stall to Archie's left. He sat but kept his pants up.

"Lovely day for an assassination, eh mate?"

The statement startled Archie, until he remembered what Melissa had told him about the men at the airport. This guy must be a member of the B team.

"That's a rather unprofessional thing to say... don't you think?"

"Say what?" The man chuckled. "What do you know of my profession?"

"Obviously, you're... you're one of my support crew... right?"

The man chuckled some more and slid his foot into Archie's side of the partition. "Support? Listen mate. I support no one. I'm an independent operator."

"Excuse me, but... some privacy would be nice."

"You're right. The loo is not the best place for shop talk. Why don't you come out to my car? We can go somewhere and clarify a few things. I'll buy you a pint."

"Um... that's kind of you, but... there's no need. Do what you need to do... just give me a little more space, okay? I mean, did you really have to follow me into the stalls?"

"So, so sorry. Just getting to know you, mate. While I still can."

"Archie?" Melissa called out from the lobby. "Everything okay in there?"

"F-fine! I'll be out in a minute."

Archie sat and waited, hoping the man would get up and leave—for naught.

"Awful quiet in there. Having some trouble, are we mate? Is my presence disturbing your bowels?"

"Goll dang! Now that's just too much. You'd better leave right now."

"Oh? Or else?"

"I'll call... I'll report you."

"Oh yes? To whom? We both know you'll do nothing of the sort. We know exactly who you are Mr. Parsons. The jig is up."

An icicle impaled Archie's core.

"So why don't come along. You and your little girlfriend. Come and join me in my car. We'll go have a beer, have a little chat, set some things straight, set some parameters and then you can be on your way."

Archie lifted his hand slowly to the latch, undoing it without making as much as a scrape or click. He figured he could dash for the lobby, grab Melissa and run.

"How about it, mate? A bit of parley would do us both good."

"Um... sure," said Archie. He made his move in one quick flurry, pulled his trousers up, pulled open the door and sprang off the toilet. But his pants slipped back down. He tripped and skidded across the tile on his knees.

The door to the adjoining stall flew open and man burst out after him. He flicked his wrist. A tiny blade materialized out of nowhere.

Archie yanked up his pants and stumbled to his feet. The man shoved him down and leaped onto his back, knocking the breath out of him. He ripped down Archie's collar and manipulated his vertebrae with his thumb. A knife point pricked the back of his neck. He mustered all his strength and squirmed out from under the blade. It clicked and scratched against the tile.

The washroom door swung open. Melissa bounded in, feet wide, fist extended, her other hand wielding her souvenir carving like a club. The man released Archie's collar and lunged at her with the knife. Leg already swinging, her shoe struck his wrist and knocked the blade free. She planted her swing leg, brought up the other knee and smashed the guy in the face. The force knocked him off Archie's back. Blood poured from his nostrils.

As Archie scuttled away, Melissa poised to strike again, lifting and cocking her leg. The man grabbed it before she could kick and hauled her down. The carving slipped from her grip and drummed against the tile. Archie snatched it and raised it high, clubbing him over one ear as he stretched to retrieve his knife. The carving snapped. The smiling head of the matron flew off and bounced off the back wall. The man's arms gave way. He crumpled.

Archie hauled Melissa to her feet with one hand, holding up his undone pants with the other.

The man scrambled to his feet and attacked again, flailing his fists, but he was woozy and disoriented. His blow glanced off Archie's jaw and struck his shoulder. Melissa whipped a small bottle from her purse, shoved it in the man's face and sprayed. He screamed and clasped his hands over his eyes.

Archie grabbed Melissa's hand.

"Run!"

Chapter 35: Voice of America

Archie tore through the lobby, Melissa in tow, her wrist clasped in his grip, jerking her along like some clumsy square dancer. When the doorman saw them approach, he seemed torn between stopping them and getting the hell out of the way. But when he saw Archie's flapping belt buckle, he grinned, probably assuming this was an adulterous couple on the run from a jealous husband. He swung the door open wide.

Archie's eyes stung from the substance she had sprayed on his attacker. Tears welled profusely and blurred his vision.

"What was that shit you sprayed on him?"

"Insecticide," she said.

Arcadio pulled the SUV forward. His eyes looked worried. Archie hesitated.

"Melissa. He's one of them! They know. They know who we are now."

"Don't worry. Arcadio's cool. I'm sure he'd never do anything to hurt us."

"But, he works for—"

"Archie, I trust him. I'm getting in the car. Come on."

"Melissa!"

"Trust me. I know people."

Archie wiped his cheek on his shirt sleeve and glanced back towards the lobby with dread. The doorman stood straight and calm looking back at Archie. There was no sign of the man who accosted him. He took a deep breath and climbed in beside Melissa.

Arcadio didn't dally. He tore out of the drive. "Where we should go?"

"Not to Boca. Mr. Hodges knows now, too," said Archie.

"Yes. He know," said Arcadio. "Where we go?"

"We can't go to the airport either. Those guys... they're not working for you anymore, Archie. There's no way they let us pass."

"Yeah," said Archie, grimly. "You're probably right."

"So where? Where we should go?" said Arcadio, stopped at an intersection.

"Keep driving. Anywhere. Just keep driving."

"So what do we do?"

"I don't know."

"We can go to Bombain," said Arcadio.

"Where's that?"

"High in the hills. They won't find you so fast... as here."

"Arcadio, why are you helping us?"

"It is my choice. I make some bad choice. Before. Now I make some better choice. In my heart, it feels good to help you."

"What do you think Arch? Should we go to Bombain?"

"I don't know. There are so few roads up there. Too easy to trap us."

"There are many footpaths. People in the villages can show you. They will not talk."

"So what do you think, Arch?"

Archie remembered the slip of paper President de Marazul had given him. He fished around his pocket. "I... I've got the President's number. He said if we ran into trouble—"

"What are you waiting for? Call him."

Archie noticed some dark drips on the car seat. Her blouse was torn and bloody.

"Jeez, Melissa. You're bleeding."

"I'm okay. He just nicked my side."

"Where the heck did you learn to fight like that?"

"I have skills, Arch. Skills I never told you about."

"You think?"

Melissa pursed her lips and brooded. She started to say something, caught herself and started again. "I'm not really just your neighbor, Arch. I used to work for... well, not these people... but people who work with them."

"Okay," said Archie. "You always struck me as a mite over-qualified for cat-sitting. But I figured... high unemployment rate... or maybe she's a slacker."

"I was unemployed when I took that job. It was just... piecework."

"So... I suppose it was no accident that I ended up hiring you." Archie scrunched his brow. "Y-you weren't sent to... assassinate me? Were you?"

"Oh God no! I don't do that sort of thing." She took a long, slow breath. "I used to work for the CIA, Arch. I lied. This isn't my first time in Africa. I went to Kenya and Tanzania after the embassy bombings to... sniff around. Not that I was ever terribly good at that sort of thing. I went through all the training, but I washed out early. Got my burn notice. Settled down in the Bay Area. I was thinking of going to law school when, somehow, these people found me, signed me up for a little consultancy. They pay good money. All they wanted was for me to watch you for a time, figure out your travel patterns, go through your things while you were away. I've read your e-mail. You really need a better password than 'Anopheles.' So I know who you know, how pathetic your social life is, how much you hate asparagus and your little issues with athlete's foot. I would sit there all day with your kitties and go through your files. But... when I learned exactly what it was that you did, I started feeling bad, doing what I was doing. I admire, you Archie. All these people you help... in all these countries. For peanuts."

"Really? I thought HVI compensated pretty well, considering."

"Maybe by NGO standards, but you have no clue what these bastards in industry are making, do you?"

"You knew all along? That they wanted to kill me?"

"No! Not at all. I had no idea why they wanted to mess with someone of your ilk. It wasn't until I got word that you were dead, and then right after you called me from Monrovia. I knew something was wrong. I knew right then that they had fucked up big time."

"Now you tell me? Now?"

"I didn't want you to know," she said, her voice going small. "I wanted you to still like me."

Archie patted his pockets. "Christ, I don't even have a phone with me. Do you?"

"No. I left it with Hodges. Didn't feel safe using it."

A cell phone appeared over Arcadio's shoulder. "Use mine," he said.

Archie looked at Melissa.

"Nothing to lose now," she said.

He took Arcadio's phone and punched in the number. He looked up at her.

"It's ringing."

A man answered in Portuguese.

"Hi... uh... this is Archie Parsons."

"Quem?"

"Archie Parsons. The doctor? Is this... Octavio?"

"Why are you calling me? How did you get this number? This is a private line."

"The President gave it to me. He said I should call if I ever needed any help."

"Eh... I think he was just being polite. It's not how we operate here."

"Can I speak to him? Please?"

"I am sorry, that is not possible. The President is not available, and even so—"

"But he insisted that I call you if I ever needed any help. He said you would take care of it. And... well... we need some help."

"You are the doctor who is not a doctor? Yes? The man who visited him this morning."

"That's me."

"What kind of help do you need?"

"Some people are trying to kill us."

"Excuse me?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"About the death threat. That's why I arranged that meeting with him. To warn him about these people."

"He tells me no such thing. I thought you were just a malaria consultant."

"Well, yeah I am, but that's not why I went to see him. Listen... these people are swarming all over the island. Killers all. They're at the airport. Boca do Inferno. I just got attacked in the bathroom of the Hotel Miramar." Archie paused to hear him respond, but there was only silence dressed with some faint tinkling of something like elevator music.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

"Yes. I am here," said the aide. "So what exactly do you wish for us to do?"

Archie puffed, exasperated. "I don't know. We just need a safe place to go, someone to stop them."

"Have you contacted the police?"

"The police? Listen. I don't speak Portuguese very well. Neither of us do. And the President... he specifically told us to contact you if—"

"Alright, alright. Maybe I can help. I will need to double check with the President first. He has told me nothing about your situation. It sounds so very strange. He is at meetings at the moment. I will have to call you back."

"Wait! Don't hang up. We—" The connection clicked off.

"Well, that didn't sound very promising," said Melissa, arms crossed.

***

Archie hunkered low in the back seat watching the same tree crowns and building facades pass high in the window as Arcadio circled the same set of blocks, over and over.

"Wish there was some hole we could crawl into," said Archie. "Wait out the storm."

"Wasn't that guy supposed to call right back?" said Melissa.

"That's what I assumed," said Archie. "Said the President was at a meeting. You know how that can be."

"Not really," she said, raising an eyebrow. Her face brightened. "Hey, why don't we just go to the embassy? Even if they've got spooks there, there's no way they'd try anything funny in the public spaces."

"Yeah, but there is no US Embassy in STP," said Archie. "The Ambassador to Gabon handles things. I mean, they have a guest house they use when they visit but...."

Melissa sank a bit lower in her seat.

As Arcadio turned down the road that arced along the inner, more urbanized harbor. A shiny beige sedan zoomed past them in the other direction.

"Shit! That was him. The guy with the knife. Do you think he saw us?"

Melissa wheeled around and peered out the back window. "Oh yeah. He's turning around."

"Oh fuck, if he knows, they're all gonna be after us now. Arcadio go! We gotta lose him!"

"Where? Where I should go?"

"That radio station... the one we saw on the way up from Boca," said Melissa. "V-Voice of America. We crash the studio, take over their microphones. They wouldn't dare hurt us with the whole world listening... would they?"

"You tell me," said Archie. "You seem to know their ways better than I do."

"You know? I don't believe they would," she said, sitting taller. "These are public companies with stockholders. You think they'd want word of this getting out?"

"All the more reason to kill us by any means necessary."

"Then we go out with a bang. Crash the studio. Tell the announcers what's happening. Share it with the world. What do you say?"

"I don't know, Melissa. A place like that's gotta have pretty good security. How do we even get in the gate?"

"Not a problem," she said, reaching under Arcadio's seat and pulling out the guns they had received in the last briefcase. She kept the FN and passed the Heckler & Koch machine pistol to Archie. "These should be worth the price of admission." She slammed in a magazine packed with armor-piercing rounds and cocked her weapon.

Chapter 36: Diesel

Bloody Hell! White hunched over a sink flooding his eyes with cold water, and still he could not assuage the feeling that his corneas had been blasted with grit.

Consider his priorities revised. That bitch from hell now topped his list. Take her down and Parsons would drop as easy as culling sheep. Soft and docile, he was. Unlike that she-beast, that wolf in sheep's clothing.

She had skills, that one. Why hadn't headquarters clued him in? Black certainly would have gotten the full skinny.

His nose crunched when he winced. It was likely fractured. He tried washing the blood from his face and shirt, but it continued to drip. Tidying up was hopeless so he tucked his shirt as best he could and stormed out of the washroom.

The doorman cringed away as he approached, using the glass door to shield himself. White barged out of the Miramar and hauled his aching body back to his car, limping and lurching along the walk.

The boys waiting proudly by the now-gleaming sedan ran off into the shrubberies at the sight of him. He could imagine how he looked: face swollen, eyes blinking and weeping, crimson streaks staining the front of his shirt. He must have looked like a flipping monster!

He tossed a fistful of cash and coins at the frightened kids and climbed into the beige sedan. He twisted together one set of wires and touched the other set to engage the starter. The engine roared. He was off on the hunt.

***

Hodges rode shotgun in the rented van—literally. He held a sawed off 12-gauge Benelli in his lap, part of a larger arsenal he had retrieved from the cigarette boat and shared with the two men from the B team who rode with him.

They had left one guy behind to watch the boat. Another had remained at the airport to monitor all outgoing flights. Earlier, one of them had spotted the girl at the TAP counter, making some sort of flight arrangements.

White wasn't answering his phone and neither was Arcadio. What the fuck was up with these guys. At least these B team guys understood the value of working together.

According to Henson, that Melissa bitch used to be a junior field operative in the CIA. Who knew? She seemed a little too cute and ditzy to be a field operative.

He had no idea where to find her or Parsons, but at least in town they would be situated to respond more quickly to any contingency. Screw White and his maverick ways. At least in town he could get himself a hot meal and give his constitution a rest from all those damned MREs.

Turned out, Hodges shared some history with John Grecko, the B team leader. They had run into each other in Libya back when Hodges sold up-armored cars to dictators and their flunkies.

Grecko, an ex-Marine, had just taken a job with a Serbian-run mercenary outfit. He had still been a freckle-faced kid back then. These days he had sprouted enough red whiskers to pass for a Viking.

"Yeah, I hope Mr. Muammar is making good use of that S600 I sold him. That baby carried a thousand pounds of armor and 640 horsepower engines to haul it around."

"Run-flat tires?"

"Of course."

"Yeah, but... I bet it's already obsolete. The Iraqis have turned shaped-charge IEDs into a cottage industry."

"Oh. I don't know. I'd put my money on that Mercedes. We installed a few little tricks that most folks in the industry don't bother with. I'd tell you but it's a trade-secret. The non-disclosure I signed is still binding."

"Hey, isn't that the same Nissan we saw at the airport?" said Grecko's buddy, a quiet kid named Mark.

Grecko pumped the brakes as the other vehicle converged and zoomed past them, heading south at maximum throttle.

"Holy shit," said Hodges. "That was Arcadio. And he's got those two fucktards with him. Where the heck are they going? Boca, maybe? Turn around Goddamnit! They ain't getting my boat."

A little beige Renault screamed by, struggling to keep up with the more powerful Nissan.

"That was White," said Grecko, fish-tailing the van around. He goosed the accelerator and joined the chase.

"Lock and load," said Hodges. "Things are gonna get real interesting real quick, fellas."

***

"Here it is! Turn here!" said Archie.

Arcadio jerked and wheel and started to skid, heading straight for the deep ditch that drained off the VOA compound. One tire grabbed and pulled them back onto the pavement as the rear wheels were about to slip over the edge.

Melissa, unbuckled, flew across the cab and slammed into Archie.

"Jeez, Melissa! Buckle your seat-belt!"

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry for me. You could have cracked your skull!"

Arcadio jerked the wheel again and they slid around to face the long, dirt drive leading into the compound. A long line of broadcast towers stood at attention like steel soldiers. Below them sprawled a complex of squat, prefab warehouses with walls of corrugated aluminum. Bulbous tanks held diesel for the generators, ensuring that the towers never had to rely solely on the local power grid to beam their message to the world.

"There is a gate coming," said Arcadio. "And a guard post."

"Crash it!" said Melissa.

"What?" said Archie.

"There's no time to stop. Those guys are right behind us."

The guard post was a little wooden shed just large enough for a chair and a desk. The guard stepped out into the dusk, stretching his arms languorously, but his posture turned to panic when it became obvious that Arcadio had no intention of stopping or even slowing down. He backed away from the gate and scrambled to unsnap his holster.

Arcadio sank low in his seat and smashed through a flimsy gate arm that served more as a polite suggestion than an imperative. The guard held his gun in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other.

"If we're lucky, he'll give the others a harder time getting through," said Melissa.

They climbed a slight rise to the cluster of warehouse-like buildings.

"Which one?" said Arcadio.

Most were drab and windowless. Archie saw nothing that looked to him like a studio. "I don't know. Just drive around."

At the center of the cluster, they came to a signpost. "Stop here."

As they exited the vehicle, Arcadio pulled his own pistol out of a courier bag along with an extra pair of magazines.

"You coming with?" said Archie.

"I am with you. Yes."

"Alright, Arcadio, my man!" Melissa slapped him on the back.

Archie went over and studied the sign post. "There's a 'Broadcast Center' in Building 2A. That could be what we're looking for."

"Where's 2A?" said Melissa.

"Is over here," said Arcadio, pointing to a long narrow building with shipping containers integrated into the walls like blocky warts. Behind it stretched a row of generators housed separately in open-eaved concrete block structures backed by diesel tanks.

Two more vehicles screamed up to the guard post.

"Let's move," said Archie.

The guard shouted. There was a series of brittle pops followed by a loud, dull blast.

Archie didn't dare a glance as he turned the corner under a covered walkway.

"It is here," said Arcadio, pointing his pistol at a glass door held ajar with a wedge of wood.

"Go on inside." Archie let Melissa and Arcadio enter first and then locked it behind them. To free both hands to do so, Archie clasped the machine pistol to his side with an elbow.

"Archie! Don't hold it like that. You're gonna shoot yourself."

"Safety's on. I think."

"No it isn't! Jesus Christ, have mercy on the feeble-minded!" She reached over and flipped a toggle. "S is for safe, okay? E is for single fire, F for full automatic. Got it?"

"E stands for single? Now that's counterintuitive."

"It's a German weapon Archie. E stands for 'Ein.'"

They passed through a sparsely furnished lounge with a cartridge coffee maker and a mini-fridge in one corner. A chipped Formica table was stained from decades of spillage. Speakers in the ceiling played an interview with a cut flower farmer from Kenya.

"That can't be live," said Archie.

"Maybe they intersperse taped bits with the live stuff. I mean, they must have someone here for voice-overs... at least. Right?"

"I don't know," said Archie, beginning to worry about what kind of trap they were getting themselves into.

The studios weren't hard to find. They were behind a heavy steel door, lining both sides of a narrow hall. The first pair of glassed-in rooms were completely dark.

"There is a man in this here room!" said Arcadio, waving his pistol.

They came down the hall to where Arcadio stood. A technician in headphones sat in a mesh-back chair, feet up on a sound board, headphones on, head tilted back, arms crossed, eyes closed.

"This is no deejay," said Archie. "This guy's just a techie." Archie rapped on the glass with his gun and opened the door. The man's eyes popped open. He lurched at the sight of the armed trio entering his cubicle and fell out of his chair onto the floor.

***

"Bloody hell!" said White. "Did you have to shoot him in the fooking chest?"

"I had no choice. He shot first!" said Hodges, reloading his shotgun.

"He fired in the air you golldamn fool. We could have talked him into surrendering."

"Whoa! Look at this. White is suddenly 'Mister Tread Lightly.'"

"It's called collateral damage, Curtis. That's what you just accomplished in your haste."

"No big fucking deal. Damage control will take care of it."

"Damage control? Surely you realize who's going to take the blame for your little fook-up. That would be me, your Alpha Leader."

"You should be used to it by now, Whitey. No?"

White seethed with the urge to blast the little bastard a new asshole out his front, when he realized he didn't have a firearm.

"Someone hand me a side-arm. Surely one of you has a spare?"

The young man from the B team handed him a Glock and three magazines filled with ammo, which he stuffed into his shirt.

Hodges turned to the B team leader. "Hey, John. That guy you left on the beach. He any good with a boat?"

"Well, duh. He's a former SEAL. That's why I left him."

"Give him a call and see if he can meet up with us just off these bluffs here. Once we're done here, it might save us a trip to Boca. I doubt any of us are going to be making it past the immigration queue."

Grecko smirked. "You got that straight." He unclipped a sleek black radio from his belt.

"We can kiss any hit on the big fish good bye, as well," said White.

"Oh well," said Hodges. "Two out of three ain't bad."

"Small potatoes," said White, striding off towards the broadcast facilities.

"You guys flush. We'll flank," said John.

"Sounds like a plan," said Hodges. "You got that boat ride hooked up?"

"He's already on his way."

"Good man."

Hodges trotted to catch up with White. "What the fook do you want?" he snapped. "I work alone."

"Well golly, aren't you the prima donna. Someone's gotta cover your ass while you play superhero."

They came to the black SUV and gave it a quick going over.

"Some blood on the seat," said Hodges.

"Good," said White. "Wish there was more."

The wind surged off the ocean and scoured the peninsula, kicking up several dust devils. White squinted at the horizon. Twilight was coming on fast, the sun a red glow like an incendiary bomb gone off over the town. Waves grumbled out of sight below a line of cliffs.

"Over there!" said Hodges. "I just saw a light flick on."

They ran over to a building with a fading '2A' stenciled over the weathered paint and stood before a locked glass door. "Stand back," said Hodges. He blasted a hole with one barrel of his sawed-off. White kicked at the crystalline lacework of shattered safety glass, creating a gap large enough to squeeze through.

"You stay by the door," said White.

Hodges shuffled his feet. "Fuck that."

"You stay!" growled White. "I will handle this. I have some settling to do with the bitch who broke my nose."

***

"Nothing live is broadcast from here," said the technician, headphones askew across his cheek, palms in the air. "Only rebroadcast. Everything we play is produced in Washington. This is just a relay station." His accent was faint. He must have spent considerable time in the states.

"But what about those microphones over there?" said Melissa, pointing at a cubicle across the hall.

"That is a studio. The locals use it to record spots in Portuguese. They play music on FM from their own little shack. It is part of the cooperative agreement. Their signal does not even reach Príncipe."

A blast came from the lobby, following by the tinkle of glass.

"We'd better get out of here!" said Archie. "Is there a back door?"

The technician pointed down the hall opposite the direction they had come from.

"You should come along, too," said Melissa to the techie.

"I can't," said the technician. "I'm on duty."

"We're not giving you a choice." Archie pointed the machine pistol at him.

"For your safety," said Melissa, her face all open and earnest. She patted his shoulder. "Don't worry. We won't make you a hostage."

They passed through a door at the end of the hall into a workshop littered with the carcasses of mixing boards and monitors. Voices rumbled in the hall they had just left. They ran towards an 'Exit' sign.

Archie touched the door handle. "Where does this lead?"

"The rear of the complex, and our backup generators."

Archie opened up the door. It was getting dark quickly. Dark swirls of cloud mingled overhead. Bats looped around flickering lamp posts.

"Halt! Who go dare?" A man stood at the far end of the alley, trembling. He braced a rifle against his hip.

"That's George," whispered the tech. "One of our security guards."

"Well, you tell George to—"

An unseen burst of automatic weapons fire made George dance like the scarecrow in Oz, before he crumpled to the ground.

"Yikes! Come on!" Archie dashed across the alley into a generator shack—a roofed shelter with vented brick walls that served as baffles to ventilate and deaden the sound of the massive generators. An elevated fuel line ran overhead to a huge tank of diesel at the edge of the compound along a chain link fence.

"Man, you guys are serious about keeping your broadcasts going."

Tracers flashed down the length of the alley, just as Arcadio made it inside. A line of gouges tattooed the metal skin of the Broadcast Center. Bits of concrete block shattered and sprayed them with grit.

"Keep down," said Archie. "We need to get out of here or else we'll be cornered. See any way through that fence?"

"There is no gate here," said the technician. We have to go down the alley." He started to leave the shed.

"No!" Melissa hauled him back by his shirt-tail as another flurry of bullets chewed up the low wall fronting the shed.

"Over the back wall," said Archie. "We can work our way down shed by shed."

Melissa went first, vaulting over the wall in one smooth motion. Arcadio followed, all frantic and skittering, shoving one foot into a baffle to boost himself over. Tracers cracked through the opposite wall and plonked into the generator. It started bleeding oil. The technician looked at Archie.

"I will stay," he said.

"You can't stay! Those guys aim to kill us."

"It's not my problem. I'm not with you all."

"You don't understand."

The door they had just emerged from squealed back open. The guy from the Miramar washroom stepped out. He stood calmly, looking both ways up and down the alley. He flashed a hand signal to someone down the end of the lane where George, the guard, had been hit.

Archie had a clear shot through a gap in the generator housing and out the alley side of the shed. He flipped the selector toggle to 'F,' and lined up his nemesis in his sight.

"Archie! Come on! What are you waiting for?" Melissa hissed from the next generator shed.

"Shush!" he said.

His hand shook. The barrel wobbled off-line till he rested it on the metal. With just one little pull, bits of metal would fly out and splinter that man's bones and shred his organs. Archie just couldn't bring himself to do such a thing to another human being, no matter how evil or eager to return the favor.

Arcadio's cell phone buzzed in Archie's pocket.

The man across the alley dropped into a crouch and sent a good ten bullets slapping across the diagonal into the generator shack. Most cracked into the cement or ricocheted off the generator. But Archie heard a grunt and a wheeze beside him. At least one bullet had penetrated the technician's chest.

Archie wanted to help the man. He really did. But he saw the shooter pop out a magazine and he took off over the wall, somehow summoning almost as much lift as Melissa had. He landed hard on the other side, phone still buzzing, and scooted around the front and into the next shed.

"Archie! Answer your phone!"

He picked up. "Hello?"

"Yes, Dr. Parsons. This is Octavio speaking." His tone of voice was much more reserved and polite. "I... eh... spoke with the President, and he... instructed me... eh... it seems that we might be able to arrange for some assistance."

"Arrange? We need help right now."

"Yes, I understand. These... arrangements... are underway as we speak. For verification purposes, once our people come onto the scene I would like you to remember a certain code phrase."

Melissa popped up and pumped five shots down the alley before ducking back behind the generator.

"Oh my... may I ask... what is this I am hearing? Is it shooting?"

"You bet your ass it's shooting. These fuckers are trying to kill us. That's why we need help now. And I mean now!"

"Boy, this baby's got a kick," said Melissa. "I'll need to brace myself better."

"The code phrase is: 'Brandywine Tomato." Do you understand me? Repeat this phrase when the time comes so our people will know that it is you they are dealing with. Can I hear you say it?"

"Brandywine Tomato."

"Very good! I—"

Tugga-tugga-tugga-tugga-tug!

Bits of concrete block splintered off and peppered his face.

"Oh my. Take care now... and good luck," said Octavio. "I hope to see you... soon."

"Where'd he go? Where'd that guy go?" said Archie, re-pocketing Arcadio's phone.

"I don't know," said Melissa. "I ducked down and he was gone."

"We'd better keep moving."

A brittle CRACK! Something sparked off one of the generators.

"Where the hell is he? That's gotta be him shooting at us."

Arcadio popped up and sent four quick rounds down the alley. Someone returned the favor with a burst of full automatic, shattering more concrete block.

Archie checked his machine pistol, making sure it was still set to fire. Suddenly, the lamps in each generator shack, which had been flickering in the dusk glared in full.

"Goll dang. That's the last thing we need."

But the alley was now illuminated by flood lights, leaving them at no disadvantage with regards to visibility.

A dark figure darted wide towards the fuel tanks. Melissa aimed her pistol and shot twice. One of her rounds clinked into the side of one of the tanks. The figure dove behind a brush pile.

"Did I get him?"

"I don't think so," said Archie. "But you sure got the tank."

Diesel began to trickle in a thin stream down the side.

"Oh-oh."

"One is coming. We need move," said Arcadio.

They left the shelter together and darted towards the last generator in the row, only to find Mr. Hodges standing there with a sawed-off shotgun leveled at his hip.

Archie and Melissa dove to either side as Arcadio came up behind them, unaware. He took the full brunt of Hodges' blast. Archie tried to fire his weapon. Nothing happened at first, and then half the magazine suddenly burst out of it, spraying across Hodges' legs. His shotgun went off again as he fell, blasting the tin roofing overhead. He groaned.

"Melissa? You okay?"

"Caught some in my side." She gasped. "Man, that stings!" She gasped. "Check on Arcadio. It didn't look good."

He crawled over to Arcadio, who lay in a spreading pool of unchecked blood. He had massive wound in his mid-section and was already heading into shock.

"Oh Jeez. Arcadio! I'm so sorry. We never should have dragged you into this."

"Is my choice," said Arcadio, weakly. "Is... better choice." His mouth went slack.

"Oh God!"

Hodges writhed on the concrete pad, banging his elbow against the generator. Melissa had her pistol aimed at his head. She glowered like a she-demon.

"Melissa, no!" Archie lunged and pushed the pistol away.

"He killed Arcadio!"

"No reason for anyone else to die."

Hodges was hit in both legs, but his left thigh gushed with arterial blood. Archie undid his belt.

"Archie, really?"

"A quick tourniquet could save him."

"But this man shot Arcadio!"

Archie's brow furrowed with torment. "We can't just let him die... for no good reason."

A shadow fell across the generator block. "How noble. Would you have done the same for me, I wonder?"

***

Melissa dove into the alley and rolled. White's first shot caught her in the ribs. His second and third shots missed. He never got off a fourth.

Archie whipped up the machine pistol and let loose, shattering White's hand and knocking free his gun. White screamed and dropped to his knees, clutching his injured arm to his chest.

Archie scrambled out of the shed. "Melissa? You okay?" She was gone. A trail of blood spatters led across the alley, into a strip of shadow. She was hobbling away, hunched over, around the corner of the building.

The lights blinked out, not just on the compound but in a wave of darkness that swept over most of São Tomé town in the distance. Archie followed after Melissa, touching the wall of the building as a guide until his eyes could adjust.

Tracer fire zipped down the alley, first one way and then from another source, angling across. Several ripped into the leaking diesel tank. An orange flame appeared on the side and began to spread.

"Oh, fookin' bloody hell!" said White, lurching out of the generator shed, his damaged hand tucked under his good arm like a broken wing.

Archie ran down to the end of the building, chased by a rifle burst that pounded across the thin metal cladding.

The last undamaged generator kicked in automatically. The lights flickered back on as Archie turned the corner. He glanced back to see White coming after him, but he was unarmed.

"Melissa?"

"In here," she said, her voice quavering. Her voice had come from a shipping container that had been converted into sleeping quarters for the duty staff on call. Light from the slowly spreading diesel conflagration lapped at the white-painted steel. Flames had consumed the pooled fuel at the base of the leaking tank and were climbing up the side. It was like watching an explosion in slow motion.

Archie entered the container through a door that was swinging in the breeze. The room held two small beds, a knotted bed net dangling over each.

He found Melissa huddled in the corner atop a heap of dirty laundry. Her chin drooped. Sweat glistened on her brow. She had her pistol propped on one knee, but was having trouble holding it up. "Sorry I ran. But it hurts so bad, Arch. I feel dizzy... and... I've got the chills."

"Where'd he get you?" The glow intensified as the entire tank became engulfed in flames like a giant tiki torch.

"My side. I—" Melissa's eyes popped open wide. "Archie, behind you!"

Something whipped over Archie's face and pulled tight, cutting off his breath. He reached back, but was unable to latch onto his attacker, who tightened the loop with his one good hand. But he was terribly strong for his size.

Archie watched the pistol quiver in Melissa's grip, but his body screened White from her gun. He tried to gasp but there was no way for a breath to enter. His peripheral vision shrank, spiraling in like the walls of a dark tunnel. His arms flailed.

His hand collided by chance with White's bloody wrist. He grabbed on and slid his grip over his shattered hand and squeezed. His shattered knuckle bones crackled. White screamed and lost hold of the garrote. The pressure on Archie's wind pipe eased. He wheezed and took in a lungful of life-giving air.

He swiveled around and butted his head into White's chin, driving him against a wall. They collapsed onto one of the beds, ripping a bed net, hook and all, out of the ceiling in a shower of gypsum.

Archie wriggled free of the garrote and threw his weight over White. It was like wrestling a hyena. He had a slight frame compared to Archie, but was so wiry and quick and strong. Somehow, Archie managed to wrap a loop of bed net around White's neck and twist.

"Stop, or I'll choke you."

White heaved and writhed under Archie's bulk. A knife appeared in his hand, almost as if by a conjuring trick, but Archie managed to pry it free and slap it away off the bed before White could flick it open. He twisted the net another revolution.

"I mean it! Stop fighting. Let's talk about this."

White kicked and grunted and squeaked. Archie glanced over at Melissa. She had lost consciousness. Her gun lay beside her on the painted floor. There was no way he could reach it without letting White go free. He twisted the net yet one more turn, easing up only when White's muscle tone appeared to slacken.

The instant he let up, White's body heaved explosively and they tumbled off the bed together. White clawed at his face but Archie hung on, maintaining the pressure on his neck until White had no more fight left in him. His body went still.

The sickest feeling came over Archie. He crawled back up onto the bed and sat, trying to regain his breath. Flames had spread along the fuel lines to the generator shacks now. Sirens sounded. A pair of military trucks came roaring down the alley through the flames. A squad of soldiers disembarked and worked their way down the line of sheds, awash in fire glow.

Melissa groaned in the corner. Archie scrambled to her side and checked her pulse. It was quick but strong. He pulled up her blouse and checked her wound. The bleeding seemed to have slowed, but there was not much he could do but keep her still so as not to disrupt any clots.

He glanced back at White. His body made a chaotic and horrific scene, with one leg propped up the side of the bed, and his head all twisted up in the net like a spider's prey. Archie had the hardest time fathoming that he was responsible for this man's death. He had never killed a man before, at least, not so directly. Pangs of guilt and remorse clashed like oil with water against a perverse pleasure and some simple relief.

He went over and lifted him onto the bed, untangled the net and arranged him neatly. He slipped an oblong wallet out of White's back pocket. The man carried no credit cards or driver's license. Nothing bore his name. It held only cash and a photo of a young woman holding a gap-toothed little girl with beads in her braids.

He felt for White's pulse, finding no evidence of a beat. He sighed, looked out at the rising flames, interlocked his fingers and began chest compressions. At the count of thirty, he paused and tilted White's his head back, driving two strong breaths deep into his lungs. What the man really needed was a defibrillator to get his heart going. All Archie was accomplishing was deferring cell death. Nevertheless, he resumed the compressions.

At the next count of twenty-four, three São Toméan soldiers came storming up to the open door of the container. Lights attached to their rifles converged on his face.

"Identifique-se! Seu nome!"

"Arch— I mean... Brandywine," he said, hoarsely. "Brandywine tomato."

Chapter 37: Ambulance

Ensconced in a cave of clean linens, pastel walls, and jiggling, dangling medical gear, Melissa awoke under Archie's watchful gaze. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. Dried tears crusted in their corners. Though her hair frizzed out every which way, she had never looked more beautiful and alive.

She lifted her head. "What the...?"

"Sshh! Lie back down," said Archie. "They don't want you moving around too much."

"What is this place? I thought I was napping in Mr. Hodges' boat. Why is it... so cold in here? What's this... stabbing?"

"We're taking you to the hospital for surgery." Archie reached for another blanket, shook it open and draped it over her.

"Oh. Now I remember. I got shot. That's why it hurts so much."

"You're in pain? I can get them to give you more morphine?"

"Not yet. I want to know what's what. Are we safe now?"

"Yeah. We're safe."

"So the President came through?"

"He did."

She shifted her weight on the stretcher, grimacing with every twist. "Why did they strap me down so tight?"

"To keep you still. If it gets bumpy we don't want you tumbling around, do we?"

"Jeez... maybe you should ask for that morphine now. This is...." She winced. "Pretty sharp."

"Yeah, you're pretty messed up inside. Triage doctor says that you're probably gonna lose a kidney, and maybe a rib or two, but your liver's gonna heal up just fine on its own."

"Lose... a kidney?"

"Don't worry. That's why God gave you two. Heck, I'd give one of mine if there was any chance of it matching."

"But... this is the Third World, Archie."

"Huh?"

Melissa looked alarmed. She lifted her torso up as far as the restraints would let her. "The hospitals. They're not up to western standards. Right? I mean... what if I need a transfusion? They might not even screen the blood for HIV."

"That's not gonna be an issue, Melissa."

"Are the hospitals in São Tomé that good?"

"Nah. The hospitals in São Tomé suck. Not for lack of trying. It's a resource thing. They're understaffed, underequipped and undersupplied, but you're not—"

"Yeah, but isn't that a problem? I mean, if they're gonna do surgery on me."

"Oh no. You're not getting your surgery done in STP."

"Huh? Then where the heck are they taking me in this ambulance?"

"This is no ambulance, Melissa. This is a Medevac flight. We're heading for the number one health system in the entire world."

Her eyes crossed slightly as her groggy brain calculated a guess.

"Massachusetts?"

"Nope. France."

Chapter 38: Damage Control

Gus sipped sweet tea with Harry in the middle of a cavernous tractor barn. A long table had been set up in the center of a metal floor that had been swept clean but still smelled faintly of manure. A row of high-speed floor fans sent hats flying and comb-overs flapping and kept the dust and straw in constant swirl.

The damage control session was being held forty miles outside of Houston along Country Road 216, just outside a little town called Hungerford. Nothing but fallow fields for a mile in any direction. Treating them like bastard stepchildren, headquarters wanted them out of their sight after their latest bungled op.

Damage control had been outsourced to a new company that specialized in fixing complex problems through a combination of public relations, graft and mob-style persuasion. In other words—whatever worked. The project leader was a cheery, rosy-cheeked Mormon named Mr. Christopher. He was one of those guys who always looked cool, even in a tweed jacket at 120 degrees in the shade.

"Why the fuck did we have to come all the way out here?" said Gus, scanning the faces lining the table, as they waited for a few more client reps to show.

"This is a bad sign," said Harry. "Might be a harbinger of things to come."

"Crap. You don't suppose they'll disband ERICC over this?"

"They just might. This has to be the ugliest op ever. Everything that could go wrong, did. Our top two agents—dead. Collateral damage up the yin-yang. Besides the settlements with de Marazul, we got a fucking billion dollar radio complex to rebuild."

"Guys like Black and even Whitey are as rare as dodo birds. I don't know how they expect to replace them."

"Not only that," said Harry. "This fucking story's got legs. It's been in the Times every day, and now even the Post has gotten in on the action. But those will blow over. I'm more worried about that reporter from Rolling Stone."

"Any word on the identity of his whistleblower?" said Gus.

"Not a clue. For all we know, it might be Parsons himself."

Gus sighed. "Well, at least we got the B team out without a scratch."

"Hodges still in jail?"

Gus rolled his eyes. "He's de Marazul's fucking sideshow act. They show his face every night on the tube. Knowing that fool, he probably enjoys the attention."

Someone appeared at the door. Harry craned his head around for a better look. "Ah! Here comes the Oxy rep. Good to see they're still in the game. I thought for sure we'd be the first ones out."

"So who have we lost so far? Do you have a sense?"

"Not sure. BP's here. But I think at least two companies have pulled out. We'll see what's what once we're all at the table."

"Our base was small enough as it was," said Gus. "I'm not sure how we can continue to operate if we lose any more."

"Well, we'll just have to step up the recruiting again. Everybody needs security. It'll just take time to get them interested in the value-added stuff again."

"I don't know. I'm thinking of putting in for early retirement."

"But Gus... you're too young not to be working."

"Never said I wasn't gonna work," said Gus. "Might just be time to take up a new profession."

"Where does a techno-crypto-geek like you move onto? Government work? NSA?"

"I was thinking more like... landscaping."

The shed door was slammed shut and latched. Mr. Christopher crossed the shed, flashing his teeth, shelf of gelled hair bouncing as he led the last consortium rep to the table.

"Alright gentlemen, before we go around the table for introductions, I'd like to set the mood with a couple short clips." He stuck a memory card into a micro-projector and proceeded to play a video recording of a rally in Accra for Simon Appiah's son, Wilbur, a dark-horse candidate for his late father's Parliamentary position.

It was followed by aerial stills of the destroyed Voice of America compound in São Tomé, including a photo of the São Toméan police removing the sheet-covered body of Agent White. A few seconds of de Marazul giving a fiery speech on National TV was translated in English via subtitles.

He ended with a clip of Michael Kremer marching down a beach toward a threatened mangrove reserve in southern Liberia, a crowd of community protesters chanting and dancing and drumming alongside him.

"Gentlemen, I'm here to talk about the services we now offer in the realm of 'Positive Environments and Community Engineering.'"

The screen transitioned to an acronym and logo—'PEACE,' in a bold white font over a satellite view of Earth.

Chapter 39: Fontainebleau

Their chateau was spacious if rustic. It looked out over a forest studded with strange rock formations and boulders that sprouted like morels among the pines. Something about them made Archie want to climb them free, without ropes, the way he used to the glacial erratics he encountered as a teen in the forests of Connecticut.

"Yeah Mom. I'll be home soon. I promise."

Melissa was on the phone with her mother. He waited for her to finish her conversation to give her a chance to accompany him. She was in no condition to climb, but it would be nice to have her along in case he did something stupid, like fall and break a leg.

"Ask her about my kitties," said Archie.

She flashed him a quick glare. "Your kitties are fine." She returned to her conversation.

Archie gazed wistfully at the exposed beams overhead and the little half-loft of a bedroom that they cradled. "You know, she really shouldn't be staying in my place. It isn't safe."

"Oh please," said Melissa, lowering the phone. "My mom can take care of herself. Some of the neighborhoods we used to live in... forget about it."

"But... those people... this consortium, they might—"

"I'm telling you, my mom will be fine. She can handle herself. She used to be a security guard. She's good with guns,"

Archie's eyebrows arched. "Is it genetics?"

She turned back to the phone. "Sorry, mom. It's just Archie. He's being a pest." She said her goodbyes and reiterated her promise to visit soon.

"Is there something you need to tell me?" said Archie, arm draped over the back of a suede sofa that smelled like a tannery. "Are you leaving me?"

Melissa looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh. That? That's just something you tell your mom. Though, you know, the doc did say I'm fit enough to travel."

"I was just joking, Mel. Of course you should go visit her."

"I will... eventually... I just wish you could join me."

"Well. Maybe I can."

"How? Considering you're still officially deceased."

"You gotta admit. I smell pretty good for a dead guy."

"That's a matter of opinion. By the way, Mom's still paying your condo fee, but she needs a letter from you saying it's okay for her to stay in your place."

"They'll accept a letter from a zombie?"

"I suppose. I mean... until you make it official that you are still alive. I really don't understand this fear of embassies, Arch. You're gonna have to get over it if you ever want your life back."

"You know, your mom really shouldn't have to pay out of her own pocket. I should set up an automatic pay from my account."

"What account? I thought it was frozen by the probate court."

"Not that account. My new account."

"Huh?"

"My new friend, um, Fernando... he sent us a package." He handed her an oblong box plastered with DHL stickers and customs declarations.

She opened it and pulled out a bag of coffee beans. "Oh! That's nice." Next, a packet of tomato seeds. "Brandywines, of course. The de Marazul strain. Interesting." Beneath that was a Banco de Portugal bank book.

"Holy shit, Archie!

"My reward. Nothing extravagant, but it'll keep us going a while. You're a pretty cheap date."

"Thanks," she sneered.

"That's not all that's in there. Dig around some more."

She plunged her hand in deep, like a magician searching for a rabbit in a top hat. She came up with a fistful of documents.

"Holy cow! Passports? They've made us official São Tomé citizens?"

"Yup. The only catch is... they've changed your name."

Melissa opened his crisp, new passport and snickered. "Archibald do Inocente de Preto? You're not black or innocent, I'll vouch for that." She opened her own passport. "What the...? Wherever did they get such a horrid photo? I look unconscious. And... Melissa do Inferno de Violento? What's up the jokey names? Who picked these?"

"Don't worry about it. What matters is that these are official passports. We can travel incognito!"

Melissa cocked her head. "So... where will we go?"

"Grab yourself a sweater and we'll talk," said Archie bounding up off the sofa. I'm going to climb me some boulders. You can call the ambulance when I screw up."

***

They hiked to a patch of boulders that were particularly picturesque. One resembled the head of a gnome, complete with a fringe of mosses and birches for hair.

Archie went after them like a clumsy goat. His strength and technique were diminished from his younger days, but he was pulling off moves on overhangs that he never would have dared try only a month earlier. The twenty pounds he had lost made a huge difference.

To his chagrin, impressing Melissa was out of the question because she wasn't even watching. She had found a sunlit patch of dry grass and had buried her nose in a paperback.

For late spring, the air was quite brisk. A chill settled in when he stopped to rest and the wind went to work on his sweaty back. "How about we head back? I can make some soup for lunch."

Melissa nodded and joined him on the wide trail. They meandered through the pines and crossed a causeway across a gurgling stream. The chateau was up-slope, above a series of lupine-lined switchbacks and stone steps.

"You're awfully quiet," said Archie.

"I'm just... I've had enough of this place. I mean, it's nice and all. It's been a great place to get healed, but... I'm ready to move on."

Archie didn't quite share that sentiment. He loved it here. If it had been an option, he might have wanted to stay in Fontainebleau forever, but the STP government would need their chateau back before start of the summer season. Word was, the President himself was scheduled to stop by for a few days. Funny, but it did seem like Marazul's kind of place. Archie wondered how much of a role he had in selecting it.

"So where do we go first?" said Melissa. "See my mom or..."

"I've always wanted to see Namibia," said Archie, trudging up the steps.

"Haven't you had enough of Africa?"

"Not a chance," said Archie without missing a beat.

"Me neither," said Melissa, grinning. "So I'm game."

Archie reached the door first. They hadn't even bothered to lock it. "How about we catch a ride into Paris tomorrow?" he said. "It's been a—"

Archie froze. A black briefcase rested askew the coffee table.

"Holy Christ!" said Melissa, grasping her side. "Is it... from them?"

"I don't know," he said, hyperventilating. "I have half a mind to toss it down the hill. I mean... what if it's a bomb?"

Melissa tip-toed up to it and looked at the tag attached to the handle. "Archie... I think it's okay. It's from—"

"Melissa! Put it down! Get away!"

"But Arch, it's from the STP consulate in Paris. I think you should open it."

Archie expelled his breath in one long burst and came up behind her. "What the heck... are they sending us on a mission? Who do they think we are?"

"Open it!" Melissa said, her eyes twinkling.

Archie laid it down, clicked the latches and opened the lid. Embedded in the familiar grey foam in which the consortium had sent so many weapons of personal destruction was a pair of wine glasses, a fancy cork screw, and a bottle of Quinta dos Roques Reserva 2000.

In the sleeve he found a pair of one-way tickets to São Tomé, and a printed room reservation for the Bom Bom Beach Resort in Príncipe. It also contained a note from the President:

"No, this is not one of my own wines, but it is made from a varietal that is said to do well in tropical highlands. Tell me what you think. Sincerely, Fernando."

"I think Fernando wants us out of his pad," said Melissa, giggling.

"He thinks we're a couple, you know," said Archie, smirking.

Melissa cocked an eyebrow.

"Aren't we?"

"I mean, like actual lovers."

"We share a bedroom."

"Only because this place is so damned cramped."

"Face it. Only reason we're not together is because you don't like black girls."

"Say what? That's bullshit. What makes you think that?"

"You never come near me. Never even made a pass."

"I'm old enough to be your... your uncle."

"Archie. You're forty-two. I'm pushing thirty."

"You've been injured. Recuperating."

"Okay. So you don't like perforated black girls."

"I... I don't know what to say."

"Well think about it. We got time. I ain't going anywhere anytime soon. I ain't sitting your damn cats for twenty bucks a day anymore, that's for damned sure."

With that she walked away leaving Archie discombobulated and pondering yet another mystery of a world he would never fully comprehend.

*****

The End

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