The Informationist: A Thriller (13 page)

“What about being set up for a hit?”

She sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at him. “Seriously? I think that if they intended to relieve us of our meager worldly possessions, they would have made the attempt when we were conveniently on the wrong side of town.”

She paused and then stood. “If I pick up even a wisp of information, Miles, I’ll be sure to let you know.” With that, she opened her door and motioned her head toward it.

T
HE MINISTRY OF
Foreign Affairs was an aging colonial structure that had been gutted and renovated and somehow through the process had come out looking tacky through improvements. The building was shaped like a lowercase
n
, the bottom floor tiled and open for people and vehicles to pass through to an overgrown courtyard. On the left and up a flight of stairs, they found the office of the minister. It was eight in the morning.

The minister’s secretary sat at a metal desk that was bare but for a half-sharpened pencil, a ballpoint pen missing its cap, and a well-worn notebook. From her they learned that appointments were made on a daily basis—first come, first served—and provided that the minister was
in town, he might or might not take the time to see those who waited for him. She was able to confirm that as of yesterday he was in town, but she had no idea if he would be at the office today or tomorrow, or for that matter any day at all. She motioned to a cracked vinyl sofa and suggested that they sit and see.

Munroe sat, stretched out, and leaned back with closed eyes. Without the distraction of sight, she heard things otherwise missed: conversations in the background, whispers in the hallways, and the continuous scratch of Bradford’s pen on paper.

She would wait today, tomorrow, as long as it took, within reason. She held no illusions as to how much information the ministry would provide even if they had it available; information was not the foremost purpose of the appointment. After Malabo the search would shift to parts of the country where few unaccompanied foreigners went. Meeting the minister would lay the groundwork to dispel suspicion of their movements and to provide the means to name-drop if necessary.

Over the course of the morning, several more appointment hopefuls joined the room. The hum of nearby air-conditioning units filled the silence, although in the foyer, where they waited, there was only heat and humidity, which the elevated ceilings did little to alleviate. By midmorning their shirts were heavy with perspiration. By early afternoon the minister had not shown up, and the secretary rose to leave, suggesting to those waiting that they try again at three or four.

Outside the building, mingling with a group of men loitering in the shade, was one of the men who had followed them last night. When they passed, he trailed behind. He was an amateur at best; his shadow nearly blended with theirs as he kept pace. They nicknamed him Shadow Two, caught a cab back to the hotel, and at three returned to the ministry, where they spent the afternoon as they had the morning: on the vinyl sofa, in the heat, waiting for an audience.

It was shortly after four when Munroe sat up from her half-prone position. “He’s on his way in,” she whispered.

The bustle started at the bottom of the wide stairwell and increased in volume as the minister, followed by a small entourage, breezed through the hallway leading to the foyer. He was on the phone, ignoring the few who followed, and in the waiting area he stopped, nodded, and
then retreated to his office, where he remained for an hour before leaving again, apparently finished for the day. When he and his retinue had gone, the secretary picked up a purse from behind the desk and to the small waiting crowd said, “Try again tomorrow.” And then she left the building.

The crowd filtered out, and Munroe stood and stretched, breaking up the kinks in her neck. She turned to Bradford. “Let’s go get dinner.”

He tucked his pen into the notebook and put it away. “How would you rate today?” he asked. “A total wash?”

“Not in the least,” she said, twisting sideways until her spine popped. “The discussions in the waiting area were fascinating.” She waited a beat and then laughed when his face clouded over. “Waiting is a part of life here, Miles. There’s no point in trying to rush it. In the meantime I listen, observe, and learn. We’re in no hurry.”

They walked in the direction of the hotel, and when they rounded the block toward the coast, caught sight of Shadow One, the man from the airport.

As they neared the coastal avenue that functioned as the city’s main artery, the sidewalks were crowded and there was an unusual level of police activity. Whistles shrilled through the distance, and makeshift barricades blocked vehicles from entering the street.

Preferring to avoid contact with the local police if at all possible, Munroe flagged a taxi. The driver shook his head at her request and rattled off an explanation before driving away.

“The president is passing through,” Munroe said to Bradford. “The city is basically shut down—roads to the airport, the port, anything across the main street as well. Could be an hour, ten hours, two days, or who knows until it clears, so we walk. If anyone talks to us or asks us for our papers, don’t say a word. Do you have your Guinean residency handy?”

Bradford nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’re you going?” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he your boyfriend?”

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

“Your husband?”

A pout. “Not that either.”

“Are you married?”

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

Laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Laughter. “Of course.”

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

“That is our home!”

Pay dirt.

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