The Informationist: A Thriller (14 page)

The conversation was over.

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Should it matter?” Bradford asked.

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

“I suppose that means something?”

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

T
HE DOWNPOUR STARTED
in the early evening and continued on through the night, a heavy pelting of water that thundered against rooftops and drowned out the sound of all else. By morning the city streets were shallow rivers rushing toward the ocean. Pedestrian traffic was light; when the water’s onslaught against shoes and clothing came as much from the ground as it did from the air, only the most desperate ventured into it. And like the population of the city who watched the rain from doorsteps and windows and under porticoes, Munroe stared out the balcony window, debating against returning to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and knowing that she would go anyway.

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

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

“That
I’d’ve liked to see.”

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

Munroe smiled at his torso. “The waiting?”

“Yeah.”

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

He winked, pulled the damp shirt back over his head, and said, “I don’t think so.” And then, “What do the people who live here do for entertainment?”

“You’ve seen the bars—work, drink, and food, that’s all there is—and the women—if you’re up for a good dose of HIV.”

By afternoon the rain had eased slightly. Shortly before the close of the business day, the minister arrived. He was alone, as he had been the day before. From the foyer he invited them directly into his office. He was brusque, formal, and lacking the undertone of friendliness he’d borne toward them the day prior. “I have no new information for you,” he said. “But it is possible that Don Felipe, Malabo chief of police, does.” On a piece of lined paper, he wrote in a quick scrawl. “A brief letter of introduction,” he said. “Take it to him and see what he can do for you.”

“Forgive me for asking,” Munroe said. “But if our friend was last seen in Río Muni, is it likely that the police on Bioko Island have information?”

“You would have to find that out for yourself. I do know that Don Felipe is also head of the presidential security detail and a confidant of the president. It’s possible he has learned things that I am unaware of.” He handed Munroe the paper and then stood and took them to the door.

In a pattern that had become more than familiar, they were followed from the ministry to the hotel and again from the hotel to the restaurant. During dinner, on more than one occasion, Munroe caught the eye of one of the Shadows, and in acknowledgment they would smile or nod in return. She saw that they no longer drank alcohol and in response to this had soft drinks and desserts sent to their table.

The next morning she and Bradford located the office of the chief of police in the city’s single-story station, an overpacked structure with scuffed and mud-splattered walls. The windows were empty rectangles fenced by open wood-slat shutters, and from them the sound of striking typewriter keys filtered to the outside.

The anteroom to the police chief’s office was taken up completely by three desks and an ancient sofa, and the small space that remained was occupied by people waiting to speak with the man. Munroe left the letter of introduction with an aide and returned to the building’s bare front entrance. She leaned against an empty space that served as a window and, prepared to wait the better part of the day, watched the passing traffic.

Within minutes a plainclothes officer approached. “I work for Don Felipe,” he said. “He is on his way to the station now.” He opened a door that connected to the building entrance. “Please wait,” he said, and then he left them.

Like the anteroom, the office was filled nearly wall to wall with furniture, the pieces having been pushed so closely together that Munroe’s and Bradford’s knees touched when they sat. Cut through the wall above a plywood-barricaded, glass-filled window was a boxed air-conditioning unit that almost managed to cool the room but did nothing to erase the stale smell of must that permeated the building.

Don Felipe entered the room accompanied by two young men wearing civilian clothes and holstered sidearms. He carried with him the letter that Munroe had left. He shook their hands, took a seat across from them, and then, almost as an afterthought, offered them coffee. He spoke in brusque, commanding Spanish.

“Silvestre Mba has asked that I help you,” he said. “Tell me more about this girl that you are looking for.”

Munroe handed Don Felipe another photograph of Emily Burbank,
along with a sheet of paper identical to the one she’d given the minister, and, in words similar to those she’d previously used, explained the desire to find Emily.

Don Felipe took the photograph and, as the minister of foreign affairs had done, studied it intently, then handed it to the young man who stood silently to his right. “In the Republic of Equatorial Guinea,” he said to Munroe, “we have an illustrious record of wholesome relationships with our guests. We treat all foreigners fairly and properly, and if something ill should befall a man or woman who is in our great country, it is because that person has failed to live by the law. In fact, our president, representative of God to our people, is known as a good friend and a supporter of human rights by your country. There are many things you Americans can learn from us.”

Don Felipe lit a cigarette. He leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. He drew a deep breath and then exhaled the smoke into the room. Taking a second draw, he reached forward and placed the cigarette in the ashtray. “I know of this girl you are looking for,” he said. His eyes remained fixed on Munroe. She sat expressionless, holding eye contact, and silence ensued. To the man who stood on his right, Don Felipe spoke in Fang, ordering the retrieval of a document.

When the aide left the room, the silence continued, broken only by his return. He carried with him a small envelope, which he handed to his boss. “I believe,” Don Felipe said to Munroe, “that this document brings you to the end of your journey,” and he placed it on the coffee table and slid it to her.

Inside was a single piece of paper, which Munroe looked over and then returned to the envelope. Don Felipe ground his cigarette into the ashtray. “The law is supreme in the Republic of Equatorial Guinea,” he said. “No person is immune to it. Now that you have the information you came for, I recommend you return to your country.”

Munroe nodded. “Thank you for your kindness and your warm welcome,” she said, and then, “As I’m sure you are aware, the trip from my country to yours is very long and tiring. I have heard wonderful things about the beaches of Bata and of the animal habitat EQUOFAC. Before returning home, we will vacation for a few days.”