The Informationist: A Thriller (22 page)

Munroe pursed her lips. “You’re certain it’s the same girl?”

“It’s been three years, Essa, I’m not going to stake my life on it. You know as well as I do how few foreigners are on the mainland, and how fewer still are women. They stand out.”

One more puzzle piece.

“You said that after the handoff you’d take me where I wanted to go. Is Bata an option?”

“I can’t take the trawler to the port, but I can get you there.”

“And afterward will you go with me on to Mongomo if that’s where the search takes me?”

Beyard sighed. “If there’s no way to stop you from going, then yes, I’ll go. I’d like to see you stay alive. Someone’s got to watch your back. It might as well be me.”

She smiled. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Now I need to know how much it’s going to cost me.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then his eyes shifted from the windows directly to hers. “What I want in exchange,” he said, “is your promise that when this is over, you won’t simply walk off. I want to know where you are and how to contact you.”

She felt invisible shackles snaking around her wrists and ankles, took a deep breath, and said, “If that’s what it takes, I promise.”

I
t was midafternoon when Munroe first heard the sounds of activity around the ship. From the wheelhouse she had a view of the entire deck. Alongside the trawler were three smaller boats, each loaded to capacity. Five of the crew had already boarded the trawler, and one stayed on the water to guide the deck cranes as they were manipulated over the boats to lift them out. None of the faces were familiar.

One at a time, the cigs were brought over the cargo bay and lowered directly onto the wheeled storage racks that waited below. A smaller crane located inside the ship unloaded the cargo from the boats, which were then wheeled into place and locked down. Halfway through the loading, Munroe left the pilothouse for the hold to get a better view. In less than half an hour, all three boats and their cargo had disappeared from the ocean and into the belly of the ship, and it wasn’t until the lockdown was complete and the crew headed for the stairwell that they noticed her watching them.

The echoes that had reverberated off the walls fell silent.

Beyard wiped his wet hands on the back of his pants. “My apologies, gentlemen,” he said. “Let me introduce you to our guest. This is Essa Munroe.”

Their words came fast, a jumble of accents and languages overlapping one another. Beyard held up his hands, and there was quiet.

“It appears,” he said to Munroe, “that your reputation precedes you.” He winked at her. “For some inexplicable reason, you are something of a legend in these parts. I’m sure these gentlemen will enjoy the opportunity to discover whether the tales they’ve heard are true.”

Beyard introduced his team, and one by one she shook their hands. They hailed from four countries—Romania, the United States, South Africa, and in addition to Beyard there were two others from Cameroon. English was the lingua franca, although some spoke it less than others, and French filled in the gaps.

Over a midday meal, Beyard regaled his crew with stories of times gone by, exaggerating with poetic license events that needed no exaggeration. Munroe enjoyed the humor and the retelling of happenings she had blocked out for nearly a decade. Beyard spoke animatedly and caught her eye on more than one occasion. When he did, her face flushed.

After the meal the mood of the crew changed from festive to somber. They would be traveling north through the night, and preparations would need to be made before the handoff. The galley emptied, and the ship fell ghostly silent.

There was nothing but time—that and the rocking of the ship. Munroe walked the vessel, familiarizing herself with every space, and then, restless and with nothing more to do, she searched out Beyard’s team. The only member of the crew who appeared to be left on board was in the pilothouse. George Wheal was Beyard’s second-in-command on the ground and first mate at sea. An African-American ex-SEAL, at six foot six he towered over the rest of the crew.

She stuck her head beyond the door and knocked on it. “Can I keep you company?”

“Sure, come on in.” Wheal’s voice had a booming quality that reminded her of Boniface Akambe.

She sat in the chair next to him, both of them watching the water as the trawler churned up the coastline. Munroe was first to break the silence. “So what got you into this fine mess of a job?”

Wheal swiveled his chair, peaked his forefingers, and peered over
the tops of them. “When you’re trained to blow things up, there aren’t a lot of options in civilian life. Francisco needed a guy who could make things go boom, and I needed a job. Voilà, here I am.”

She studied his face and his chocolate skin, then turned toward the ocean and smiled. “The locals treat you differently from the others, don’t they?”

Wheal chuckled and rubbed a hand over his head where his hair would have been if he’d had any. “Yeah, until they know better, they treat me like I’m Beyard’s houseboy. Or, if we happen to be going through the bush, a porter. It helps being a big guy,” he said with a laugh that filled the room. “It gets you some respect at least.”

She nodded knowingly. “Works both ways, doesn’t it? You mention Africa back home and all that comes to mind is animal documentaries and Masai running around with spears.”

Wheal smiled. “Yeah, it works both ways.”

They sat in silence until Wheal rose to fiddle with the knobs on the console. “Is it true what they say about you?” he asked. “That you speak to the locals as a god and they see you as divine?”

Munroe laughed and then said, “No, it’s not true.”

“So someone just made that shit up?”

“Not exactly. They believe I’m a powerful witch and are terrified of the juju.” She shrugged. “I speak the languages, know the cultures, and understand the nuances behind what they do—legends grew from that. You can’t really blame them, considering the level of superstition. Hell, there’s still even the occasional human sacrifice.”

“You and Beyard,” Wheal said. “You used to be tight, huh?”

“Yeah, we were.” She tucked her legs up in the chair. “Has he told you much?”

“He only talks about you when he’s drunk, but I’ve been with him for seven years, long enough to make some sense out of his ramblings. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find your presence here troubling.”

“Do you find me threatening?”

He flashed a toothy grin. “Not even if
all
the stories I’ve heard are true.”

She rolled her eyes. “Which they probably aren’t.” And then, meeting his gaze, she stared at him for a moment and said, “So what is it?”

He shrugged and turned away. “I’m only looking out for him. Looking out for myself. We’ve got a decent thing going here. Don’t mess it up.”

“You think I will?”

“I know you will,” he said. “Francisco doesn’t do this because he likes it. He does it because he’s a fucking brilliant strategist and it comes naturally to him.” He glanced at her. “With you around, his mind’s not going to be on the next job, it’s going to be on you. For me that’s a problem.”

She stood to go. “I can appreciate your perspective. If the roles were reversed, I might look at it the same way.” Her hand was on the door. “You’re a good man, Wheal. For what it’s worth, I’m glad Francisco found you.”

T
HE CLOCK ON
the dining-room wall showed that it was after midnight. Even with the steady rocking of the ship and the hum of the engines, Munroe hadn’t been able to fall asleep. Too many memories clashing with puzzle pieces that didn’t fit. She poured a cup of coffee and then on impulse poured a second for whoever was in the pilothouse.

She knocked on the door, and when Beyard answered, she hesitated, debated, and then let herself in. She handed him the mug. “Couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Figured whoever was up here would want the company.”

He took it from her, placed it on a narrow ledge, and squeezed her empty hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “I was just thinking about you.”

“What about?”

The silence was filled by sounds from the radarscope, its monochrome band keeping time, a metronome of sorts. Beyard gave a glance at the console, stood, and then took her mug from her hand and placed it on the ledge next to his. With one hand around her waist, he drew her close and traced the curve of her neck with his fingers. He brushed his lips against hers. “Just thinking about you,” he whispered. He moved his lips closer, his hands behind her neck, his fingers through her hair. He smelled of salt and the ocean and all things familiar. Her eyes followed his as they traced the outline of her body. And then he kissed her lightly, hesitated,
and pulled her again to his mouth. The kisses were deep, passionate. His hands ran over her shoulder blades, to her neck, and down her spine.

She didn’t resist and didn’t reciprocate. After what he’d said in the hallway, she understood where this came from and hadn’t yet sorted through the options of what to do with it and how to use it. Francisco reached for the buttons of her shirt, then he stopped and backed away. He stroked her face. “I have wanted to do that for eleven years,” he said, drawing her close and holding her to his chest. “I could be consumed by you. It would be so easy.” Then he let go and turned away to face the windows and the navigation console. With his back to her he said, “Stay with me through the night?”

She took a seat behind him, and they sat in silence for some time, she staring at the back of his neck and he facing the prow.

“Tell me about your life,” he said.

“Anything in particular?”

“Have you been happy?”

“I haven’t been unhappy.”

“It’s not the same thing,” he said. “What about marriage? Have you found your match?”

Such a simple question, so many complex ways to answer. She said only, “No, I haven’t.”

He turned to look at her briefly and then faced front again. “It’s difficult, isn’t it? For people like us, to find someone who understands and can live with who we really are, without judgment, without trying to make us conform to their own preconceived notions of life.”

He was quiet again, and the time passed between them.

“I left the continent, Essa,” he said, “after I tracked you down and knew more or less where you’d gone and that you were alive. You never told me of the legends that followed you. By the time I figured that part out, we’d had several disastrous deliveries. Then Jean left. I had put together enough of a fortune to pull out, so I did. I packed up and left, tried to start over in France, and when that didn’t work, I went to Spain. I was back in Africa within two years.”

He turned to look at her.

“It wasn’t the business that failed. I made money in Europe, set
up new contacts that I still use. Could have gone on indefinitely.” He pounded a fist into his chest. “It’s inside. I couldn’t live their life, couldn’t adjust.” He got up to check the navigation console and then sat down again. “So here I am, back where I started, back in my element where I thrive—hate it but thrive. No matter how despicable it may be to you, at least I am there to look at myself in the mirror each morning, which is better than the alternative.”

She stood and, putting her hands on his shoulders, worked out the tension in his muscles. “We all have our demons, Francisco. Some are harder to fight than others.”

He reached a hand up and placed it on hers, then gently pulled her in front of him. “What are your demons, Essa?”

Her smile was sad, and she shook her head. “The aloneness. The invisible walls. Always the outsider looking in. Different. Unusual. I despise their world and the superficiality of it all and yet still want to be a part of it. I wonder sometimes how much simpler a life of naïveté and unawareness would be.” She moved away and returned to the seat behind him. “I have on occasion found people I could trust with who I really am, and when that happens, I walk away.”

He turned to look at her, clearly puzzled.

She shrugged. “It’s safer that way—for them, for me. It’s far easier to bear personal pain than the responsibility of someone else’s. I feel safe around people as tough as I am, but they don’t come along that often.” She smiled wanly. “So I walk away.”

She stayed with him until shortly before dawn and then stood to go.

“Will you sleep?” he asked.

“If I can.”

“Take my cabin, please. You’ll rest better there and”—he held up his hand—“I swear on my own life that I won’t lock you inside.”

“All right,” she said, and left.

His cabin was larger than the others. Instead of dual bunks sandwiched tightly together, his had a double bed and its own bathroom. The cabin was well lived in, a home whose occupant never left for long, yet it still managed to have an aura of sterility, testament to Beyard’s fastidious nature. Built into one of the walls was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with volumes ranging from the intellectual to the mundane and,
in a recess that appeared to be built specially for it, a marble chessboard. Munroe glanced at the board, at a game in play, and lifted one of the pawns. A tacky gum had been stuck to the bottom of each piece to keep them from spilling across the board with the rolling of the ship. She analyzed the game and then showered and for the second time slept in the clothes she was wearing, falling asleep on top of his bedspread. Sometime later, somewhere on the border of awareness, she heard him come into the cabin, felt him lie next to her on the bed, and then sleep came again.

By next nightfall they had moved into the waters off Nigeria’s coast, their position precoordinated and pinpointed by GPS. The lights on the trawler were out, the engines quiet, and there was enough heavy artillery on hand to supply a small conflict. On top of the pilothouse, Lupo, the Romanian, lay hidden with a silenced sniper rifle, and the rest of the crew were stationed around the ship wearing Kevlar and cradling submachine guns. Clouds thick with rain blocked out what light the moon and stars would have provided, and at ten minutes after two a single light flashed on the horizon, followed several minutes later by the sound of engines across the water.