The Informationist: A Thriller (29 page)

“It should.”

“Then I’ll be back with you in two days. And, Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

T
WO DAYS
. N
OT
because it was what she wanted, but because it was necessary. Remaining on the ship would put space between the phases; the downtime was critical in allowing the bits and pieces of information accumulated over the past weeks to filter to the bottom of the mental pool, to shift from one game plan into the next. Downtime was typically difficult to deal with; in the stillness, internal pressure would steadily build, urging toward action and the rush of adrenaline—but, regardless, the stillness was critical.

The silence this time was different. When supplies had been packed, the weapons disassembled, meticulously cleaned and put back together,
and there was nothing more to do to kill time, the hours passed over the chessboard and in philosophical discussion with Francisco, a throwback to another time, the world forgotten, and Munroe was at peace.

Two days later she stood against the railing and watched the trawler’s deck crane lower one of the cigarette boats to the water. It was dawn, and the ocean was calm and the air empty except for the noise made by the machinery. Munroe turned from the railing and reentered the pilothouse. She’d been trying since five to reach Logan and would continue to call at fifteen-minute intervals until he picked up. She checked the clock. It was late evening in Dallas; she should already have been able to reach him. On the sixth attempt, he answered. “I’ve been trying to get you for over an hour,” she said.

“Battery died. I’ve been hunting down the supply list, haven’t had time to recharge.”

“How are we?”

“We’ll have what you need within the next ten days,” he said. “The FedEx package is already on its way. They said three days, but we all know that means at least a week. The uniforms were the hardest to come by, but I’ve got a guy working on those, and I’ve been guaranteed delivery within a week. I dipped into the retainer. There’s been some kind of delay with the funding, and I’ve been too busy to figure it out.”

“Don’t bother with it,” Munroe said. “I need to call Kate anyway, and I’ll make sure it’s settled. Do you have your itinerary?”

“That’s the other thing. Apparently Miles Bradford is heading your way, and Kate suggested he bring the items, save me the hassle. And truthfully, Michael, if he can, I would appreciate it, because I’ve got a shitload of work stacked up for me.”

Munroe was silent for a moment and then said, “If you don’t hear anything else from me on it by tomorrow, then arrange to get the items to Miles. Ten days, right?”

“Yeah, ten days.”

The news about the supplies was good. Miles Bradford was a problem.

“We don’t have a lot of choice,” Breeden explained in answer to Munroe’s query. “Between your insistence on continuing the assignment and Miles’s determination to return to Africa, Richard Burbank changed his
mind about rescinding. He wants Miles with you, and since you’re under contract, there’s not much we can do about it. The good news, though, is that since the contract is still open, Richard covers expenses, and considering the bill that Logan just sent me, that’s not a small thing.”

“That’s only a third of it,” Munroe said. “I need you to wire over twice that in cash. I’ll e-mail you the bank information.”

“I’ll get it to you as soon as I can. The accounting department at Titan is giving me the runaround—they want itemization before releasing for expenses, and I’ve been trying to get in touch with Richard to get it sorted out. Apparently he’s out of town.”

“You know how it goes,” Munroe said. “We won’t know what the money is for until it’s already spent. And half the time it’s for greasing palms and oiling the machinery of bureaucracy. If you can’t get ahold of Burbank by tomorrow, just do what we’ve done before. Put whatever label you want on it, whatever it takes to be sure I get the money and that Logan gets the funding he needs. He had to dip into the retainer.”

“I’ll take care of it today.”

Munroe replaced the phone, stood still for a moment, and then, with clenched teeth, slammed the palm of her hand into the wall and kicked the chair closest to her. Beyard, who’d been standing on the other side of the room, said, “Whatever the problem, surely it is not the wall and the chair that are to blame.”

“Better the furniture than a person.” She sighed and sat in the chair, looking up at Beyard. “We have a problem,” she said. “Or a wrinkle, or whatever the fuck we want to call him.”

“Him?”

“Miles Bradford, my partner from Malabo. I’m sure you know who I’m talking about. He’s flying to Douala in about two weeks’ time, and either I kill him as a matter of prevention or he’s coming with us to Mongomo.”

Beyard sat in the chair opposite and after a moment of silence said, “Essa, there’s something you’re not telling me. This man who was your partner, he is already familiar with the scenario, and if my sources were accurate, you have worked well together. Logically, he would be an asset to this assignment.”

“There are two things, Francisco.” She drew herself up so that she
looked him directly in the face. “First, I don’t know if I can trust him. That he was left while I was hauled off to be murdered and dumped overboard doesn’t sit easy with me, but I can work with it. What angers me most can’t be explained by logic.” She paused. “I simply don’t want him here.” She motioned toward the navigational controls. “I don’t want to share this with him, don’t want to share
you
with him. This … this is a part of me that is sacred, my own. I don’t want it tarnished by an intruder who already knows everything else about me that there is to know. This is mine.”

Beyard nodded and then stood. “In your words: ‘You of all people should know better than to make tactical decisions based on emotion.’ I don’t want an intruder any more than you do,” he said. “But the plan comes first. If he’s a risk to the enterprise, we can remove him, but I think we would want to be very cautious in that regard.” He held his hand to her. She reached for it, and he pulled her to her feet.

They took the cig north to Douala, docking at the southernmost edge of the port. The docks were crowded with people and with metal containers stacked three or four high, each filled with items that waited to clear a customs procedure fraught with requests for bribes and dubious processing fees. Muscular bodies glistening with sweat unloaded goods while trucks long ago retired from work in the Northern Hemisphere stood nearby with engines idling, belching smoke. The smell of burned diesel fuel mingled with the odor of decay and the aroma of salt and fish coming off the ocean.

Beyard’s driver met them, and they unloaded the boat. Money had changed hands, papers had been signed, and there would be no questions asked as they drove into the city with a small arsenal behind the backseat. The first destination was the Société Générale de Banques au Cameroun, and when the money had been withdrawn and transferred to other accounts, they navigated the streets to a modern two-bedroom flat that stood in the heart of the city.

The apartment was one of four on the ground, with three walk-up levels above, and the building stood next to two others that were identical, all in a quiet compound surrounded by a high cement wall that had been whitewashed and glass-topped and gleamed bright under the sun.
It was there that they would rendezvous once all the pieces had been put into place.

A
T FIVE-THIRTY THE
next morning, Beyard dropped Munroe off at the bus station. She had originally planned to leave alone, to disappear into the dark of the early morning, but Beyard wouldn’t hear of it. He’d insisted on taking her to the bus station, and if he’d had his way, he would have waited until she’d boarded the five forty-five bus for Yaoundé. Munroe knew it wasn’t so much a protective gesture as that he didn’t want to let her go. She kissed him, then pulled away. “If I’m not back in ten days, it’s because something’s happened,” she said. “I’m not leaving you.” And then, when the red of his vehicle’s taillights had finally pulled out of the depot and vanished down the street, Munroe caught a cab and returned to the city center.

Alone.

After nearly four weeks of continual companionship, solitude brought with it the feeling of nakedness soon replaced by the exhilaration of freedom. On Avenue de Gaulle she located a reputable barber and waited on the doorstep until the place opened for business. It was time to revert. And then time to shop and, after that, a four-hour trip to the capital.

I
t was shortly after five that afternoon when the bus pulled into the city’s depot. The area was hard-packed dirt surrounded by low-lying buildings, and teeming with passengers and their boxes and bags, vendors with their wares, and pickpockets and thieves.

Munroe stepped from the bus and slung a heavy backpack over her shoulder. She wore a short-sleeved button-down shirt, untucked, faded jeans, and heavy, flat-soled boots, which hadn’t been easy to find. Her hair was military short. A wide elastic bandage wrapped her meager chest, the same improvisation utilized the night she’d boarded the
Santo Domingo
, and she wore strong masculine cologne. But for these she’d made no extra effort. The clothes and hair were subtle cues, enough to distract the eye and make a first impression, and while the subconscious effect of cologne was never to be underestimated, unless she needed to age past nineteen it had always been attitude and behavior that truly confused the mind.

She took a cab to the Hilton Yaoundé, the best the city had to offer. The hotel was eleven stories of white concrete, and like a giant monolith it dwarfed most of the buildings that lined the streets in either direction. Yaoundé, although the capital, was smaller and less developed than its sister on the coast. But it was where the country’s president lived and
thus where the elite guard was stationed, and so it was there that she would find the Israeli forces that trained them. She wanted to be in their presence, learn their language and their manner of behavior, and if possible observe how they interacted with the men they trained.

Perhaps, if she’d been desperate, she would have taken the route of sneaking around, smuggling herself onto the compound, and acting like a spy, as Francisco no doubt expected she was doing. But there was no need for that. There were better ways, faster and with less personal risk.

Munroe showered and slept for a few hours and then, as the evening deepened, transferred to the hotel’s bar and casino. There were only three types of venues where she expected to find what she was looking for: foreign cultural centers and embassies, international schools, and what little nightlife the city had to offer. The Hilton was as good a place as any to begin looking.

It took two days of cultivating potential information sources before the first genuine lead materialized. After nights that lasted until nearly dawn and mornings that began shortly after, it was at La Biniou, taking a meal far too late for lunch and still too early for dinner, that segments of language, recognizable but without meaning, filtered across the dining area. The voices belonged to three teenagers, and it was evident that within the small group there were a sister and brother, and if body language was any indicator, the third was friend to one and surreptitious lover to the other.

Munroe observed the three and was drawn to the sister. She was sixteen, seventeen at most, had curly dark hair, dark eyes, a beautiful smile, and a playful personality. She was the younger sibling, there with her girlfriend no doubt, and oblivious to the smoldering lust between the two across the table. She would make an excellent mark.

If all other things were equal, Munroe would prefer a female. While men had to be bribed or threatened or their suspicions overcome while they were befriended to get them to spill their secrets over drink, women naturally loved to talk. And while it was no secret that a man would say most anything when desperate to get between a woman’s legs, that was not the way Munroe worked. Women, on the other hand, responded to attention, and while in the persona of a male she could bypass whatever insecurities the female form brought on and gain direct access to a woman’s mind. The problem was that things were very seldom equal.

Munroe tapped her fingers lightly against the table and watched the trio over the top of a traveler’s guidebook. The girl would be the easiest way to the parents and, from them, to the rest of the community.

She stood, walked to the table with the guidebook in hand, and in broken French and then fluent English introduced herself as Michael and asked for clarification on several of the book’s entries. She conversed with the brother and between words made eye contact with his sister and passed her a flirtatious smile or two. The brother was helpful, but it was the sister who invited Munroe to sit and join them, and at the end of forty-five minutes Munroe had also been invited to dinner at their house the following evening. In another place, another climate, the invitation might have seemed audacious, but not in the world of the Cameroonian expatriate, where the community was small and far away from home.

The girl’s name was Zemira Eskin, and with that piece of information as well as the phone number and directions she’d been given, Munroe headed to the British cultural center. It took less than half an hour of chitchat to discover that she’d been invited to the home of Colonel Lavi Eskin, commander of the Israeli forces in Cameroon.

The news brought Munroe’s plans in Yaoundé to a full stop. There was no point in digging further; contact with too many in the community would only backfire. She had no choice but to wait, and in the solitude Francisco filled her mind. He was disruption from the focus needed for tomorrow, broken strands of thought in the web of information her mind attempted to spin.

Unable to concentrate, Munroe called the United States and after several attempts got through to Kate Breeden. The conversation was brief. Munroe received confirmation that the money had been wired to the account in Douala and reassured Kate that she was indeed alive and well and had no plans to reenter Equatorial Guinea, at least not until after Bradford arrived.