The Informationist: A Thriller (34 page)

“When I woke up, I was in the city jail. I was covered with blood and bruises, and my arm was broken, and I think a rib or two was cracked. My leg hurt really bad, too, so I think it was also broken. I had lots
of cuts, I think from the machetes.” She reached down and lifted her dress above the knees, revealing thick scars on her legs, the recognizable product of deep gashes and no stitches. “I have more,” she said, “on my stomach and back. I don’t know how long I was there. I woke up a few times and would just pass out again. The next thing I remember, I was in a clean room and not in as much pain, and that’s when I first met the man who’s now my husband. He said he’d rescued me and that he knew who I was and he’d make sure I got home. He was really nice to me.

“But he never sent me home. He promised he would when I got stronger, but there were delays. It’s really hard to know how much time passed, but I think maybe three or four months later he told me my life was in danger and the only way to be safe was to marry him. I tried to run away twice, and each time I got locked up. There were threats, and I got beaten a few times, and there were other things, too.” Emily paused and swallowed, looking around the room, and Munroe could tell that she was fighting back tears.

“I think it was about a year after I got here that I got ahold of a phone with international access. I tried to call my mom, but the number had been disconnected.” She turned to Bradford. “Do they still live in Houston?” Bradford gave a hesitant nod. “So then I called my dad’s office. It was difficult getting through his secretaries, but I finally got him on the phone. It was very weird. I told him who I was and where I was and that I wanted to come home but that the people here wouldn’t let me leave, and he told me never to call again. Maybe he thought it was a prank call—I don’t know. I was never able to get in contact with him again, even though I tried. One time I got caught on the phone and my husband beat me worse than any other time and told me never to do something so foolish again, that I had been stupid and risked my life.

“Around then is when I realized I was pregnant, and since it seemed that leaving wasn’t going to happen, the only thing I could really do was try to make my life better here, so that’s when I agreed to marry Timoteo and stopped running away or trying to make calls. Things have been more or less okay since then.”

T
HE TWO-WAY RADIO
clipped to Munroe’s belt chirped and jolted her from the conversation. Bradford gave her a nervous glance; Beyard would
attempt contact only if it was an emergency. Munroe unclipped the camera from her lapel and pulled the machine from her pocket, stuck the machine in Bradford’s hand. While she pinned the camera on his collar, she whispered, “We’re probably going to need this for more than just proving she’s alive. Get her to provide personal data for the camera, today’s date and place, date of birth, mother’s and father’s names—basically a statement. It would be good if she could include some childhood memories that you and I wouldn’t know about.”

Bradford turned to Emily, his smile showing the stress of having heard the two-way go off. Munroe left the room and then, certain she was out of earshot, responded to the call.

“Get the front door open,” was all Beyard said.

M
unroe strode to the front of the house. The foyer was quiet, and though she had no doubt that the household snitch was hovering nearby, she opened the door and Beyard slipped inside. His uniform was gone, replaced by jeans and a T-shirt thick enough to nearly hide the outline of the pouch that hung against his chest. His face was hard, pure business. He handed her two vacuum-packed sets of civilian clothes.

“State radio just announced putting down an attempted coup,” he said. “Local military is looking for people in the Mongomo area wearing Israeli camouflage, and they’ve given descriptions that could easily be you and Miles or me. The paranoia around town has already started.” He paused for a second, and when she said nothing, he stated the obvious. “There’s no coup, Vanessa. They’re looking for us. It won’t take long for the men at the police station to connect the dots. We need to get out of here.”

The drumbeat of war tapped out inside Munroe’s chest. This couldn’t have been the household informer—it was too fast, came too certain. Only three people knew of the plan to enter the country using Israeli military camo: Logan was in the United States, and the other two were in this house. She took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. This was the reason she always fucking worked alone. No tagalongs, no partners, no unnecessary components to screw things up.

“Get the satphone, the passports, and five thousand euros,” Munroe said. “We leave those here with her. I’ll get Miles.”

Beyard wedged a piece of plastic under the front door, and Munroe tilted her head upward and took in a drink of air, fought back the rage, and then walked calmly to the living room. She’d been so close, so fucking close.

She entered the room, and Bradford looked up. Emily, who’d been talking about her childhood, stopped. Munroe said only, “Emily, I need to talk to Miles.”

Out of the living room and where Emily could not overhear, Munroe whispered in Bradford’s ear, explaining the situation in as few words as possible. His face twisted through a series of emotions, ending at what Munroe read as horrified shock. His hands had tightened into fists, and through clenched teeth he said, “I’m not leaving her.”

“If we take them, it will slow us down and risk getting us all killed—it’s better that she stays.”

“I can’t leave her,” he said again.

“She’s been kept alive and secure here all these years,” Munroe said. “She’s safer here than with us.”

Bradford remained still and said nothing.

“Have it your way.” Munroe knelt to unlace her boots. “Figure out how to get her out on your own. Francisco and I are leaving while we’ve still got a chance.” She stripped off the uniform and removed a shirt from the pack Beyard had given her and pulled it over her head. “You do what you need to do.”

Bradford ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the ceiling. He breathed as if he might hyperventilate, and Munroe knew he was running scenarios. He’d come, there was no doubt. Bradford knew as well as she did that even if the vehicles separated and he took Emily and the kids in the opposite direction while she and Beyard ran decoy, with the border crossings closed as they inevitably would be—if they weren’t already—he wouldn’t be able to get them out of the country on his own. Munroe handed him the second pack of clothes, and he took it. “Francisco’s coming back with the passports, the money, and the satellite phone,” she said. “We’re not abandoning her, Miles.”

Emily was still on the couch when they returned. Her hands were in
her lap, and she clenched them, staring at the coffee cups on the table. When they walked into the room, her head jerked up. “We’re not going, are we?” she said. “After all that, we’re not going.”

Bradford sat beside her and shook his head. “Em, plans have changed.”

Munroe said, “The people who’ve tried to kill me are on their way here. We need to go, and if you come with us, there’s a chance you and the children won’t make it. We’re going to leave you with money, passports, and a phone. If we make it out, we’ll be back.”

“I’m willing to take the risk,” Emily said. “Please let us come with you.”

“We can’t do it, Emily.”

“One way or the other,” Bradford said, “we’ll get you out of here. It might take a month, could even take a year, but I’m coming back for you, I promise.”

Beyard entered the room with a small case and handed it to Munroe, who in turn handed it to Emily, who was now crying.

“I’m sorry,” Munroe said, and then, to Bradford, “We’re leaving in two minutes. Show her how to use the phone.” She and Beyard walked out of the room, and Bradford joined them a minute later.

Beyard had already combined the matériel from both vehicles into one, and Munroe left the keys to the second under its front seat. They pulled away from the house, and Beyard drove slowly, eyes ahead to the activity that went on beyond the length of the street. The military was now out in force, detaining pedestrians unlucky enough not to have reached the safety of indoors. What few vehicles remained on the roads were being pulled over, the occupants forced out with their hands above their heads. The atmosphere crackled with paranoia and brewing violence.

Munroe was in the backseat, leaning to the side so that the headphone clamped to her ear was not visible from the windows. She watched Beyard’s face in the rearview, his lips drawn tight and stress written in his eyes. There were only three routes out of the city, all of them cordoned off, and if it came to fighting their way through, they were severely outgunned.

Vehicle documents in the president’s name and an impressive
performance by Beyard got them through the first cluster of assault-weapon-carrying soldiers. They were several minutes from the straight four-mile stretch that ran to the border, and if their luck held, they could get that far before the level of hostility ratcheted up a notch and the papers no longer worked. Munroe pressed through the frequencies; where there should have been commotion and activity, there was only static and silence, and then finally she caught voices.

She bent her head toward the floor and struggled to pick up the sounds of a conversation in Fang that ended as abruptly as it had begun. “The land borders have been cut off,” she said to Beyard. “They don’t say anything about the coast.”

“We’re not going to get through this way,” he said, and Munroe felt the vehicle lurch and then surge. She braced her feet against the back of Bradford’s seat while she held her hands cupped over her ears. Again the vehicle jolted. Beyard had looped to the end of a street that ran parallel to Emily’s street and was taking a footpath out of the city. Foliage slapped against the windshield, and the suspension groaned. From the path they lurched into a streambed.

“Anything?” Beyard asked.

“Nothing,” Munroe said, her fingers working the scanner controls while she continued to brace for stability.

“They know we’re listening.”

“How the hell …?” Munroe’s voice trailed off. Someone knew they were in Mongomo, knew about the camo, knew about the scanners—what the hell else? She dropped the headphones, switched off the machine, and glowered at the front seat.
Shit
.

The water’s course flowed southwesterly, and they followed it, churning up the shallow bed for several miles until the creek routed north, and there they broke trail into the bush and headed in the direction of the interior. As far as could be determined, they had not been followed out of the city, so the atmosphere of violence had been traded for the deceptive stillness of the deep forest. They would travel southwest until they converged with the tracks that led to Evinayong, and in the heart of the country they would disappear long enough for the frenzy to die and the pursuers to assume they were no longer around. They had supplies to last several days, and utilizing the resources of the forest could stretch them to two weeks.

The goal was Mbini, a low-water port eighty kilometers south of Bata, nestled at the southern mouth of the nearly mile-wide Benito River and surrounded by pristine white beaches and rolling surf that elsewhere in the world would have given birth to a chain of five-star resorts. It was from Mbini that open longboats ferried passengers to and from Gabon and where a prearranged boat fueled and waiting would not appear out of place.

By nightfall they had put a hard thirty kilometers between themselves and the edge of civilization. They were camped under a tarp fringed by mosquito netting and strung from the roof of the vehicle. Munroe sat against the rear wheel with her arms wrapped around her knees, face coated with dirt, body aching, and right forearm bloody where it had been deeply scratched. Beyard had wandered into the dark, and Bradford sat against the front bumper with his legs stretched out, arms crossed, and head tilted toward the sky. Munroe was silent; she had nothing to say that wouldn’t resemble spit venom. Events had spiraled out of control, and the information that had led to this had come from the inside. Logic said it had to be Miles or Francisco, but it didn’t feel right, wasn’t exact. Munroe dropped her head to her knees and let out a deep sigh.

“It wasn’t me,” Bradford said.

Munroe raised her head, and Bradford continued, “I can count. There aren’t many people to pin the blame on, and I’m the one you hate the most and trust the least—that makes me the prime candidate, but it wasn’t me, Michael.”

“Concerned I’m going to leave you here?”

“I should be, but I’m not.” He was calm, his voice low, and his head was still tilted up. “I’m concerned that by focusing on me you’ll be misdirected. Figuring out where this is coming from has become a matter of self-preservation for me as well.” He paused and then looked out into the darkness. “I know how you feel about Francisco. I hope you haven’t let it cloud your judgment.”

Munroe returned her head to her knees, and an exhausted smile played across her face. Respect for Bradford had just moved up a notch. “I don’t hate you, Miles,” she said, “and I trust you more than you think I do.” And then she was aware of Francisco’s presence. He moved like a cat through the bush, stealthy and quiet in their direction. In the dim
light of the smoldering ground fire, she saw the cords along Bradford’s neck tighten and knew that anger seethed beneath the surface. She knew that he, too, was aware of Beyard’s presence. And then Beyard stepped into the light carrying with him a pair of forest rats. He sat at the edge of the tarp, back turned while he skinned and gutted. Munroe watched the flick of his wrist and the knife as it splayed meat and bone, understood the sting of betrayal and knew that, barring intervention, tonight someone would die.

She stood and opened the back door of the vehicle, reached under the seat and released two of the PB6P9s housed there. The suppressors were already in place, and Munroe snapped in magazines, her ears strained to create a visual picture of what went on behind her back, quiet out of habit, not concern. The two outside were consumed with distrust of each other and in their wariness would be oblivious to her actions until it was too late. And then she turned and leveled a gun at each man. Bradford looked up, lips tight and eyes hard. Beyard sighed, said, “Not this shit again,” and continued working the knife.