The Informationist: A Thriller (36 page)

“What does that mean?” Beyard asked.

Munroe said, “He’s going to try to sell the board on the affidavit in lieu of the actual death certificate to get them to turn over her trust.” To Bradford she said, “What do you think the chances are that the board accepts it?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know, I just don’t know. Based on their past decisions and what they’ve authorized in order to find her, I tend to doubt it.”

Munroe sighed. “If they don’t, then either we permanently disappear or Burbank is going to need physical evidence of Emily’s death.” She sat, wrapped her arms around her legs, and placed her chin on her knees. “Or,” she said, “we can cut Burbank off at his feet and get proof of Emily’s being alive in front of the board.”

Bradford said, “But will Emily be safe until then?”

Munroe stared into the forest. “I don’t fucking
know
, but what choice do we have? Until we can unravel the relationship between Burbank and Nchama—until we can nail Nchama’s motives and his fears—figure out what role he plays in all of this and why, there are just so many goddamn fucking unknowns.” She paused and again pressed her palms to her eyes. “Emily is the mother of his children. Nchama has kept her alive
all these years—the footage truly points to his trying to protect her—so it makes sense that she should be okay for at least a few more days.”

Munroe returned to staring toward the jungle and, as if thinking out loud, said, “I could use a goddamn phone right about now.”

“What would you do if you had one?” Beyard asked.

“Call Burbank and pass along misinformation—give us a chance to sort through this shit. If he’s convinced we won’t make it out of here, it should also buy Emily more time.”

“I’ve got a phone at one of the cut sites,” Beyard said. “I’ve got a couple of trucks there, too.”

To Bradford, Munroe said, “Excuse us for just one minute,” and then she switched to French and said to Beyard, “If they find us anywhere near the cut site, there’s a chance they’ll link this to you. Your cover in this country will be permanently blown.”

“If they find us there, then yes, that is a valid concern,” he said, “although it is not the loss of cover that worries me. I think you overestimate the chances of our getting out of this mess. If having access to the phone will make a difference …” His voice trailed off. He stared into the darkness, and Munroe knew that he was running probabilities: risk against reward, life against death. “There’s also the issue of time,” he said. “If we keep going the way we are now, it’ll take us a week to get to the coast. If we take the tracks to the site and switch out with a truck, we can use the roads and be at the coast within twenty-four hours.” And then he smiled a sad half smile. “Maybe this forces me to again consider life beyond Africa.”

“We’ll move in the morning,” she said. “We keep the destination to ourselves. Information to our friend is on a need-to-know basis—if anything goes wrong, it’s down to you and me.” Beyard nodded, and then in English to both of them Munroe said, “Are you guys good? No fighting? No blood?”

There was still reluctance in the agreement, but less than there had been earlier. Munroe reached the knife between their ankles and slit the tape, Bradford first and then Beyard; it would be a sleepless night.

Bradford looked at the dried blood and the swelling under Beyard’s left eye. “Sorry about your face.”

“Maybe one day I’ll have the chance to return the favor,” Beyard
said. And then he laughed, stood, and stretched his legs. He stepped toward Munroe, crooked an arm around her neck, drew her near, and kissed her forehead. “Listen,” he whispered, “you have got to fucking stop pointing guns at me and tying me up.”

She gave him a wry smile. “He would’ve killed you tonight. He might still try.”

She turned toward Bradford. “I accept responsibility for the decision to leave her behind. If I’d known then what I know now, I would have done it differently.… I am going to do everything in my power to put an end to this.”

Bradford nodded. “I know.”

They took the night in shifts, and but for a time or two when Munroe drifted off, she spent the hours wary of the latent animosity between the men, ready to intervene if necessary, and with headphones over her ears, hoping to pick up some piece of information off the silent scanners.

I
t was midafternoon, and the sun hung low in the sky, adding threads of pink to the yellow-tinged horizon. The area was razed into a wide sweeping circle of orange-red dirt that had been pushed into wandering mounds by machinery and tree trunks. The ground was gutted by wide tire tracks, fat stumps were the last testament to arbor giants now fallen, and a border of lush green marked the periphery of the site. Munroe kicked at a clod of dried clay, stared out over the expanse of barren ground, then leaned against the vehicle door and watched Beyard in the near distance, where he stood by a loaded flatbed truck, conversing animatedly with the driver.

They had pushed since dawn to get this far, utilizing overgrown and unmarked tracks to speed the journey and in the process of getting the vehicle through had added another layer of mud and bruises to those acquired the day before.

The conversation over, Beyard turned back, and when he drew close, Munroe said, “They’re making a hell of a mess out of this place.”

He followed her eyes. “I’ve been around it for so long I’ve become immune.”

They stood in silence and stared at the wasted landscape, and then he said, “It’s going to get worse. Pretty much all of the country’s
commercially productive forest is under concession—if things keep going as they are, in five, six years it’ll be completely exhausted. Oil reserves won’t last either. What to do?” He shrugged. “Fucking spoilers.” He climbed behind the wheel, and Munroe got into the front seat. “We’re headed a half kilometer that way,” he said, pointing, “We should definitely get there before dark.”

They followed a rut-filled dirt road out of the site toward the west, and at an unmarked junction notable only as a break in the thick foliage Beyard turned north.

Munroe glanced at the backseat, where Bradford lay seemingly asleep with his arm draped over his head, and she shifted back to Beyard. “I suppose you haven’t made out too badly through all this, spoilers and all.”

He threw her a look and then returned his focus to the road. “I do what I do.”

“So why the drugs, the munitions, the risks involved, when you do so well through legitimate business?”

“Because I’m good at it,” he said. “And I get an adrenaline rush.” He smiled. “And don’t make the mistake of thinking this is legitimate. Legal, yes, but let’s not kid ourselves that it’s anything other than raping the country to feed the presidential coffers.”

“Do you care?”

“I’m a realist, Vanessa. I don’t care, but I don’t lie to myself either.”

T
HE SECOND CUT
site differed little from the first, with the exception of a few attempts at constructed shelter and a makeshift tin shack that sat on the edge of chaos. Next to the tin was a six-wheeler with canvas raised over the back, and Beyard stopped beside it, got out of the vehicle, and banged his hand on the body of the truck.

The rear canvas parted, and a short, stocky man stood in the flap of the doorway. His face lit up into a smile, and he held out a hand, which Beyard took and used to clamber into the truck. Munroe waited in the silence, Bradford still stretched out on the backseat, and a few minutes later Beyard returned and said, “Go on in. Manuel has everything you need.”

The interior of the truck was dark and dank and permeated with the smell of mildew and wood rot. Along each side was an unmade cot, and the floor was littered with used dishes and discarded remnants of food. At the front a small wooden table bolted to the floor held a smattering of electronics. Manuel turned to Munroe and said in Fang, “The boss tells me you speak my language.”

Munroe nodded, and Manuel reached for a collapsible satellite dish. “I have to put this up top,” he said, and then pointed to the phone. “The boss said you use whatever you want.”

Munroe waited for the sounds overhead to still and the truck’s engine to roll over, and when the phone powered on, she reached for it, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. The next five minutes would change everything. She drew another long drink of air and followed it with a slow expulsion, working backward into the frame of mind, conjuring horror and fear and becoming the part. And then she dialed.

When she stepped from the truck into the dimming light of the evening, most of their supplies were on the ground and Beyard was on his back inside the vehicle with disassembled parts around him and twisting a bolt underneath the rear seat. “How did it go?” he asked. His voice was muted by the pieces between them, and Munroe stepped closer.

“Only time will tell.”

“So now what?”

“Now we wait.” She paused and looked around. “Where’s Miles?”

Beyard threw a piece out on the ground, then knelt and peeled away the vehicle’s ersatz floorboard. “He took a walk.”

Munroe stepped into Beyard’s line of sight. “What exactly does that mean?”

“You tell me. He had a filled duffel bag and said he’d be back in the morning. I offered him the two-way in case we had to pull out before then. He declined, said it would be better for all parties concerned if he didn’t take it.”

“Did you do an inventory count?”

Beyard nodded. “Two of the assault rifles, five hundred rounds, a few heavy pieces. And he took the sniper.”

“Shit, Francisco, the Vintorez was mine.” She paused, scratching the back of her head, and looked toward the trees in the near distance. And
then she turned in a complete circle, taking in the periphery, and shook her head; a slow smile crept across her face. Bradford was on watch and determined to prove trustworthiness; he’d prepared to take out a military convoy if one showed up. “He’s within four hundred meters,” she said, and then, turning her back to the forest, nodded at the truck. “Is this home for the night?”

“Yes. We’ll load now and head off first thing in the morning. Manuel will drive so we can stay out of sight.” He stepped toward the vehicle in which they’d arrived, kicked a tire. “I’m going to dump this thing in the forest away from the site,” he said. “I don’t want any of this coming back on any of my people. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Shouldn’t I come?”

“If you’re up for the long walk back,” he said. Then he smiled and hooked his finger into Munroe’s collar and pulled her close. “Even layered in two days’ worth of grime as you are, I find you irresistible.” He paused and raised his eyes from her mouth to the forest behind her. “If I kiss you, do you think he’ll take a potshot?”

She leaned into him and brushed her lips against his. “I’m sure he’ll be tempted,” she said. Then she grinned, stepped back, and opened the vehicle door. She slid into the front seat. Beyard followed and cranked the engine.

A
T FIVE IN
the morning, Munroe was jolted out of a sleep she hadn’t intended to fall into. The combined total of six hours of rest over three nights was taking a toll. The interior of the truck was sightlessly black, but from Beyard’s breathing she knew he was awake. She lay on the cot with headphones on her ears, and in an attempt to clear the fuzz that filled her head, she swung her legs to the floor and rested her elbows on her knees. “Channels have opened up again,” she whispered. “Seems they’ve taken the bait. They’re sending most of their men back to wherever it was they came from and holding a large contingent around Mongomo.”

“We should probably get moving,” he said. “Try to get to the coast while our luck holds out.”

“What about Miles?”

“He knows we’re leaving. I wouldn’t suggest waiting past dawn.”

Munroe sighed and lay back down. If Bradford didn’t arrive by first light, she would head out to look for him. The option of leaving him behind had ended when the puzzle snapped into focus and she’d begun to formulate a plan for retribution. She remained on the cot, dozing, until the sky changed from deepest black to navy blue and she knew the shift had come, not from stepping outside but from an internal clock that through long experience had been synchronized to nature.

Across the aisle, Beyard took a deep breath and sat up. “Are you awake?”

“Unfortunately.”

“We need to get going.”

Manuel slept in the open outside the truck, on a rolled-out mat, and while Beyard woke him and the two made preparations to depart, Munroe stared toward the forest and the brightening sky. “Give me half an hour,” she said. “I want to see if I can find Miles. I really don’t want to leave without him.”

From the top of the truck, Bradford’s voice said, “There’s no need.”

Munroe opened the cab door, used the floorboard to step up and look over, and, seeing Bradford, said, “Shit, Miles, how long have you been up there?”

He smiled and said nothing, sat up and then ambled down with an AKM in one hand and the duffel bag dragging behind him.

Before the sun crested the horizon, they moved out of the site along the only road that led to Mbini. Manuel was supplied with ample money for bribes, and if all else failed, they would fight their way through. Inside the canvas, Munroe sat on a cot with the headphones to her ears, Beyard lay on the other, and Bradford sat on the floor with an assault rifle across his lap. The heat and lack of air was stifling, and distance was measured by time, bumps, jolts, and continual gear shifting.

They had been moving for just under two hours when Munroe straightened and placed her fingertips to the headphones. “How far to the coast?” she asked.

“Forty-five minutes if we’re lucky,” Beyard said.

She stood and reached for a Kevlar vest. “It’s going to be close. They’ve been tipped off, and there’s a convoy moving down the coast out of Bata toward Mbini.” She snapped magazines into pockets and tossed
the remaining vest to Beyard. “Sorry, Miles, we only brought two—got them before we knew you were coming with us.”

He nodded and patted the weapon on his lap. “Been through worse.”