The Informationist: A Thriller (9 page)

It was several minutes after the coffee that Miles began to show visible signs of somnolence. Monroe reached over and placed her wrist to his forehead. “Everything all right?” she asked. “You don’t look very well.”

“Not so good,” he said. His words were slightly slurred. “I feel so tired.”

“It might be the climate and the jet lag,” she said. “It does that to you. It can take a while to get used to it. Let’s get you back to your room.”

By the time the elevator had taken them to their floor, Bradford was slumped over her shoulder. With some difficulty she got him into his bed, removed his shoes, and made sure the air-conditioning worked properly. Knowing he would wake thirsty, she set out a bottle of drinking water and tucked the light blanket around him.

It was a crappy deal. She would have preferred another way, but there were things to be done that belonged to no one else. “Sleep well,” she whispered. She left his key in the room and, using a skeleton set, locked the door behind her.

She checked her watch; she’d be lucky to get back before dark.

The streets of Douala were narrow and full of loud and chaotic life. Bicycles laden with goods stacked five feet into the air fought for road space with Peugeot cars converted to share taxis and packed with twice as many people as they were built to carry. Traffic surged in disarray, vehicles jostled for position, their horns being applied as frequently as the brakes. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. Colonial buildings sat side by side with modern structures, and green fronds peeked above walls that separated homes from the cacophony of the streets.

First stop was the Société Générale de Banques au Cameroun and an account left abandoned when she had fled the country so many years ago. Munroe expected that it would have been closed due to inactivity, the money vanishing into the ether, or at the least be inaccessible. Rather, it was all there and had even accrued a modest sum of interest. She folded the bank statement and then at the FOREX window changed five hundred euros into Central African francs. It would be enough small change to last a while; most of the hotels and airlines accepted and sometimes preferred euros to the local currency.

Outside, Munroe hailed several taxis and sent each yellow car on its way until she got a newer vehicle, its engine integrity less questionable, the seats still solid and without the grime and reshaping of those that had borne too many passengers; with the driver she negotiated a return rate to Kribi, that sleepy party town three hours south of Douala.

Known for its pristine beaches, Kribi was quiet and relatively empty for most of the year but swelled beyond capacity during holiday periods. It was in Kribi that the past would converge with the present. She needed documents, and the man who could get them would be found there—she had spent several hours on the phone last night making sure of it.

Out of Douala the traffic congestion eased to the occasional overladen minibus. The road to Kribi traced its path inland and then parallel to the ocean, with farms of short palm trees used for producing palm oil bordering each side, their monotony broken by an occasional building
or the intermittent sight of young boys herding goats, pushing the animals along the road’s dirt shoulders. The highway’s two lanes provided enough room for oncoming vehicles to pass without forcing one off the tarmac. A steady breeze blew in off the ocean, and Munroe spent most of the trip alternating between reviewing her notes and staring lazily out the window, watching memories fly by with the scenery.

Unlike yesterday, today brought pangs of guilt and an overwhelming sense of sadness. There were tremors in the back of her mind, and the voices began to stir, the first she had heard from them since accepting the Burbank assignment.

Perhaps the decision to return to Kribi had been a mistake.

B
oniface Akambe was a large man. Not only in his height and girth but in that he wore fine clothing, drove a new four-wheel-drive Land Cruiser, and owned several successful businesses. He was also a good-looking man with soft skin and a desirable-size gap between his top front teeth. Akambe had twelve children borne by three wives, two of whom lived in Douala while the third, the youngest, kept house in Kribi. His situation had improved since Munroe had seen him last. He’d been younger then—they all had been—and he’d had only one wife, though if he’d had his way, Munroe would have soon become the second.

It was Akambe’s family name and political connections that bought him protection and helped the businesses that fed his large lifestyle, but it was a lesser-known enterprise that had compelled Munroe to make this trip.

Kribi was exactly as she remembered—a small and lazy town with only a few main streets connecting the parts of the whole and far too many hotels for its size. Several new buildings had been added, but otherwise little had changed, and it took only a few minutes for the taxi driver to find the place Munroe had described.

The office was nondescript, on the ground floor of a three-story structure with peeling paint on the outside walls and water condensation
dripping in a steady flow from an air-conditioning box that protruded over the sidewalk. Inside the office it was cool and fragranced by the lingering smell of mildew, and in several places the linoleum on the floor turned up its corners. A receptionist sat on a wooden chair behind a metal desk worn of its paint and showing makeshift repairs done over the years. In front of her was a manual typewriter and to the right of it an arrangement of manila folders, haphazardly stacked.

In the nine years that Munroe had been away from Africa, not once had the Fang language rolled off her tongue, but it came now in a familiar burst. “
Hakum ayen Akambe
,” she said. “Please notify him that I am here.” She didn’t need to provide more information, that she spoke in Fang was her calling card. With a look of surprise, the woman stood and went for a door on the opposite wall.

And then from behind came the rumble of Akambe’s voice.

“Es-sss-sa,” he said, drawing her name into three syllables. He exited the door of his office, arms wide in welcome and a huge grin spread across his face. “Essa,” he said again. He clasped his hands together and then placed them on her shoulders and, holding her at arm’s length, said, “It could only have been you. How have you been? How many years now?”

“It’s been a long time,” she said, returning the smile and relishing the warmth. “A very long time.”

“Come, take coffee with me,” he said, and then barked a few phrases to the woman who had returned to the desk. He stepped aside so that Munroe could pass into his office. In contrast to that of the front room, the furniture here was new, the flooring and paint clean, and his wooden office desk so large it nearly filled the back wall. Akambe sat in the oversize chair behind the desk and Munroe on the sofa that rested perpendicular to it.

“Essa,” he said again after the coffee had been served. “Where have you been hiding yourself all of this time?”

“I’ve been across the ocean, studying and working.”

“Ah,” he said, and he leaned back and placed his hands on his wide midsection. “You went to your people. Quite the trouble it made when you left. Francisco spent a small fortune trying to find you. He finally stopped when he knew for sure that you were alive and had left the country.”

A stab of guilt and the hollow ache that followed brought on a chorus
of voices, chanting and calling her name, fighting for attention. She held eye contact with Akambe and, when the internal din had ebbed, said softly, “Have you heard from him?”

“I see him when he is in town, every few months.”

“He hasn’t left Africa, then?”

“He remains.”

She winced and took another sip of the sweet coffee. “How is he?”

Akambe stirred another spoon of sugar into the creamy brown liquid and said nothing for a while, then looked up. “He’s different. He works harder and plays harder, spends more time with women, drinking, behaving less like you and more like me.” He gave a hearty laugh and continued. “And then he leaves for periods of solitude. He built himself a place near Ureca on the island.” He paused, adding another spoon of sugar. “Time ages a person’s soul,” he said. “And they leave him alone as long as he supplies them now and then.” Akambe was quiet for a moment. “You should make a point to see him, Essa. He deserves at least that.”

She shrugged and put down her cup. “I will if I have the time. As it is, I am here for work and am pressed. I need your skill. Do you still make papers?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.” His head tilted right and left as he spoke. “What do you need?”

She handed him passport photos of herself and of Bradford. “I need two sets of residency cards for each of these.”

“That I can do,” he said.

“For both Cameroon and Equatorial Guinea.”

“Ah,” he replied, drumming his fingers on his desk. “Equatorial Guinea will take longer. And cost more.”

“Preferably diplomatic status,” she said, placing the rest of the photos on the desk and then laying a wad of cash on top of them. “If it’s not enough, I’ll pay the remainder when I return.”

He flipped through the bills. “It’s enough,” he said. “Where are you staying? I’ll have your papers delivered in five days.”

“Hotel Parfait Garden,” she said, and she stood to go.

Akambe raised his hand for her to pause and, full of importance, said, “Essa, I am looking for a wife.”

She smiled at the predictability and then attempted a straight face.
“Boniface, maybe one day I’ll take you up on your offer, but not today.” In the taxi she allowed herself an audible chuckle. Wife number four.

From Akambe’s office the driver took her south of Kribi and turned onto the narrow dirt road that went past the beach house. A thick hedge ran the length of the property, blocking the view from the road, and the driver stopped beside the metal gate that was the single visible entry point. Munroe stepped onto the gravel driveway and stood, staring at the barrier that divided what once was from life as it was now. Voices from the past rose in unison, and she pushed back the screams into silence, fought the urge to ring the gate bell, and instead returned to the car. They drove north to Douala.

By the time Munroe reached the hotel, it was dark. She purchased a bottle of water, headed for Bradford’s room, and let herself in. Dim street light filtered through the curtains, and Bradford’s breathing was steady and rhythmic against the hum of the air conditioner. She poured water into a glass, knelt beside the bed, and leaned forward to lift his head.

She touched the back of his neck, and his hand snapped around her wrist, a movement swift and exact. He pulled her close until her face was inches from his and in a whisper said, “You ever do that to me again and I swear I’ll radio tag you.” She smiled and relaxed into him, and he let go. She slipped a hand under his head, raised him up, and put the glass to his lips; he drank greedily. When he had finished, he lay back on the pillow with his eyes open a sliver and said, “Why the hell did you do it?”

“I had some things I needed to do. Alone.”

“Next time just ask. I’ll give you space.”

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll ask.”

She stood and turned toward the door. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she whispered, and with the click of the latch, waves of internal tumult boiled over.

 … Cry for sorrow of heart and howl for vexation of spirit …

With deliberate footsteps she walked across the hall, opened the door to her room, and, for Bradford’s ears, made the effort of both closing and locking it.

 … leave your name for a curse unto my chosen …

There would be no sleep tonight, not after Kribi, not after the gate and the beach house.

 … the Lord GOD shall slay thee …

Munroe followed the staircase upward until she could go no farther and from there located the door that led to the rooftop.

 … and call his servants by another name …

The air was cool with the relief of night, and in the darkness there was solace. She found a spot, dry and open to the sky, and lay back, face to the pattern of stars, familiar as they had been once before, as they had been on
that
night.

In the silence the voices in her head chanted and rose in crescendo:
The way of the wicked is death
.

She didn’t fight them, didn’t try to shut them off—there was no point. Tonight they were strong; tonight they would take her, and she would allow her mind loose to follow where they led, inevitably to where they had begun: the night she’d killed Pieter Willem.

That night the camp had been temporary, the structures quickly thrown together. The spot was well concealed and had access to the water and to the boats hidden in the mangrove swamps not far from the tributary that would carry them to the Muni River. There were six in their group, and the thatched-roof shelters that acted as home were spaced unevenly in the small clearing. The plan had been to remain until the delivery and then move back to Francisco’s house in Kribi while they waited for the next shipment to come in.

Voices had carried in the stillness, and she’d crept closer to listen. Francisco and Pieter were arguing. Dusk was settling, and the pitch-black would follow in less than an hour. She could smell a storm coming and felt the change in the air. When the rain started, it would be impossible to overhear, and so she crab-walked until she could lean up against the shaky walls that held Francisco’s shelter together.

Life had been good until two and a half years earlier, when Jean Noel and his mercenary buddy Pieter Willem had been added to the team. Jean wasn’t bad; he saw her for what she was, a barely fifteen-year-old kid stuck out in the jungle, way out of her league but a necessary component to getting the job done. He was kind to her in his own way. When he wasn’t working, he taught her how to make rope, tie knots, set traps,
poison darts, and hunt noiselessly in the dark. He also showed her how to take care of a gun and how to use it. It was Pieter who taught her to kill.

A small man of hardened muscle, Pieter was charming and a master of words that endeared him to the listener. It was his eyes that she couldn’t trust; from the day he’d arrived in Kribi, she had avoided him.