Politely, Pierce thanked him.
T
HE NEXT EVENING, BACK IN
W
ARO
, P
IERCE RODE WITH
V
ORSTER AND
Clellan to the home of PGL’s managing director. As they drove, Pierce observed the street life of the city: a brightly dressed woman bearing a basket of fruit on her head; a gaunt bicyclist carrying a satellite dish; an urban marketplace with tin shacks and a muddy parking lot. Then Clellan cut across a sandy field to avoid an intractable traffic jam, and Pierce saw on the waterfront the expensive homes of Waro’s elite, protected by concrete walls with jagged shards of glass inserted at the top, a disincentive to intruders. “An opulent prison,” he observed.
“Everyone’s in prison here,” Vorster responded. “But some prisons are nicer than others—as you’ll soon see.”
An hour later, they arrived at a compound with fifteen-foot walls, its entrance a marble archway so massive that Pierce thought at once of the Arc de Triomphe. Stationed by its metal gate were mobile policemen wearing green fatigues and flak jackets, carrying AK-47s. “Luandians call them ‘kill and go,’” Vorster said. “They’re law enforcement’s equivalent of Okimbo.”
Stopping at the gate, Clellan gave Pierce’s name to a security guard. The man placed a telephone call; after a moment the massive steel gate slowly opened, and they entered a rarefied world of palms and manicured gardens and enormous villas. They parked in front of the largest, a sprawling terra-cotta residence that, Pierce guessed, was close to thirty thousand square feet. “Remind you of Goro?” Vorster murmured to Pierce.
“No oil slicks. This must be where the money goes.”
Leaving the car, Pierce followed a winding stone path to a sturdy iron door monitored by a security camera that protruded from the wall beside it. Pierce pushed the intercom button and, when questioned, announced himself. A servant in a white coat and dark trousers opened the door and led him to a sitting room. “Mr. Gladstone will be with you presently,” the houseboy advised.
Alone, Pierce gazed out the deep glass windows at a capacious lawn and garden sloping to the water’s edge. In the distance, the office towers of Waro looked pristine. Absorbed by the view, he barely heard the footsteps behind him. When he turned, an elegant Luandian man in a cashmere sport jacket extended his hand. “I’m Michael Gladstone.”
As Pierce returned the man’s languid handshake, Gladstone smiled at his quizzical expression. “You were expecting someone lighter.”
“In a word, yes. No one told me you were Luandian.”
“That’s progress, I suppose. My predecessor was British; now he’s my landlord, safely ensconced in Dubai. May I arrange a drink?”
“Thank you, no.”
Gladstone waved at two chairs near the window. “Come, sit.”
The executive glided to a chair opposite Pierce. He was roughly forty, Pierce guessed, with close-cropped hair, smooth skin, keen eyes, and an expression that suggested watchfulness and habitual caution. “So,” he said, “you’re Okari’s friend, perhaps his lawyer. What is it you want from us?”
“For the moment, mutual understanding. I assume you saw Karama’s speech. This farce of a tribunal can’t be good for PGL.”
A troubled look briefly surfaced in Gladstone’s eyes. “Not good,” he parried, “is three Luandian employees hanging from a tree in Asariland.”
“Or having your helicopters and boats used in a massacre?”
Gladstone placed a graceful finger to his lips. “This is not a deposition, Mr. Pierce. Our conversation is private; I’m seeing you at Grayson Caraway’s request, to learn what you want. As to Goro, the government denies a massacre. Whatever may have occurred, no one from PGL was present.”
“Then who flew the helicopters?”
“Again, Mr. Pierce, we are not in court. Were we, all that I could tell you is that my people inform me that our equipment was, quite literally, borrowed.”
Pierce kept his tone mild. “Your ‘people’ being Roos Van Daan, ex-mercenary soldier in Angola, now PGL’s chief of security in the Delta. He seems to have a certain reputation.
“Let me tell you about Goro, Mr. Gladstone. PGL helicopters and sea trucks transported Okimbo and his soldiers. They proceeded to burn the village and slaughter all the residents except the Okaris. Soldiers beheaded Bobby’s father; like the hundreds of bodies, his head’s gone missing. Okimbo himself raped a fifteen-year-old girl before he slit her throat. Okari was forced to watch.” Pierce paused a moment. “Granted, you weren’t there. But please don’t tell me you’re surprised.”
Gladstone stared at him. “My job is to protect our employees and operations. Okari’s followers seized our oil platform and blocked access to our facilities; for all I know, he ordered those lynchings. I am left to hope that Okimbo responded reasonably, and that Okari’s trial will fairly ascertain his guilt—both matters beyond our control.” Gladstone’s speech gained quickness and force. “In fact, we control almost nothing. Your friend has helped make us a hostage in a war between the government and the people of the delta. And for what? We, too, are victims of corruption. We do not dictate how oil revenues are spent. We can only make one very stark choice: stay or leave—”
“You could also stop turning the delta into a toxic-waste dump.”
Gladstone spread his hands. “When PetroGlobal came here, the government expected nothing. For my predecessors, oil and corruption were the apple Adam bit. I will concede that in earlier days PGL screwed the natives, took the oil, and enjoyed the profits. The results were as you see them: yet more corruption, violence, and human and environmental misery.
“All I can alleviate is the latter. As soon as possible, we’ll stop flaring and repair our antiquated pipelines. But it’s late in the day, and there’s no one to help us. Certainly not Savior Karama. Nor,” Gladstone continued with palpable anger, “Bobby Okari. It’s not pleasant to be the scapegoat for a demagogue with a Messiah complex whose self-serving rhetoric inflames the militias he claims to deplore. Nonetheless, I hope Karama spares him, or the first Easter after Okari’s death will disappoint him hugely.”
“You’re free to hope,” Pierce shot back. “This tribunal is his death warrant, and the delta once he’s gone will disappoint
you
hugely. The change Okari wants will help PGL survive.”
Gladstone shook his head in demurral. “All Okari brings to our door is trouble. Does he truly think making our corporate life miserable will transform Karama? Corruption is not an incident of government policy—it
is
the government’s policy.
“Do they help clean up the environment? Do they tend to the poor who are so outraged at us? Do they fight the militias, or end the bunkering so many of them profit from? Do they maintain the community projects they harass us to build? No. They blame us, and encourage
others
to blame us, for failing to do the things for our people only they can do.” Gladstone softened his tone. “We both know what those are, Mr. Pierce. Democracy. Infrastructure. An end to corruption. Stewardship of land and water. Are you laughing yet? Well, you should be. Because to say such things in Luan-dia is a joke.”
“Poor PGL,” Pierce said with equal quiet. “Such good intentions; so little love in return. And even less influence. I’m sorry if you’re not enjoying your job. But you can’t take the money, then wash your hands of what happened in Goro. I assume you’ve met Okimbo.”
“Yes.”
“How’d you like him?”
“I didn’t. Nor did I appoint him Karama’s chief enforcer. So imagine for a moment that you’re our manager in the delta, Trevor Hill. So many of our executives get kidnapped that he’s taken out hostage insurance. But that only gets FREE more excited about kidnapping. So Hill’s people start to develop post-traumatic stress disorder.” Gladstone’s voice became quiet, uninflected. “A kidnapper from FREE raided a compound and killed the daughter of Hill’s closest friend in her front yard. To protect the survivors, her father slammed the iron door to the house, cutting off the shooter’s hand. All the police did was stick it in an evidence drawer. Somewhere in the delta is a murderer with a missing hand.
“So we hired Roos Van Daan. But all Van Daan can do about Asari-land is accede to Okimbo’s demands for money and arms, leaving us to hope—if not expect—that the army will honor PGL’s very explicit policies on human rights.” Gladstone’s tone became sardonic. “When three people were hung from a tree, were we not to call Okimbo? Were we to wait for Okari to do what he did not—condemn the murderers in no uncertain terms? If so, we might as well pack our bags and leave Luandia’s oil to our competitors from Europe and the oh-so-scrupulous Chinese.”
Pierce stared at him fixedly. “You asked Okimbo to ‘restore order.’ If Bobby Okari sues PGL, you can explain to someone else why you thought that meant a decorous inquiry replete with Miranda warnings.”
Gladstone stood, hands jammed in his pockets. “So you came to threaten me.”
“I came to ask you to use your influence, instead of denying that you have any.”
Gladstone walked to the window, gazing out at the garden. “You have no idea what you’re playing with—none. To be held responsible for the acts of this government
could
drive us from Luandia. Never mind the impact on our share price. Never mind the impact on Luandia: that at the margins, we operate as a check on Karama’s excesses, and that whoever replaces PGL would be far worse. Consider the potential impact on America’s oil supply, or the price your fellow citizens might pay to heat their homes and fill their cars.” His voice rose. “Do you think the American public, or the present administration, would countenance whatever bogus lawsuit you imagine—”
“I don’t think it’s up to them, and I don’t give a damn. That’s what federal judges are for.” Pierce joined Gladstone by the window, looking him in the face. “I assume you’ve been in touch with headquarters. Will they ‘countenance’ you inviting this ‘bogus lawsuit’ by refusing to help prevent an execution that can only make the delta worse? I doubt that. In fact, I imagine they’ve already set PGL’s price for approaching Karama.”
To Pierce’s surprise, the trace of a smile surfaced in Gladstone’s eyes. “For whatever good that would do. But tell Okari this: if he asks you to drop this potential lawsuit, and ends his campaign against PGL, and agrees to leave Luandia, we’ll appeal to the better angels of Karama’s nature—perhaps to provide Okari with safe passage to the country of his choice.”
“That’s quite a lot to ask.”
Gladstone shrugged. “If Okari prefers to take a run at martyrdom, that’s his concern. Mine is to safeguard PGL and its people.”
Holding Gladstone’s eyes, Pierce absorbed the ambiguity of the moment. He did not know how complicit Gladstone was in Okimbo’s crimes; perhaps Gladstone believed Bobby was complicit in the lynching, and even that Pierce might know it. Whatever the case, they both had business to transact. “I’ll tell him,” Pierce answered.
“Then we’re done here, Mr. Pierce. You know the way out.”
Pierce began to leave, then turned back. “I’m curious. Did you bother to vote in the last election?”
Gladstone considered whether to respond. “I tried. But Karama’s soldiers had already closed the polls. So I suppose I must have voted for him.”
“As a Luandian, how did that make you feel?”
Again, Gladstone hesitated. “Unsurprised,” he answered with a trace of weariness. “Whatever else I felt hardly matters. The next day, as before, my job was the same.”
A
FTER MEETING
P
IERCE AT THE AIRPORT IN
P
ORT
G
EORGE
, A
TIKU
Bara drove him directly to the prison as Pierce explained his mission. Sounding dubious, Bara said, “Good luck with him.”
“Assuming I get in.” Pierce reached for the door handle, then turned back. “If you were Bobby, how would you respond to Gladstone’s offer?”
Bara’s brow knit in a complex look of introspection and worry. “By choosing to live,” he answered. “In exile, he can someday return; he can do no good buried in Luandia. Tell him that.”
Nodding, Pierce got out and presented himself to the sentries at the steel gate. In moments, the inscrutable Major Bangida led him past the empty gallows toward the prison. Curtly, he said, “Colonel Okimbo wishes to see you.”
Pierce felt the flesh tingle on the back of his neck. He followed Bangida inside the prison to an office on the ground floor.
Bangida knocked on its door. “Yes,” a deep voice said brusquely, and Bangida let Pierce in.
The man at the desk was massive in every dimension. He examined Pierce in silence, his visible eye conveying an indifference of feeling so profound that Pierce could have been looking into the eye of a bird. The one other man in whom Pierce had seen this quality, a Serbian now condemned to life in prison, had ordered the slaughter of thousands; Pierce, his prosecutor, had wished he could seek the death penalty. Staring back at Okimbo, Pierce envisioned this man slitting the throat of a girl whose usefulness to him was done. “You wish to see Okari,” Okimbo said. “Have you smelled him?”
“Yes,” Pierce said with an edge in his voice. “Have you?”
Okimbo stood abruptly, his large fingers splayed on the desk as he pushed himself up. He stared at Pierce as though ready to close the space between them. “There are those who wish you to speak with Okari. That would seem to require the retention of your tongue.”
At once Pierce felt Michael Gladstone’s unseen hand. “How fortunate.”
Okimbo’s smile was no smile at all. “Should your luck continue, you’ll return to America intact. But Marissa Okari will remain with us. Remember that.”
Anger overcame Pierce’s fear. “Marissa Okari,” he said succinctly, “will remain an American citizen. She’s not as defenseless as a fifteen-year-old girl. You remember
that.”
Okimbo’s dark eye became opaque, as though Pierce’s words had driven him to a place beyond human reach. Every instinct in Pierce urged him to escape. Turning, he went out the door, expecting to hear Okimbo behind him. But the only sound besides his footsteps was their echo off the stone walls of the prison.