“In several ways. First, the court can order PGL to provide Mr. Okari with any documents and witnesses helpful to his defense. Second, given our belief that Colonel Okimbo is on its payroll, this court can direct PGL to withhold his compensation should he impede our access to Okari. Third, this court can instruct PGL not to cooperate with the prosecution in concocting perjured testimony and falsified documents.”
“I must protest,” Hamilton objected. “There’s no basis for such a claim.”
“Luandia is the basis,” Pierce responded. “Counsel resents the implication that a company that knows Okimbo, pays Okimbo, and equips Okimbo could actually ‘divine’ what Okimbo might do. Okimbo needed bullets; now he needs ‘evidence.’ It’s reasonable to ask that PGL not respond when those needs overstep the truth.” Pierce inhaled, and his voice became
quietly urgent. “Very soon the Karama regime may execute Bobby Okari. This court may not be able to stop that, but it is reasonable to try. What we ask of PetroGlobal is nothing more than law and decency requires.”
Taylor considered him with a look of gravity and doubt. “I know that time is of the essence,” she told Pierce, “and that your client needs a ruling. The court will reconvene at eleven-thirty, and you will have it.”
F
OR OVER AN
hour, Pierce and Rachel Rahv sat across the courtroom from Hamilton and Vasquez. Neither side spoke to the other—the waiting was too tense, feelings too raw. “I wonder if we’ll get there,” Rachel murmured. “Luandia, I mean.”
Pierce could feel her misgivings. Once or twice he caught himself hoping that he would lose; unlike Rachel, he had seen Luandia. Then he imagined Marissa waiting for news, and despised himself for his own fears.
Now and again he looked at Hamilton. Though his opponent was expressionless, Pierce sensed that Hamilton, like himself, had no idea what Taylor would do. The buzz from the spectators was jittery and muted.
At eleven-thirty, Taylor reappeared. “Remain seated,” she said, her voice and manner so subdued that she seemed, for once, shaken by what she had to do.
For a moment she stared at the notes she spread before her. “I’ll address the issues one by one,” she began, “mindful that to rule for Pet-roGlobal on any one of them would terminate Mr. Okari’s lawsuit.
“To begin, PGL urges that this lawsuit should be filed in Luandia. We note that Mr. Okari charges the government with rape, torture, mass murder, and establishing a tribunal that clearly violates international laws. It seems contradictory to compel Mr. Okari to seek redress from a regime for practices that may violate our government’s stated policy of upholding human rights.” She briefly glanced at Sizemore. “If the State Department felt otherwise, it could have said so.”
This much Pierce had expected; the rest worried him far more. “PGL,” Taylor read, “next argues that the wrongs alleged in the complaint are acts of state, and therefore not subject to review in the United States.” Looking up, Taylor spoke to Hamilton. “Unlike PGL, we will take Luandia at its word that murder, rape, and torture are not official policy. Oh, yes, and beheadings.”
As Hamilton frowned, Pierce saw Rachel’s mouth twitch briefly. “PGL next argues that the Alien Tort Statute does not allow Bobby Okari to sue for its alleged participation in such crimes. But PetroGlobal’s reading of the law would emasculate the law.”
The cadence of Taylor’s voice, swifter now, conveyed the sense of an inexorable force. “PetroGlobal contends further that the specific allegations of the complaint, even if true, are insufficient to establish its complicity. We find this a close question. We agree that payments to the army and the use of PGL equipment do not themselves make PGL liable for the alleged massacre at Goro. But given that so many of the facts are known only to PGL, this court will allow Mr. Okari access to those facts.”
“We’re going to win,” Rachel whispered. But Pierce could not relax. On the bench, Taylor paused, surveying the crowded courtroom. “Finally, PGL claims that the facts alleged are insufficient to justify issuance of a temporary restraining order. We agree. As to its further contention—that the court lacks any basis for enjoining its alleged wrongful complicity in a tribunal that violates due process—we need not rule today.” She looked from Hamilton to Pierce. “The day before the scheduled commencement of Okari’s trial, this court will hold a hearing to address that very question.”
Pierce felt the tension seeping from his body. “Now the rest,” Taylor told the lawyers crisply. “There’s not much time here. You’ll be proceeding in a foreign country with no tradition of discovery and different cultural understandings of truth where fear may well be a factor. This court has no power to compel the cooperation of Luandian citizens not employed by PetroGlobal. All the parties can do is ask Luandians to volunteer for depositions. As to that,” she added tersely, “good luck.”
Taylor now addressed Hamilton. “A final word for PetroGlobal. As you say, Luandia is where the proof is. That’s why I’m ordering discovery to proceed there, through PGL’s offices in Waro. I expect you to make your witnesses and documents available to Mr. Pierce on an expedited basis. But if the government of Luandia keeps him from returning, it becomes your obligation to provide them here.” She smiled faintly. “Expensive fun, I know. So I hope that you and Mr. Sizemore use whatever influence you have with the Luandian government to see that Mr. Pierce is able to go back.”
Pierce felt the prospect of returning to Luandia seep into his consciousness. “A final word,” Taylor told the lawyers. “It seems we’re in a
race with a very special branch of the Luandian justice system. This is
not
a race an American court is well equipped to win. Do your best to help us.
“Thank you.”
“All rise,”
the courtroom deputy called out, and a cacophony of sound filled the courtroom. Only Pierce remained still.
A
LONE IN HIS
office, Pierce called Marissa. “We’re still alive—” he began.
To his surprise, she laughed. “That’s a funny way of putting it,” she answered, and then relief suffused her voice. “I can’t believe you’re coming back.”
“Neither can I,” Pierce answered. “But I worried that you’d miss me.”
He meant it as a light remark. But now Marissa did not laugh. “I have, Damon. You’ve no idea how much.”
O
N THE LONG FLIGHT TO
P
ORT
G
EORGE
, P
IERCE DREAMED.
It was Christmas, and he was with his parents in their three-decker in Dorchester. In the dream, Pierce still believed in God; the crucifix on the wall did not seem alien to him. And yet he was the same age as his parents, successful beyond their imaginings. Sean Pierce wore his Christmas sweater; he gave his crinkly smile as Pierce’s mother handed Damon a brightly wrapped gift box. “Open this when it’s time,” she told him, “and then you’ll find her. Everything will change.”
Pierce jolted himself awake. Fragments of the dream were indeed a gift; his parents’ faces were vivid, and he still had time to say, in spite of all their differences, how much their love had meant to him, how much he loved them in return. The rest was obscure. In life, his mother was not given to mystical pronouncements: the concrete world of his parents had been bounded by the known, and Pierce could test its limits without fear. Now he was returning to Luandia.
He shut his eyes again and imagined Marissa’s face.
A
S PIERCE CLEARED
customs, the official looked up from his passport, staring wordlessly into his eyes. Then he passed Pierce through, and two Luandians on the other side began walking a few feet behind him.
Waiting in the crowded airport, Atiku Bara extended his hand, glancing over Pierce’s shoulder. “I know,” Pierce said. “Let’s go.”
They were silent until they reached Bara’s car. Inserting his key into the ignition, Bara smiled a little. “You’re back after all.”
“You’re surprised?”
The smile vanished. “Perhaps it’s me. Every night I imagine leaving.”
Bara steered into the traffic. Almost three weeks ago they had first taken this road to Port George. Since then Pierce had seen things he had never imagined; though he could not yet define how, he felt changed. “How is Bobby holding up?”
“No one knows; Okimbo is keeping him incommunicado.” Bara’s voice softened. “It seems you made him angry.”
Pierce felt the vise of fear tightening again. He had spent much of the flight cultivating fatalism; fear, he had told himself, was better than self-contempt. Now he was here. “I’ll go to the prison tomorrow,” he told Bara.
I
T WAS DUSK
when they reached the Okaris’ compound. As before, two agents of the state security services watched from across the street.
Marissa waited on the patio. Seeing Damon, she ran to him, heedless of Bara’s presence. She held him so tightly that for a moment he thought of his sister’s red-haired child, Bridget, jumping into his arms after awakening from a nightmare. But when Marissa leaned back to look at him, her eyes held a craving for hope so deep that it cut through him like a knife. Though he had seen Goro, he could not imagine Marissa’s dreams.
She managed to smile. “Twelve days,” she told him. “Forever.”
Pierce felt Bara watching them. Releasing Marissa, Pierce turned to him. “And fourteen days until Bobby’s trial. Let’s get started.”
They sat around the table. “We’ve got two different cases,” Pierce began. “Bobby’s suit against PGL, and his defense in Karama’s show trial. One feeds the other: even if the tribunal won’t admit evidence from the civil suit, we can use it to embarrass PGL—perhaps so badly that it will try to salvage Bobby.
“For that we’ll need witnesses and documents showing that PGL knew Okimbo was a murderer in uniform; that managers were involved in planning the attack on Goro; and maybe that its employees piloted the boats and helicopters used in the attack.” He looked from Bara to Marissa. “There’s also the matter of proving that there
was
a massacre. You’re Bobby’s wife; some confirmation would help.”
“From whom?” Bara demanded.
“Soldiers involved in the attack. Survivors hiding in the forest. Personnel from PGL—if there
are
any—who witnessed the massacre.”
“And are eager to tell the truth?” Skepticism bled from Bara’s voice. “More likely, I suppose, than that soldiers would speak against Okimbo
and
themselves, or that those who fled the soldiers would put their lives at risk. But how much chance is there that the tribunal would hear such witnesses? None. They will say that what happened in Goro is irrelevant—that it came
after
the lynchings Bobby’s charged with.”
“Not before I make an offer of proof—brutally specific—and force them to try to cover up the massacre. There’s no way they can hold Bobby’s trial in secret now.”
Bara shook his head. Quietly, Marissa said, “Tell Damon what you’ve learned.”
Bara looked somber. “I have a relationship with the prosecutor, Patric Ngara. He tells me that two Asari youths claim to have heard Bobby order the lynchings.”
Though he should not have been surprised, Pierce felt dismay. The stories could be fabricated; they could also be true. “Do we have names?” he asked.
“Not yet.” Bara glanced at Marissa. “No doubt they were threatened, or bribed.”
Pierce heard a sliver of doubt, perhaps undetectable to Marissa. “Can you try to find out?”
Bara shrugged. “In theory. But who admits to lying in a country where to tell the truth is death?”
The remark, Pierce realized, could also apply to Bobby Okari. For a time he looked at the moonlit water; the glow of flaring gas; the lights of the oil freighters awaiting their loads, stolen or not.
“Someone
ordered those men killed.”
“Okimbo,” Marissa said. “Or FREE. Or Asari acting on their own. Whoever did it wanted to frame Bobby. Now they need to conceal who they are.”
Pierce nodded. “True. But in order to convict Bobby, the prosecution needs these supposed witnesses. If we can find out who told them to lie, then we know who ordered the lynchings.”
Bara shrugged again, as though to acknowledge the conundrum. “The immediate problem,” Pierce told him, “is who does what.
“I’m keeping my four associates in Waro—hopefully, they’ll be safe at the hotel and at PGL’s headquarters. The only member of my team I’ll put at risk in the delta is me. I’ll help you look for witnesses.”
Marissa shook her head. “State security will follow you wherever you go. White men are easy to spot.”
“So is Atiku, and so are you. We’ll have to do what we can.” Facing Bara, Pierce said, “You must still have a network of people who tell you things.”
“Only a few. But more people than I trust.”
Pierce saw Marissa look away. Whether in distrust or despair, he could not guess. “Even lies,” he answered, “may tell us something.”
Bara studied the table. “We’ll start in the morning,” Pierce suggested. “Your family will be glad to see you.”
“Yes,” Bara answered softly. “Assuming they’re still at home.”
Once again Pierce reflected that Bara, like Marissa, was a hostage—at least until the moment of betrayal. Pierce hoped the moment would never come.
“S
O
,” M
ARISSA INQUIRED
in the darkness. “Do
you
trust Atiku?”
They sat at the table, their faces half visible to each other, the remains of dinner between them. Briefly Pierce thought of other dinners, long ago, where their talk was of stories, and the quickening urgency he had felt to keep her from going to Luandia. Then the future was unknown, and much was possible; now they were here. “I have to,” Pierce answered.
Reaching across the table, she touched his hand, gazing intently into his face. “I say things like that to myself, all the time. It makes me sad to hear
you
say them. Because I know why you came back.”
Pierce stared at her hand on his. “For you, of course. For Bobby, too. But also for myself.”
“How so?”
“I’m a romantic—you told me years ago. Cowardice is not romantic. Causes are.” He looked up at her again. “I’m more than a little serious. It’s true I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t asked. But you asked because I’d prosecuted war crimes. My need to do that wasn’t about anyone but me.