“But what do
you
think?”
Hill cradled the tumbler in his lap. “That Okari is the only person who proposed, by his actions, to transcend the savagery of the delta. Personally, I thought him gifted with intelligence, charisma, and a
very
considerable ego.” Hill gave a rueful smile. “Only a man with an elevated self-concept could truly imagine healing this place. So I took him for a more or less honorable man.
“Of course, who knows about anyone, really? There’s only one thing I’m sure of: that Okari, like Gladstone, is caught up in forces beyond his control.”
Warmed by whiskey, Pierce chose to reveal some of his own uncertainty. “Gladstone puzzles me,” he conceded. “I can’t figure out whether he’s a decent man or merely a polished businessman.”
“You look for polarities,” Hill said in mild rebuke. “As though he were a character from a book for boys. By now not even Michael knows what he is for sure.
“I’m sure you plan to question his American superior, John Colson, the chairman of PetroGlobal. I assure you that Colson would much prefer to make money in Luandia by doing the right things. The man beneath Gladstone—me—is too mired in the swamp to believe that possible. So Michael passes on our chairman’s well-intended policies, fearful that they may become a ‘Chinese whisper’: when you tell Karama or Okimbo that your people ‘need protection,’ it’s like Henry the Second in
Becket
asking, ‘Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?’”
“Henry knew,” Pierce retorted. “So does Gladstone. As for the chairman of PetroGlobal, I’ve represented far too many executives to think he’s so naive.”
Hill pondered his tumbler of whiskey. “To PetroGlobal,” he said at length, “PGL’s become a mutation that frightens its parent. PetroGlobal can’t control it, can’t fix it, and can’t get rid of it. So its executives don’t
want to know the truth—that part of PGL’s genetic makeup comes from men like Okimbo and Van Daan. It seems you mean to show them.”
“I mean to save Bobby Okari,” Pierce answered. “How did Van Daan come to work for you?”
Hill paused, as though facing a decision. “It’s as I told Ms. Rahv,” he answered. “Okimbo said he wanted to work with him—as though I’d consider a reference from someone I sensed might be a murderous psychopath. When I told Gladstone not to hire Van Daan, Michael replied that Ugwo Ajukwa was pressing him to do so.”
“What was
your
problem with Van Daan?”
“Other than that Okimbo knew him? Most Afrikaners I know are good people; they’ve accepted that apartheid had to go. But Van Daan’s among the worst, involved in half the dirty wars in Africa—as if there’s any other kind. A whiff of racism and brutality follows him into the room.”
“Did you say that to Gladstone?”
Hill gazed pensively at nothing. Pierce sensed his divided loyalties: on one side was his loathing for what had happened; on the other, a life of loyalty to PGL. “What I told Michael,” he said at length, “was that I didn’t think we could control him. It wasn’t only that Van Daan was Ajukwa and Okimbo’s man, and therefore that I questioned his allegiance. I didn’t believe we could predict his methods—by temperament and background, he wasn’t likely to internalize corporate memos on ‘human rights and community relations.’ But Ajukwa insisted, and Gladstone acquiesced.”
This last was said in a tone of fatalism, as though it were a turning point. After a moment, Pierce asked, “When did you come to believe that Okimbo had carried out a massacre at Lana?”
Hill no longer looked at him. “There was an oil spill in Lana. Most likely the villagers had sabotaged a pipeline, hoping to get a ‘cleanup contract’ from PGL. I told Okimbo I didn’t want to pay them, that extortion was part of the sickness—impoverished villagers destroying their own environment for money. His response was that I should pay
him
and he would make these saboteurs see reason.
“I refused. Though I doubted it, the leak might have been an accident; too many of our pipes are old. So I decided to visit Lana and see for myself.” Hill turned to Pierce, regret etched in his weathered face. “Before
I could travel there, reports came back that the village had been destroyed, with many dead. Okimbo told me that another ethnic group, the Ondani, had attacked Lana in a squabble over the proceeds of the anticipated ‘cleanup contract.’ Just as well, he said; Lana would be no more trouble.”
“Did you accept that?”
“No. I thought it was a transparent cover story, not meant to be believed. But I had no way to disprove it. Weeks later, rumors filtered back to me through Okari’s people that the attackers had been dressed as civilians but acted like soldiers. In this account, a survivor claimed to have seen a big man with an eye patch directing the attack.” Hill’s tone was weary. “If so, my complaint to Okimbo had become my own Chinese whisper; when I failed to give Okimbo carte blanche, he used Lana to demonstrate how effective his methods could be. The next time, his tacit message went, PGL should pay him to make our problems disappear. It was my failure to pay for Lana, I believe, that led to Van Daan’s ascent.”
“But when you told Gladstone about these rumors, he assigned Van Daan to investigate.”
“Yes. You know the result: Van Daan reported that it was Asari propaganda.” Hill’s voice mingled despair and disgust. “’Those people kill each other,’ Van Daan told me, ‘whenever they get bored.’ In Van Daan’s account, Okari was exploiting ethnic violence to advance his cause through lies.”
Hill poured himself another measure of Irish whiskey and, without asking, one for Pierce. Pierce sipped his for a time, then broke the silence by asking softly, “When those workers were hung, who did you think did it?”
“Possibly the Asari. Possibly not.” Hill sat back, his lids heavy. He started to bring the tumbler to his mouth, then stopped. “It occurred to me,” he said baldly, “that anyone who could decimate Lana, then blame it on someone else, could do the same thing by killing three of our workers. To pin their deaths on Okari would give Okimbo the equivalent of a hunting license.”
Pierce leaned forward. “Did you say that to Gladstone?”
Hill slowly shook his head. “Not in those words. By then my position was tenuous. Ajukwa was agitating to have me fired—inspired by Van Daan, I think. But Gladstone wanted to save my job. His compromise was
to give Van Daan his own budget, cutting me out of the loop on ‘security matters’ relating to the Asari. Making such an accusation would be fatal, I told myself—I could do no good as an ex-employee.” He paused, still staring straight ahead. “So I made my own compromise and wrote the now famous ‘rubber bullet’ memo. My reward for this act of courage was to be confined to quarters with the other employees—for my own protection, Van Daan insisted. My castration was complete.”
Though stated without self-pity, the quiet words exposed Hill’s internal wreckage more nakedly than a show of feeling. “And Goro followed,” Pierce said.
In profile, Hill nodded. “In the literal sense, I still don’t know what happened. But essentially, I do. Okimbo and Van Daan planned the massacre your clients saw.”
“And Gladstone?”
“Didn’t know. Now, like me, he grasps too late the price of his Faustian bargain. Like mine, his job was to protect PGL for the benefit of all those who want us in Luandia. So he turned to the men others had forced on him.” Hill faced Pierce at last. “If there was a conspiracy against Okari, Gladstone wasn’t part of it. The conspiracy is between Okimbo, Van Daan, and whoever else they work for—or with. Take your pick.”
Pierce leaned forward. “What do you know about the trial?”
“That you’re making it appear that Van Daan is helping pay for evidence. It seems Michael’s quite upset.” His gaze broke. “I’m on the sidelines now. As you see, I’ve turned to drink—Michael thinks I’ve lost my grip, like a soldier in Iraq suffering from combat fatigue. Soon PetroGlobal will rotate me out of Luandia. If they knew you were here, they’d wish Michael had acted sooner.”
“Is
that
all they’d wish for?” Pierce said with real anger. “What about PGL’s obligation to stop this legal charade it’s part of?”
Hill gave him a mirthless smile. “Because they think it
is
a charade. If PGL sits tight, Karama has intimated to Gladstone, Okari will be convicted and expelled. A tidy solution for all.”
“What do
you
believe?”
Hill seemed to reach within himself. “That this is Karama’s heartless joke. He means to execute Okari and then, if required, blackmail PGL with Van Daan’s complicity. That perhaps you can spoil that last touch a bit.”
In this statement, Pierce heard a latent meaning. “Beyond what I’ve already done?”
Hill sat back with his whiskey. Though Pierce sensed his tremor of doubt, the severing of a last tie, Hill spoke in a discursive manner. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act—America’s effort to keep its corporate citizens from bribing the officials of host countries. In the life of PetroGlobal Luandia, that requires me to keep scrupulous records of payments to people like Okimbo, as well as the purchase of AK-47s, bullets, grenades, and tear gas. All the weapons used to subdue the fearsome villagers of Goro.”
“Yes. We’ve seen the records.”
“All of them?” Hill inquired mildly. “Even those maintained by Van Daan after he got his own budget?”
Pierce felt the dullness of the whiskey evaporate. “That’s what we were told.”
“So were PGL’s lawyers. What’s eluded them, I find, is that Van Daan kept his own private files.” Hill waited for Pierce to absorb this. “After those men were hung and I was confined here for my own protection, I resolved to satisfy my increasingly intense curiosity. So I visited Van Daan’s office in his absence. It was there I made my first discovery.”
“Which was?”
“That Van Daan keeps his own set of books and records—double bookkeeping, you might say, separate from PGL’s.” Rising slowly, Hill walked to the other side of the bar, reaching down as though for a fresh bottle of whiskey. What he held up instead was a manila folder. “I want you to forget where these came from, at least for a time. PGL needs to be freed from Okimbo and Van Daan. But not everyone will share my definition of loyalty, especially given what I found on my last nocturnal visit to Van Daan’s office. After I heard about Goro.”
Every fiber of Pierce’s being was now alert. “What, precisely?”
Walking to Pierce, less steadily now, Hill handed him the folder. “I don’t think I need explain. Once you’ve returned to the Okaris’, read what’s inside. From what I hear about the trial, you’ll know what to do.”
R
ECOMMENCING THE TRIAL
, J
UDGE
O
RTA FIXED
P
IERCE WITH A GELID
stare. “Does the defense have any witnesses?”
His tone was as uninviting as his expression. Standing, Pierce gathered himself, fighting back fear and the dull ache of a hangover, the residue of his evening with Trevor Hill. “I call Colonel Paul Okimbo.”
Orta blinked. “For what reason?”
Pierce placed his palms on the defense table. “Colonel Okimbo found the victims, ‘arrested’ the defendant, and investigated the crime at issue. Without him, there would be no prosecution.”
This terse summation caused Orta to glance at Okimbo, as though for cues. But Okimbo’s eye was fixed on Pierce; sadists, Pierce thought, fear what they cannot dominate. “If the colonel declines to testify,” he told the judge, “then I renew our motion to dismiss all charges.”
In answer, Okimbo stood, walking to the witness stand with the catlike movements of a predator. In a hollow show of dignity, Orta said, “Colonel Okimbo may testify.”
Pierce approached the stand with his gaze trained on Okimbo. Images flashed through his head: Okimbo raping Omo, torturing Bobby, degrading Marissa. Pierce had never hated another man this much. Quietly, he asked, “How did you first meet Roos Van Daan?”
Okimbo looked contemptuous, like someone forced to swat a fly. “I don’t remember.”
“Did you meet him through Ugwo Ajukwa, national security adviser to General Karama?”
For an instant, Okimbo hesitated. His voice became indifferent. “Perhaps.”
“Did Ajukwa tell you he was recommending Van Daan to be PGL’s chief of security in the delta?”
“He may have.”
“’May have’? Didn’t you recommend Van Daan to Trevor Hill?”
Pierce caught the first glint of uncertainty. “I may have.”
“On what basis? Did you know Van Daan before Ajukwa mentioned him?”
Hemmed in, Okimbo answered dismissively, “It must have been Ajukwa.”
“Prior to Asari Day, did you discuss with Mr. Ajukwa whether PGL should fire Mr. Hill?”
Free of any need to impress the tribunal with his candor, Okimbo weighed his answer. “I might have.”
“’Might have’?” Pierce repeated. “’May have’? ‘Must have’? I’m not asking about someone else; I’m asking about you. Did you discuss with Ajukwa asking PGL to fire Hill?”
Sudden fury surfaced in Okimbo’s eye. “Yes.”
Pierce had found his opening; Okimbo could not stand derision. “In short, you and Ajukwa installed Van Daan at PGL, then moved to sideline Mr. Hill.”
“Yes, and good riddance. Hill was weak.”
Pierce paused, as though struck by a new thought. “Do you know a militia leader who calls himself General Freedom?”
Okimbo looked wary. “Yes. He was a prisoner in the barracks at Port George.”
“Why isn’t he still there?”
“He escaped.”
“The barracks seem impregnable. Did FREE liberate him?”
“No.”
Pierce cocked his head. “Then how did he get out?”
“I don’t know.”
“Really?” Pierce asked incredulously. “And Karama didn’t fire you for that?”
Okimbo watched him. “No.”
Pierce saw that Orta looked disturbed, as though entrapped in a
dynamic that, from Okimbo’s manner, might have grave consequences for each member of the tribunal. “Tell me,” Pierce inquired, “did General Freedom escape before or after Karama made Ajukwa his security adviser?”
“This is irrelevant,” Ngara called out, “and intrudes on matters of state security.”