“Long ago, by speaking for my people, I signed a pact with death. I knew full well the fate of those who protest in Luandia. You are merely Karama’s pawns, interchangeable cogs in the machinery of death.”
The courtroom was hushed. Watching Okimbo, Pierce waited for him to halt the proceedings, or for Orta to do so out of fear. Bobby’s speech gathered a relentless force. “I’ve committed no crime but to rally the oppressed to seek an end to misery. The punishment was the slaughter of my people.” His voice filled with searing anger. “The men who are your overlords have fouled our land; poisoned our water; ravaged our daughters; killed our men, women, and children and driven their survivors into hiding. And now the ‘judicial system’ for which you are the front men has beaten, starved, and tortured me; stripped my wife naked for trying to see me; intimidated and bribed fearful men to bear false witness against me; and trampled every right due any man in its indecent haste to kill me.”
On the bench, Orta reached for his gavel, staring at Bobby. “Even now,” Bobby asked him, “are you still afraid of truth? If you find me guilty, as Karama has ordered you to, the world will see your cravenness
and shame. And if you sentence me to death, you are as guilty of murder as whoever hung those men.”
Okimbo stepped into the well of the courtroom, nodding peremptorily to Orta. But the judge still held the gavel. “I stand before you,” Bobby continued, “appalled by our poverty; distressed by our political subjugation; angered by the devastation of our land; sorrowing for the loss of our heritage; compelled to uphold our right to a decent way of life; and determined to help give our country a government that protects us all. So I am not the only man on trial.”
When Pierce glanced at Marissa, her eyes were shining with pride and anguish. “All of us,” Bobby said firmly, “stand trial before history. The government and PGL are on trial. So are the politicians, soldiers, businessmen, lawyers, and judges—too greedy to act, too afraid to speak the truth—who abet the cruelty and corruption of the state. And so are all the nations of the world who take our oil to fuel their cars and factories and arms and lust for power, leaving us with nothing but men like you.”
Angrily, Orta cracked his gavel,
“Silence.”
Bobby shook his head. “We are almost done here, you and I. For you and for your colleagues, this is the last chance to expunge your own guilt. For your sake, and that of our people, I ask that you take it.”
Wearily, Bobby sat down. Breaking the silence, someone applauded. Furious, Orta banged his gavel.
This time the silence was complete. Filled with dread, Pierce watched the judges talk among themselves. When Orta faced the courtroom, he did not look toward Bobby, and his voice was devoid of feeling. “We find the defendant Robert Okari guilty of murder and sedition. The sentence for these crimes is death by hanging.”
Pierce heard a gasp. Glancing up, he saw Okimbo smile; his foot tapped, as though keeping time to music only he could hear. Fighting his outrage, Pierce stood. “We ask for time to petition the government. What is the scheduled date of execution?”
Humiliation passed through Orta’s eyes. “By decree of the executive, the court has no discretion in this matter. We await instructions from President Karama.”
Orta banged the gavel. The tribunal stood at once and retreated from the courtroom.
On Okimbo’s order, four soldiers came for Bobby. Stoically, he
quickly embraced Bara, then Pierce. As the soldiers encircled Bobby, he turned to see Marissa.
She stood there, motionless, until Bobby disappeared. Pierce knew he would always remember the desperation in her eyes, the look of a wife who might never again see her husband.
I
N TAUT SILENCE
, V
ORSTER AND
C
LELLAN DROVE
P
IERCE
, A
TIKU
B
ARA,
and Marissa away from the courthouse. Marissa stared ahead, ignoring the barricades and soldiers. But when they reached the compound, armed soldiers under Okimbo’s command were stationed at the iron gate.
Lowering the window, Clellan waited. A lieutenant in combat fatigues approached. Peering in at Marissa, he said, “Mrs. Okari is under house arrest. Once inside, she stays there.”
Pierce got out, facing the lieutenant. “On whose orders?”
The man shook his head. “Don’t question us,” he said curtly. “Unless you want to join her.”
He barked a command to a soldier inside the gate, and the iron bars slowly parted. As Bara and Marissa got out, Pierce leaned inside the van. “Wait here,” he told Vorster. “I’ll call you.”
Vorster nodded; there was nothing else to do. “Let’s go inside,” Pierce told Marissa.
Her look was both fearful and questioning. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Together, Marissa and the two lawyers walked through the gate, and then it closed behind them.
O
NCE INSIDE
, P
IERCE
asked Marissa for a moment with Bara. The two men went to the patio. The noontime heat was sweltering; beads of sweat appeared on Bara’s forehead. “You could be next,” Pierce told him.
“And you?”
“I’m an American. My chances are better than yours. God knows what will happen in the delta now.”
Bara put his hands in his pockets. “The only alternative to Karama will be FREE. Perhaps that’s why those murders happened.” His gaze met Pierce’s. “It took such courage for Bobby to speak today. Once he said such things because he believed that, in the end, words of hope would triumph over weapons. Now hope will die with him.” Tears surfaced in Bara’s eyes. “I must try to remember Asari Day—men and women, young and old, all demanding justice. Then others may remember, too.”
His tone was valedictory, as though Bobby were already a memory. “He’s not dead yet,” Pierce said. “There’s a meeting of the Commonwealth nations, in Australia. If you can leave, go there, and talk to any leader you can find about speaking out on Bobby’s behalf. If enough of them do, maybe we can save him.”
Bara looked down. Neither man said what both believed: that the purpose of this mission would be to save not Bobby Okari but Atiku Bara. “And Marissa?” Bara asked.
“I’ll take care of her.”
Slowly, Bara nodded. “There’s something else you can do,” he told Pierce. “Among the Asari, it is tradition that we are buried in our home village. Otherwise the dead man’s soul can never sleep. If they murder Bobby, try to see that he’s laid to rest in Goro.” His voice softened. “This should have been my duty, Damon.”
“You have a family in London.” Facing Bara, Pierce felt a renewed fear for him. “Vorster’s waiting outside. Say good-bye to Marissa and go.”
Awkwardly, the two men embraced. “Do me a favor in return,” Pierce told Bara. “If they murder Bobby, don’t come back. Leave this last to me.”
W
HEN
B
ARA HAD
gone, Pierce went to Marissa’s bedroom.
She sat in the window, gazing out at the Atlantic. “How are you?” he asked.
After a moment, she turned to him. “I was thinking about the three of us, back in Berkeley.”
“What, exactly?”
“A thousand things.” She hesitated. “I found myself imagining that I’d chosen not to come here. Then I felt ashamed.”
“Human, you mean?”
“I guess. In my more selfless moments, I imagine you’d never met me. Or maybe that’s just self-pity.”
Pierce waited a moment. “I have to leave, Marissa.”
Her eyes glistened. “I know.”
Watching her face, Pierce realized that, dislocated by all that had happened, she thought he was returning to America. “Not home,” he said. “I’m flying to Savior City before those soldiers shut me in here.”
“For what?”
“To see Caraway, and maybe Gladstone—he’s got a meeting with Karama.” Pausing, he searched for words of hope. “That today was so awful helps us in the eyes of the world, I think. Whatever else, it should be the end of delusions.”
“The end of mine.” Marissa bowed her head. “I find myself waiting for the telephone to ring, Okimbo inviting me to collect my husband’s body from him. I can’t stop seeing Bobby hanging from those gallows. I wonder if it’s better knowing the hour that he’s scheduled to die, or to die with him hour by hour.”
Pierce did not know what to say. By leaving, he could lose himself in action; Marissa was forced to wait alone, dreading what would happen to Bobby, and herself. At length, Pierce said, “I’ll do whatever I can for him. Then I’m coming back for you.”
“Only if it’s safe.” Looking up at him, she tried to smile. “Don’t become a burden to me. It’s enough to worry about the other man I love.”
Looking into her face, Pierce understood, as much as he could, how she must have felt watching her husband taken from the courtroom. “When I said I was coming back,” he told her, “I was promising myself.”
“Then I won’t say good-bye,” she answered softly. “We’ve done that too often already.”
T
HAT EVENING
P
IERCE
boarded a plane for Savior City.
The soldiers had let him leave without incident; the question was whether he could return. Flying with Vorster, he found his thoughts oscillating between Bobby and Marissa—fearing that Bobby might be dead by the time he arrived; imagining what might happen to Marissa. To leave her effectively in Okimbo’s custody filled him with foreboding. As the
plane taxied to the gate, he found a message on his cell phone and was certain it meant the worst for both Okaris.
But the message was from Gladstone. “I saw Karama,” he said simply.
T
HEY MET IN
the dimly lit restaurant of a luxury hotel. Though his attire remained elegant, Gladstone looked as though he had not slept, and his voice and manner were subdued. “It was after midnight,” he said, “in Karama’s backyard zoo. As we spoke, he threw scraps of meat to a pair of tigers. Karama called Okari a secessionist. His fate was not a question of commerce, Karama said, nor could he take into account our fears of an American court.
“It was like talking to a monomaniac—no give at all. I tried to resurrect his previous hint that, were we quiescent, he might content himself with exiling Okari. He answered that this was before you and this American she-judge conspired to embarrass him.” Gladstone sipped his mineral water. “I took that as a suggestion for us to be silent. So do my superiors.”
“Then it seems they’ve got a choice,” Pierce answered. “Please Karama and fuel my lawsuit, or do the morally decent thing.”
“Which is?”
“Speak out against Bobby’s execution, here and in America. Not just for show—PetroGlobal has friends at the White House and in Congress.” Pierce’s voice hardened. “By tomorrow Okari may be dead. All I can do then is amend my lawsuit to include his execution, with the widow Okari as plaintiff. The result for PetroGlobal will be worse than you imagine. I don’t think its officers will enjoy answering for Okari’s murder.”
Gladstone shot him a resentful look. “
I
don’t enjoy answering for Roos Van Daan. You can be sure that our chairman and our board are acutely aware of the problem you’ve created. They’re less persuaded of Okari’s innocence; oddly enough, the hanging of our employees troubles them as much as the prospect of Okari’s.” Gladstone’s tone became sardonic. “Sentiment aside, our board isn’t interested in trying to save Bobby if all they get is more of you. They want this lawsuit gone.”
“And I want both Okaris alive. Did Karama say anything about
her
?”
“No. Not even to suggest that she’s the bone he’ll throw us in return for silence.”
Pierce absorbed this. “I’m not the client. But tell your people this:
if
they help get both Okaris get out alive, I’ll find some way to end this lawsuit.”
Gladstone stared at him. “That’s all?” he inquired tartly.
“Not quite. I want a meeting with Karama. I know you can accomplish
that
much, Michael. So please don’t tell me no.”
Gladstone’s expression filled with misgiving. “The man’s a psychopath,” he said flatly. “If I succeed, bring something to feed the tigers besides yourself.”
His cell phone rang. Taking it from his suit coat, Gladstone glanced at the number, then pushed the talk button. “What is it?” he asked brusquely.
Gladstone listened. After a moment, his eyes froze. Before hanging up, he said softly, “Thank you.”
“Is Okari dead?” Pierce asked at once.
“No. But you’d better get to Caraway as quickly as you can.”
“What is it?”
“Six American military advisers have been kidnapped in the north, allegedly by Islamic terrorists.” Gladstone shook his head in dismay. “I’m no geopolitical strategist, but I’d say this changes everything.”
I
T WAS NINE P.M. BEFORE
P
IERCE REACHED
C
ARAWAY, NINE-THIRTY WHEN
Pierce and Vorster headed for the embassy. Vorster had again concealed a gun beneath the seat of his SUV. But the broad streets of Savior City were light in traffic and largely free of crime; unlike Waro, this artificial city existed to glorify Karama, and the dictator’s presence fed an oppressive fear of displeasing him. As they neared the embassy, the distant lights of Karama’s redoubt glowed against the dark shadow of Savior Rock. “He’ll be up all night,” Vorster said. “Even without a crisis, Karama’s like Dracula.”
Pierce’s cell phone rang. When he hit the talk button, he recognized Jeff Schlosser’s voice, its rhythm more rapid than normal. “What the hell’s happening over there? Those soldiers are all over the news.”
“I just heard,” Pierce said. “All I know is this can’t be good for Bobby.”
“That was my reaction,” Schlosser said. “Actually, I need to know what you did to stir up Henry Karlin.”
“Nothing that points to you,” Pierce assured him. “We sent Karlin a subpoena, then wrote to the chairman of your agency asking that it investigate Karlin’s trades. So what’s he done?”
“Gone ballistic. The chairman came to my office personally, wanting to know what we had on Karlin. When I reviewed the trades with him, he said it was a bullshit case. Then he told me to shut this down before we damage Karlin’s reputation based on unprovable speculation from Luandia.” Schlosser’s voice was etched with cynicism. “I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that our chairman was the finance director for the president’s last campaign, and that Karlin was a major fund-raiser. Money’s
only supposed to buy access, not an entire federal agency. You’d think this was Luandia.”