I arrived with three others in one of our white trucks. The only sound when we reached the carnage was the maddening buzz of the flies in the red stickiness of the butchered corpses. Bodies had been hacked open like sacks of ordure. Slain mothers still held children in their arms. There were probably no more than a few dozen victims, but it might as well have been a million considering my state of mind.
Then came the final blow. A survivor, one of only three, clambered painfully to his knees to tell us that the massacre had been the work of Mbweli’s men. The news puzzled my colleagues, but not me. The brigand must have heard that Uwase got the same deal I had refused him, and then decided to take out his frustrations on the helpless.
A colleague told me later that when it came time to leave the scene I just stood on the road with my mouth agape, one foot propped on a corpse. I was unable to utter a word or move a muscle, and the others bundled me into the truck along with the survivors. The doctors called it a combination of exhaustion, sleep deprivation, and dehydration. But it was something else, too, of course—the burden of knowing about the well-meaning deed of Mila’s that had helped set the catastrophe in motion. By week’s end I had been airlifted to the States and was back in Boston.
In an earlier time people would have called my collapse a nervous breakdown. In today’s world it was diagnosed as a severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder, and people were fool enough to feel sorry for me.
Because Mila and I weren’t yet married, it took her nearly a week to arrange a visa to be at my side. So for a while I was alone. I spent a few days in a hospital and then moved to my parents’ house. In retrospect it is appalling how unhelpful they were initially, although it shouldn’t surprise me. They had been deeply disappointed when I gave up a career in law to go gallivanting around the world, and the way they saw it I had now bungled even that modest vocation. The idea of facing not only an in-house audit but also a therapist or two was just the sort of messiness they would never be able to explain to their friends.
Fortunately, Mila’s arrival changed everything. She became my ambassador-at-large to my parents, and also to my sisters and cousins, a tireless shuttle diplomacy that eventually yielded love and, almost miraculously, a measure of respect for what I had endured. She then plugged into my old network of friends and wisely spirited me away to a pal’s vacation home in upstate New York, where I watched cows graze and leaves fall between lengthy naps and marathon viewings of cable television.
It was during this interlude that she really came into her own. Mila was my nurse, my lover, and my confessor, abidingly ready to hear every thought and doubt—except, of course, the one crucial item that I could never tell her. Having seen how shattered she had been in Sarajevo, I knew that the truth of what had happened in Tanzania might crush her beyond repair.
All the same, there were times when I was tempted to unload the burden, especially when I had to face a UN board of inquiry to explain how we had botched things so badly. I went down to Manhattan to prepare for that fiasco, thinking that I was ready, only to fall asleep in a deputy director’s office while waiting for a midday appointment. He found me snoring on a couch, and no one had the heart to wake me until the office closed at five. I went to my hotel room and slept for two days more, until the manager knocked on the door to make sure all was well.
Mila helped me through that spell, too, and when the investigators finally got down to business I might have spilled everything if not for her care and compassion. As it was, I shouldered as much blame as I could. Fortunately some of the paperwork had gone missing, and my cover story was that I had blown it by underestimating our need for supplies, and then Uwase had compounded my error by skimming some of the goods as favors for his warlord allies.
They bought it, for the most part. And at the time they never learned about the earlier irregularities with Mbweli in Rwanda, which planted the seeds for the disaster. It would be left to Black, White, and Gray to make that connection. So I survived with only a demotion.
Besides, the world at large had never come pounding on the UN’s door to demand an explanation. Everyone in Europe and the United States had grown so accustomed to grim news out of Africa that no one raised a cry, or even an eyebrow. Hardly surprising, since not a single foreign correspondent had visited our camp during that horrific week. The only filmed record of our catastrophe is the fuzzy one that is forever unspooling in my head.
It was while Mila and I were awaiting reassignment that it occurred to me that perhaps I could give her the life she wanted, after all. I, too, now wanted to wall myself up in some safer location, and what better place to do that than on an island, with an entire sea for a moat?
The ultimate irony was that we were able to afford our house on Karos thanks partly to the money that Mbweli had transferred into my account three years earlier. At the time it occurred it would have been too complicated and would have raised too many questions to simply disburse it elsewhere. My intention had always been to someday dispose of it in a charitable manner. But after Tanzania it seemed almost like justifiable compensation—with “almost” being the key word—for the price of my silence. Protection money to keep Mila’s secret safe forever.
After a few more months of filling in at various desk jobs around the UN’s warren of Manhattan offices, we both went back into the field. This time I was at a lower pay grade, which I welcomed because it meant I no longer had the burden of responsibility for deciding how much was enough.
A year after that we were married, and began planning our eventual escape. Mila knew it had taken something terrible to change my outlook, but with each passing year I was able to bury the secret that much deeper. And if Black, White, and Gray had not come along, I’m sure it would have been concealed forever.
So now you know my main mission in this assignment. Not just to give my employers the secrets they crave, but to conceal the very ones that could destroy Mila and me. That’s why, despite having flown the coop from Athens, I knew I would eventually return to the chase. Come what may, my work had to be completed, if only because the consequences of failure were unthinkable.
My lunch arrived, and I was suddenly ravenous. From my vantage point in the café I saw that the clouds had moved farther down the valley. By now I was the only customer left, and the road was still quiet. I paid my bill and left.
Halfway down the mountain, on the long, narrow downgrade to Megalopoli, I overtook the rain clouds. The downpour slanted into the windshield, and I slowed to a crawl before nearly being blown off the road by a passing dump truck, just as three small memorials beckoned from the right shoulder.
“Next time,” they seemed to say.
I pressed the accelerator to the floor and didn’t look back.
For the next two hours I fought my way through rush hour around Kalamata and stuck to the coastline. By then the sun was sinking into the hills across the Gulf of Messinia, and I was tiring. That was when I spotted a sign for a small resort along an empty stretch of roadway, and braked just in time to turn left into a broad driveway up the hillside. It was a cluster of new but simple cottages, and the only other car in sight was parked at the office. The innkeeper seemed happy for some off-season business, and we quickly settled on a cut rate of twenty-five euros, plus another euro for a beer from the office fridge. I paid in full, whereupon he announced he was heading home, meaning I would have the place to myself and could leave as early as I liked the next morning.
I parked the car well out of sight of the highway, and after dropping my bag I threw open a shuttered French door onto a stone patio with a stunning view across the bay. The only sound was the chirping of crickets.
I poured the beer into a bathroom glass and slouched into a patio chair. Just as I was entertaining the idea of perhaps holing up here for a day longer, a flicker of movement to my right told me I had company—a cat, of course. Even here there was no escaping them, and he yowled for a handout. I vowed to depart in the morning.
An hour later I, too, was hungry, so I drove toward the nearest lights on the horizon, which turned out to be a coastal village a few miles south. There was a single taverna on a spit of rocky land above the sea. The proprietor had lowered a sheet of clear plastic around the terrace to ward off the chill, but you could still see the bright lights of Kalamata lining the shore to the north.
It was a dreary place, with slow service and a blaring television mounted on the wall next to the register. An older German couple to my right barely made a peep as they ate, and the only other customers were a noisy couple, probably local, who seemed comically mismatched. She was a platinum blonde in her early twenties, wearing a dress with a low neckline. He was at least fifty, with a huge belly and a scratchy but roaring baritone—Don Corleone on steroids. He kept calling the waiter over to refill her wineglass from a large carafe.
As my meal arrived, a tough and stringy cutlet, limp fries, pale tomatoes, and an Amstel—the only warm item among them—the TV blared an ad for an old James Bond film, one of the early ones with Sean Connery. Dubbed clips showed beautiful women in casinos, and then Connery in a tux uttering his signature line, the same in any language—“Bond. James Bond”—as he slid a stack of chips across a roulette table.
I smiled, wondering if Bond had ever settled for such a leathery strip of meat while shivering in his anorak in a drafty off-season café, feeling lonely and out of sorts. No gorgeous blondes here, unless you counted the bimbo snuggled with the town blowhard. This was the real life of a spy, I supposed. Injecting cinematic drama would have required the Germans at the next table to suddenly leap to their feet and reveal themselves as confederates of Herr Doktor Krieger. They would brandish their cutlery in a martial arts pose and convey me to a waiting car.
This got me thinking about Krieger. What had passed between him and Omar? Money, apparently, but had there been something more? A blueprint of a U.S. military installation, for instance? Marching orders for some atrocity? I smiled again, this time at the absurdity of such ideas, which seemed more Bond-like than realistic. The better possibility was that the German had given Omar a few snapshots of his grandchildren.
Yet here I was, in the middle of nowhere, having gone on a one-day lam after convincing myself the stakes were too high and the players too lethal. I felt foolish, and I resolved to return to Athens first thing tomorrow. I would visit Mila, put my mind at ease, and set us back on course. Then I would take the ferry out to Karos to retrieve my things, catch my scheduled flight back to Amman, and finish the job. Because what was I really up against, after all, except an elderly German, a genial old friend from my days on the West Bank, some lowlife from Jersey, and three blandly efficient Americans who obviously had too much time and government money at their disposal. Young toughs in Bakaa could be avoided. Hotheads on motorcycles eventually drove in another direction. I would be fine.
I ordered another beer. The big Greek fellow across the room was now demanding that the channel be changed on the television. The waiter switched to a show with loud music and dancers in traditional costumes. That made the young woman giggle until the big guy told her harshly to shut up.
As I downed the second beer, my confidence continued to grow. Perhaps I was not as powerless in my current arrangement as I thought. Maybe I, too, had some reinforcements I could call on. The aid business, like the spy trade, is rich in such connections. It, too, is a vast marketplace of privileged information. It’s why their world sometimes recruited from ours, and over the years I had met a few people who had later crossed over into intelligence work. So, I asked myself, who among past friends and acquaintances might better know the ways of this secret world? Three names came to mind, all of them with experience in the Middle East. I vowed to get in touch as soon as possible. Then I called for the bill.
Outside, the night was quiet. It was so dark I had to let my eyes adjust before groping my way to the car. Halfway there a voice called out.
“You dropped these back in Athens, Freeman.”
There was a man by the Hyundai. I couldn’t see his face, but he placed something on the roof, then stepped away as I moved closer. I reached atop the car and found the passport and charge card for Robert Higgins.
“Don’t miss your flight back to Amman,” the voice said. By now he was a good twenty feet away, and I heard his footsteps disappear around the corner. I listened a few moments for a car or motorcycle, but there was nothing. Odder still, the episode barely fazed me. Maybe it was the tranquilizing effect of the beer. But I also credited my newfound resolve. In this business, I supposed, there were always people like that, popping up from nowhere, trying to put you in your place. Well, let them. To survive as an independent operative I would call on sources of my own for help and information. The more I knew, the better off I would be.
It was a good thought to sleep on, and I slept well, stirring only once when a car came prowling through the lot. There was a brief flash of headlights between the shutters, and seconds later I heard the car accelerate down the highway.
I rose early and left before the innkeeper returned. The highway was empty, but I knew better than to be deceived by appearances. Never again would I assume I was unwatched or alone. But before returning to Amman, or even Karos, I needed to see the one person I was doing all this for. It was time to visit Mila.
20
I
decided to surprise her. No sense alerting our watchers with a phone call to a monitored line.
But as I knocked on the door after an all-day drive I wondered if it was such a good idea. I didn’t know, for instance, what Mila had told Aunt Aleksandra about our present circumstances. This could be awkward.
Mila’s cousin Marica opened the door and cried out in happy surprise. I saw her across the room on the couch, wineglass in hand, seated between two men I didn’t recognize. Aunt Aleksandra was nowhere to be seen. For all I knew this was the same foursome I’d watched leaving the building for a night on the town.
It seemed to take her a second to register that it was actually me. Her mouth dropped open, then she gave a stifled yelp and broke into a huge grin.
“Freeman!”
She nearly spilled her wine bolting to her feet, and in a moment of endearing comedy she turned to and fro, looking for somewhere to put her glass. It was finally taken off her hands by one of the mystery males, who I must say looked less than thrilled to oblige. I stepped across the room and she rushed into my arms.
“My God, I can’t believe it!”
“I wanted it to be a surprise. Glad to see it worked.”
“Is it done, then? Are you finished?”
Her happiness had outrun the speed of my explanation, and it felt terrible to have to reel her back to reality.
“No. I can only stay for a while. I’m on my way to Karos to pick up some of my things.”
“Oh.”
Her embrace lost its urgency, and some of the light went out of her eyes.
“Well, come in, then. Someone get him a drink.”
For a moment she seemed a little flustered. Who knows what she’d told the rest of them about the reason for my absence. Maybe by showing up like this I had inadvertently made her look like a fool.
“Can you at least stay the night?”
“I wish. But no. I’m catching the last ferry. Have to make it back tomorrow morning for a noon flight.”
“Well, stay for a few drinks, then.”
“Here’s a glass,” Marica said. “We should toast you. Mila says you’re doing lots of difficult work. Something about a refugee charity?”
“Yes. Building a hospital.” I glanced at Mila, figuring she would signal if I was straying from her script.
“Best of luck, then. Here’s to Freeman.”
“Thank you.”
Mila then introduced me to the men on the couch, which gave me a chance for a closer look. One was Marica’s boyfriend, Luka. The other one was Petros, and he looked several years younger than Mila. He was trim and fairly handsome, with dark, curly hair and a thin gold chain around his neck. A prototypical Mediterranean man on the make, in other words. Judging from the amount of sun in his complexion, I guessed that he worked outdoors. Construction, maybe.
“They’ve all been keeping me entertained,” Mila said, gesturing at the others.
“Where’s your aunt Aleksandra?”
I immediately felt foolish for asking. The timing made it sound like I thought they needed a chaperone. Maybe I did think that.
“Out with friends,” Marica said. “My mother never misses her card night. Have you eaten?”
“No. But please don’t go to any trouble. It’s early, and I picked up a few things to eat on the ferry.”
The five of us chatted a while longer. I say “five” but Petros contributed little more than nods and assents.
Luka asked about my work, and I noticed Mila stiffen. I uttered a few vague phrases about helping Palestinians.
“Do you travel much?” he asked. “What are your duties like?”
Mila leaped in to change the subject.
“Speaking of travels, we’re going to Glyfada next week.”
Glyfada was a crowded beach resort favored by Athenians. I couldn’t help but picture Mila stretched out on the sand, her top removed for sunbathing, with this fellow Petros oiled up on the towel next to her, basting himself an even deeper shade of bronze.
“It’s just for the day,” she added, which of course made me wonder if the plan was actually to stay overnight.
“All four of you?”
Now she was blushing. Luka jumped back in.
“Well, we’re certainly not taking Marica’s mother.”
This produced some welcome laughter.
“You know, Luka,” Marica said, “maybe Freeman and Mila would like some time to themselves before he has to go.”
“That would be nice,” Mila said.
I thought so, too, given the direction the conversation had taken. We went down the hall to the room Mila shared with Marica. She gently shut the door for privacy, then sat on the end of the bed with her feet tucked beneath her. I leaned back against the headboard.
“Can you at least tell me how things are going?” she asked.
“Slower than I hoped.”
I didn’t want to get into the details of the past few days, particularly not my little scare with the motorcyclists and having my room trashed. I also didn’t want to admit to her that I had been stalking Omar through the streets of Athens.
“But I’ve got a plan of action worked out,” I added. “Maybe now I’ll get to the bottom of things quicker.”
“And how is Omar?”
“Fine, from what I can tell. They ask about you. Hanan sends her love.”
Mila nodded. The subject seemed awkward for her as well. Both of us were probably wondering if Hanan would still be sending her love once my work was done.
“So far I haven’t found out anything that Omar should be ashamed of, even by Black, White, and Gray’s standards.”
“Maybe it will end that way.”
“Let’s hope.”
“And you’re safe?”
“Sure. The usual creeps and watchers, of course. Or I guess they’re usual in this kind of work. Which reminds me.” I had been wondering how to broach this subject without alarming her, but it needed to be addressed. “Do you ever get a sense that anyone is, well, keeping an eye on you here?”
“So it’s not just my imagination, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe you could tell me.”
I couldn’t mention the car that was following them the other night without admitting I’d been spying on her as well.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that you should always assume they’re keeping an eye on you. Particularly after some of those phone calls you made. Have you noticed anything?”
“There have been a few times when I’ve wondered. A face in the street that looks familiar. Maybe a car going by. I’m probably overreacting.”
“No. Trust your instincts. Don’t let your guard down. I’ve had a few surprises myself. So stick with your cousin.”
“Even if Petros comes along?”
“I’m sorry. I must have sounded like a jealous fool.”
“Maybe that’s okay, too, in a way. But I wish you wouldn’t jump to the worst possible conclusion. You’re just going to have to trust me.”
“I know. I do know that. Who is he, though?”
She shook her head.
“A friend of Luka’s. They work together. He’s
their
age, for God’s sake. Or closer to theirs than mine. He’s just fun to have along.”
“As long as that’s all it is.”
I regretted the words the moment they were out of my mouth, but the vehemence of her response startled me all the same.
“Don’t think you can just walk in here and do this, Freeman!”
“Do what?”
“All but accuse me of something, like you expect me to apologize. Especially when you won’t even say what it is you’re really doing, or why you’re really doing it.”
“Why should I expect you to apologize? For what?” It was the Jersey boy’s words coming out in me. I knew that even as I spoke them but still couldn’t help myself.
“Oh, stop. Not now. Not when you’re the one who’s holding out.”
“We’ve covered this ground before, Mila. There are good reasons I can’t tell you more.”
“But you won’t even tell me the reasons. Look, if you’re doing this because you think that, for whatever reason—legal action, publicity, extortion, you name it—those men and whoever they work for could force you to relive all those terrible experiences in Africa again, then okay, I understand. I really do. But you don’t need to feel that way, because no matter what happened I would be with you, just like before. I can help you get through all of it again, however they choose to bring it back. I really can.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“But it
can
be.”
I shook my head. I could go no further without entering dangerous territory, so I backed away from the edge and sighed deeply. There was no tenable way to keep her from thinking I had sunk into this predicament due to my own weakness, so I just had to live with the idea that she would keep believing it. I suppose that was one reason I had let my jealousy get the best of me. If I could really explain everything, she would thank me. But she might also be destroyed.
“No. It can’t be that simple,” I finally said. “I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. Please just trust me on this, Mila.”
“As long as you’re willing to do the same.”
About Petros, she meant. And she was right, of course.
“Sure. I can do that. Come here. I’m sorry.”
We met in the middle of the bed, both in need of comfort and reassurance. The half-light of dusk cast a gloom on the scene, especially since we knew I had to catch the ferry soon. Too much damage from too few words, with too little time to repair it.
We talked for another half hour, mostly low-key. I gave her the e-mail address I’d set up in case she needed to tell me something she didn’t feel comfortable discussing over the phone. Then we returned to the living room. This time around, Petros didn’t seem half as alluring, so I guess I’d accomplished at least that much for my peace of mind. I just hoped I had done some good for Mila as well, but I wondered. Shortly afterward we said good-bye and I headed for the subway to the ferry port in Piraeus.
On my way out of the parking lot I glanced across the street to where I’d seen the black sedan the other night. It hadn’t been there when I arrived, but damned if it wasn’t there now. I couldn’t see the Jersey boy for the smoked glass, but at that moment a cigarette lighter flared, as if to pointedly let me know that, yes, he was there.
I broke into a run. But before I could even reach the street the engine started and the sedan eased smoothly away. No squeal of tires. No sign of panic. Just a casual dodge by someone showing me who was in charge.
I tried to swallow my rage. Shouting in anger might bring Mila and the others down to investigate.
“Go ahead and watch her,” I wanted to scream. “But keep your distance.”
Then, for a fleeting moment, I was back in the role of jealous husband, wondering exactly what this snoop would be seeing in the days ahead.