EBOLOWA 18

18

 

Buea, West Cameroon, Monday night.

 

“I’m sorry Harry, but it’s you they’ve come for,” Ouweneel said looking pained. “They want to search your car and room.  I can’t stop them.”

“No search warrant?” he said with heavy sarcasm.

“Maintenant,” said the paler-skinned gendarme, stepping forward and gesturing Harry to his feet.

“Pourquoi?” Harry asked.

“Routine - - “

He grimaced: the same cliché the world over.

”OK,” he said and turned to Ouweneel.  “I won’t be long.“

“I’ll keep your food hot - - “

“Thanks.”

The gendarme hustled him across the floor and as they passed the hushed tables stirred with whispers.  The word Chicago stood out.  He shook the gendarme off and marched out into the lobby, taking his keys from his pocket.  Two police vehicles had been parked across the forecourt and there were two more gendarmes lurking outside the front door.  They fell in behind and together they crossed the parking lot like a posse with the gravel crunching under their boots.  A mosquito whined in Harry’s ear and a bat flew a jagged course across the dark sky.  Somewhere a dog should have been howling at the moon.

“Votre voiture M. Kaplan?” enquired the senior gendarme, still icily polite.

“Obviously,” he said but before he’d had a chance to use the keys the man had snatched them and he was grabbed from behind.  They unlocked the car and flicked on the interior light.  The seats were bare but for a bottle of Evian and the map of Cameroon that belonged to Annie Fayol.  They opened the trunk and the torchlight picked out the spare wheel and a small backpack from Abercrombie and Fitch. 

One of the minions shook out the contents: a Swiss army knife, an ancient Christmas gift from his father; a Fruit of the Loom tee-shirt still in its cellophane wrap; a spare notebook; a soft case of pencils and ballpoints; a small flashlight; the Gallery’s Canon Pellix and some spare film, and a dog-eared copy of Graham Greene’s The Quiet American.  Nothing remotely incriminating. 

“OK now?” he asked slamming the trunk, “Can I go back and finish my dinner?”  The senior gendarme looked at him as if he was butchering the French language so he added,  “You really should try the food here.  It’s as good as anything I’ve had in Paris.”  He made a move towards the hotel.

“Wait,” the man said, and his minions made sure Harry understood by pinning his arms behind his back.  The officer leant into the passenger seat and opened the glove compartment with an exclamation of satisfaction.  Harry’s heart beat faster.  He was pulled backwards and twisted round so he could see the bad news.  There had to be bad news, he was expecting it, but he was still taken aback: it was Victor Castile’s CZ52.

“Your gun, M. Kaplan,” the officer said and sniffed the barrel.  Everything he did was mannered.  “The murder weapon.”

“Its Victor Castile’s, not mine,” he said just as a small figure leapt out of the shadows like someone from LA Confidential.  A flash bulb popped and he blinked and it popped again.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Victor Castile,” said the senior gendarme. The grip on his arms tightened and he was frog-marched towards the Peugeot.  A small motorbike sprang into action and careered down the drive.  Harry was going to be front-page news. 

Jesus F Christ.  Dammed fool. 

The two gendarmes tossed him into the back of the Peugeot and slammed the door.  He heard the lock click.  Between him and the front seats there was a metal grid that reminded him of a dog kennel.  Outside the junior gendarmes saluted and the big bruiser got in and the engine jumped into life.  He punched the seat hard and cursed: he might’ve been right about late night calls from the cops, but he’d dropped his guard and got the genial Inspector Takere totally wrong.

 

    

 

Long Island, New York State, Monday afternoon

The idea was total lunacy, typical of Jules’ obsession with Guy Martin, but amidst the dross Eileen had found gold.  The problem now was stopping him from throwing it away. She was packed and ready to go and had just zipped her valise when there was a rap at the door.  She stopped a second, wary and alert: she was expecting a young Iranian friend but it was a bit early and the knock was too urgent - - too masculine. 

It was Western Union, a telegram.  She took it with a slight tremor and smiled with relief at the message:

“He bought my car.  No hitches.  He asked about Victor Castile, Nkumbé, and Ebolowa.  See you in Paris sometime?  Louis.” 

No hitches: a gleam of satisfaction came to her but she turned it back and locked the telegram away in the desk drawer.  There was time aplenty for something to go awry. 

She went back upstairs to put on her expertly streaked hairpiece.  She tugged gently at a few strands and pencilled in a little eyeliner.  Nobody took her for more than fifty, even guys like Kaplan who knew how long she’d been with the Service.  The funny thing was that in her youth it had worked the other way round and men took her for a woman of experience.  Gérard had been amazed when he found out - - one spring day when they’d walked across the cemetery Pere Lachaise and ended up making love on the floor of his garret apartment. 

She shuddered with wistful pleasure at the memory and had to take a deep breath.  The Gestapo had taken him away in the autumn.  Everything came back to her, the slate grey sky and the rain-slicked sidewalks, the old butcher closing his peeling shutters, and above all the creepy sense of surveillance and sullen despair.

Mona’s tentative knock drew Eileen back from the past.  Her young friend had tied her thick black hair under a red woollen scarf and was dressed modestly in a topcoat and trousers.  Eileen took her coat and showed her into the front room.  Flames were leaping behind the glass door of the wood-burner and the room felt like a warm embrace.

“Sit down,” she said, “it’s cold out there.  How are you surviving our Long Island winters?”

Mona smiled.  “It’s the wet summers I don’t like.”

She smiled back.  “You shouldn’t have done your doctorate on the west coast.  It spoiled you.”  Mona had done a PhD in Middle Eastern history at Santa Cruz and was now a tenure track assistant professor at NYU Stonybrook.  “A cup of tea?  We’ve got time.” 

“Please.”

She poured black tea into a glass Iranian-style and Mona smiled her appreciation.  “Thank you.  Just like home.”

“You must miss your family.”

“I do of course, but I’m going home for the summer.”

“Your parents must be excited.”

“So am I.”  She sipped her tea.  “Don’t get me wrong Miss O’Connell, I like it here, the freedom and the scale, people as well as places, but - - you know - - my roots - - they go pretty deep.”

“Sure.”  Eileen had heard the story often enough to know but for her the drive had been restlessness, the desire to be the stranger.  Her roots had tied her down.  “My Irish cousin says you can travel the world but what you’re looking for is in your own backyard.”

Cousin Connor was big on his roots even though they were largely invented.  

Mona smiled again.  “That’s why it was sort of fun doing the translation.  Made me feel at home.”  She leant down to take a manila envelope out of her briefcase. 

“I'm glad you enjoyed it.”  Eileen opened the envelope and glanced through the text.  There was nothing she wasn’t ready for but it was good to have it pinned down in black and white.  Jules had got that much right.  “Thank you.  It’s perfect.”

“It’s dynamite isn’t it?”

“It might be,” she said airily as if it wasn’t too important which way it went. 

This part was tricky: she didn’t want to give Mona the idea that the material might be top secret and she’d originally passed it off as something from her time in West Africa like someone sticking a final photo in a family album.  But the document had piqued Mona’s interest - - and why the hell wouldn’t it, for God’s sake?  Dynamite didn’t get close: it was more like nuclear.  

“I mean, this guy Pierre Messmer,” said Mona leaning forwards, “he’s the same Messmer who’s Prime Minister of France isn’t he, the guy who’s pushing for nuclear power and messing up Kissinger’s plans to oppose OPEC?”

“That’s right, typically French to rock the Western boat,” she said with casual indifference.  “Oddly enough I had a bit to do with him in London during the war.  He was one of the first to follow General de Gaulle and sign up for the Free French.”

“Amazing,” Mona said, the historian clearly warming to her theme.  “I’ve read quite a bit about de Gaulle, but who’s this other guy?”

“He’s more of a bit player, off the main stage,” she said vaguely, playing him down, although she knew full well that Jacques Foccart been one of the architects of the Fifth Republic, hidden in de Gaulle’s shadow but never far from his confidence.  He had run the so-called Bison Base responsible for covert operations like the abduction of Ben Barka and the assassination of Dr Félix Moumié.

“He’s never had Messmer’s profile,” she said waving a hand, “although he’s just made the news for being sacked as Minister for Africa and Madagascar.”

She glanced at her watch and tidied the envelope into her bag.  It wasn’t the right time to dwell on its contents.  “Please excuse me but there are a couple of things I have to get together before the taxi arrives.” 

“I don’t want to hold you up.”

“You’re not.”  She gestured at Mona’s glass.  “Take your time.”

“You didn’t say where you’d decided to go.”

“I’ve always hankered after Timbucktu,” she said with a careful mix of truth and lies.  It was at least in the right corner of the right continent.  “I was mostly posted to steamy places on the coast, so I thought I’d try the desert.”

“You’ll love it.”

“I’m sure I will.”  She was turning towards the kitchen when the phone started to ring.  She checked her stride, stopped by a sense of foreboding.  “I’ll take it in the kitchen,” she said and pushed open the door.

The phone was set in the wall next to the fridge with a long spiral extension. As she picked it up she recalled what Connor had said about the technological leap in so-called ‘listening devices’.  She wasn’t as conspiratorially minded as him but she’d been halfway convinced and ever since had wondered if they’d bugged her house.  It just seemed absurd when there were so many other pressing needs for reliable intelligence. 

“Hello - - “ she said as she picked up the phone but had to hold the earpiece at a distance.  The noise was high-pitched and very loud, a squawk of something between agony and relief and in French.

“Eileen, Cherie, merci beaucoup - - mon Dieu - - ”

It was Jules, clearly in a bad way.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, acutely aware that there was no chance of him being discreet.

“They’ve killed Castile - - ”

Shit.  She closed her eyes and breathed out.  Jules was babbling on.  “Butchered.  Burnt his place down - - ”

“Who, for God’s sake?  Who has?”  She tried to keep her voice down.

“The oil mafia.  He was muscling in on their business.”

“He was always a crook. You shouldn’t have brought him in - - ”

“That’s why I did,” he screamed. 

“Calm down for God’s sake.  You’ll kill yourself.  Where’s that damned nurse?”

“Asleep - - ”

“Wake her up then!  She should be looking after you.”

“No, no, I have to tell you, they’ve arrested Kaplan.”

“What?”

“The private eye you sent over.  He’s working for Lagos.”

Bullshit. No way. Impossible.  “I didn’t send him over.”

Mona was knocking on the kitchen door. “The taxi is here Miss O’Connell.”

“OK, I’m coming,” she said putting her hand over the mouthpiece, “ask them to hold on.”

“Sure.”

“Jules,” she shouted into the phone, “stay at home with that nurse you hear!  I’m coming over on Air Afrique, tomorrow night.”

She rung off and stood quite still for a second.  The front door slammed.  She went back into the front room.

“The taxi is happy hanging on,” said Mona, her scarf slightly askew. 

“Thanks.”  She shrugged, “an old friend in bad way.  He’s losing his marbles.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”  She sounded heartless but it couldn’t be helped.  “Can you tell them I’ll be right out?”

“Sure.”

She waited for her young friend to shut the front door before turning to her desk and unlocking the drawer.  There was no way she was going to start poking around in Cameroon without her gun.  By the time Mona was back she’d tucked it into her waistband and had slipped the box of shells into her bag.

“I’ll send you a postcard,” she said.  “Mount Cameroon.”

“Thanks.  Take care of yourself.”

“Course.”  She gripped Mona’s arm and looked her in the eye.  “Don’t say anything about the document will you.  We’ll talk about it when I get back.”

A shiver of excitement rushed through her: it was like old times.  The driver slammed the trunk and climbed in.