EBOLOWA 23

23

 

 

Orly Airport, Tuesday afternoon

 

 

     Eileen O’Connell had just used the rest room.  Gone was the ex-diplomat and New York sophisticate in upmarket hairpiece and heels, and taking her place was civil rights worker Maeve O’Driscoll in sneakers and trousers and a jaunty beret in Republican green with a Michael Collins pin.  She strolled out with her backpack slung over one shoulder and hovered at the bookstall. 

     The papers were ablaze with the scandal of Canard and Messmer.  She smiled incredulously: Nixon’s gambit had obviously caught on - - if your guys get caught bugging an opponent’s office, just blame the CIA!  She expected better from the French, but she’d hardly had time to pick up a copy of Le Monde when an American voice behind her shook her to the core.  She froze, rooted to the spot, and the scales of time fell away:

     “She said she took sides as well as pictures.”

     Eileen went rigid and homed in on the voices. So sharp and vivid was the memory that it could’ve been yesterday, the same tone and exactly the same line.  The moment came back to her: the heated argument with Annie Fayol about the struggle for national self-determination. It’d happened outside Le Frigat - - she’d had lunch with Alistair and they’d shared a bottle of wine, a crisp white - - and, my God, she remembered that too, a Puy Fumé, but most of all she remembered the line, and Annie Fayol’s know-it-all arrogance.  Intolerable bitch. 

     Back in the present a last call for some flight to Cairo boomed out burying the conversation and she moved closer, her heart beating fast.  She took up a position behind a revolving rack of maps, unfolded one and peered over it: Jesus, it was Annie’s sister, no question, the spitting image, older and slicker maybe with a better outfit and hair-do, but identical. 

     It was no crazy coincidence either: now that her private detective was in jail Dr Fayol was clearly on a mission to get him out.  She kept the map half open and moved carefully towards the till straining to hear what the women were saying.  The other woman was shorter, almost petite, and beautifully turned out. They were saying goodbye. They embraced before stepping back.

     “You take care of yourself Candace, you hear.  Let Harry take the risks - - that’s what you’re paying him for.”

     “I promise.”

     The petite woman touched Candace’s face with an elegantly gloved hand, “and bring him back this way if you get on.”

     Candace grabbed the hand and smiled.  Her face lit up and Eileen O’Connell realised she’d never seen the sunny side of the older sister.  Maybe she hadn’t had one.

     There was a last fierce embrace before they spun off in different directions.  Eileen O’Connell watched them time their turn back to wave in perfect harmony.  It could have been a scene from a movie, but she didn’t have the time to appreciate it.  Her mind was fixed on what they’d said and how they’d said it.  It was obvious that Dr Fayol had no idea her private eye had been charged with the murder of Victor Castile.  She thought she was going out to find the boy friend.

 

*   *   *   *   *  

  

The Air Afrique flight started its descent into Douala and airhostesses glided along the aisles.  The cabin lights went out.  In the First Class section Dr Candace Fayol reached up for her reading light.  She was wearing a beige linen suit over a silk blouse with diamond ear studs and a new gold necklace from Cartier.  Her red lipstick was as bright as a cola can, her finger and toenails painted a colour to match, and her hair had been cut stylishly short a la mode. 

She felt deliciously chic.  Hélène had hustled her into feeling frivolous, a side that she barely knew and trusted less.  Never in Chicago would she surrender to the will and expertise of the beauticians, but in a VIP lounge in Paris it felt different, like a fourth dimension.  The Champagne had helped of course and with Hélene bubbling with encouragement it all seemed like an exciting adventure.

“It’s high time you pampered yourself a bit,” Helen had chided her.  “It’s not as if you’re short of money any longer.” 

Truth to tell, as a medic she’d never been hard up, but all those years of looking after Mom had made her feel dowdy, and so had that louse Bill Holden with his cheapskate afternoon motels and nylon sheets.  Life was passing her by and selling the house in Oak Park just had to be a line in the sand. 

“Men love a traveller,” Hélène had said batting one heavily made-up eyelid.  “Ships in the night.  No strings.  You don’t have to feel responsible any longer.  You’ve done your bit.”

It was true, she had, but how often had she told herself the same thing and done nothing about it?  Plus she’d forgotten, or conveniently repressed, the mess with Harry over Nkumbé.  He seemed sympathetic at O’Hare, as though he understood what she was going through, but on the phone he’d reacted like she’d trampled on his pride, talking about ruining his case for God’s sake.  It wasn’t her fault he’d wanted to get going so fast: in fact, now she came to think about it, he should’ve checked Annie’s things himself even if she’d said she was going to do it.  He hadn’t been on the ball or very professional.

Anxiety started creeping back and nerves fluttered in the pit of her stomach.  The pilot announced that Mount Cameroon was visible out of the window on her side and she caught sight of a jagged grey ridge in the weak moonlight.  It certainly didn’t look like the kind of place to start the romance of a lifetime, and as it turned out, it hadn’t been.  One way or another Annie’s meeting Didier Nkumbé ten thousand feet up had been a tragic catastrophe. 

She took a deep breath and switched off the reading light.  They were losing altitude and her ears blocked and popped.  She thought about Harry again and felt grateful that he’d at least agreed to meet her.  She watched the sprinkling of lights below get bigger and thought she could make out a silver sinuous line leading out to sea.  The river: somewhere there had to be the bridge and the thought made her nauseous.  Why on earth had she come?

The plane jolted as the wheels bounced on the runway and the engines roared.  The cabin lights came on and the airhostesses stood up in their full uniforms, every stitch and hem perfectly in place.  Her heart beat faster and her stomach ached with trepidation: eighteen years on, she thought, Cameroon at last, but she still couldn’t summon a silent cheer or even a secret clenched fist.     The Arrivals hall didn’t help.  It wasn’t like anything she’d ever seen.  The floor was dusty concrete and the ceiling low with customs a deafening babble of chaos and half-opened luggage.  Everybody was black, which it was sometimes in the clinic, but here it felt as if they were all looking at her.  Her heart jumped and she scanned the waiting throng for Harry’s face and thick black hair.  Two men in green uniforms and caps were pestering her for her luggage, each promising “best price”.  She tried to keep calm and ward them off but she was losing the battle. This was the last bloody straw.  Where the hell was he?

She was just about to cave in to the smaller, older guy when a large florid white man materialized in front of her with ‘DR FAYOL’ written in big letters on a card and she almost fell on him with relief.  He had wispy blond hair and blue eyes and was wearing a crumpled jacket.

“I’m Hans Ouweneel,” he said, waving the notice.  “Didn’t really need this, did I?  You were pretty easy to spot.  Welcome to Cameroon.”

He said something unintelligible to one of the men and Candace happily let him take her bag.  It was heavy with all her new gear and the night was thick and clammy. 

“My God,” she said, crazily elated, “am I glad to see you, but where’s Harry?“

He waved a big hand and turned, “long story.  Let’s get out of this mad house first.  It’s tough if you’re not used to it.  There’s so much sneaking stuff through and back-handers.  We’re over here.”

He paused for her to catch up and they went through the doors into the African night.  He stopped next to a battered Citroen and opened the trunk.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he said as he paid the porter with a bit of a flourish, “but Harry is in jail on a murder charge.“

The words took Candace’s breath away. “What?  That’s impossible - - “

“I know but it’s happened.  He went out to some place near the Nigerian border to talk to a man called Victor Castile - - “

“He told me.”

“Yeah well, the man was dead when he got there.  He reported it to the police but they went and arrested him instead.”  He took a newspaper off the passenger seat and gave it to her.  “It’s all in here.  He’s apparently a hit man brought over from Chicago by the Lagos oil mafia.“

“That’s ludicrous.” She glanced at the headline.  “He’s working for me.” 

“I know.”  He opened the door for her.  “Sorry the car is such a mess.”

She got in and stowed her bag under her feet.  The interior smelt faintly of fish.  Her nostrils must have twitched because the big man wound down the window.  “Sorry.  It’s the car I use to go to the African market - - dried prawns, camarones.  I run the Mountain Hotel, which was where Harry was staying when he was arrested.”

“My God.”  Despite the prawns she took a deep breath.  “Jesus Christ.  How?”

 She looked around for the safety belt.

“They don’t have them here,” Hans said glancing at her. “The gendarmes turned up and found the murder weapon in his car – - plus, of course,” he rolled his eyes, “he’s from Chicago, the world’s capital of organized crime - - he just had to be guilty.”

“That’s outrageous.”

“Don’t worry, we’re on the case.”  He started the car.  “The US chargé knows, guy called Logan; I fixed a meeting with him in your hotel 11.30 tomorrow morning.  There’s no evidence against him.”

“Thanks Mr - - “ she had a crack at his name but he swept the effort aside.

“Call me Hans.  Everybody else does.  Nobody out here can do the Dutch except some old Boers from South Africa.”  He offered her a big hand and she took it.

“OK Hans.  And I’m Candace.  I save the Doctor stuff for the clinic.”

“Harry told me.”  He chuckled.  “He’s a good guy isn’t he?”

She nearly said she didn’t really know, but decided to keep it simple.  “Yeah.  He came highly recommended.”

Hans braked and swerved to avoid a huge pothole in the road.  He glanced apologetically at her and smiled.  “I’m sorry you’ve had to put up with all this.  Can’t be easy.”  He shrugged his big shoulders.  “Harry told me what - - who - - you’re looking for.  Your sister stayed in my hotel the day before she met Nkumbé on the mountain - - we’ve kept the old registers.”

Candace tried to swallow but her mouth was as dry as dust.  “Did you meet her?”

“No.  I arrived a few years after.”  He shook his head.  “It’s a terrible thing, the rip tide I mean, comes out of nowhere.  I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

“You’ve been in it?”

He laughed and slapped his stomach, “no, no, I’m no swimmer.  I was doing a bit of proselytizing - - ”

She shot him a look, “you’re not a missionary are you?”

“No, no, far from it I’m afraid, I meant I was drumming up business for the hotel.  It’s the only beach around and the French go down there from Douala to cool off.  One time I was there selling our buffet lunch and pow the ocean suddenly turned into a cauldron!  Terrifying.”

They speeded up along a road of even asphalt and Candace put her fingertips on her temples.  Her head throbbed from the journey and the booze.  And the reception: whatever was she going to do?  She sighed, a mix of exasperation and empathy.  “How the hell did Harry get muddled up with the oil mafia?”  She banged a fist into her thigh.  “I told him he didn’t have to go chasing off after Castile.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, he doesn’t look like the type to be told much - - ”

“He’s not.”  She cursed silently: he’d screwed up, damn it.  “And just look where it’s got him.”

“I don’t know Candace - - ” The big Dutchman sounded uncomfortable using her name.  “Out here it’s a case of wheels within wheels.”

“It’s the same everywhere.”

“But not this old imperial combat between the French and English, takes a Dutchman to see it - - “

“I already heard about it.  It was one of the reasons my sister came here.”  She put her hand on her forehead.  “Look I’m sorry, I’m wasted after the journey.  I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.  God knows what I’d have done if you hadn’t been there!”

     “No problem, my pleasure,” he said sounding relieved at her change of tone, “only too glad to help.  I’m at your service until we get Harry out.  I don’t want to come over like I’m happy about all this, but the hotel’s been dragging me down recently and Harry has got me thinking.”  He grinned.  “Not too many private eyes operating out of Douala.”  

     “I can imagine.”  She nodded: they always said it was an ill wind that blew nobody any good.