“He accepts the surrender in principle, but he will only officially accept it in person. Not a representative, Jack, he wants you.” There is a hiss on the phone line for some reason. Jack changes to the other ear in case it’s tinnitus, which a lot of people have these days, being common in combat zones.
“He’s going to throw me in a prison somewhere, isn’t he?” says Jack.
“I don’t know.”
“Safe passage for my people?”
“Your wife and immediate staff get a pass, but not combatants. Any war crimes will need to be accounted for. Heads always have to roll in this situation, you know that. If there are no atrocities, then, fine, they can walk free. But there are no polite wars, Jack. There are always people who go too far. Even regular people snap in wartime. We just don’t include them in the documentaries or the history books unless they’re systematised like the Nazis. And you have criminals as troops, Jack. You knew the risks.”
Jack sighs. “Where do I have to do this?”
“Aso Rock.”
The president is going to kill me in a very public place in a sensational manner because he needs to make an example of me, to discourage any other insurgents.
“Don’t think I enjoy this. I’ve personally invested a lot in your potential. I know what this silence from you means.”
I bet you do.
“I accept,” says Jack. “Ask him to stop the bombing and give me a date and time to be in Abuja.”
“He’ll expect the green-white-green to be flying in your mansion by the end of today, and he’ll send a transport for you.”
“I’m sure we can find a flag somewhere.”
“Jack, you’re doing the right thing. I—”
Jack hangs up.
“Lora,” he says.
“Sir.” She has been outside the room. She is wearing all black, in mourning for her writer.
“I’d like to ask a favour,” says Jack.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to use a small part of your memory to store some documents, to be released under certain conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“Death by unnatural causes, even if those causes are legal.”
“Like an execution?”
“Precisely that.”
Something is wrong with the air behind Lora, like a sped-up gathering storm, the reverse of thrown confetti, a gap that forms a human shape, then detail fills in.
“What’s that?” asks Jack.
Lora turns around, but apparently sees nothing. “What’s what?”
It is a woman, black, in a dark green body suit, head bare, hair in an afro. No weapons.
“Mr. Jacques, you don’t know me and have no reason to listen to me.”
“But you’re going to tell me something anyway, right?”
She stays absolutely still. “It’s short and simple: wait.”
“For what?”
“You’ll know it when you see it. Don’t do anything just yet. Instead, I advise you to wait. Goodbye.”
Her form dissipates.
Lora says, “Who were you talking to?”
“You didn’t see her?”
“No.”
Jack pulls the room surveillance and it shows Lora, and it shows him talking to air. This time there is no distortion like with the Alaagomeji woman.
“Mr. Mayor, are you well? Mentally, I mean?”
“I’m fine. Let’s just back this data up, shall we?”
Who the fuck was that? Or rather, what was that? Neither Lora nor the cameras could pick her up, which means it could just be in Jack’s head. Great. Hallucinations are just what he needs right now. Or. Or maybe his mind is trying to tell him something in a roundabout way. Maybe he’s rushing to surrender. But he cannot see any other way out. He is outnumbered and outplayed, the people of Rosewater hate him. And he has already agreed to surrender. In principle.
What if it isn’t just in his mind? Some kind of implant hack? A secure message tunnel? But who is she, then? What’s her affiliation? She’s not with the feds because they only want one thing. Antithetical. The Hausa people say, The dance changes when the drumbeat does. Jack is not sure what drumbeat he hears.
Lora’s phone rings and she takes the call, then looks at him. “Sir, something’s happening to the plant.”