‘You’re sending me back to Sri Lanka?’ Ellie asked, her heart pounding but her voice casual. The homeland of her grandparents held memories for her that she worked hard every day to forget. ‘Am I being punished, Redmond?’
‘You deserve to be,’ Redmond replied. ‘I benched you from fieldwork at your request. I agreed to transfer you to USAID until you were ready to come back to the Agency. You sold that to me as a short-term “secondment”. You’ve been in the land of global aid, unicorns and rainbows for four years now. I’ve paid for your ongoing psychiatric treatment—’
‘The US Government pays for that, as it should,’ she interrupted, slapping the file back on her boss’ desk. The desk was sparsely populated with personal touches. A photo of his three children on holiday in Paris. A snow globe of the Grand Canyon from his ex-wife. Apparently, it had come with a note: Wish you were at the bottom of this, xoxo Louisa.
‘You have a varied skill set, Ellie,’ Redmond continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘You’re wasted in USAID drafting aid packages. And this self-imposed martyrdom isn’t helping you.’ ‘Self-imposed martyrdom?’ she repeated. She could feel the heat rise beneath her skin. ‘Martyrdom implies the subject is dead. I am very much alive.’ She was, but the others weren’t. She reached for the snow globe and shook it.
‘Alive but still malfunctioning.’
‘I’m not going back to Sri Lanka, Redmond. My psychiatrist won’t allow it.’
‘Your psychiatrist works for me. He’s signed off on it.’
‘That’s unethical and unprofessional.’
Redmond shook his head. ‘You were recruited by the CIA straight out of college because your psychometric testing revealed, among other things, that you are comfortable with dishonesty. Until this gardening leave of yours, you worked for the CIA and entered countries using USAID as a cover. You went to post-conflict nations and pretended to be negotiating aid while gathering intelligence.’
‘Back then, I believed in the higher purpose it served.’
‘Higher purposes are for televangelists. You are a soldier, gifted with greater potential than most. I want you to use it again, and I want you to use it in Sri Lanka.’
In truth, Ellie had been recruited for more than her ‘gifts’. Her Sri Lankan ancestry gave her entry into a whole region that Redmond wanted to infiltrate.
He pushed the file towards her. ‘Look at Solomon’s intelligence briefing at the back.’
She picked the papers up again and flicked to the briefing from the station chief in Sri Lanka. Her heart pounded as she scanned the report. Ameena Fernando, respected journalist and editor of The Lanka Herald, shot on her way to work. No other casualties. Four motorcycles witnessed leaving the scene.
The ice in Ellie’s blood receded.
No other casualties.
Sathyan was safe.
She concentrated on her breathing again. She needed to see her psych. If she agreed to go back, cognitive behavioural therapy, martial arts and meditation weren’t going to be enough. Three years ago, she had tapered off the benzodiazepines and ‘graduated’ to fluoxetine for her anxiety. Her psych might need to up the dose; she could feel the panic rising already.
‘We’ve been instructed to investigate the killing,’ Redmond said. He never told her who issued the instructions and she never asked. ‘I want you on the ground because you’re connected to … her.’ He paused. ‘But I am worried about you, Ellie. Will your mental state enhance or compromise your ability to do your job? I know you got burned last time.’
‘I didn’t get burned,’ she corrected him.
‘But you did get hurt, and honestly, I think going back will help you.’
‘Are you ordering me back to Sri Lanka?’
‘I’m trying to help you. Stop being so paranoid.’
‘Paranoid? Remember what happened last time I wasn’t paranoid enough?’
Ellie didn’t need to remind him. Redmond had been there four years ago at Dover Air Force Base when she’d returned with the coffins. She had struggled to release them into the waiting arms of the Color Guard. She couldn’t speak. She had focused on the flag at half-mast behind him, battered by the cold winter wind. He had made her look at him; made her let go. There was no judgement in his face, just the understanding of someone who’d made his own mistakes and learned to live with them.
She was still learning.
Redmond skated over the reference. ‘It’s been long enough, Ellie. You know Sri Lanka—its politics, its ways. This will be hard for you, but it could also be good for you.’
‘If you use the word “healing”, Redmond, I’m going to beat you with your snow globe.’
He looked at her seriously, his voice quiet. ‘Nothing else has worked, Ellie.’
Her chest and throat tightened. She looked at the victim’s photograph and swallowed hard. Ameena Fernando was striking—large, kohl-rimmed eyes, black hair in an elfin crop, a wide and unguarded smile.
Passionate, fearless and stupid.
It only ever ended one way for these people—a posthumous award from Amnesty International. Small comfort for the husband. Or partner.
‘We don’t usually get involved in local government hit jobs.’
Redmond nodded. ‘The ex-husband is driving this with support from those fuckwits at Amnesty. He lives in San Francisco with their three children. Left Colombo in 2004, couldn’t handle the death threats.’
‘Smart man.’ Ellie searched him on her phone. Anil Fernando was a journalist too. According to the news report, he was having Ameena’s body flown to the US for burial near his children’s home. That took some connections and money.
‘Go to Sri Lanka and ask around. The State Department has to look like it’s doing something—something but not too much. We don’t want to antagonise the Sri Lankans.’
‘Of course not.’
‘But we need to listen to our citizens, hear the anger of our multicultural communities and show concern over this blow to freedom of expression.’
‘Nice.’ She was impressed. Redmond had incredible recall for government standard responses. ‘And what about all the other dead journalists in Sri Lanka? Taken away in white vans in the middle of the night, on government orders?’ Something crept up her throat from her gut, burning and bilious. Some lives were always more valuable than others.
‘We’re still looking into it.’ He stood up. The meeting was over.
‘The war’s been going on for twenty-six years. From your briefing, it’s about to end—badly,’ she pushed.
Her three brothers had been sending her news clips and human rights reports, too. In all their messages, there was an unspoken question: could USAID do something?
‘Like I said, we’re still looking into it.’