A few hours after her death, Ameena Fernando’s newspaper published an editorial that was essentially an obituary written by the dead journalist herself. It accused the Sri Lankan government of being responsible for her death and foretold that platitudes would be made, international outrage expressed and investigations ordered, but that those who had killed her would be protected, not punished.
The haunting letter was addressed to Dilshan Perera, the Under Secretary for Defence.
The day after the editorial, citing the safety of staff as the primary reason, the Minister for Communications shut down The Lanka Herald.
•
For a long time, Ellie had thought her work with the Agency was both noble and necessary. For the last four years, however, she had benched herself, opting for a policy role at USAID, utilising the experience of her former cover and making it her new day job.
Redmond had reluctantly agreed to the transfer, as long as she maintained her field training requirements and checked in with him to provide any intel she’d picked up through USAID. She accepted his accusations that she’d reduced herself. She had been too afraid to leave the familiarity of the Agency, but too repulsed by its failures—by her failures—to be more than an over-qualified contract negotiator. His request to return Ellie to Sri Lanka terrified and excited her.
She checked her inbox at the small kitchen table and found the email again.
From S. Navaratnam. She hadn’t seen his name in four years, but she had read it several times since the email had arrived two hours ago. Memorised every word.
S. Navaratnam. Sathyan Navaratnam.
Sathyan. It meant truth.
She opened the email again.
Sunday 11 January 2009
Dear Ellie,
This morning Ameena Fernando was assassinated. It’s all over CNN, but no doubt you already know.
She and I were together. Two travellers on this lonely planet. If you are in the region, I would greatly appreciate it if you could meet me in Colombo. I would like your assistance. Please don’t feel obligated to come.
With warm wishes,
Sathyan
She swallowed hard.
Please don’t feel obligated to come. Is that what was left between them? An obligation? Obligation was a long but not-quite-accurate word. ‘Debt’ was a smaller word with a far deeper meaning. She had a debt she owed him and others. A long-overdue debt.
She called Redmond.
‘I can’t just show up in Colombo,’ she began. Her name would set off red flags everywhere from the Sri Lankan High Commission in DC to Sri Lanka’s Criminal Investigation Department.
Redmond had been expecting her. ‘You’ll be helping our aid delegation. Keith Tenby was promoted to First Secretary last year, so he’s leading this work, but he’s getting bullied. Every Sri Lankan minister is angling for foreign aid and kickbacks. You have the contacts and the clout to help him. It’s a solid cover.’
‘Tenby’s very good at his job but it’s hard to negotiate against Sri Lankan entitlement and absolutism,’ she said. Keith Tenby had started his career as a CIA analyst but after a mission had gone wrong years ago, he’d lost his nerve. She was in no position to judge him for it. Tenby had moved into high-level diplomacy, where he’d excelled.
‘That’s why he’ll welcome your support over there. Read the whole briefing. You’ve got access, same codes as last time. The Embassy will issue you with a weapon when you arrive. Your logbook is up-to-date, so I know you remember how to use a gun.’
‘I do, but I was never very good with it in the first place.’
‘Your logbook says you’re good enough,’ he replied.
‘There’s a big difference between shooting at targets and putting a bullet in a person’s head.’ She pushed away an image. Blood seeping into the dark earth, swallowed by the jungle floor.
Breathe, she reminded herself.
‘Ellie,’ Redmond called her back, his voice soft but insistent on the other end of the phone. ‘The latter is easier if that person wants to put a bullet in your head first. The draft aid agreement is on the system. Help Tenby fix it. Make sure it gives us what we need.’
‘And what do we need this time?’
‘A new world order is being created around us, not always by us,’ he replied. ‘If we don’t stake a claim, we’ll be left out. We need a seat at the table so we can help Sri Lanka with the post-war transition.’
‘Post-war? The war is still going on.’
‘It’ll be over soon. All foreign journalists and NGOs have been removed from the war zone. The last UN truck was escorted out on Monday.’
‘No more witnesses. BBC World says the Sri Lanka Army has pushed almost 300,000 refugees into a safe zone.’ Reportedly four miles long and three miles wide. She brought up a map of Sri Lanka.
‘It’s called the No Fire Zone,’ he said. ‘There are a few of them. It’s being fired on.’
‘By whom?’ It was never clear in this war.
‘Our intel says both sides. The Sri Lankan government is firing on the Tigers. The Tigers are firing back, protected by their own people.’
‘They’re not protected if the government is firing on the civilians in a designated safe zone,’ she said. Her eyes were drawn to Mankulam, the last place she’d been stationed before she was evacuated back to the US.
There had been no time to explain. Or to say sorry.
What could she have said to Sathyan? What words would have justified what happened?
Redmond interrupted her memories. ‘The government says it doesn’t need to comply with the Conventions because the Tigers are using their people as shields.’
‘Two wrongs make an act of genocide.’
‘We’re not using the G-word yet,’ he replied.
‘Really? I’d like to talk to Rajapaksa and use the C-word and the F-word and then the—’
‘This will be over soon. And when it’s done, we want to help them establish a healthy, friendly democracy. Tenby will introduce you to Dilshan Perera. He’s the Under Secretary for Defence. He’ll work with you both on the aid agreement.’
‘Dilshan Perera? He’s the key suspect and my liaison for the aid negotiation? Am I liaising with him or am I investigating him?’
‘Liaising and nothing more,’ Redmond replied. ‘He’s too important—he’s the President’s cousin. Look elsewhere, find nothing, write a report and let everyone—including you—move on with their grief. The past is the past.’
Ellie closed the laptop. ‘The past is never past,’ she said, trying to remember the words and name of a dead white writer.
‘Ellie—’
‘I’ll go, Redmond.’
‘I know.’ He had always known.
She had unfinished business in Sri Lanka.