Ellie loved the flight from DC to Sydney. Business class, three movies and the sense of going home. She had left Australia in 1995, aged eighteen, courtesy of a Franklin Scholarship to Berkeley and her mother’s US citizenship. She’d been seduced by US patriotism from childhood, and when the CIA had approached her in pre-law, she had been naive enough to be flattered.
She was older now and understood what home and homeland truly meant, and had learned the difference between expected and acceptable sacrifice. After that mission to Sri Lanka, she spent more time at home in Australia but maintained her brownstone in Georgetown as her US base. She accepted short-term USAID jobs in interesting, less volatile places than Sri Lanka, but always longed to return to Sydney and the comfort of her father and brothers. Ellie went straight from the airport to the Cinnamon Gardens Nursing Home.
•
She took a deep breath and entered the room her father shared with three other men.
‘Ellora,’ her father greeted her with her full name, as he always did. He had been named after a sacred place, and despite relinquishing it for the ease of Anglicised syllables, he had insisted on traditional first names for his four children.
He wrapped his hands around the armrests of the chair and braced himself. ‘You’re back,’ he said, leaning forward.
‘Don’t get up, Dad.’ She bent down and hugged him. She could feel the angles of the old man’s shoulder blades beneath his flannel pyjamas.
‘Happy birthday, girl,’ he said. Despite his illness, he hadn’t forgotten one yet.
‘Thank you,’ she said, holding on to him for longer. He was fragile but still an anchor for her and her three brothers. ‘You warm enough?’ she asked.
‘Warmer than The Spitter,’ he said, referring to one of his roommates. ‘I could have sworn he died overnight.’ He chuckled at her reaction. ‘Kidding. You look beautiful, ende chelle cunju. Just like your mother.’
She looked at The Spitter, The Pray-er and The Crier, as her dad had titled them. He called himself The Wrongly Incarcerated. She and her brothers had offered to get him a private room, but he had refused. She thought he secretly enjoyed the company of his so-called ‘cellmates’.
She opened his top drawer and rummaged through the underwear to the back. Her father kept his contraband there. She pulled out a small, greasy bottle.
‘What’s this?’ She sniffed, and winced. The aroma was sickly sweet and familiar from years of mandatory church attendance.
‘A gift from The Pray-er. Apparently baby Jesus used it and so should we.’ He put it back in the drawer and pulled out the KitKat she was looking for. ‘Bloody food fascists.’ He offered her some between rebellious bites. ‘I’ve earned this, darling.’
‘Too right, Dad.’
He kept one hand firmly on the armrest of the chair, the tremor controlled but not hidden. His shoulders quivered if he lost concentration. The Parkinson’s was progressing faster than the early onset dementia.
‘I’ve got another trip coming up,’ she said, not wanting to look at his face.
‘So soon?’ Her father locked his hands together in his lap. ‘Where to this time?’
‘Sri Lanka, actually.’ She waited to see if he remembered what she was like when she had returned last time.
‘Sri Lanka? Does the homeland need a new constitution?’
‘Something like that.’
‘The current one’s not worth the paper it’s written on.’ He looked at her closely. ‘My parents would weep if they knew what happened to our country. You’ll be okay over there?’
‘I’ll be fine, Dad. Will you be okay without me? The boys’ll visit.’
‘Manankati,’ he swore. ‘Those boys don’t come around as often as you.’ His hands shook in his lap. Ellie held them.
‘I’ll be back soon, promise.’
Sometimes the good days were the worst.
•
Ellie entered her Sydney apartment and locked the front door behind her. She took her sidearm from the freezer and defrosted a portion of chicken biriyani.
She didn’t feel anger anymore. Just sadness. Deep, aching sadness. The weight of it was exhausting and helped her go to sleep, but not to stay asleep—nightmares woke her often.
The last time she had drawn her gun was four years ago, in the jungles of northern Sri Lanka, protected by soldiers wearing thirty-five pounds of body armour. Their instructions had been to save a bullet for herself in case she was taken.
She had earned her right to the cosier postings of the last few years. Her father had snorted when she described Kathmandu as cosy, but it was, compared to Kabul or Islamabad. And tomorrow, Colombo.
•
The flight to Colombo passed slowly in a haze of fitful sleep and frightening dreams. At the mouth of the plane, Ellie peeled her shirt away from her body and flinched against the glare of the early afternoon sun. The humidity reached into her throat and constricted her airway.
At the bottom of the tinny stairs, she was greeted by a familiar face. Keith Tenby had grown a little chubbier in the two years since they’d last seen each other at a conference in Dhaka. At the time, he’d been presenting on US investment in Asian microfinance programs. She’d already transferred over from the CIA to USAID, despite Redmond’s protests about wasting her talents. She was still trying to serve her country, but it often felt like she was just marking time.
When Ellie had emailed Tenby two days ago to say she was coming, he replied: ‘Colombo: still the best Yum Cha. EVER. Can’t wait to see you. xoxo’.
Now, on the tarmac of Colombo Airport, he was dressed for the climate in a white linen shirt and beige pants, the Western diplomat’s standard Asian uniform.
‘Tenner.’ She reached out a hand but Tenby ignored it and pulled her into a damp embrace. She inhaled, coughed and laughed. ‘Is that a new cologne, my friend? Very frankincense and myrrh.’
‘That’s me, a Wise Man. No one calls me Tenner anymore, by the way,’ Tenby replied. He took Ellie’s carry-on luggage from her.
In 2004, when they’d last worked together in Colombo, Tenby had negotiated a local sex worker down from thirty dollars to ten for a good time. She’d said that he had the most beautiful eyes and accepted the lower fee.
‘Got it, First Secretary,’ Ellie said affectionately. ‘But you do have the most beautiful eyes.’ She winked at him.
‘Fuck off. Let’s get out of this heat.’
‘You’re looking a little red there.’ She motioned to the top of Tenby’s chest where the skin peeped through his shirt, flushed and inflamed. ‘Have you been sunbathing? Not enough work to do in Colombo?’
‘There’s plenty. I can’t get the Sri Lankans to agree to anything—you’d think they don’t want our aid. And yes, too much sun. You know I’m delicate.’ He adjusted his collar and buttoned the shirt up to his throat as he headed inside the airport.
‘You’re tough enough to survive this political jungle. I’m proud of you, Tenby,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Ellie, that means a lot to me. We’ve got your other suitcase already, come this way.’ He led her past the queues and armed soldiers, straight to the diplomatic booth. An immigration official sat behind plate glass, doing a crossword. Tenby tapped his credentials on the window. The man looked up, irritated. He wiped the sweat from his wiry moustache.
Ellie slid her passport under the glass, expecting a wave and nod. Her credentials and passport were usually barely noted.
‘More people from America?’ the man remarked.
‘We like the weather,’ Tenby said affably.
‘You like to talk, you Americans. Talk too much.’
A young soldier joined them at the booth. He had a T-56 assault rifle strapped across his green and brown uniform, one hand with fingers threaded around the trigger, the other supporting the weight of its body against his.
The immigration official muttered something in Sinhalese and shoved the passport back at her. An expression of relief flitted over the soldier’s face before he jerked his head, indicating they were allowed to leave.
In the Arrivals lounge, Ellie clocked the agents, identifiable by their studiously casual attire over unusually athletic physiques. Indian, Chinese, British and others. The American agents were a mix of local assets and CIA guys. They far outnumbered the rest. The Sri Lankan agents were harder to spot but she counted three.
‘Is it always this busy—and tense?’ she asked when they had cleared the airport and headed towards the cars.
Tenby shrugged. ‘The end of the war is nigh.’
A tall man approached them from the left and her heart raced as she recognised his silhouette and gait. Arjuna Diwela stepped forward, reaching out towards her, and his face turned away from her almost simultaneously.
She looked down at the hand. There was a small silver amulet tied around his wrist and his hand was covered in the keloid scar tissue of imperfect healing after deep burns. The scar crawled from his right hand, up his arm and under his shirt. She knew it carved a path across the lean muscles of his chest and back before it emerged from under his collar, spreading and twisting like a creeping ox-eye vine, before coming to rest across the left side of his face.
She smiled at Arjuna, tears in her eyes. It was her turn to ignore an outstretched hand. She put her arms around him and kissed first his right cheek, then his left, feeling him stiffen under the contact, then relax. He held her briefly.
‘Welcome back,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Arjuna. You’re driving for us?’
‘The pay is good.’ He smiled that ironic smile she remembered, now tilted on the left by the tightness of the scar.
‘How’s the family? Namalie still working at Hambantota District General?’ The last time Ellie had seen Arjuna’s sister was in the intensive care unit of a different hospital.
‘She is, thank you for asking. She’s a senior administrator at the hospital. The boys are studying hard.’
‘They must be young men now.’ She turned to Tenby. ‘I thought people were nicer in the tropics,’ she said, referring to the immigration officer.
‘They are nicer.’ Tenby opened the rear passenger door and cool air rushed out to greet her. Diplomats always had the best cars. Air conditioned and bulletproof.
‘They just don’t like us anymore?’ she probed.
‘I’m not sure they liked us before. You heard the man, we talk too much.’ He took his seat at the front.
She was mostly silent on the journey from the airport to Colombo. Arjuna stole several glances at her in the rear-view mirror. She allowed herself to lock eyes with him once. In the sliver of a mirror, he looked exactly the same.
It was an easy drive, first along the palm-lined beaches and then inland towards the capital.
‘Good highway, eh?’ Tenby echoed her thoughts.
‘Very good for this part of the world.’
‘Chinese contractors.’
‘Is there anything they don’t own?’ She frowned. Energy, weapons, technology, land and labour. The Chinese were buying, building or selling everything.
‘A few things,’ Tenby shrugged. ‘It’s a new world order and everyone wants their place in it.’
‘A new world order but the story is as old as time.’ She looked up at the Taj Samudra as they pulled into the circular driveway, the hotel’s three magnificent towers the prongs of a trident facing the cerulean blue of the Indian Ocean. ‘I’m staying here? Are you serious? Isn’t there a recession? Cuts to foreign aid, a crackdown on junkets etc?’ She grabbed her bag from Arjuna in case Tenby took her seriously and suggested she bunk with him.
‘I thought you deserved a treat,’ Tenby replied. ‘The cocktails here are excellent. Run a tab under the Deputy Ambassador’s name, not mine. You’re expected at the Embassy for diplomatic drinks tonight, Ellie. Redmond’s orders.’
‘God, I hate those things,’ she rolled her eyes.
‘You’re going anyway. Consider it your patriotic duty. I’m sending Arjuna, just in case you do a last-minute runner. Read the whole briefing before the party, please. No skimming.’
‘I never skim.’
‘You do, all the time, and you get away with it because you’re smarter than the rest of us. Pick up is at 1900, drinks at 1930.’ Tenby shook her hand, then pulled her into an awkward embrace and murmured, ‘I’ve put two weapons, eight rounds and a vest in your suitcase. Protection only.’ He pushed her away, smiling. ‘It’s good to have you back, Ellie.’