It had started off as a joke: Carter Everett had promised Kowalski that he would bring Sarah to watch the “graduation” performance of Kowalski’s team of Zaïrian anti-terrorists. Then, when the day for the exercises arrived, Carter had his own reasons for finding a way to spend time alone with her.
Carter’s driver arrived to pick her up at the American Cultural Center at three o’clock, and Carter was waiting for them on the steps of the embassy on the Avenue des Aviateurs. When he saw the car pull up, he picked an enormous hibiscus blossom from a bush next to the gate and presented it to Sarah as he got into the car.
“God, at last, a gallant Yale man,” she said, tucking the flower through a buttonhole of her green linen suit.
Carter laughed and settled in beside her. “I take it you didn’t enjoy Yale and Yale men that much,” he said, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he remembered. “I’m sorry, Sarah, I had forgotten.” But he noticed, as Carter Everett would, that she was no longer wearing her thin gold wedding ring.
The car pulled up behind a fula-fula jammed with people. “Yale was long ago,” Sarah said, staring at the tangle of black arms in the fula-fula.
“And far away, of course,” Carter said, covering her hand with his. “Jesus Christ, one of Hitler’s escaped madmen must have dreamed up those buses. Look at them jammed in there, worse than animals. Jesus.”
The fula-fula belched a cloud of black smoke and downshifted gears with a grinding smack as it started up the hill to Kitambo. Fula-fulas, covered trucks converted into buses with no windows, had only a two-feet wide strip cut out of the metal side of the truck with a bar across it for ventilation. Passengers stood inside, packed tightly together, holding each other up. Most fula-fulas were painted a dismal dark green or black, and from the outside, only the arms, belts, midsections of passengers were visible.
“Doublez, Justin. Allez-y, go ahead and pass,” Carter said quietly, and Sarah squeezed the armrest as their car, horn blaring, shot around the struggling fula-fula, into the path of an oncoming car, which braked and, impotently, blinked its lights.
At Camp Tshatshi where the exercises were being held, Carter left her in the care of General Lucola’s aide.
Bending over her, Carter looked into her eyes, squeezed her arm and winked. “I’ll be right back,” he said, then turned and walked away toward the General’s waiting Jeep. Carter, it seemed to Sarah, was one of the most naturally seductive men she had ever met, his smallest gesture laden with intimacy. Unlike Jacques. Who wasted so little, who saved it all for wave after wave of passion when he made love.
Sarah and the General’s young aide joined the other spectators, about forty men (Sarah was the only woman there), African and European, in uniforms she did not always recognize. They watched as Carter, looking like a movie star graciously smiling despite the fact that he has stumbled onto the wrong set, and General Lucola circled the field in the open Jeep and saluted the troops.
When Carter joined her, they went to stand with a dozen or so other observers on a raised platform overlooking the exercise field, which consisted of a mock-up of a high-rise building, a reinforced cinder block front with windows, and a mock-up of a Boeing 747 made from stacks of old tires. The point of the graduation was to show how swiftly and efficiently the trainees could rescue hostages and liberate buildings and aircraft as well as manipulate the sophisticated hardware of anti-terrorist maneuvers: stun grenades, M-16s, and fifty-caliber machine guns.
It was a deafening affair. The trainees rappelled down the face of the mock high-rise, kicked out windows in a flash, tossed stun grenades inside, and after a burst of machine gun fire, heaved themselves through the windows and subdued the “terrorists” inside.
In the rescue of the 747 hostages, which took place immediately below their platform, the trainees first threw a series of stun grenades, then from above to the right, came a sustained burst of machine gun fire meant to keep the “terrorists” down while the rescuers moved in to complete their mission. “Goddamn that Kowalski!” Carter said. “Where the hell is he? I can’t see him. Who’s commanding that fire?” Carter had given Kowalski specific instructions about controlling the machine gun stations. Unconsciously, he reached out and pressed down on Sarah’s shoulder. “Goddamn Polack! I’ll kick his ass all the way back to New Jersey. Goddamn! Goddamn!”
Unaware of the potential danger, Sarah couldn’t help laughing, and the Mossad officer standing on her right with his hands behind his back and an amused look on his face, turned to look at her.
The Mossad officer, grinning broadly, shouted across Sarah. “Carter? Is there a problem?”
There was a burst of whining pings, and the machine guns stopped.
“Let’s go,” Carter said, steering Sarah off the platform. “Got to get you some champagne. Goddamn that Kowalski!”
Thirty minutes later, at the end of the exercises, Kowalski strolled into the green and white striped tent where the General and his guests were drinking pink champagne.
“You’re a hero, chief. I watched you. Never once did you bend your knees or duck your head. An inspiration.”
“Shut up, Kowalski,” Carter said.
“He’s going to kick your ass all the way back to New Jersey, Kowalski,” Sarah said, and Carter and Kowalski laughed.
Kowalski was short and muscular and young, and his deep-set black eyes sparkled in his ruddy face. Melodramatically, he slapped his hand over his heart. “I love you, Sarah,” he said. Kowalski was known to be thoroughly married, the father of two youngsters whose photographs at play in a backyard plastic wading pool he scotch taped to the walls of the villa he shared with five other men sent over on the same mission. “Did you like the show, Sarah? You must have. I wanted you to see it, and when your ears stop ringing, Sarah, promise that you will think of me.”
“I promise that I’m going to kick your ass all the way back to New Jersey, Kowalski,” Carter said. “To the New Jersey Turnpike. To Exit 12, where you were born. How’s that? Let’s go, Sarah.” His eyes were smiling as he punched Kowalski’s shoulder, and Sarah could tell that he was in a good mood.
Carter’s invitation to stop for a cappuccino at the Kilimanjaro seemed so casual and spur-of-the-moment that Sarah never suspected that it had been carefully planned and that Kowalski’s graduation exercises were merely a pretext for this tête-à-tête over coffee. It was after five o’clock, no sense getting back to the office now, Carter had said, and besides, it would be pleasant to sit out in the courtyard under the rubber trees and talk and watch Madame Hulbert’s neurotic monkeys.
There were few customers in the Kilimanjaro at this hour. Carter chose a small table in a spot midway between the sidewalk and the terrace of the café, and they talked aimlessly about books and movies and the way the video committee at the American Club ordered witless TV sitcoms instead of decent movies.
“Though I shouldn’t complain,” Sarah said, “I never have time to watch anything really.”
“So I gather,” Carter said, and smiled. “How was your trip up to Iyondo?”
“How did you hear about that?”
“I don’t remember . . . Jacques must have told me. So? A Mongo funeral ceremony, was it interesting?”
“Yes. What I remember of it. Which isn’t much. Masked dancers. Maï-Mati dancers. I’m afraid it wasn’t my finest hour.”
“What happened?”
“I got sick.”
“Sick?”
“I drank the palm wine.”
“My God.”
“As I said, I didn’t exactly cover myself with glory.”
“And Boketsu. The minister, Jacques’ buddy? He’s an unusual person, terrific education. Georgetown Law School and all that. Always shown a lot of promise. What do you think of him?”
“We don’t exactly get on.”
“Boketsu? That’s odd. I would have thought Boketsu would be all over you. He’s got a reputation. Likes good-looking women. Especially blondes.”
“I guess I’m not his type.” Sarah removed the wilted hibiscus blossom, its edges now curled and outlined in deep purple, and laid it on the table.
“Well, anyway, how did he strike you? Everyone’s curious about how he and Mobutu are getting on. Boketsu was up to his hips in trouble when he skipped out in ’82. What would you say? Is he a happy camper?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t exactly talk politics. We didn’t exactly talk, period, if you really want to know the truth. Everything I had to say seemed to irritate him. One way or the other.” Sarah remembered the veranda and Liliane’s dress. You look ridiculous, Boketsu had said, and Jacques’ mouth had gone hard and mean.
Sarah sprinkled more cinnamon over her coffee. “A happy camper? I wouldn’t exactly say that. He sounded pretty cynical to me. Sometimes. He made a sarcastic remark about the President’s party, the MPR, standing for Mort Pour Rien.”
Carter’s eyes registered a quick spark before he nonchalantly half turned from the table. “Christ, look at that monkey.” One of Madame Hulbert’s monkeys had one long arm looped over the bar of his cage and was gazing pensively at Sarah while he scratched his armpit. “If he had black hair and a red face, he’d look exactly like Kowalski.”
Sarah laughed. “Leave poor Kowalski alone, Carter. He’s adorable. Even Gussie Pearce thinks so.”
“Gussie Pearce never met a man she didn’t want to know—Biblical sense—and love. And I’m not going to leave Kowalski alone until he pays for scaring the hell out of me. I didn’t wet my pants, but I added a few more of these out there on that platform this afternoon.” He ran his hand through his voluminous shock of silver hair. “So, did the funeral celebration turn into a kind of pep rally for Boketsu?”
“He disappeared as soon as we came out of the elders’ hut. Where I drank that witches’ brew. I think Jacques was disappointed. I know he was. We didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon. No great loss as far as I’m concerned.”
“Does Jacques know how you feel about his friend?”
“More or less. I can be pretty obvious. On the other hand, I realize that with Jacques there are two sacred territories. No criticism or complaints tolerated. I know that and pull back because whatever I say would only hurt him. Boketsu—Bika is one of them.”
“And the other?”
“Zaïre. I always thought that I was a pretty ardent flag-waver until I met Jacques. But he makes my feelings for America seem tepid in comparison. He gripes and grumbles about things here, but I can sense that he wouldn’t put up with hearing the same remarks from an outsider like me. Anyway, why would I complain? I have a wonderful life here in this flat-out beautiful country with the man I . . . Well, anyway, it can be discouraging. I’m not making any more progress with my linkage program. Everything seems to be unraveling on me. Just as Phil Olmstead said it would. It’s getting me down. But Jacques is the most idealistic person I’ve ever met. He has such faith in these people, Carter, you’d never believe it. ”
“Well, for Jacques, this country is home. It’s all he knows.”
“It’s all he wants to know.”
“And yet, the fact is that Jacques, whether he likes it or not, is an outsider here, too. And will always be an outsider because he’s white. He can never change that. He’ll always be Belgian, never Zaïrian.”
“Well, I don’t see how anyone could be closer to the people than Jacques. Bika is in and out of the house all the time. Less since I’ve been around, I guess. They flock to Jacques.”
“They know Jacques respects them. And their culture.”
“He certainly has plenty of friends.”
“In these countries, that can be a problem sometimes. If your good friends happen to be on the wrong side when the shooting starts.”
“Anyway, he loves this place. This country. Up in the bush he was beside himself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so happy. It made me jealous. It’s a funny feeling, being jealous of a country.” Her eyes swept around the small world of the courtyard, the metal tables with flaking green paint, the enormous rubber trees, drooping, pendulous, the sulfurous white sky, cloudless and still, the air fragrant with wood smoke. “Carter? A girl up there at the village slipped up behind me and cut off a piece of my hair, and Jacques got very uptight about it. He took it away from her. He forced her hand open and took the hair. Why would he do that?”
“Oh, to keep the girl from giving it to a féticheur, I suspect. Jacques doesn’t want anyone putting a spell on you. Except himself, of course. So, otherwise, it was a quiet weekend, then? Just the four of you? No visitors?”
“Visitors? Yeah, as a matter of fact. Three men. Bika said that they worked on the plantation.”
“Did they stay very long? The three men, I mean.”
“They were there for lunch. I remember Jacques trying to speak Mongo with them. Later, he said that they didn’t speak Mongo, and he thought that was odd.”
Slowly, Sarah put down her coffee cup and for a moment seemed to be studying it. She picked up a pack of cigarettes from the table and shook one out. Carter struck a match and leaned forward with the light.
“We’re not just having a cup of coffee, are we, Carter?” she said finally, searching his face. His long face was solemn, but in his eyes, Sarah caught that familiar seductive gleam, watching, waiting.
“No,” he said. He held the match to her cigarette and waited. “Does that make a difference?”
“No, I suppose not.” She smoked for a moment without saying anything. Then, she said, “But I do have some sacred territory of my own now.”
“Jacques?”
“Yes. Jacques. Don’t ever expect me to dig information out of him, Carter. Because I won’t. I won’t ever do that.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. Jacques is a friend. I would always go to him if I needed certain information. Which he might or might not give to me.”
The three monkeys started to squeal, biting and pulling each other’s tails. Madame Hulbert, inside the café, slapped her fat hands against the counter and shouted, “Sales bêtes! Arrêtez!” The monkeys slunk off, each into a corner, and turned to stare at Madame Hulbert.
“For instance. This is the sort of thing I’d like to know. The kind of thing Jacques might not tell me. Maybe just because he doesn’t want to think about it in these terms. What would you say, Sarah? Just from what you’ve seen. If Jacques had to choose between Mobutu and Bika? What would happen to his sacred territories then?”
“He would choose Bika.”
“No hesitation. You sure about that?”
“Sure. He would support Bika.”
“Well, he didn’t in 1982. He stuck with Mobutu then.”
Sarah shrugged. “All I know is, whenever I or anyone else criticizes Mobutu and the way he runs this country, Jacques either laughs or he agrees. He doesn’t seem touchy as far as Mobutu is concerned.” She stood up. “Let’s go, Carter. The ambassador is giving a birthday party for his little girl, and he’s asked me to help out.”
“Oh, Sarah, gently, please! I wasn’t invited.”
“Well, I wasn’t that lucky. Come on, I have to pick up some things at my office before I go home. Can you drop me off?”
Traffic had picked up on the Avenue des Aviateurs, and the embassy parking lot was almost empty. On the corner, close to Carter’s car and driver, a woman crouched in the sand and roasted ears of corn over a fire, which hissed and threw up thick spirals of smoke as she dipped her fingers in a bowl of coral red palm oil and flicked drops of oil over the corn.
While Carter held the door for her, Sarah slid into the back seat and smoothed her narrow skirt around her legs. “Carter? Those questions about Bika. They don’t have anything to do with Jacques, do they? I mean, what Bika does or does not do won’t affect Jacques, will it?”
“No,” Carter said. “Why should it?”