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Cecelia
Cecelia Byaruhanga stood in a ditch at the edge of a goat path in a state of disoriented panic. She had a city girl’s fear of being alone. A girl alone was a prime target for rapists and robbers, and she had never been so very alone.
She had no idea where to turn for help or even how to find the nearest village. She looked back into the gorge where the American girl had made her sudden catastrophic descent through the tree tops. The girl’s screams had echoed around the canyon as she tumbled through the branches, but she was silent now. The falling mazungu girl had taken Cecelia’s hope of rescue with her.
Cecelia had no idea whether or not the satellite phone was still sending out a signal. She wondered if she should just set out along the barely discernible track along the rim of the gorge. The direction really didn’t matter. If she walked far enough, she would surely encounter someone.
On the other hand, perhaps she should go back into the gorge and try to find either the phone or Sarah. Of course, Sarah might be dead - a fall like that would surely inflict serious injuries. What about the crippled boy? Was he still hiding somewhere down there, clutching his improvised crutch and waiting to be rescued?
Cecelia heard the high-pitched whine of an approaching motorcycle and instinctively shrank back into the bushes. She needed time to think and she needed time to pray. She couldn’t imagine what the nuns would say if they had been told that Cecelia Byaruhanga’s first impulse had not been to ask the Virgin Mary for help, but had chosen instead to fill her head with thoughts of rape and robbery.
She decided that she would let this motorcycle pass, and then she would pray, and trust that the next vehicle would be one sent by one of the saints. Cecelia placed great trust in the saints, especially her own personal namesake - St. Cecelia.
The motorcycle was approaching cautiously. It slowed down and finally came to a complete standstill just a few yards from the place where Cecelia was peeking through a screen of elephant grass.
The man on the motorcycle removed his helmet and ran his hand through his hair - white man’s hair. He set the helmet on the motorcycle’s gas tank, and reached into the pocket of his padded jacket, producing a square black instrument. It was not a cell phone but something with a glowing screen.
After a moment he returned the instrument to a pocket, reached into another pocket and brought out a different instrument. It was a satellite phone, the twin of the one that the white girl had stolen from Matapa. He punched some buttons, stared intensely at the phone, and then punched the buttons again.
Well, Cecelia thought, she may not be as sophisticated as the American girl, but she could put two and two together. She knew that what she was seeing was more than a coincidence. The man on the motorcycle had a device that was homing in on the signal from the satellite phone exactly as Sarah had predicted. He had been following a signal but now it seemed that the signal had disappeared. He was obviously puzzled, looking at his phone, looking at the electronic device, but finding nothing. So, one question was now answered - Matapa’s phone was no longer working which was not surprising considering the height it had fallen. She imagined that its mangled remains were caught up in a tree somewhere far below.
Who was he, this white man on a motorcycle? She only knew of one such man in and around Budeka - Rory Marsden. She had never heard anything bad about him. In fact, she had never heard anything specific at all, but he was an American and the girl, Sarah, was an American. This man had to be the answer to a prayer that she had not yet even prayed. Sending up a silent thank you to St. Cecelia, she stepped out of her hiding place and called out his name.
“Mr. Rory?”
He looked up. “Where the hell did you come from?”
––––––––
The American Embassy
Kampala, Uganda
Maurice VanBuren looked at the small group of men and women gathered in a secure, windowless room in the basement of the US Embassy. He was confident that nothing any of them said or did in this room would be heard or seen by anyone else, not even the ambassador.
He was well aware that US embassies all over the world now functioned behind barricades and barbed wire intended to keep out all citizens of any nation other than the US. In fact, the guards at the gate of this particular embassy barely acknowledged the right of US citizens to enter the stronghold of their own nation. As for those who applied for a visa to enter the US - they were directed to another building, another guarded office, another long line of supplicants. When they reached the front of that line they would, almost inevitably, be informed that they were not welcome to visit the US for any reason whatsoever.
A siege mentality governed the discussion in the crowded room where the topic under discussion was the murder of Zachary Frankel.
Malia, VanBuren’s assistant, a frighteningly efficient African American woman from Boston, had already delivered her opinion. “It’s an isolated incident,” she said, “something local with no indication that it’s connected to anything political.”
“How do we know?
This question came from Davis, one of VanBuren’s top agents. He was lounging in a tipped back seat, with his sweat-stained safari shirt unbuttoned to reveal a lion’s tooth strung on a leather cord around his neck. With his overlong hair and sun-browned face he looked exactly like the person he purported to be but was not—an itinerant safari guide, with a taste for hard liquor and well-heeled tourists.
“It’s not going to be a problem,” Malia insisted.
“How do we know that?” the agent asked again.
“Local intel.”
“You mean Marsden,” Davis said. “Do you trust that guy?”
“I trust him on this,” VanBuren said. “The situation with the kid is not going to be a problem. The ambassador called his parents.”
“Not a call I would want to make,” Davis said, and the other agents in the room murmured their agreement.
Van Buren was grateful as always, that he had never married, never fathered children, and never created a situation where someone would grieve over him. “The ambassador has promised a speedy return of the body,” he said. “His staff are sending in a helicopter because there’s no other way in.”
“So I heard,” Davis said. “The region is in chaos. The Kampala road is cut off at the bridge. There’s a wild rumor that a ferry is coming to help the people across. It will never happen. That ferry hasn’t run since the British left. It’s a rusting hulk.”
“The ferry’s not our problem,” VanBuren said. “Our problem is Matapa preying on the people who can’t escape him.”
“I already warned you about him long ago,” Davis said.
VanBuren nodded. “I’m aware of your warnings and I’m not saying you’re wrong, but Marsden’s always been able to control Matapa in the past and, quite frankly, he’s been a useful tool.”
“And now he’s gone rogue,” Davis said.
Malia came to VanBuren’s defense. “That was always a possibility “We know Matapa’s unstable, but we thought —”
“What we thought doesn’t matter now,” VanBuren interrupted. “Here’s what we all know. Matapa—”
“When it comes to Matapa,” Davis interrupted, “we know nothing. Where does he come from? What’s his real name? Why has he taken the name of an old Shona hero? What does he want?”
A voice came from the back of the room, where a number of junior officers crowded together. “Shut it, Davis. Some of us want the update.”
Davis slid down in his seat, stretching his long legs out in front of him and fixing his gaze on his battered safari boots.
“Three nights ago,” VanBuren said, “Matapa raided a boarding school and—”
“Marsden’s lost control,” Davis said.
VanBuren ignored the interruption. “Matapa’s thugs took prisoners, mostly teen-aged girls. He also took the son of Herbert Kahwa the biggest man in the district, and a close friend of the president. God knows what he has in mind for that kid.”
“We got all this at yesterday’s briefing,” Davis complained.
“Here’s what you didn’t get,” VanBuren said, “because Marsden has apparently chosen not to keep us up to date and we’ve had to rely on other sources. Matapa also took Kawha’s granddaughter, an American citizen by the name of Sarah Jensen.”
“Herbert Kahwa was briefly married to an American woman in the nineteen sixties,” Malia said by way of explanation, “and it seems that the granddaughter was visiting him.”
“How old is she?” asked a voice from the back of the room.
“Eighteen.”
“God help her.”
Davis continued to stare at his boots. “What does Marsden say?” he asked.
“Marsden’s not saying anything,” VanBuren said. “We didn’t get this information from Marsden – we got it from the girl’s father in Cleveland who made a call to the ambassador.”
He felt the sudden change in the atmosphere of the room. Davis drew in his long legs and sat up straight, chairs were shuffled, and he heard sudden intakes of breath.
“Newspapers?” asked a young woman from the back row.
“Not yet,” Malia said.
“How did the father find out?” asked another voice.
“Well,” VanBuren said, “according to the father, the girl somehow got her hands on Matapa’s phone and called her brother. She asked him to get someone to track the signal and find her.”
“Smart kid,” Davis said.
“According to the ambassador, the girl is a child prodigy. Probably a genius,” Malia said.
A female agent spoke up from the back of the room. “Why didn’t Marsden tell us about her?”
“He’s burnt out,” Davis said. “He’s been here too long.”
“We think he’ll try to take care of it himself,” VanBuren said.
Davis scowled. “No way. The guy’s more than seventy years old. How long is it since he’s been retrained?”
“He’s never been retrained, or even trained at all,” VanBuren said. “He’s a special case. We think of him as a local asset, not an agent. No one else could have done what he’s done, not even you, Davis. You’ve made it with your great white hunter act for the past ten years, try doing it for fifty years.”
“We have to act on this now,” Malia said. “If we don’t produce immediate results, the father will go public. Some sharp-eyed reporter is sure to connect it to the Peace Corps kid, and before we know where we are we’ll be airlifting the embassy staff out of here.”
“It’s not going to come to that,” VanBuren insisted
Davis was sitting up straight, his expression serious, his eyes boring into VanBuren’s. “Did we track the signal?”
“We had a brief contact. It might be enough.”
He looked around the room, making an assessment of his agents and coming to the conclusion that it would have to be Davis.
“You own a suit?” he asked.
Davis flicked a lock of lank black hair out of his eyes.
“Me?”
“Yes you. We can’t go in with guns blazing and reveal what Marsden’s been up to, so we’re going to join the official delegation going in to pick up the murdered boy’s body. You and I, Davis, are going to put on our Sunday best and fly in on the helicopter. Can you think of a better way to go in?”
Davis shrugged his shoulders. “You’re right,” he said, “it’s a good way in. Yes, I own a suit.”
“Go get dressed,” said Van Buren. “Dark tie, white shirt, nothing fancy. We have to move on this. The chopper is waiting for us.”
Davis rose to his feet. “And you’re coming?” he asked.
“I am,” said VanBuren.
“It’s been a while.”
“Yes, it has. Anything else you want to say?”
“What do we do with Marsden?”
VanBuren shook his head. “I have no idea. I may be wrong and he may be on top of this. He has a satellite phone but apart from his first report, he’s not saying anything. Maybe the phone’s dead. Maybe Marsden’s dead. Maybe he’s out tracking Matapa. We just don’t know. The place is cut off, no one’s going in or out until the bridge is mended, or the ferry is working. So, we take the chopper and we go see for ourselves.”
“Should we inform the Ugandan government that we won’t be running Marsden and Matapa any longer?” Malia asked.
“No,” VanBuren said, “we say nothing to the Ugandan government and they say nothing to us. This isn’t happening. This was never happening.”
“Anything else we shouldn’t know?” Davis asked.
“Aguma is in Budeka.”
“Aguma!” Davis said. “My god, whose side is he on?”
“Hard to tell,” said VanBuren.
Brenda
Brenda paced the beer garden like a caged lion. She seethed with impatience and frustration. Lunchtime had come and gone, the sun had passed directly overhead and was on its way to the western horizon and still there had been no word.
Frank nursed a beer and watched her making her way round and around the garden. The beer he had ordered for her remained on the table, sweating in the heat of the sun.
“Come and sit down,” he said yet again.
“What’s the point of sitting down?” Brenda asked. “Sitting down won’t get us anywhere.”
She stopped to look at the Irishman, recognizing the concern on his face. He’s frightened I’m going to keel over, she thought. He thinks I’m too old for this. She sighed. Maybe she was too old, but what difference did that make? Sarah was her granddaughter, and someone had to do something?
She lowered herself reluctantly into a chair and leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her face only inches away from the Irish evangelist.
“He’s not coming back, is he?” she said.
“Who?”
“You know who,” she growled, “Aguma. He’s found out something from that old sergeant and he’s not telling us what it is.”
“Yes,” Frank said. “I think that’s probably what has happened. There’s nothing you can do about it. He seems to be a very competent individual.”
“Oh yes, very competent,” Brenda agreed. “I wonder why he was pretending to be one of Herbert’s guards.”
“Pretending?”
“He’s obviously no run of the mill rent-a-thug,” Brenda said.
She took a swallow of the beer. It was warm, bitter, pointless. The solution to the crisis did not lie in beer drinking. “How’s the praying going?” she asked.
Frank raised his eyebrows.
“I’m serious,” she assured him. “I doubt if God would listen to my prayers, but maybe he’ll listen to you - you being one of his own.”
“He listens to all of us,” Frank said.
“But has he told you anything else?” Brenda asked. “Last time I asked you told me something about nature or animals and —”
“No, I don’t know anything else, but I know that it was a true word. It meant something.”
Brenda sprang to her feet again. “We can’t do this, We can’t just sit here.”
She looked around at the peaceful beer garden. A man in overalls was trimming the hedge. The waitresses were leaning on the bar their heads close together, whispering. Smoke from the cooking fire rose from behind the kitchen.
“What’s the matter with everyone?” Brenda asked. “Don’t they care? This man’s been terrorizing the country for years. He’s stolen their children and burned their villages and they don’t seem to care. Why aren’t they rioting in the streets? Why do they put up with it?”
“Rioting is a dangerous thing,” Frank said, “and people get hurt.”
Brenda waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re Irish and you have all this experience at rebellion and oppression and all the rest of it, but doesn’t this strike you as wrong? You would think that someone would do something.”
“I’m sure that someone is doing—”
“Well, I don’t see anyone doing anything,” Brenda interrupted. She took another long swallow of the beer. Her heart was ready to pound out of her chest and her mind would not be stilled. “If no one else is going to do anything, then we’ll have to do it,” she said. She slammed the beer bottle down onto the table. “Do you still have your PA system?”
“Yes, but...”
“Will it work without electricity?”
“It runs off a car battery.”
“Okay,” Brenda said, “you go and set it up, and see if you can find your interpreter. We’re going to talk to some of these people about what Matapa is doing.”
“They already know what he’s doing,” Frank said, “and apparently they’ve learned to live with it.”
“No,” Brenda insisted. “They don’t know everything. They don’t know that their own government is behind this.”
Frank frowned. “They may know it. They seem very angry with your husband.”
“Herbert does not represent the government.”
“In their minds, I think he does. They wonder where he gets his money.”
“This isn’t about Herbert,” Brenda said. “I don’t care what they think he’s done. They need to know about Rory. They need to be told that the good old United States is protecting Matapa. What do you think they’ll do when we tell them that Rory is a CIA agent?”
“You can’t do that,” Frank said.
“Why not?”
“He’s an American. You’re an American. Blowing his cover would be treason.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Brenda said, “it would be freedom of speech.”
“You must hate Marsden very much,” Frank said.
“Hate? No, I don’t hate him.”
“But you want him dead,” said Frank.
“Oh, it wouldn’t come to that,” Brenda said.
Frank looked around at the peaceful scene where Brenda seemed to be the only agitated person. “Northern Ireland,” he said, “British troops on every corner. My parents took me across the border from Dublin to Belfast and young as I was, I could feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“The fear. It was on every face – the British Tommies, just boys really, patrolling in their armored vehicles, terrified of ambush. The women – all they wanted was for their kids to be safe – and the kids, full of hate. Everyone knew someone who had been killed and not just by the soldiers. The IRA killed its own traitors, blew up houses, and burned people in their cars.”
Frank paused and took a deep breath. “I found God, and I found my own peace,” he said, “but I haven’t forgotten what it feels like. It’s here in Budeka, like a sleeping tiger. This might look peaceful to you, but it’s not. Everyone here is terrified. They’ve been through enough. They don’t want to wake the tiger.”
“I have to get Sarah back,” said Brenda.
“And you’re willing to kill Rory to get it done?” Frank asked, “And not just Rory. If you tell people what’s really been happening here, they’ll go after your husband, and the soldiers, and anyone else they think might be responsible. “
“I don’t care about Rory,” Brenda said.
“What did he do to you?” Frank asked.
“He lied,” Brenda said. “We thought we were on an adventure. We had no political agenda. We were going to drive from Cape Town to Cairo for the fun of it. We didn’t know that we were Rory’s decoys. He didn’t care about us. He pretended to be our friend – one of us. None of what he said was true. We were CIA decoys.
“And all of it was sixty years ago,” Frank said. “You need to stop holding onto the past and grow up.”
“I’m eighty years old. I think I’m grown up enough.”
“Then act like a grown-up,” Frank said. “Put the past behind you and try think of some way out of this mess that doesn’t involve getting Rory killed, and inciting an international incident.”
“It won’t—”
“Oh yes it will. If you let these people know that Rory Marsden is a CIA agent and that he’s working with their own government to keep Matapa safe, that’ll probably bring down the government. If they do that, America will lose its foothold on this part of Africa – maybe all of Africa. And then—”
“And then what?” Brenda asked as she tried to comprehend the reality of Frank’s apocalyptic forecast.
“And then the Islamists move in,” Frank said, “and that is what Rory’s been trying to avoid for all these years. Uganda becomes a haven for terrorists, and your American War on Terror expands across Africa.”
“No, you can’t hold me responsible for all of that.”
“All it takes is one little spark.”
“No,” Brenda said. “No! No!”
She buried her head in her hands, squeezing her eyes closed, trying to shut out the sight of Frank and his terrible accusations. Surely, he was wrong. He was exaggerating and leaping to wild conclusions. All she wanted to do was to stir up the population of one small town. She could be their savior – their Joan of Arc. She could lead them out of their current apathy and into action. If they all stood together and resisted Matapa, surely they could rescue the kidnapped children and drive him out.
Of course, they would have to know where to look for him. Aguma knew but Aguma had disappeared. What had Aguma learned and who had he learned it from? The old soldier, Sergeant Okolo – he must have told Aguma something.
Brenda rose abruptly.
“You can’t do it,” Frank said. “I’m not going to let you.”
Brenda ignored his protests. “I need a scarf,” she said.
Frank sat back in his chair. “What?”
“For the Moslem guest house. I need a scarf to cover my head. Are you coming with me?”
“No,” Frank said. “I am not.”
Brenda shrugged. “Then I’ll go on my own.”
She hurried out of the beer garden ignoring Frank’s continued protests. He was following her - she knew he would. Perhaps there was some sense in what he was saying, but Brenda was beyond sense, her mind was fixed on just one objective. She hesitated at the edge of the road. Which way? She had no idea how to find the Moslem guest house – maybe there was more than one Moslem guest house. Well, surely it would be in the town, not out in the bush. She turned toward the main street and hurried on.
Her sandals kicked up spurts of red dust and the sun beat down relentlessly. She could hear Frank coming along behind her. He was not speaking now, just following –following the crazy old lady.
A motorcycle pulled up beside Brenda and she stepped back in alarm. The driver’s eyes were concealed behind dark glasses but he was grinning at her in a friendly way. She scrutinized his face. No, he was no one that she recognized.
“Boda-boda, lady,” he said.
“What?”
“Boda-boda. You going into town?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. Are you offering to take me?” she asked.
“Yes, Madame. Five hundred shillings.”
“Okay,” said Brenda.
“You climb on.” said the driver.
“You be careful,” said Brenda and she started to straddle the back of the seat.
“No,” said the driver, “you sit sideways.”
He pointed to another motorcycle that had passed them by. The passenger was a woman who perched sideways on the seat, a baby on her lap.
Brenda arranged herself carefully on the seat.
“Where do we go?” asked the driver.
“Do you know of a Moslem guest house,” Brenda asked.
The driver turned his head and looked at her.
“You are a Moslem?” he asked.
“No, I’m a ... Oh never mind, do you know where the Moslem guest house is?”
The driver shrugged. “They are many,” he said.
Brenda thought for a moment. “Just take me to the clinic,” she said.
“Which one?”
Brenda was beginning to feel totally helpless. She could see Frank hovering at the side of the road, ready to step in and haul her off the motorcycle.
“Just take me into town,” she said. “I’ll take it from there. Go on, get going.”
The boda-boda driver revved the engine into a high whine and the motorcycle lurched forward. Brenda grabbed the driver around the waist and they inserted themselves into the flow of traffic heading for the town center.