Lords of Corruption (21 page)

He chewed on his thumbnail, uncertain what to do. It was an opening that seemed almost too perfect to pass up.

"You don't have to get out. I mean, we could share."

Her face appeared again, and her gaze ran from his feet upward until their eyes met. "I bet not many girls say no to you, do they?"

He shrugged uncomfortably, and she withdrew behind the curtain.

"I think a cold shower is just what you need."

Josh adjusted the thin blanket separating him from the floor as Annika crawled into his bed and switched off the light. Giving her the bed had seemed like the chivalrous thing to do -- particularly in light of the clumsy pass he'd made -- but he was starting to regret it. The concrete grinding into his tailbone was bad enough, but now he found himself wondering what African creepy-crawlies skittered from their hiding places when it got dark.

He could hear her thrashing around on the lumpy mattress, obviously having nearly as much trouble getting comfortable as he was.

"Do you get lonely, Annika?"

"What?"

"You know. Living all the way out there by yourself."

"I'm not by myself. I have a lot of friends in the village. They've been good to me."

"Is it the same, though? Do you feel like they've really accepted you?"

In the glow of the floodlights bleeding through the curtains, Josh saw her scoot to the edge of the bed and look down at him. "You mean will they ever consider me one of them? No. I don't think so."

He wondered how many times she had seen some American or European show up in Africa only to leave a few weeks later. He wanted her to think he was different. But was he?

"Will you always do this kind of work? Do you see yourself being in Africa for the rest of your life?"

She thought about that for a moment. "Always is a long time. I --"

The sound of knocking silenced her. "Josh?" The voice was muffled but identifiable as Katie's.

Maybe it was a trick of shadow, but he could make out just enough of Annika's expression to see that she wasn't happy that there was a woman banging on his door in the middle of the night.

"Katie? What's up? It's after midnight." "Yeah, could I talk to you a minute?" "Can it wait 'til morning?"

"I guess," came the uncertain reply. "We were all just wondering what's happening with your people in the refugee camp."

"Did you know about this?" Annika said.

The customary gloom of the refugee camp had turned to a blinding glare. Military vehicles blocked nearly every road, and soldiers directed spotlights at the crowd being herded toward trucks idling in the muddy square.

And in the center of it all was Gideon.

He was standing on the roof of a pickup shouting into a bullhorn as the people from Josh's project milled past, clutching their children and what few belongings they had left.

Josh grabbed Annika's arm and leaned in close so she could hear over the din. "Stephen told me they were going to move them to a finished project. I thought he meant that NewAfrica was going to put them o
n b
uses over the next few months -- not that the military was going to shove them in the back of trucks in the middle of the night."

A young girl Josh recognized began to cry, obviously lost and largely ignored by people trying to get a place for themselves and their possessions on one of the trucks. He pushed through the crowd and scooped her up, then fought his way back to Annika, who, for all her experience in Africa, was looking a bit shell-shocked.

"Has JB told you what he thinks is going on at NewAfrica?"

She nodded numbly. "I thought he was crazy. I only agreed to go with you because I wanted to get to know you. . . ." Her voice trailed off.

Despite everything going on around them, he couldn't help feeling a brief burst of happiness at hearing that.

"I'm going to try to find this girl's mother," he said, wading back into the crowd. "While I'm gone, see if you can find out what's going on."

There was recognition in the faces of the people he passed, but none of the accusation and anger he'd expected. Mostly he saw resignation -- to the unknown, to powerlessness, to inevitability.

A woman's shout rose above Gideon'
s e
lectronically amplified voice, and Josh saw her pushing toward him through the crowd. The reunion was more practical than emotional, with the woman immediately setting her daughter down and handing her a bundle of cooking supplies. After a few grateful words, both disappeared back into the sea of people, the child struggling to keep up, which was undoubtedly how she'd gotten lost in the first place.

It wasn't callousness on her mother's part, he knew. She was doing all she could, but ultimately it was up to the little girl to survive.

Josh fought his way to within twenty feet of one of the cargo trucks his people were being packed into but could get no closer. The bed was covered with an arched green canopy that deflected light, and the people being shoved inside by Mtiti's troops seemed like they'd been wiped from existence.

An old woman fell in front of him, spilling the meager contents of her hand-sewn bag into the mud. No one helped her, instead using the opportunity to push a little closer to the truck.

Josh knelt, using his body to protect her from being trampled and fishing the phone from his pocket. He disabled the ringer an
d s
tuffed it into her bag as he helped her recover her things.

When she was back safely on her feet, he headed off toward where he'd last seen Annika, the surging crowd forcing him into a route that took him alongside Gideon's pickup. He was sliding past the passenger door when the bullhorn fell silent and a hand clamped around the back of his shirt. He tried to jerk away, but he couldn't break free and instead twisted around to look up into Gideon's ever-present sunglasses.

"Stephen Trent wants to talk to you."

"I know. I told him we'd get together in a few days."

"No. Now."

Josh pulled back again, but Gideon held fast.

"Where are you taking these people?" "To another project."

"Which one?"

"One that can support them." Gideon motioned to a group of soldiers who immediately started in their direction.

Josh threw his arms up and slipped out of the shirt, then bolted bare-chested back into the throng. Gideon shouted into the bullhorn, and the soldiers began to chase, swinging their rifle butts at anyone who slowed them down.

Annika's height and blond hair made her easy to spot, and Josh adjusted his trajectory to intercept her as she questioned the people flowing by. She didn't see him coming up behind her and was startled when he grabbed her by the arm and started dragging her back toward where they'd parked the Land Cruiser.

"What are you doing?" she said, nearly falling as he used a momentary gap in the crowd to break into a full run.

He jerked his thumb back at the soldiers twenty feet behind them. "Time to go!"

Chapter
26.

JB Flannary shoved the files to the edge of the desk and sipped coffee full of elaborate flavorings he couldn't identify. Every time he returned to the West, it irritated him a little more. The constant whining about self-inflicted problems, the thousands of choices when one would do, and the endless news reports about the horrible economic suffering being inflicted on the middle class. The current issue of the magazine he wrote for was actually running a story titled "Too Poor to Be Thin" about how it was impossible to buy the food necessary to lose weight without an income of around eighty grand a year. Maybe he'd pitch a follow-up with an article called "Diet Secrets of the Sudanese."

To be fair, though, the Internet ran at the speed of light, power transmission and phone service were 24/7, and he hadn't had to bribe a government official since he arrived. There was just no denying that if you needed something done, Westerners -- and Americans in particular -- were your go-to guys.

"Do you have everything you need, Mr. Flannary? Can I get you anything else?" "Thanks, Tracy. I think I'm good."

She was probably twenty-three, slightly plump, red-haired, rosy-cheeked. And she'd been responsible for shattering his anonymity less than a minute after he'd walked into the magazine's office suite. As he recalled, she'd actually used the word "gosh" when she'd spotted him.

"You know, I've read everything you've ever written. I've really found your commitment to the poorest people in the world inspiring."

"Thanks."

"Anything you need, just let me know, okay? Seriously, anything -- I know I have a lot to learn, and I can't think of anyone I'd rather learn it from."

She just stood there, staring down at him as though he were some kind of holy relic. It was hard to know how to react. Clearly any girl who would see him as heroic was deeply disturbed. He slid his letter opener across the desk and out of her reach.

"Flannary!" a familiar voice shoute
d l
oudly enough to make him duck involuntarily. "What the hell are you doing in my building?"

"Bobby! It's always a pleasure."

"Shut up."

Robert Page stopped in front of the desk, glared at the files on it for a moment, then fixed his stare on the young woman who was subtly backing away from the managing editor of the magazine she worked for.

"You! What's your name?"

"Tracy, sir."

He stuck a finger in Flannary's face. "Tracy. You're young, so you think his life is glamorous and meaningful. Don't be fooled. You don't want to end up like this."

Flannary expected her to melt into a quivering puddle, but instead her expression turned resolute. "I think he's brilliant."

Page groaned quietly and flicked a hand in her direction, indicating that she was dismissed. They both watched her go.

"You don't work here anymore, JB. You're just some crazy Africa guy who very occasionally does freelance work for us. You can't just walk in here, take over a desk, and start using our interns."

"I'm working on something you'd kill for. The Times is drooling all over it, but you and I've got a relationship, so I thought I'
d g
ive you first crack."

"The Times, huh? So your brother wants it, but you're gonna give it to me."

"Like I said, we have a relationship."

"Give me a break, JB. The economy sucks, the Arabs are going nuts, and the Chinese are taking over the world. No one here cares about Africa anymore. It's the same old crap, year after year."

"You haven't heard my angle."

"If I listen to it, will you go back there? And stay?"

"You have my word."

Page turned and stalked toward his office, indicating that Flannary should follow. He slammed the door behind them and then dropped into a sofa. "Okay. In five minutes or less, what have you got?"

"I have an NGO --"

"Here it comes," Page interrupted. "Here, let me finish for you: Tor reasons that would take seven hundred pages of background to explain, this particular charity isn't being as effective as it could be.' I'm riveted."

"You said I had five minutes. I assume we're not counting the time you spend droning on?"

Page sank farther into the sofa cushions. "Fine. Go ahead."

"I'm not talking about a charity that's naive, or even one that's self-serving. I'm talking about a charity that's operating basically as an organized crime outfit."

"Is this a joke?"

"No."

"I warned you about drinking in the sun, JB."

"I'm serious, Bobby. I don't know why someone didn't come up with something like this sooner. Think about it: Most people assume all charities are right in the middle of the moral high road, right? What little oversight they have doesn't even consider the possibility that their basic intentions aren't good. No one's looking for this."

"What the hell would they steal, JB? A bag of food and a thirty-year-old Datsun with no tires?"

"Are you kidding? How about the tens of millions of dollars flowing in from the U
. S
. and European governments and private donors? And what about the money coming in from mining? Or the money Umboto Mtiti would be willing to pay them to keep the international community off his back?"

"And you have evidence of this?"

"Right now it's mostly circumstantial. But that's why I'm here to put together something solid."

"I thought you were here to go to your brother's wedding."

"That's just my cover story."

Page gazed disinterestedly out the window behind his desk.

"Stealing isn't complicated, Bobby. This is a simple story about a group of criminals taking advantage of poor, helpless people."

"It's Africa, JB."

"So what are you saying? That the Africans don't matter? That we should just shove them into a corner and pretend they don't exist?"

Page's eyes widened. "What happened to the cynicism, JB? Don't tell me you're going native."