Making Wolf (27 page)

“Do you want to go to the theater today? I can get us into
Man and Superman
at the National.”

I tapped on the aquarium glass. The carp scattered.

“You made her feel even more ugly than usual,” I said, without looking at her.

“What?”

“I said, you made her feel uglier. Uglier and uncouth and uncultured. Which is what she was, but you made her acutely aware of it.”

“Who are you talking about now?”

“Ikem Okafor.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know her?”

“I do not seem to recall—”

“I know you killed your husband, Diane.”

I heard the bedclothes rustle as she sat up. I turned to face her.

“You have been listening to absurd rumors,” she said. Her eyes were narrow slivers.

“No rumors. You killed your husband. I know that much, but I’m not sure of the motive. His first wife thinks he was a bit of a shit, you know. Was that why you killed him?”

“This is a joke right? A fantasy?”

“Not a fantasy at all, Diane, but I can tell you a story if you like. On the day your husband died, Alao drove out to the PFC camp, lost control of the vehicle on the way and stopped. Almost simultaneously, Pa Busi took a shot to the head and the trunk. The body shot was from inside the jeep, and the shooter was most likely Idris Wallace. The head shot was taken by Ikem Okafor from a palm tree that she must have climbed hours earlier. The jeep then exploded. I think Ikem mined the road or placed some remote detonating grenades around her kill zone. Either way, I’m fairly sure she was responsible for the blast.”

“What does all this have to do with me?”

“I know why Ikem pulled the trigger. She wanted to restart the hostilities, but then there was something odd about her diary. There were entries relating to you. Her paymasters have told me that she pretty much worked on her own. Long rope, loose supervision, all that. When she decided to kill Pa Busi, she spent a lot of time observing her target, and, in the process, she observed you. She thought you were beautiful, charming, otherworldly, everything she was not. She also felt sorry for you, which I could not understand. She saw something that she felt she had to put a stop to, which gave her a second reason to kill him.”

Diane was getting dressed. “What are you talking about?”

“She killed Pa Busi for you. She saw something and felt she had to get him out of the way. For you.”

“She was mistaken. And her misconception does not mean I ordered my husband’s death. I never spoke to her!”

“No, you probably did not, but that’s not why I said you killed him.”

“Then why—”

“Because of Wallace.”

She was silent.

“You can’t say you don’t know Wallace, can you? You told me he was the only bodyguard you talked to. Afolabi noticed the relationship between you two. You see, he’s the kind of straight arrow who likes a clear demarcation between duty and leisure. He did not approve of fraternizing at work. He saw some undue coziness between you and Wallace. Have you ever spoken to Afolabi? Remarkable case. Totally brain dead in everything but the day he was blown apart. Amazing, really. Anyhow, where was I? Oh, yes, Idris Wallace. I don’t know if you were lovers—”

“Oh, please!”

“—or if you promised to pay him when the insurance came through only to find him conveniently blown up after the event. Then you simply stopped taking his calls, after which he is meant to have killed himself. Did you start a fight with your husband to reduce the guilt when you ‘discovered’ his assassination?”

“I want you out of my house.”

“In a minute. You lied to me. I went to the insurance company. Gentian Alliance. The claims department is virtually one investigator and an extremely busty secretary. He told me there was no investigation into your claim. You said it had been fully investigated when I asked you. Why would you say that? The investigator said there was a wave of sympathy when Pa Busi died, and he was instructed ‘from on high’ not to bother with a close look at the circumstances of his death. Sixteen million dollars, wasn’t it?”

“Get out.”

“I will, but not yet. I want you to know something: I don’t plan to share this information with anybody. Ikem Okafor has been found and killed. It doesn’t matter how. The official story will be that she was a lone gunman, and that will be that. You and I will know the truth, I suppose, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve found out recently that I have no real morality or politics.”

“You were fucking me while your girlfriend was missing, Weston. That should have been a big clue.”

“Yes, yes, my powers of detection only work for the benefit of others. Blah, blah. Diane, I know you did it, but I don’t know why. I don’t buy greed as a motive, although sixteen million is sixteen million. Yet Ikem saw something while she was surveilling you.”

“…”

“What did he do to you?”

“All you have is conjecture.”

“I know.”

“But the kind of thing that could theoretically drive a person like me to murder would have to be an insult against my body. It would be something I consider to be defilement. For example, if my husband were to drug me one night, to drug my food, and undress me and scoop some of the low-fat butter from the refrigerator and smear it inside and around an orifice which we had not previously agreed was open to him and insert his erection and take me again and again until the bed linen is stained with blood and semen and excrement, all to satisfy his urges and needs. It would probably take weeks in the hospital to heal. Wounds would open up between the bladder and rectum, which would mean incontinence and persistent water infections since fecal matter would leak into the bladder. Hospital staff and servants would have to be paid off to keep quiet, but the victim of such savagery would always know that they knew. Such a victim would feel dirty no matter how many times she washed, not just from the rape, but from the incontinence and fear of incontinence. Theoretically, if he were to do that, then the shame might be enough to drive a person like me to murder. Not me, mind you. A person like me. Not me.”

“No. Of course not.”

We were both dressed now. I gave the aquarium a final tap. I remembered the extreme porn I found in Pa Busi’s locker when I roamed the house. I nodded at nothing. A few tentative birds started experimenting with dawn song.

“Do you even care, Weston?”

“Not really. I was just curious as to your reasons. It makes no difference to either of our destinies.”

“I mean about me. Do you care about me?”

She seemed vulnerable for the first time. Her hair was all wet and floppy and the anger was gone. Just resignation and sloped shoulders.

I walked over and kissed her in lieu of an answer. Then I left.

I was sleep deprived again.

I had worked everything out. There was no fine maneuvring to do, but I had to remain alert. I felt slightly dizzy whenever I stood up quickly, and I had a layer of cold sweat on my back. I asked for strong black coffee while I waited for the supreme commander in his lounge.

The Liberation Front of Alcacia had moved headquarters since my last visit on account of government shelling. It was smaller, and the commander’s quarters weren’t as grand.

Rather than the old camp where the revolutionaries pushed back the forest with a bulldozer, this one secured a gentler place, more in tune with the countryside. Even from inside I could hear wind shaking up the trees. Nature was winning this time, and there was an impermanence to the place. It was still early enough in the morning for cocks to crow.

There were both gas lamps and kerosene lanterns on shelves although the distant hum of a generator guaranteed power.

There was a dining table covered with a white Red Cross blanket instead of a table cloth. There was bread, open bottles of olive oil, tea cups, dodo, ogi, empty glasses, bottled water, a boiled egg, salt and pepper shaker, and a cooked, half-eaten fowl. Nothing steamed, so I guessed it was all cold. The table lacked vitality—these were leftovers.

Inexplicably there was a bootleg poster of a young Leonardo DiCaprio on the wall.

There were windows with vulgar bars across them. I spied two men sitting under a tree, sharing a meal and laughing. A delayed guffaw. One would throw back his head, and the dopplered sound would hit later.

I was here to be officially congratulated. This time I had not been kidnapped or even blindfolded. I simply waited at the market gate, and a car came for me. I was not searched, even though I wasn’t armed.

Sing a happy tune.

A door opened, and Supreme Commander Osa Ali came in with Churchill and another man whom I didn’t know. I was slightly disappointed; I had hoped Nana would be there, too. Not that it was necessary. Church was in a buba and soro, which is a modified caftan made of local fabric. He smiled at me with an eyebrow raised and cocked his head to the side with his hands spread out. As if to ask, No hard feelings? I nodded at him with a scintilla of a smile. Osa Ali did not have his glasses on, but he seemed rather benign and wore a white shirt with jeans. The unknown man was Chinese and wore a suit.

“Your Excellency,” I said.

“Weston Kogi, we owe you a debt of gratitude,” he said. He hugged me, drew me into himself. Very expansive. Hardness in the muscles under his layers of fat. Smelled of Old Spice. ‘May I present Mr. Tian Rui Han? This is our private investigator, Weston Kogi.”

Han shook my hand. Ali did not volunteer what exactly Han’s role was, and I did not ask. He handed me a sheet of A4.

“Press release,” said Church. “It’s going out later today. Nana composed it, but it will appear under a different byline when published.”

Indeed.

After many years of uncertainty the murderer of Pa Busi has been unmasked. The investigation was carried out by private detective Weston Kogi working in conjunction with the Alcacian Government. He has disclosed that the killer was Ikem Okafor, a People’s Christian Army agent. It appears clear that the PCA’s intention at the time was to stoke conflict between rebel factions and disrupt the peace process sought by other groups, particularly the Liberation Front of Alcacia. In an attempt to apprehend the assassin, she was fatally injured and did not survive. Mr. Kogi was not available for comment. This draws a line under a case that has baffled authorities for…

“What do you think?” asked Church.

“You said ‘fatally injured’ and then that the person did not survive. Tautological.”

“Nobody cares, Weston.”

“This is going to become the official version of events, isn’t it?” I said.

“Pretty much.”

“It would be a pretty good advertisement for me if I were planning to stay in the country and work.”

“True, but you don’t have to worry about funds for the time being. We have remuneration for you,” said Ali. He handed over a briefcase. I didn’t look inside. “Do not give any interviews about this affair. That could make things inconvenient for us. It is over.”

“I have a gift for you,” I said. I took the Epoch canister out of my hip pocket and offered it to Ali.

“What is this?” he asked.

“It’s a nasty little synthetic virus that the PCA wanted me to release in your camp. My gift to you. Do with it as you will. I’m out of this business.” I stood up.

“Wait,” said Church. “Let’s confer.”

They asked me questions about the virus and how to release it and who specifically asked me to bring it. I answered honestly most of the time. Han was most interested in the parameters of the disease that Epoch induced. They got into agitated whispers, which did not interest me in the least.

“Not that I’m any good at strategy or anything, but what are you planning to do with it?” I asked.

“We are going to shove it right up the PCA’s collective ass,” said Church. “It’s just what we need.”

“You’d unleash it on them?”

“They were going to do it to us,” said Church, arms spread out.

“Good bye, Mr. Kogi. We’ll think of you again if we have business,” said Ali.

“Please do not,” I said, and left the room.

From the car I telephoned Nana. This time she picked up the phone. “We have nothing to talk about, Weston,” she said.

“My passport?”

“It’s at my parent’s. I’ve told my papa to give it to you if you turn up.”

“Thanks. Listen, I really am sorry for—”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

“One last thing: are you in the camp?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Get out.”

I hung up the phone and dialed another number.

“It’s me. I did what we agreed. They also planned to use Epoch once it was in their hands. My part in this is over.” I hung up and tapped the driver of my escort jeep.

“Stop the car. I need to take a piss badly.”

I went into the undergrowth and ran as fast as I could. I was still running when the rumble of bombing began.

After an hour I began to hallucinate. Nordic frost giants melting in the noon sun of Alcacia. Watermelon monsters battling over the corpse of a Jabberwocky. A dozen monkeys babbling Shakespeare’s sonnets. Orange-red Martian landscapes with corpulent African fertility gods running marathons. Giant bats, jaws dripping blood, swarming around me. Yet in all this, I was not afraid. I was walking or running through it, trying to get away from a conflagration behind me. Or in front of me, it was difficult to tell. I drifted, floated off the ground, dissipated into nothingness.

I woke up in a bed that was cold and wet with my own sweat. It was night time judging from the crickets and the darkness outside. I had no idea where I was. The ceiling had this dusty netting strung up across it and random objects like books and toothbrushes were caught in it. Mine was the only bed in the room, which was small with a single window. Someone had scribbled “Stand Up For Jesus!” on the wall beside me. The other walls had a one-foot crucifix and a painting of shepherds. It was too dark to determine color other than a dull brown. A gas lamp hissed in the corner in front of me, turned low to provide a night light. I sat up, felt dizzy, steadied myself. I was naked.

Near the door there was a chair, as if someone had been watching over me. The bedside desk had a King James Bible and an empty glass. Perhaps a hospital? I wondered what had happened.