“You’re shitting me,” she said.
“People in Freedom State are rich, but they are so vulgar,” he said.
“You’re calling me vulgar? Why have you kidnapped Charity Ali? What’s in it for you?”
“Fifteen thousand dollars, due in just a few days.”
“What’s so special about fifteen thousand?”
“It adds up. Here and there, a president can amass a healthy fund through such practices.”
“You kidnap and ransom for the president’s pleasure?” Viola said.
“The Faloos ruled this country for seventy-five years,” Maxwell said, “and now it’s our turn to eat.”
DAYS WENT BY. HOW LONG WOULD IT BE BEFORE BOLTON asked questions? If she ever got out of here, things would change at the newspaper. She would move up or she would move out. Viola tried to focus on the story she would write, and on the story that Yoyo had been hoping to publish, during the days upon days of eating bread, water and lukewarm noodles.
In her cell, there was no way of telling if it was day or night. Every day, she tried to make conversation with the woman who brought her food. Yes, Viola was indeed in the Pink Palace. Yes, the woman in the other cell was still alive. And finally, yes, today it was June 20. Viola knew that Keita’s big race was the next day. Would he win? Wire the money to Zantoroland? Would the authorities here release Charity? And what would happen to Viola? Would she be freed too? With every hour that passed, it seemed less likely.
The next day, Viola asked a young guard to let Charity and her sit out on a balcony to get some air. She promised him a hundred dollars American. He told her to speak to him when she had the money. She asked him to come back in an hour. When she was alone, she pulled the ziplocked bag from the secret pocket in her shirt. She removed one of the five hundred-dollar bills and put the rest back.
VIOLA SAT ON THE BALCONY WITH CHARITY, LOOKING NORTH at the Ortiz Sea. If she could have seen for hundreds of kilometres, she would have spotted a dozen or more fishing boats at sea, carrying refugees north. If she could have seen more than a thousand kilometres, there would be Freedom State. The sunlight burned her eyes.
“Keep a lookout for anyone coming from inside,” Viola said. She faced the sea and held the cellphone close to her body. Finally, she had a signal. She had Amnesty International, PEN International, the Freedom State consulate in Zantoroland, Mahatma Grafton, Mike Bolton, Minister Calder and Calder’s assistant June Hawkins all lined up on group speed-text. She sent a message to all of them.
Imprisoned in Pink Palace in Yagwa, Zantoroland, with Charity Ali, daughter of slain journalist Yoyo Ali. Lives threatened. Please help.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
OVER AND OVER, JOHN EMAILED HER. AND called her work number. He even called her editor, Mike Bolton, and found out that she had not returned from Zantoroland. Viola was missing in action.
Bolton ran an article on the front page of the Telegram about his valued reporter disappearing. But there was no word from any kidnappers.
Viola was John’s competition, but she had also become his friend and co-conspirator.
John was quite sure that with his information and hers, they could produce a killer work of journalism. He had a plan for how they could both benefit. The minister had arranged to see Keita. In his office. Before noon on June 21. There was an understanding. Keita was to bring the USB in exchange for a temporary permit. John wanted to be there. He wanted Viola to be there too. Together, they could assemble the pieces of this big story. But Viola was nowhere to be found.
MITCH HAD RECEIVED HIS INSTRUCTIONS FROM IVERNIA, who had received hers in a note that Candace delivered from Keita. Ivernia had made arrangements with her bank. The paperwork was in place. If Keita won or placed second in the Clarkson Ten-Miler on June 21, Mitch would issue the cheque to “Keita Ali, payable to Ivernia Beech” and accompany Ivernia to the bank, where she would sign the cheque on Keita’s behalf and wire fifteen thousand dollars immediately to a Zantoroland bank account registered under the name George Maxwell.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I NEED TO SPEAK TO THE MINISTER.”
June Hawkins had been the immigration minister’s executive secretary for only two years, and in that time she had turned away hundreds of people.
“I’m sorry,” June said, “but the minister is not available.”
He leaned over her desk. If he wanted to kill her, he could wring her neck on the spot.
“It’s important,” he said. “Vitally important.” He had a huge bandage on his left hand.
“I could schedule you in next week,” June said.
“No time. Please give him this”—he passed her a letter—“and tell him that Anton Hamm will be back to see him soon.”
June opened it, as she did all the minister’s correspondence.
Dear Minister Calder,
I’m sorry about threatening you. I was wrong. It wasn’t you. I have been screwed now over and over by someone dealing with deportations. Man named Saunders has been paying me to . . .
June skipped over the details. Minister Calder could absorb them later. But her eyes were drawn to the last part of the letter.
. . . I want out. Can’t do this anymore. Motherfucker shot me up, and I can’t handle it. I didn’t pay my taxes, and I’m screwed but I don’t care. You need to know what is going on right under your nose. Tell Saunders and his people to leave me alone. I hope you arrest all those bastards.
June walked into Rocco’s office and dropped the letter into his inbox. As she turned to leave, her pen slipped out of her hand. She stooped to retrieve it and saw, attached to the undersurface of the minister’s desk, a strange object. Half the length of her index finger. As thin as a pencil. Hard plastic shell. Wires inside.
It was the first time she’d seen one, but June was quite sure it was an electronic listening device.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
ROCCO CALDER TOOK A TAXI TO THE CLARKSON Academy for the Gifted. The century-old brick building was located on the University of Clarkson campus and was world-renowned. If you graduated with good marks from the Academy, the rest of your life was set. Or so it was said.
Rocco noticed the headmistress’s office stank of Limburger cheese.
“Can I help you?” a receptionist said. Middle-aged. Grey-haired. Little makeup. Brown bag on her desk. Thirty thousand bucks a year, max.
“I’d like to have a word with John Falconer,” Rocco said.
“I’m afraid he’s in class, sir.”
“It’s urgent.”
“Are you his father?”
Rocco hesitated. “No, I’m—”
The headmistress came out of her office. She was suave, attractive, mid-thirties, dressed in a black suit, with red pumps and red lipstick. Good looking, and probably brainy too. He wondered if she had voted for the Family Party. In the last election, the party had captured more votes than expected from young, professional women.
“Why hello, Minister Calder, I’m Brenda Tolmer. And to what do we owe the honour?”
“I’d like a word with one of your students, John Falconer, please.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No. None. He has been, um, interviewing me recently, and I need to make an important correction.”
“Highly impressive that one of our Grade 9 students got to you,” the headmistress said. “He must have been persuasive.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve been finding him, if I may say so, a wee bit distracted lately.”
“How so?” Rocco asked.
“Head in the clouds. Seems constantly to be reviewing film in his video camera. We’d hate to see him get off track. Kid’s as smart as a whip, considering his background.” She stepped in a little closer. “First student we’ve ever had from AfricTown. Full scholarship too.”
“He definitely has potential. And so, may I have a word with him?”
“Let me page him.”
THEY MET IN THE OFFICE OF THE VICE-
HEADMASTER, WHO left the room but kept the door open.
“Just checking to see if you really study here,” Rocco said.
The boy smiled. “So what brings you here? Do you want to see my private bathroom and rowing machine?”
“Very funny.”
John brought out his video camera.
“No,” Rocco said. “Not this time. No taping, nothing.”
John stretched his feet out on the couch. “Okay, then. What’s up, bro?”
“I have reason to believe that my office is being bugged. I have no doubt who is behind this. And I need your help.”
The boy was paying attention now. He liked to be asked to help.
“The PM and his sidekick will know, thanks to their bug, that I plan to meet Keita Ali on June 21. And they’ve been asking me about him. Repeatedly.”
“They’ll try to deport him straight away.”
“If Keita gives me what is promised, I will give him a temporary residence permit allowing him to stay here while applying for refugee status.”
“Still seems dangerous,” John said.
“It’s more dangerous if he does not come to get it.”
“So, where do I fit in?”
“The PM will turn up at the meeting, I know it. Do you think you could videotape the whole thing? In a . . . clandestine manner?”
“Now you’re talking.”
CHAPTER FORTY
MILE 1. SEVEN RUNNERS IN THE LEAD PACK. Keita was tucked in at the very back of the group. It was a windy day, and he didn’t want to do any more work than necessary. They’d covered the first mile in 4:34. Keita hoped that nobody picked up the pace. It was too fast to maintain. There were two Zantorolanders, three Kenyans, Billy Deeds—the lone white guy from Freedom State—and Keita.
Deeds was full of bravado. “Come on, you pussies,” he shouted. “Don’t tell me this is the best you got. Put on a show for Roger Bannister.”
Keita ignored the taunt. True, Deeds had beaten him in the half-marathon because Keita passed out. But now the problem was under control, and Deeds was the least of his concerns. Just looking at the way he ran, Keita was sure Deeds did not have more than five more miles in him at that pace. 4:34 was fast.
Keita had tested his blood early in the morning, and again two hours after eating and one more time right before the race. Each time, his glucose levels were normal. DeNorval had been coaching him well about how to manage diabetes. DeNorval had also told him to drink fluids with electrolytes and carbohydrates at the race’s five-mile mark. A low blood sugar level, DeNorval warned, would feel even worse than a high one. But the latter was unlikely, now that he was injecting twenty units of insulin a day.
Keita’s legs felt loose and easy. He hoped they stayed that way until the seven-mile point. After that, it would be pure guts. Twenty-five thousand dollars for winning, and an extra five thousand for breaking the course record of 46:04. That’s what he needed. Placing second would be almost as good, because it came with fifteen thousand.
Mile 2. 9:13. He could hear Deeds, whose breathing was already laboured. That was a good sign. The three Kenyans ran in a tight bunch at the front. Keita still sat at the back of the pack. Hamm waited a little way past the mile 2 marker. Keita noticed that he had a huge bandage on his left hand.
“Run hard,” Hamm shouted.
“Nice to have fans,” one of the Zantorolander runners mumbled to Keita.
“I take all the love I can get,” Keita said.
“The guy’s fixated on you,” the runner said, “but he tells me he is quitting.”
“Quitting?”
“Getting out of the business. After this race.”
Keita glanced at the name on the runner’s bib: Moses Patterson. “You in his stable?”
“Yup,” Moses said.
“Your first race for him?” Keita said.
“First and last.”
Mile 3. Mitch, on the back of a police motorcycle and carrying a loudspeaker, pulled even with the runners. “Gentlemen, a reminder that at mile five, you will turn 180 degrees, keeping the orange cones to your left. There is to be no pushing or shoving. If you break the rules, you will be disqualified.”
Keita knew the rules. Mitch was not allowed to single out any particular runner for encouragement or to offer advice. Keita thought about the USB stick strapped to a tiny belt at the small of his back. He barely felt it.
Moses noticed, though. “Is that thing a heart monitor?”
“No,” Keita said.
“What is it, then?”
“Makes me run faster,” Keita said. He accelerated, stepping it up to a 4:20-mile pace for just over a minute. Moses fell off the pace. So did two of the Kenyans. That told Keita that Kenya had not sent its best runners to the race. Not by a long shot. A good thing or he’d need to keep up this quicker pace for the whole race.
Surprisingly, Deeds stayed with him. So did the other Zantorolander. With the remaining Kenyan and Keita, that left four in the lead pack.
He had told Maxwell yesterday, by email, that he would send the money today. He had asked for a reassurance that his sister was still alive: a photo of her that showed the date. And the photo came back: a grainy shot of his sister, with a blackened eye and a cut on her forehead, holding up a sheet of paper that said June 20, 2018. Maxwell added, by way of a P.S., that Charity had met a certain friend of his recently.
Mile 4. 18:24. Exactly the pace that Keita would need to run the fastest ten miles of his life. Lula DiStefano stood by the side of the road near the four-mile marker, with a personal assistant and a man to hold her purse. She smiled, but her smile was not one that suggested she was proud to see him racing. It was a smile that told him he had run out of places to hide.
At mile 5, the clock read 23:01. A hundred children from AfricTown had come out and were chanting: “Champion of AfricTown! Run those boys into the ground!”
Many children had come up to him in the past few weeks, when he was running on AfricTown Road.
“Mr. Keita, Mr. Keita, let us watch you run.”
“You are seeing me run now,” he would reply.
“We want to see you run properly. In a race. Win for us, Mr. Keita. Run those other men into the ground! You are the champion of AfricTown!”
Keita grabbed a sports drink from the refreshment table and forced down a few sips, spilling most of it on his shirt. It didn’t matter if his shirt got soaked: the USB stick on his back was wrapped in plastic. Children tried to run alongside the pack, sprinting to keep up with the racers. No child was able to stay with them for more than ten seconds.
Keita would have to wear down the rest of the field. One of the runners might be much stronger than he was, and he had to find out. But would there be more than one? The only way was to surge again and see who followed. A minute after the five-mile marker, Keita threw down the gauntlet. He brought the pace up to 4:25-mile speed. And then, for about an eighth of a mile, 4:20 speed. The fourth-place fellow dropped back. Deeds stayed right with him, as did the Kenyan, so Keita settled back into a 4:36-mile pace. He had to test this out. He could not afford to finish third. He imagined his sister’s voice: You could save my life if you ran a little faster! Within a minute of easing off, he sped up again, increasing his speed to a 4:20 pace. He heard the Kenyan breathing heavily, so he decided to keep it up for a quarter-mile. The Kenyan finally cracked and fell back, and Keita continued the fast pace for yet another eighth of a mile. Deeds was still on his shoulder. Keita slowed back down to 4:36.
“Is that all you got?” Deeds said.
Keita said nothing but made sure that he kept pushing the pace.
They hit mile 6 and the clock read 27:35.
A group of police motorcycles pulled up behind the leaders, came even with them and advanced just a few metres ahead. Keita’s feet almost collided with their tires. One of the uniformed men kept looking back at him. Keita heard the police radio crackle.
“Runner identified,” came a voice from the radio.
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“Shall I make the arrest?” the officer asked.
Another motorcycle pulled up beside the police. Keita could hear Mitch’s voice.
“No! Do not interfere with the runners. They will be at the finish line in less than twenty minutes. Please. Speak to your commanding officer. Your business can wait!”
More voices crackled, and then the cop who had been staring at him sped ahead and away.
“Jail time for Roger, is it?” Deeds was mouthing off again.
Keita believed he could outrun Deeds. But he didn’t want to pull away from him too soon. If he were alone in the lead, it might be easier for an overexcited police officer to jump him. Running beside Deeds gave Keita a measure of protection.
“While you give interviews to dyke reporters, I train on the track, buddy-boy. So why don’t you just go back home?”
Keita had no breath for singing now, and Deeds knew it. Keita’s legs were growing heavy. His thighs ached so intensely that he looked down, wondering if something was wrong with them. They hurt like the blazes, and the last three miles would be about who could tolerate the pain more.
At the eight-mile mark, the time was 36:48. Keita looked over his shoulder. The Kenyan was holding on to the pace, just thirty yards back. One could make up thirty yards quite easily in the last two miles of a road race like this.
In his pain, Keita thought again of his nightmare: being brought sweets and drinks while his father was tortured in the Pink Palace in Yagwa. He thought of what the authorities had done to his father and of hauling the naked corpse home. He thought of his sister now, and he decided that he would rather die of a heart attack than not spend every ounce of energy winning this race for her.
It was now too risky to run alongside Deeds. The Kenyan might overtake them both, and Keita did not have a strong finishing kick. Keita glanced over and saw that Deeds’ head was tilting to the side. He was hurting! Keita picked up his pace again and ran as hard as he could for a quarter-mile. Finally, Deeds cracked. Keita tried with all he had to pull ahead of him. Thousands of spectators lined the side of the road, and he was faintly aware that they were shouting and pointing. He got to the nine-mile marker in 41:24. He was having trouble breathing and hearing, but Keita knew he needed more than a strong finish. He glanced back. The Kenyan was a few yards back and smiling, as if to say, You’re toast, and we both know it. Keita knew this might be true, but he took comfort in noting that Deeds had been broken. He was more than a hundred yards back. The Kenyan caught Keita with a third of a mile to go. A fifth of a mile before the finish line, he took off in a sprint that Keita could not match. Keita didn’t even try. He had second place in the bag. Second was all he needed. Hang on, Charity. Just hang on a little longer.