The Illegal

  Keita crossed the finish line in 45:58, nearly knocked over a race official and kept going.

  It was crowded up ahead. Two men waited by the metal gate designed to herd runners toward the recovery area. One wore a jacket with the word Immigration on it. Another held handcuffs.

  “Keita Ali,” one of them shouted. “You’re under—”

  Keita hurdled the barrier and kept running.

  “Stop!” someone called from behind, so Keita ran faster. He had just one hope, and just one place to go, so he darted among pedestrians and raced toward the Freedom Gates. A siren wailed behind him. Keita glanced back. Two officials were chasing him on foot, and a police car was after him too. The officials wouldn’t be able to keep it up for more than a hundred metres, so it was the car he had to worry about. He couldn’t let them catch him.

  He knew the way; John had given him directions. Keita pulled out of sight into a grassy field and then onto a street facing traffic. He ran out Freedom Gates and into the traffic circle, darting away from cars. The siren kept blaring, a reminder of everything that he had fled in Zantoroland and in Freedom State. He ran along the boardwalk by Ten-Mile Inlet on his left, passed three government buildings on his right, and then darted through a fourth office building, from front to back, emerging and doubling around on side streets until he was able to enter the Freedom Building without any police officers or cruisers in sight.

  He knew the office he was looking for was one floor up. He took the stairs in threes. There, at the end of the hallway, was a door marked The Honourable Rocco Calder, Federal Minister of Immigration. He opened it and tore through the outer office, past a black woman sitting at a desk and into the room behind.

  The minister stood up from his desk, and the black woman came in behind Keita.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “It’s about Viola Hill. And it concerns this gentleman, too.”

  “Not now, June,” the minister said.

  “It’s an emergency,” June said.

  “Just take care of it,” the minister said.

  “I’ll be a few doors down,” she said. “In the lunch room. Going to make some calls on your behalf.”

  “OK, later,” Calder said.

  “Congratulations,” June said to Keita, “and good luck.” And then she was gone.

  “Keita Ali,” the minister said. “You sure got here fast.”

  Without a word, Keita shook his hand, slid off his tiny belt, pulled out the USB stick and reached to hand it over. Then he hesitated.

  “Don’t you have something for me?” Keita said.

  The minister brought out a form and signed it. He gave it to Keita along with the pen. “Sign this. It gives you the temporary right to be in the country. The next step will be to get you permanent refugee status.”

  Keita signed and released the USB stick into the minister’s hand. It was hard to believe that the process was so simple. In fact, Keita did not yet believe that he was safe.

  “Fine run, by the way. I was watching it on TV. I saw you ran under forty-six minutes. That is smoking, for ten miles. Pity you lost.”

  “About coming in second, it doesn’t matter—”

  “No, it doesn’t,” said a voice behind Keita. “Turn that stick over to me. And that’s an order.”

  Keita spun around. He was still gasping. His hamstrings were cramping. Standing there was a young man with pimples on his forehead and a tie that needed straightening.

  “Who are you?” Keita asked.

  “The only one who can get anything done here. Keita Ali, you’re about to be deported.”

  “Geoffrey, get out of my office,” Calder said.

  “Make me,” Geoffrey said.

  “I’d be glad to,” Calder said.

  Keita considered running. But where? And how? He was out of breath. His legs felt like tree stumps: heavy, lifeless, useless. He looked toward the door again, but it was too late. A copper-toned black man with shades and a baseball cap had stepped into the doorway. He was pointing a purple pistol with a silencer.

  “You,” the man with the gun said to Keita, “get in the corner and sit down.”

  “There is no need to harm anyone,” Keita said.

  “Shut the fuck up, and do what I say.”

  Keita lurched to the corner. Glancing out the window, he could see the finish line less than a kilometre away, and runners who had already crossed the line were walking up the street, eating doughnuts and ice cream bars. It was just one floor down. Could he pull open the window and jump?

  “Keita,” the minister said. “Could you humour him? We will get through this. Here.” He walked over to Keita and helped him to a chair.

  The man with the gun took three steps into the office.

  “Careful, Saunders,” Geoffrey said. “Just be careful.”

  “Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?” Calder said. And then, turning to Keita, he said, “Just stay seated, and I’ll work this out.”

  “Put down that form, Rocco, and give me the flash drive.”

  “Come and get it.”

  “Saunders,” Geoffrey said. “Exert some pressure, would you?”

  “Minister, hand the stick over, and stand against the wall,” Saunders said.

  “I shall do no such thing.”

  Saunders raised the gun and pointed it at Calder.

  Calder took a few steps away from Keita. “Geoffrey, what the hell is this about?”

  “We need this man. We need that stick. Hand it over.”

  “Not on your life,” Calder said.

  “I’m afraid it’s your life,” Geoffrey said.

  “I am the federal minister of immigration, and I have given this gentleman a residency permit. I am not relinquishing anything to you.”

  “Saunders,” Geoffrey said again.

  “Last warning, Minister,” Saunders said. “Hand over the stick.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Calder said.

  Saunders raised the revolver, aimed at the minister of immigration and fired. A lamp exploded, a window shattered and the minister fell back.

  “You shot me, asshole!” Calder said. “My shoulder!”

  “The stick,” Saunders said.

  “Fuck,” Geoffrey said. “You have to finish him off now, Saunders. Both of them.”

  “Wait,” Calder said. “At least tell me what the hell this is all about.”

  “We need this man, and the USB stick,” Geoffrey said.

  “Why?”

  “The stick shows Bossman in a . . . situation.”

  “In AfricTown,” Calder gasped. “With Yvette Peters.”

  “You’re not quite as stupid as you look,” said Geoffrey.

  Calder clamped a hand over his bloody shoulder. “So why do you want the runner?”

  “Apart from the fact that he has something I want? He left his country and is wanted back. You remember the platform we ran on, don’t you?”

  “But he just signed Form 179. He’s no longer an Illegal.”

  “In about one minute, nobody will know about that form—or care.”

  “You’re paying Zantorolander officials in exchange for information about Illegals, whom you then deport. Is that right?”

  “Saunders, we are short on time. The minister, please, and then this runner. But first, Rocco old boy, give me that USB stick.”

  Geoffrey walked to Calder, who was now slumped against a wall. But before he reached him, Hamm burst into the room.

  “Minister, I’m here to tell you—”

  Hamm stopped in his tracks when he saw Saunders pointing a gun at him.

  “You motherfucker,” Hamm said, looking at Saunders. “You stiffed me for my money, and you fucking shot me, to boot.”

  “This is your lucky day, because I’m about to shoot you again,” Saunders said.

  Hamm charged. Saunders took aim. Hamm dived. Saunders re-aimed and shot. Hamm let out a grunt and tumbled through space, holding his left arm. Blood flew everywhere. Hamm slumped o
n the floor, breathing raggedly and staring at his injured limb.

  Keita saw Hamm staring at him. Part of him wanted to help the man who had been hunting him down. Keita looked up at the window. He could jump through it. Or he could make a run for the door. No. Not the door. It was suddenly blocked by the tallest white man Keita had ever seen. Greying hair. Fit. In a fancy grey suit. A tanned complexion.

  “Geoffrey,” said the tall man, “you have buggered this up royally.” He walked into the room. “Saunders, a bloody good thing you use a silencer. This is going to be one tricky matter. Sorry, Rocco, but you’re going to take this one for the team. Saunders, do him first. And then this fine running specimen. And then finish off that idiot mule of ours. Wait. Do we have the evidence?”

  “That’s what I was to you?” Hamm said to the prime minister. “You were elected to lead a nation, but you use a mule?”

  “Best way to move money, if the mule is witless, and mules always are,” Wellington said. “Geoffrey, get that damn stick.”

  Geoffrey pulled the USB stick from Calder’s hand.

  “You’ll never get away with this,” Calder said.

  “Sure we will,” the PM said. “This illegal refugee burst into your office and started shooting like a madman. My man here seized his gun and shot the terrorist and saved some lives. Some, but not all.”

  “It will never work,” Calder said.

  The prime minister glared at Keita. “And you, you little prick. This will teach you to run off with things that don’t concern you. I was going to come get you personally in AfricTown and watch while DiStefano gave you up. But this is better. You saved me a trip. Saunders, it’s time.”

  Saunders walked calmly over to Calder. Keita could jump out the window the minute Saunders fired. But even if they didn’t shoot him on his way out, they would catch him; he knew it. There was no place left to run in this country.

  But Keita wasn’t afraid. He had run second, and the money was on its way. With luck, his sister would be free soon. If he died now, so be it. Keita stared the politician right in his eyes. The prime minister turned away.

  “Saunders,” the PM said.

  Saunders raised the gun. He aimed it at the minister’s head. Keita saw movement at the door.

  “Saunders, wait!” Keita shouted.

  Saunders trained the gun on Keita, instead. “All right, then, you first.”

  With his good hand, Hamm grabbed a glass paperweight and hurled it, hitting Saunders in the stomach.

  Saunders gasped. “Fuck.” But he regained his balance, turned back to Hamm and shot him in the stomach.

  Hamm groaned and lay bleeding from the belly and the mouth.

  “This time, asshole,” Saunders said, “you die.”

  Saunders took aim again at the minister, but before he could pull the trigger, another explosion rocked the room. Saunders fell to the ground, blood splattering on the wall behind him. Candace stood in the doorway. She lowered her gun.

  “Mr. Prime Minister, you are under arrest. And so are you,” she said, her gun now aimed at Geoffrey.

  “Please, don’t point that at me.”

  “What is that in your hand?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Toss it here,” she said.

  “I’d rather hang on to it.”

  “Things will get a lot rougher for you, and very soon, if you don’t cooperate. Toss it here.”

  He tossed the USB stick, which she caught and pocketed.

  “Stand back,” Candace said. “Keita, grab that phone and call 911. Nobody else touch anything or anybody. Mr. Minister, squeeze your hand over your shoulder. Hang on. Help is coming. John! John, can you hear me?”

  “Right here,” said a voice from the closet.

  “Open the closet door now, but don’t come out. We have a crime scene here.”

  Keita picked up the phone and made the call.

  “Minister Calder,” John said.

  “Did you get it all on video?” Calder asked.

  “Yes,” John said.

  “You slimy two-timer,” said the prime minister.

  “Who’s the slimy one?” Calder said.

  June rushed into the room. “Mr. Minister! Message from Viola Hill, the reporter. She’s detained in Zantoroland and might be killed. She’s with Keita’s sister. Amnesty International is also calling, and asking you to contact the Zantoroland authorities. Urgently!”

  “Not a good time, June,” Calder said.

  “I already called on your behalf,” June said. “I told them you insisted that they release both women and that you would arrange for their safe transport to Freedom State.”

  “You what?”

  “I’ll resign if you wish,” June said. “But it had to be done. Call now to confirm.”

  “This is hardly the time to—”

  “Yes, now,” Keita shouted. “Minister! You can save their lives.”

  “Do it!” Candace said. “You’re the minister of immigration, and this asshole”—she pointed at the prime minister—“is going down. Make the call!”

  Calder reached with his good hand for the phone. “What’s the number, June?”

  She dialed for him.

  “Keita,” Candace asked. “Did you win?”

  “Second.”

  “Second is mighty fine in my books.”

  “Today,” said Keita, “second was good enough.”

  PART THREE

  Freedom State, 2019

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  WITH HER MA FROM HARVARD AND HER legal status in Freedom State resolved, Charity Ali chose to leave Boston and to live in Clarkson, where she could be near her brother.

  Keita was living with a staff sergeant of the Clarkson Police Department, which Charity found disconcerting. Where they came from, police were only on hand to do the dirty work for the president. But Charity had to give Candace her due: she was hard-working and loved Keita. Candace had already told Charity that she wanted to be the first woman and the first black person to make captain of the Clarkson Police Department.

  Financed by Ivernia, who had finally seen the charges against her dropped and had freed herself from the clutches of the Office for Independent Living, Keita had opened a bakery in Clarkson and named it Pâtisserie Chez Yoyo. He already sold lemon tarts, poires belle Hélène and six kinds of madeleines, and he was dreaming about how to expand the business when the time came that his legs finally gave out. Keita was surely the only baker in the country who, because of his diabetes, generally avoided his own creations. He and Candace were both training with the Freedom State Olympic marathon team. Keita, who had received citizenship papers, was also helping as a volunteer with the Zantorolanders Refugee Association to advocate for a general amnesty for all undocumented refugees in the country. Charity was helping with the association, too, and looking for a job as a newspaper reporter in Freedom State.

  The former prime minister and his lackey would be in prison for decades, convicted of inciting murder, bribery of foreign officials, forcible confinement, unlawful deportation and breach of public trust, among other charges. The list was endless. Rocco Calder, the former immigration minister, was now prime minister, appointed by his party to serve out the rest of the government’s term. The Family Party, at this point, was sitting low in the polls.

  VIOLA HILL HAD FILED MANY NEWS STORIES, BEEN PROCLAIMED best investigative news reporter of the year, and watched John Falconer’s award-winning documentary and all his raw footage. She had written a letter of reference to support John’s successful application to board at the school with all fees waived. Viola had joined a party of friends to welcome John’s mother back home. Afterwards, she had gone out with Charity for a lunch that lasted for hours.

  A year had gone by, but Viola wasn’t finished with the story. She wasn’t entirely satisfied. She still did not know exactly how Yvette Peters had come to be deported. Every time Viola thought of Yvette Peters, she ached to explain her death. So she dug like a dog in sand.


  Viola finally located Darlene Wood, who was now living in Buttersby and studying to be a certified general accountant, and had changed her name to Wendy Smith. Darlene was nervous about saying a single word, but Viola promised to not quote her or identify her in any way. She just needed details. Darlene told Viola about the man she had slept with, as payment for taking Yvette to the airport. Viola pressed for more. What did he look like? And could Darlene describe exactly what had happened the night she saw him come and take Yvette away? After several interviews and endless reassurances, Viola got the answers she needed.

  Next, Viola found the man Darlene had described as having a scar like a pickle running down his right cheek. He was retired, didn’t seem afraid, said he hadn’t broken any laws and was happy to accept Viola’s offer of dinner and booze at the best steak house in town.

  Men. A fuck. A steak. They could hardly tell the difference. He didn’t mind talking. No, he had not received a direct order from the prime minister to take Yvette away. It had come second-hand: Lula said the PM had ordered him to come for a D-3 pickup. What was a D-3? Viola asked him. He explained: D-1 meant the Immigration and Refugee Board had declined an application and ordered the deportation. D-2 meant it had come from the Office of the Minister of Immigration. And D-3, the only route that required no paperwork, was a direct order from the Prime Minister’s Office.

  It took two more months and required some pull from the new prime minister, but Viola finally found the second man, who had accompanied Yvette on the plane heading to Zantoroland. Yes, he had been told by phone on the night that Yvette was deported that it was a rush order from the PM’s office, on the D-3 form. And who had told him so? By then, Viola knew the answer.