The Marionette, page 23
No need to bore you with a run-of-the-mill retail transaction, but half an hour later I returned to my room—sorry, suite—in the Château Laurier and, using the cloud, set up my new MacBook Air laptop. I’d left my older model in Kéniéba and wasn’t sure when or if I’d be seeing it again. Fortunately, I always stored my files in the cloud, so there was nothing of any value on the hard drive. I’d let Monique know that my retired computer could be donated to the Tardif community-service operation of her choice.
It took me about an hour before I was happy with my one-armed laptop set-up. Then, I started scouring the Web for any news from Mali. If Demba’s Downfall had indeed unfolded according to plan, it should have been over by then, and some news of it may have seeped out. But there was nothing. That concerned me. On the other hand, maybe it had all worked out, and Adama was sitting on the news for a bit as he strategized how best to proceed with any public announcement. Smart.
Then I opened my email. I had given Adama an obscure email address that I sometimes used when connecting with the intelligence sources I occasionally tapped for, yes, operational details to make my novels more real and believable. And I had helped Adama create an innocent-looking Gmail account with no apparent connection to Mali’s head of state. I really hadn’t expected to hear from him so soon, but there it was, topping my inbox. The subject line simply said, Success!
Given the size of the presidential suite, I don’t imagine the neighbours heard my celebratory shout. I restrained myself and limited my histrionics to several enthusiastic but silent fist pumps.
My dear friend, JN,
Thank you for your earlier and welcome message about the anniversary of your novel Safe. I cannot adequately convey how it made me feel.
Today’s schedule of events was successfully completed with the best possible outcome. MT was very brave. I’ll tell you the whole story when I see you, which I hope will be soon.
In the meantime, I will send official transport soon to make it easy for you to send my precious package back to me.
I am in your debt in so many ways. I am grateful beyond words.
AC
I had never experienced the sense of satisfaction and happiness that washed over me in that moment. I actually felt a little emotional about the news, as confirmed by the lump in my throat.
I waited for a few minutes and then called Coop’s home number. She picked up on the first ring.
“It worked! The plan worked!” I shouted into the phone.
“Who is this?” she said.
“You know who this is,” I replied.
“Yes, I guess I do. I was just messing with you,” Coop said. “I was about to call you. I just heard from Adama. And he had a nice long talk with Amina.”
“I can’t believe our idea worked. Adama is now free to govern,” I said. “And Amina is free to go to school and be a kid again.”
“Exactly. And by the way, it was your idea. And yes, it looks like it worked, thanks in large measure to Monique.”
“There’s something about Monique. I’m still figuring her out. Ice queen at the outset, but then she warmed up and turned into a brave and willing co-conspirator in the end. She sure has spine. We could not have done it without her,” I said.
“Well, obviously she just had to get to know us a little first,” Coop replied. “After all, we are amazing. I knew she’d come around.”
“So, I guess you won’t have your new roommate for very long.”
“No, likely just for a couple of days. He’s sending a jet for her soon.”
“Way to go, Coop. We did it.”
“Yes, we did, Norval. You done good. See you Monday morning.”
“Wait, did Adama give you any details? I want to hear how it all went down at the mine. I need the blow-by-blow account.”
“Nope, I told him not to share the nitty-gritty over the phone. I have a feeling we’ll get the whole story from the horse’s mouth sometime soon.”
* * *
—
I spent the weekend not calling my agent. Angela had been leaving me increasingly irate and frantic messages for the last week, after I’d failed to check in with her as I usually did, every few days or so. I hadn’t told her I was going to Tajikistan, let alone pulling a covert op in Mali. I wasn’t ready to share any of that yet. In fact, I’d never be spilling the Mali story to anyone. That was the deal. So, I’d have to embroider the Tajik visit a bit. And neither was I ready to return to my writing life, even though I had dozens of items piling up on my to-do list. None of them seemed nearly as important to me after Mali as they had before. I just needed some time to recover and ease myself back into my old life. I needed a reset.
So, I coasted through the weekend. I bought a couple of books to read. I went to a movie by myself. I don’t even recall what it was, but I remember that I liked it. I felt safe and secure sitting in the nearly empty, darkened theatre for a matinee. I walked up and down the canal in the sunshine. I ate breakfast at a diner. I spent Sunday afternoon touring the National Gallery, just a short walk from the Château Laurier. I even read back what I’d last written on my novel in progress, though my heart really wasn’t in it. It would be at some point, but just not quite yet.
Angela racked up a few more calls but I let them all go straight to voicemail. I was still a little scared of Angela Prochilo, the only agent I’d ever had, even after all our success together. “Feisty” is far too sedate and tranquil a term to describe her. One of the reasons my advances were so large was that my publisher never wanted to go toe-to-toe with Angela. I admit it was an intimidating prospect. So, they just gave me what Angela asked for to avoid the battle. All good for me—and good for her, of course—but it also meant that I, too, was intimidated by her. I knew I was going to have to pay, and sometime soon, for not returning Angela’s calls—but again, just not quite yet.
CHAPTER 21
MONDAY MORNING at the appointed time, I climbed into the back seat of the dark late-model Buick idling in front of the hotel.
“Good morning,” I said.
The driver looked in his rear-view mirror, then checked his phone before replying.
“Good morning, but you don’t look like Cassandra Stevens,” he replied.
Just then someone knocked on my window. A young woman in yet another CSIS standard-issue dark pantsuit pointed to her car, parked a few spots behind.
“So sorry, my mistake,” I said, employing my oft-used sheepish tone.
I made my way to the right car, also a dark late-model Buick.
“Apologies,” I said, as I settled into the back seat.
“No worries,” my chauffeur replied as she shifted into gear and pulled out. “It often happens when I pick up someone at the Château.”
Coop and Amina were waiting for me in the lobby of the large triangular building CSIS called home. Amina was beaming and ran over to greet me.
“Did you hear that, um…you know, everything worked out at home?” she asked.
“It’s great news, Amina. I’m very happy for you and for your father.”
Coop was smiling, too. I sat down between them on a couch in the lobby’s waiting area.
“Amina, I have to speak with James for a few minutes. Why don’t you read your new book until we have to go up to the meeting?”
Amina nodded and pulled the book from her backpack. By its cover, it looked like a young adult novel in French, largely because that’s exactly what it turned out to be.
Coop and I stood up and moved a few steps away.
“Okay, James, this is the official debrief. And that means that I take the lead in the meeting. That’s what Vivian is expecting of me,” she said. “It doesn’t mean you won’t be speaking, but I’m still the lead.”
“Of course, Coop,” I replied. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. You let me know when I should chime in.”
“The good news is, we can tell the truth from start to finish,” she said.
“How do we handle adding Amina to our exfiltration manifest?”
“It was the only way we could secure Adama’s assistance, and without it, the operation would have failed,” she said. “We balanced the risks and benefits, and determined that it was worth bringing her out to ensure that we could get the fourteen Canadians home. So, we took her with us. End of story.”
“Okay. And what about our explanation for leaving Monique behind?”
“We didn’t leave Monique behind. She insisted on staying to continue her work. She made that call of her own free will. Besides, she played a crucial role in getting her team out and should be decorated for what she did.”
“Finally, what about Operation Demba’s Downfall? How do we explain that?”
“Well, first off, we must never call it Operation Demba’s Downfall again,” Coop said. “We were merely a sounding board for Adama as he considered his future. We neither encouraged nor dissuaded him. We just answered a few rudimentary operational questions as he thought through his options. We were not involved in anything that happened after we crossed over into Senegal. In fact, we still don’t really know what happened.”
“Wow, you are good,” I said. “I think you’re ready.”
“Good, because here we go,” Coop replied, eyeing the young woman walking towards us.
“Good morning, Ms. Cooper and Mr. Norval.”
“Nice to see you again, Charlotte,” I replied.
“As per Mr. Norval’s greeting, I am Charlotte, and I’m Vivian Kent’s CSIS liaison. I’ll take you up now.”
“Thanks, Charlotte. Vivian speaks very highly of you,” Coop said. “And I appreciate you keeping an eye on Amina while we’re in the debrief.”
“Not a problem. We’ll be in the outer office, just next door to the debriefing room.”
As we made our way up an elevator and down several corridors, Charlotte spoke to Amina in a mixture of French and English. Amina warmed to her immediately and was happily in deep conversation with her when we reached our destination. I don’t think she even noticed when Coop and I walked into one room while Charlotte led her into the next.
We were greeted by a beaming Vivian Kent. With some effort and perhaps pain, she lifted herself from her wheelchair to embrace Coop, her young charge, and then even gave me a hug.
“I’m sorry that you’re flying on one wing, James,” she said, eyeing my cast and sling. “I hope you’re not in too much discomfort.”
“I’ll be fine, thank you.”
We all sat down. Vivian had a thick file in front of her. The stamp on the cover was upside-down from where I sat, but I was still able to decipher the words Top Secret and CSIS: Senegal. It looked as if Steve had been a busy boy and worked the weekend to give Vivian a preliminary sense of at least the final stage in our little Mali escapade.
Holding up her hand, Vivian asked us to wait as she reopened the file folder and perused the final few pages, then closed it all up again.
“Right, then. Glad to have you both back safe and sound. But I confess, I’m having a hard time processing what I’ve learned of your exploits, and the creative and daring path you pursued all the way to the safety of a Senegalese riverbank,” she opened. “I don’t know whether to heap congratulations and gratitude at your feet for effectively dealing with unexpected complications, or to chastise you for broadening the operation from simply bringing fourteen fellow citizens home to rescuing the president’s daughter and helping to install a more stable and responsible government in Mali.”
Now, that was a mouthful. It seemed she already knew.
“Well, if we’re voting, I support your door number one,” I said, jumping in. “And, just to clarify, there was no regime change. Adama Camara was president when we arrived and he’s still the president right now, as far as we know.”
“Semantics, Mr. Norval,” she replied, still smiling. “A writer’s last refuge.”
In one fleeting look of pure, unadulterated irritation, Coop very clearly reminded me that she was to lead, and I was to listen—you know, as we had agreed no more than three minutes earlier. I gave her the floor with an elaborate sweep of my one good arm and the hand attached to it.
“Well, sometimes the situation on the ground is not the same as it might appear from Madrid or Ottawa, or as it appears in an operational report from a colleague who was only in on the final play,” Coop said, gamely entering the fray. “Our sole operational objective was to get the Canadians out, which we did. Anything else of consequence or benefit was merely an unintended by-product or completely disconnected from our operation.”
I tagged in even though Coop had not yet invited me into the ring.
“Our suspicions that Adama Camara might not be the one actually running the country were confirmed early on. The president himself told us that Demba Dembele was in fact in charge and using the life of Adama’s daughter as leverage. That realization necessitated changes in our approach. And in fact, without President Camara’s assistance, it’s unlikely we’d ever have succeeded in getting the Canadians safely out of the country.”
Vivian nodded before speaking.
“Now then, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Like with all good stories, let’s start from the beginning, when you touched down in Bamako,” she said. “Take me through it, chapter and verse, and don’t leave anything out.”
And after I surrendered the floor again, that’s exactly what Coop did. It took two days to tell Vivian the complete story, from the incompetent, tone-deaf band that greeted us on the tarmac all the way to having my wrist set in a medevac chopper near Dakar.
Even though Vivian was technically not with CSIS, but rather served on Angus’s ministerial staff as his intelligence advisor, she never had any other CSIS personnel in the room with us. I assumed this was out of respect for her previous role as head of the agency. And it certainly made the long and gruelling session a little easier on us.
We started day two a little late, as Coop and I had to drive Amina to the airport. An older but serviceable Malian government jet was waiting there to whisk her back to Bamako, where she would no longer be in danger.
I pulled up to the security booth on a special airport access road. The commissionaire inside was clearly expecting us because he immediately lifted the gate and waved us onto the tarmac. I parked the car near the Malian jet, which sat just outside of a government hangar. Amina’s teacher had been recruited to escort her back to Bamako. That was a welcome surprise, and the two embraced. When it was time, Amina came first to me.
“Other than Lauren, you are my favourite Canadian, and you were very brave,” she said. Then she hugged me tight and whispered in my ear. “Thank you for helping my father find himself again. We’ve spoken on the telephone, and he sounds like he used to. He sounds like my father. Thank you.”
“Now he needs you at his side to help him,” I said. “He has a big and important job to do. You will remind him why he’s doing it.”
“I know,” she said, nodding and smiling. “I know.”
Then she reached over, grabbed Coop’s hand, and walked her towards the metal staircase that ascended to the open door of the plane. Amina’s teacher had already boarded and was waiting just inside the door.
The two stopped at the foot of the stairs. Coop lowered one knee to the tarmac and placed her hands on the young girl’s shoulders. Amina looked at Coop, her bottom lip quivering just a little. Coop spoke to her for a minute or so, as Amina nodded periodically. Then they came together in a long hug. I could see Amina speaking in Coop’s ear.
They were both laughing when Amina backed away, waving to us both. Then she climbed the stairs and disappeared inside.
We waited until the plane was taxiing towards the runway before we drove back to resume our debrief.
“So, what were you two laughing about just before she boarded?” I asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Coop replied. “Just stuff.”
“She told you that I was her second-favourite Canadian, didn’t she?”
“I’ll never tell. Okay, yes, she did,” she said, dissolving in laughter.
* * *
—
Vivian had asked no questions on day one and instead just let Coop talk. On day two, Vivian stopped us a few times to seek clarifications. She was particularly interested in Monique Tardif and her unshakable decision not to accompany her team to freedom. We did our best to explain how different Monique’s approach to mining in Africa was from that of her mercurial father’s when he had been running the show. In the end, I think Vivian accepted that Monique was simply never going to abandon her post as the lead mining engineer at Tardif Resources and the de facto lead community investment officer in Kéniéba. Both, in equal measure, compelled her to stay to protect what she had built. And she was not to be moved. If we had forced the issue, it is likely that none of the Tardif Fourteen would have made it home to their families.
If Vivian hadn’t held that view at the beginning of the debrief, I believe she got there by the end, courtesy of Coop’s persuasive presentation.
But it took a bit more convincing to persuade Vivian that we’d made the right call in bringing Amina with us. Coop and I both understood that this point represented the shakiest ground in the operational terrain we’d chosen to navigate.
“To be clear,” Coop said as our debrief was drawing to a close, “we didn’t bring Amina with us because she was a child in danger, or because it simply wasn’t right that she be played as a pawn in a power struggle she might not even survive. Of course, we were both outraged that Demba would use her—a child—in this way. But that’s not why she crossed that river, clinging to me. Rescuing Amina wasn’t our mission.”
