The Marionette, page 5
I did as I was told.
“Now, give it here, please,” she said.
I slid it over to her and she searched for a port for her memory stick.
“Hang on,” I said, as I pulled an adaptor from my backpack and plugged it into my MacBook Air. “You’ll need this.”
She inserted her USB stick into the adaptor, then started clacking away on the keyboard.
“Don’t worry, I’m just upgrading your security and installing our top-grade encryption. Having your own six-year-old computer in Mali will strengthen your cover, rather than bringing a brand-spanking-new CSIS-issued laptop that you obviously don’t know your way around. So, we’ll go with yours, but it has to be Fort Knox. This’ll just take a sec.”
Made sense to me, but I wasn’t sure how she knew my laptop was six years old.
With Coop hunched over my computer, Vivian took over.
“James, if you’re well and truly on the team, time is exceedingly short. Even before we get into the formal operational briefing, our first priority is to punch your ticket to Bamako. Without that, we have nothing,” she said. “We need you to draft an email to President Camara inviting yourself for a visit, ostensibly to research your next novel. He needs to know that due to other commitments, you have a very small window within which to visit. It would have to be in the next week, preferably later this week.”
I nodded.
“Okay, your security is updated,” Coop said, as she pushed my laptop back over to me. “Just use it as you always do. The beefed-up security software runs in the background.”
It took me about fifteen minutes to craft the email while Vivian and Coop watched over my shoulder. I wasn’t accustomed to having scrutineers standing over me while I wrote. Then again, I wasn’t used to much of anything in the world I now inhabited. So, I just tried to roll with it.
President Camara,
May I be among the first to offer my congratulations on your new position as president and head of state of Mali in the wake of your successful and bloodless coup d’état. I found it impressive that you toppled your corrupt predecessor without a single shot fired in anger. A rare and humane achievement that we all hope helps secure a prosperous and stable future for the people of Mali.
I watched your inaugural news conference with interest and was so pleased to learn that you have enjoyed my humble novels. That is very gratifying. As it happens, I am in the middle of writing a new novel, coincidentally set somewhere in Africa in a nation that has just weathered a coup d’état of its own. You may know that research is extremely important to me and, I believe, to the success of my novels. I’m a stickler when it comes to getting the details right. With this in mind, your recent and timely ascension presents me with an extraordinary research opportunity that I simply cannot ignore, though you obviously have the final say on this question—and I guess on most any question, now that you’re president.
I know you must have a great deal on your plate right now, but I would be forever in your debt if you might be able to spare some time for me and my research assistant in the next week to help me get the details right in my new novel, tentatively entitled Coup. After all, you have just lived through the very scenario I am writing about. And I’m determined to get it right.
I’m afraid I only have the next week or so open before I am overcome with competing commitments having to do with a Hollywood film in production based on one of my earlier novels. So, Mr. President, could I impose briefly on your time and good will for a visit? Could I interview you in the coming days? Could you help me understand what the life of a new president, post-coup, is like?
I eagerly await your response. I can depart for Bamako immediately if you agree.
Respectfully,
James Norval
Coop provided the email address that had appeared at the bottom of President Camara’s first news release. I didn’t want my missive to slip by unnoticed, so for the email’s subject line I typed Urgent Message for President Camara from the Novelist James Norval.
“I like it,” Vivian said. “You’re fast on the keyboard.”
“Well, I have had some typing experience,” I replied.
“Is the tone a little too familiar?” asked Coop.
“I wouldn’t think so,” said Vivian, before I could say anything. “It opens formally enough, and remember, Camara is a real fan. Such a conversational email should make him feel even better about James. It gives the sense that they’re already friends. I think it’s more likely to elicit the response we’re looking for.”
They both looked at me.
I just pointed to Vivian and replied, “Um, what she said. That’s exactly what I was going for.”
“Okay, I get it,” Coop said. “It’s strategic familiarity, calculated familiarity.”
I nodded.
We collectively wordsmithed a few minor tweaks to finalize the email.
“Are we ready?” I asked, my index figure poised to do its thing.
“Off it goes,” Vivian directed.
I hit Send, and it was gone. My heart rate ticked up a notch as I visualized my message winging its way through cyberspace towards its final destination some eighteen hundred miles to the south.
Just then, a quiet chime sounded. Vivian turned to a small monitor on the credenza and tapped the screen. The scene just outside the boardroom door flickered to life. Two young women—one wore a lab coat and held a small bag, and the other I recognized as the redoubtable Ms. Atkins—stood there waiting. Vivian touched the green button on the monitor and the doors buzzed and opened automatically.
“Come in, please,” said Vivian as she waved the newcomers in. The doors closed again behind them. “Welcome back, Ms. Atkins.”
“Thank you, Ms. Kent.”
“I assume the minister has now departed?”
“Yes, he left for the airport just a few minutes ago,” Ms. Atkins replied. “This is Dr. Rampala, who provides medical support to embassy staff and operations.”
Ms. Atkins yielded the floor to Dr. Rampala.
Coop and I were not introduced. I guess that was logical and prudent under the circumstances.
“Hello, all,” the good doctor started, then turned to address Coop and me. “Am I correct in assuming neither of you has been vaccinated for yellow fever?”
“I’ve already been inoculated for it, and I packed the documents to confirm it,” Coop said.
Dr. Rampala nodded and turned to me.
“I don’t even know what yellow fever is, and don’t believe I’ve ever been jabbed for it,” I said. “But I did have a tetanus shot last year, if that gives me any bonus points.”
“Mali requires confirmation that you’ve been immunized for yellow fever before granting you entry to the country,” she explained. “Please roll up your sleeve.”
She opened her bag and started prepping a syringe.
“What, now?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. I gather a visit to Mali is imminent, so we can give you the shot right here, right now.”
“Are you not a fan of needles, Norval?” Coop asked, smiling at me for the very first time.
“I don’t love them,” I conceded. “I mean, let’s just say that experiencing needle pain is not a cherished pastime.”
But I did as I was told and presented my bare left arm. Dr. Rampala swabbed my bicep, then gave me the shot while I looked at Coop. For her benefit, I put on my stoic face, at least until the needle pierced my skin.
“Yow!” I said in a louder voice than I’d intended. “That feels more like a dock spike than a needle.”
Coop was smiling even more and shaking her head. It looked like Vivian was doing her best not to smile.
“Sorry about that,” the doctor replied. “Yellow fever is one of the more painful shots, but in my experience, warning the recipient tends to exacerbate the situation.”
“Well, if there’s ever a referendum on that question, or even just a telephone survey, I’d vote in favour of warning the patient.”
“Duly noted,” Dr. Rampala said, as she applied a small circular Band-Aid to the site of the dock spike’s recent entry. She then signed and formally handed me the official vaccination certificate like I was receiving an honorary degree.
Ms. Atkins handed us more paperwork.
“And here are your visas. Keep them with your passports and vaccine certs, as you’ll need all of them to enter Mali,” she said.
“Thank you, Meredith and Dr. Rampala,” Vivian said. “We appreciate the quick turnaround.”
Vivian triggered the automatic double doors once again, and our two visitors took their leave. With that done, Vivian began to lead what would turn out to be hours of briefings and planning.
“First of all, while your covers will be an acclaimed thriller writer and his research assistant, let me be clear that the reporting relationship for the operation is the reverse,” Vivian explained. “Lauren is in command and has final say on all mission decisions. She’s experienced and has been in the field multiple times since July of 2021, when that wise federal judge ruled CSIS could operate in other countries. So, James, on all operational questions, Lauren’s word is final. And that could save your life if things go off the rails.”
I nodded dutifully but thought she might be making too big a deal of it.
“I need to hear from you, James, that you understand and will honour that chain of command.”
“I understand,” I said.
“…and I will…” Vivian prompted.
“I understand and I will honour that chain of command,” I said. “Honest. Cross my heart.”
“Good,” she said. “I also strongly recommend that you stick together to the greatest extent possible. This will ensure two sets of eyes and two brains are deployed in analyzing whatever you find.”
Coop and I nodded at one another but said nothing. She was back to displaying a cold countenance, not unlike a UFC fighter staring down her opponent at the pre-fight news conference—minus the trash talk, though the day was young.
Vivian’s voice brought us back to her.
“Here’s what we know about Adama Camara and his principal advisor, Demba Dembele,” she said. “These dossiers of information and insight were largely prepared by Kiran Hassan in our Bamako embassy. She is smart and capable. She will be your CSIS contact in Mali, but her role at the embassy means that she’ll be out of the play when it comes to executing the escape plan. As well, we know at least something about the Camara–Dembele relationship because they both studied at Harvard, and in the last several days we’ve been able to speak discreetly with some of those who knew them in those days. I’m afraid we have almost no data at all about any of the other players in the new regime. But we’re working on it.”
She paused to make sure we were still listening.
“Okay, I suggest you not take notes, on paper or computer. It would be too dangerous to have any incriminating files with you in the field, so you might as well get used to memorizing the key points. All right. Camara, forty-three years old, and Dembele, who is forty-two, have known each other since they were young boys growing up in the same Bamako orphanage. They are both smart, and in particular gifted in languages. While French is more commonly spoken in Mali, they both learned English in school in Bamako, but it really took hold when they were at Harvard. They both speak English very well.
“After leading their respective classes at Mandé Bukari University in Bamako, and through the financial support of a wealthy American mining executive and several aid agencies, they were both given the chance to study governance, public policy, and economics at Harvard. A rare and welcome opportunity.”
Vivian stopped to scan the briefing note before her, then continued.
“The idea was that after Harvard, they would return to Mali to improve the quality of government and civic leadership—arguably the best kind of foreign aid developed nations can provide. They are obviously close, given their history. It’s also important to note that Adama Camara has a ten-year-old daughter, Amina. Her mother died of Lassa fever when Amina was only five—a sad fate not uncommon in Mali. Adama also contracted Lassa fever but survived to raise Amina on his own. Are we okay so far?” Vivian asked.
Coop and I were taking it all in. Both of us nodded.
“As a person, we understand Camara to be happy, optimistic, impressionable, perhaps too trusting, committed to his country, and hungry for knowledge that might help lift Mali out of poverty and yield a stable and just government, not to mention sound economic policies.”
“He didn’t exactly carry himself that way during his news conference,” I said. “He seemed anxious, nervous.”
“Which is exactly how he might look if he were not really the one in charge,” Coop replied. “It plays into our working hypothesis.”
“So, what happened after Harvard?” I asked.
“Camara returned to Mali and joined the faculty of Mandé Bukari University, in the economics department. He also completed his mandatory military service. Despite, or perhaps because of, the relative instability of the government, he came to believe that democracy, along with universal education and health care, represented the only way forward. And that’s the book on Camara, at least as much as we currently know.”
“He doesn’t sound like a power-hungry dictator,” Coop said.
“No, he doesn’t, which also lends credence to our working theory that he may be a pawn in someone else’s power play,” replied Vivian. “But let’s not be too seduced by that notion. It is only a theory that you will soon confirm or dispel.”
“Okay, then what about Dembele?” I asked.
Vivian opened a second dossier and gathered her thoughts before beginning.
“Right. Dembele, a year younger, is Camara’s chief of staff. He controls the president’s agenda and is obviously a powerful voice in the new government. According to our interviews with some of his Harvard classmates, Demba Dembele is not quite the open book Camara seems to be. He’s quieter, more closed down, apparently more serious and cynical. ‘Machiavellian’ was the word one classmate used to describe him. We’ve also had several reports about a nasty temper, but all indicators point to a very shrewd and smart guy.”
“They sound like mirror images of one another,” I said.
“Yes, they are quite different, but opposites often attract,” Coop suggested. “They could both be looking for qualities and assets in the other that they themselves don’t possess. It becomes a bit of a symbiotic relationship.”
“Well, based on what little we know about Dembele, it’s hard to imagine that he hangs around with Camara just to try to gain a sunnier and more optimistic disposition for himself,” I observed. “He doesn’t strike me as a guy who reads self-help books. I think it’s more likely that Camara can prove useful to Dembele—like, for instance, pushing Camara out in front of the new regime so Dembele can lurk in the shadows, perhaps even pulling the strings.”
“Again, we don’t have enough data or evidence to draw that conclusion,” Coop argued. “It’s way too early to lock in our assessment. We need to get on the ground with open minds.”
“Absolutely right, Lauren,” Vivian said. “Right now, all we have are theories, hearsay, and intuition. But before we leave Dembele, there’s one more interesting point that came to us from a former classmate. She said over his time at Harvard, she noticed a change in him. When he arrived on campus, she remembered him in class debates as very much pro-democracy. He supported left-leaning social contract ideas, where you work to close the gap between the rich and the poor, help those who can’t help themselves, share and share alike, et cetera. But by the time Dembele finished at Harvard, he seemed to have…now, how did she put it? Yes, here we are. She said he seemed to have fallen under the spell of the American Dream. She claimed to have seen subtle signs that he’d been overtaken by an ideology of greed. It manifested as a fascination with Wall Street, easy money, junk bonds, and pyramid schemes. He still kept pretty much to himself, but she was worried by what she’d seen.”
“But haven’t we just circled back to hearsay?” Coop asked. “We still have no corroboration of this one person’s view. Maybe they had a fight? Maybe he was mean to her in class? Maybe they dated and he broke up with her? We have no idea.”
“All true, Lauren,” agreed Vivian. “But it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t keep this idea on the table and be on the lookout for behaviour that either supports or contradicts this information. As gossamer-thin as Dembele’s dossier is, it’s all we have.”
“I know we don’t have much hard-core evidence,” I said. “But there seems to be a pattern emerging, if we follow what little of the story we know. And it points to Demba Dembele as a key player who may well be calling the shots. I understand we can’t yet accept it as the truth, but it does give us some signposts to guide our sitrep when we get there.”
“ ‘Sitrep’? Look at you and your fancy spy words,” Coop said. “But just so you know, intelligence agencies don’t really use that word. Sitrep is more of a military term. Nice try, but we know what you meant.”
Just as I was mobilizing a witty retort, my email dinged with a fresh arrival in my inbox. There was silence in the room as I clicked into my email program. Bingo! I looked up at them both.
“I don’t know what one says at a moment like this,” I said. “Hallelujah? The eagle has landed? He shoots, he scores?”
“You can start by telling us whether Camara replied,” Vivian said.
“Sorry, yes, he did,” I said.
I opened the newly arrived email and started reading it out loud. My heart was pounding more than I’d expected.
Dear Mr. Norval,
I hope I may call you James at some point, but that will be your decision. I was beyond the moon when I read your message. To think that you, my very most favourite author, had seen my news conference from the presidential palace. The thought left me feeling a little giddy and overwhelmed. And thank you for your good wishes for our new government. There is much to do, much to fix, and much to build.
