The Marionette, page 8
Coop and I had not said much to each other since our less-than-harmonious briefing session that morning. I had thought that our dinner the previous evening had been a breakthrough of sorts in moving us closer together. Then I had proposed a possible escape idea on which Coop had mercilessly dumped from a very lofty height. In hindsight, I see now that I was thinking like a thriller writer looking for a movie deal rather than a seasoned and effective intelligence operative trying to get in and out of an unstable and dangerous country, quietly and with precious cargo. I understood. I did. But it’s tough to shut down nearly thirty years of writing exciting, action-packed thrillers and begin to see the benefits of safe, boring, effective, and successful.
After a somewhat lengthy and awkward silence, Coop, in the seat next to mine, turned towards me.
“Look, if it weren’t already obvious, I was opposed to a civilian taking part in what could be a dangerous mission. But it wasn’t my call.”
“I know you don’t think I’m qualified for field work, but I do know a thing or two about clandestine operations, and millions of readers worldwide will back me up on that.”
“Here we go again. I’ve read a few of your thrillers, and I can report that while they are entertaining, you have absolutely zero grasp of intelligence matters and in-field operations.”
“Well, I appreciate your candour,” I said. “And in the spirit of reciprocity and honesty, I feel compelled to tell you that my initial preference was for me to go in alone…”
Coop burst out laughing.
“You, alone, managing a field op? That’s insane. Not only would that never happen, but if through some miracle it ever did, it would be a disaster, likely culminating in sixteen body bags.”
“Are you done?” I asked.
“Well, yes, I guess I am,” she replied. “At least for now.”
“Good, because you didn’t let me finish,” I said. “I was going on to say that after our briefing sessions and after getting to know you at least a little bit, my view changed. I clearly see now that going it alone would not have been a good idea. In fact, it would have been folly—maybe not body bags bad, but definitely folly. I get that now. So, I’m learning something, right? And now I’m glad we’re in this together. I would like to survive the operation to write a few more novels, and I figure you’re my best shot to get out of Mali alive.”
“Oh, I see,” Coop replied. Sheepish is the word I’d use to describe her facial expression. But what do I know?
“Now, don’t you feel bad for jumping the gun before I could finish?” I asked, smiling at her.
“A little bit,” she conceded. “Sorry about the body bags crack.”
“Yeah, you really went right for the jugular with that one.”
“Okay, now that we’ve both fallen on our swords, why don’t we use the time before we land to fine-tune our covers?” she suggested.
“Excellent idea.”
“So, one more time, how did we meet?” Coop asked.
“You worked for my publisher as a publicist and responded to an internal posting for a research assistant to help me get the details right in the Africa book I’m writing,” I said. “Then in the interview you gushed shamelessly, like an open fire hydrant, about my writing and my books and how they changed your life. Then you threw yourself onto my editor’s desk and threatened to handcuff yourself to her chair if she didn’t give you the job.”
I had actually forced her to smile as she visualized my over-the-top version of the scene.
“I’d dial it back a notch if you ever have to tell that story in Mali.”
“Obviously. I’d probably go with plastic zip-ties instead of handcuffs. Feels a little more believable.”
She smiled again.
“Okay, what did you like about me?” she asked.
“You already had solid publishing experience, you knew the business, you demonstrated an advanced understanding of search engines, the researcher’s primary source, and your master’s in English literature didn’t hurt, either. What was the focus of your M.A. again?” I asked.
“The novels of Toni Morrison and how they reflect the contemporary Black experience in America.”
“Right. Plus, you’re warm and friendly and open-minded, and care about other people and how you treat them.”
Then she laughed. An unrestrained, uninhibited laugh. It was the first time I think I caught just a very brief glimpse of the real Lauren Cooper.
“Hang on,” she said, shaking her head. “I know how to assume a different persona when I’m in the field, but I’m not a miracle worker.”
I laughed. It felt like a bit of a breakthrough in our relationship, such as it was.
“So, what if Demba or somebody in Mali’s intelligence agency digs into your background?” I asked.
“I’m glad you asked. I keep meaning to mention this,” she said. “First of all, a CSIS team in Ottawa cleansed the internet of any evidence of my real life. You will not find the real me online anywhere, and certainly no photos. Every new CSIS recruit digitally disappears shortly after they join. Secondly, that same internal team has already created and seeded digital evidence to back up my cover story, including a LinkedIn profile and various social channel accounts, with just enough info to satisfy the curious internet surfer that Lauren Cooper the literary research assistant actually exists.”
“Brilliant,” I replied, impressed.
“Okay, you’re up,” she said. “Why are you in Mali?”
“If you know my writing and my reputation as a novelist, you’ll know that I’m a meticulous researcher to ensure that my books ring true and feel like fact, not fiction. I’m working on my very first novel set at least partly in Africa, perhaps even in Mali. It’s about the aftermath of a military coup and how intelligence agencies jockey for position under the new regime.”
“Okay, so what happens in your story?”
“Well, as usual, my lead character, Hunter Chase, is in the middle of it all. As he opens communications and starts to build relationships with the various factions operating below the surface in Mali, and in Bamako in particular, he stumbles upon a plot by a lesser-known warlord to overthrow the new president even before he’s fully settled in the palace. Hunter determines that it is not in his interests, nor in the interests of geopolitical stability in the region, for this upstart warlord to succeed. So, through various covert means, Hunter Chase undermines the uprising, allowing the new and quite smart president to stay one step ahead of his detractors and ultimately prevail.”
“Sounds like you have it all figured out. But why put yourself at risk by visiting Mali when the story is already fully baked?”
“Ahhh, well, I have the storyline in good shape, but for the novel to work the way I want it to, I need to delve into the motivations of the characters themselves to understand, and then convincingly convey to the reader, what makes them tick. I can’t do that from my condo in downtown Toronto. So here I am.”
“Good,” she replied. “The story holds, and you talk about it with real conviction. I’d even read that novel if you ever decide to write it.”
“Well, that part is easy. This is actually how I write novels. It’s nice when a big chunk of my cover is actually true.”
“And the plot of your Africa novel should appeal to President Camara, given that it ends well for him.”
“I think he’ll like it,” I said.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, until she put her hand on my armrest and turned towards me again.
“And we cannot forget that from the time we land to the time we’re safely on Senegalese soil, we’re likely to be watched, followed, scrutinized, and surveilled, by human assets and/or cameras and listening devices, so you can’t so much as elevate your eyebrow in my direction without it being picked up and analyzed. We are strangers in a strange land, and we will be on a very short leash.”
“You’ll be happy to know that despite strenuous efforts over decades, I am still unable to raise one eyebrow independently of the other, so I think we’re fine,” I said. Then I raised my hands in surrender and put on my serious face for just a moment. “I understand and completely agree.”
We then turned to setting up Coop’s computer so that it resembled that of a researcher, with appropriate files and draft documents. It didn’t take long, and that was good because we were nearly there.
As we were flying over the African continent, Coop looked over at me.
“Look, I know ‘making friends’ isn’t exactly my strong suit,” she said. “I haven’t really had much experience with it.”
“Coop, we don’t have to be besties, as the cool kids say these days. But we do have to be colleagues. And I think that can work for us if we both make a little effort. I will certainly try. So, as a show of good faith, I’m prepared to admit that I have a lot to learn about what it’s really like in the field,” I said. “And I hope you’d be prepared to concede that sometimes the CSIS field operations manual isn’t going to help us, and we may need to be a little more creative if we run into problems.”
She paused, mulling it over.
“Okay, I can live with that. Agreed,” she replied, and even offered her fist for a collegial bump. Just as we finished our awkward fist bump, the captain was on the mic.
“Buckle up, folks, we are on final approach to Modibo Keita International Airport.”
The land below us was brown and scrubby. As we descended, I could see through the window that the area past the airport was a little more built up as the outskirts of Bamako came into view. From a few thousand feet in the air, it still looked like the developing country it clearly was. I saw no glass towers. In a way, it looked like Tajikistan. I shoved that thought from my mind, as well as the topic of gum surgery, which, for me, will forever be linked to Tajikistan.
PART 2
CHAPTER 6
Mali: Day 1
THE CAPTAIN made a smooth landing. As we touched down, we were surprised to see out the window a large military marching band just off the tarmac, waving to us. We whizzed by them and out to the end of the runway. Then we turned around and slowly taxied back. Next to the marching band, a five-vehicle motorcade was parked in formation, with uniformed military officials milling about. The front two and back two vehicles were shiny black examples of the ubiquitous Cadillac Escalade, the conveyance of choice for senior government officials and embassies the world over. But the middle car was much older, a classic black stretch limousine, perhaps from the early 1990s.
A red carpet led from the motorcade to the runway, where our skilled captain was carefully positioning the jet. It wasn’t his first rodeo, and he nailed the parking job. As we’d been briefed to expect, when the flight attendant opened the door, two uniformed passport control officers were waiting to board. Coop and I were ready with our passports, visas, and vaccination documents. They spoke quite good English and went about their task quickly and efficiently. Given the crowd and festivities awaiting us just outside the plane, I didn’t think they would strip-search us before allowing us to enter Mali. Happily, everything seemed to be in order. After applying a couple of stamps to our passports, the two officials disembarked.
I watched out the window as they crossed the tarmac to the main terminal. Just then, I noticed the back door of the old-school stretch limo open, and President Adama Camara stepped out, in full military regalia, grinning from ear to ear. He’d obviously been waiting until the customs team had done their thing. Then the door on the other side of the limo opened and Demba Dembele stepped out, wearing what looked like a very expensive tailored suit. Even I could see that.
As planned, our co-pilot had stepped down to the red carpet to make sure all was well and we could safely leave the plane. He stood there surveying the scene.
“You’d better get out here, some bigwig is walking this way,” he said.
I stood up and faced Coop, extending my hand.
“Coop, looking forward to working with you and learning from you,” I said with some solemnity.
She smiled and grasped my hand.
“Me, too, Norval. Me, too,” she said.
“Easy on the hand, Coop.”
She squeezed firmly, but not like the first time.
“Ready, Norval?”
“I have no idea. But we’re here, so we might as well, you know…”
Coop inhaled deeply and then slowly released her breath.
“Okay, Norval, time to hit the field. Your top-notch research assistant will be right behind you,” she said, guiding me to the door.
I stepped out of the plane and was hit by a blast of scorching, humid heat. At the same time, the band struck up—though “struck out” would perhaps be a more apt description. They sounded slightly worse than my grade nine band when I ill-advisedly and temporarily took up the French horn. Listening to them doing their very best from the tarmac, I could have sworn that half of them were playing one song while the other half played another. I managed to navigate the stairs without mishap. Coop was right behind me. It was a reception fit for a visiting head of state. On the far side of the red carpet, excited school kids in traditional Malian costumes were performing dances while beaming and waving to us. I waved back and turned up the wattage of my smile.
As I hit the red carpet, President Camara was waiting. He stepped forward, offering his hand in welcome. I met his hand with mine and he pulled me in tight, hugging me with his other arm. In mid-embrace, his mouth was quite close to my ear.
“I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are here,” he whispered in my ear in only slightly accented English. “But my car, my office, and the entire palace are bugged. We can only speak freely outside under the sky. Laugh as I pull away from you.” Then he drew back, smiling and laughing. I, too, laughed and nodded, patting his shoulder in what I hoped appeared to be a comradely fashion. At least, that’s what I was going for.
Well, he sure hadn’t wasted any time making his first move.
Still standing close to President Camara, I turned to wave Coop into our circle.
“President Camara, may I present Ms. Lauren Cooper, my outstanding research assistant.”
She was smiling up a storm as she extended her hand. Settling into her role, she seemed completely different from the Coop I’d come to know in the previous few days—less confident, warmer, more curious, more open. As President Camara shook her hand, she even performed what loosely resembled a curtsy, accompanied by a shy smile. After all, he was the president of a bona fide nation-state. And she clearly hadn’t given him the full Lauren Cooper handshake experience. He barely winced while their hands were linked.
“A pleasure to have you both in our wonderful country,” he said, facing us. “Welcome to Mali.”
An honour guard of soldiers lined the red carpet. President Camara took my arm and led me to the far end of the military lineup. We walked slowly down the line, ostensibly inspecting the soldiers. We both smiled and nodded at the stone-faced troops as they kept their eyes fixed on the horizon. Coop trailed a few steps behind. I concede I was a rookie at reviewing honour guards, but it sure didn’t look like a particularly buttoned-down, spit-and-polish assembly. One soldier had forgotten his hat, while another had done up his tunic—if that’s what you call the jacket part of the uniform—one buttonhole out of order, making him look askew, even slightly scoliotic. President Camara stopped and helped the soldier rebutton his uniform properly. Our smiling host certainly wasn’t about to levy any wardrobe deficiency fines, and merely patted the young recruit’s shoulder after assisting him. I just nodded, smiled, and kept on walking.
When we reached the other end of the honour guard, the band launched into a new song. President Camara suddenly stood at attention and held a salute. So, naturally, I stopped and stood ramrod straight, too, but resisted the temptation to salute. The song was half over before I was able to recognize our own national anthem, “O Canada.” When it had started, it sounded more like a nursery rhyme, or maybe an early Bee Gees song. When our anthem died away, the president held his pose, so I held mine as yet another tune started up. How wonderful, more music. I assumed this was Mali’s national anthem. Standing next to me, the new president was singing the French lyrics quietly. But towards the end, he switched to English, changed up the lyrics, and sang in my direction, “Remember, happy talk in the car. Only happy taaaaalk,” holding the last note to close out the piece.
The military band finished their performance, signalling the end of the formal ceremonial welcome and putting a stop to the mercifully brief—but not brief enough—cacophony of musical dissonance. Our co-pilot passed our bags and backpacks through the front hatch to Coop, who followed President Camara and me along the red carpet back to the aging limo. Coop stowed our luggage in the trunk but brought the backpacks carrying our laptops and satphones into the car. We hadn’t yet been introduced to Demba Dembele, but he didn’t seem to be in any rush to meet us. He climbed into the front seat of the second Escalade, leaving the limo to us.
Coop and I were seated next to one another facing President Camara in the back, with the driver and a bodyguard seated up front. It seemed we were finally ready to start this parade. A moment later, the two Escalades in front of us slowly pulled away, followed by our limo and the two other Escalades trailing us. When we passed the security station and left the airport, two jeeps with high-calibre machine guns mounted behind the drivers joined our procession, one out front and one bringing up the rear, to round out the motorcade. The president was still beaming as he looked at me.
“I cannot believe you are here, sitting with me in my car,” he said.
