The Marionette, page 9
“Well, I can’t believe we’re in the presidential limousine, either,” I replied.
“We should be at the palace in approximately twenty minutes.”
“At this time of day, when I’m driving in Toronto, nothing is only twenty minutes away,” I said.
“Well, it is helpful that my security team has cleared the route of any other vehicles,” he explained. “There is normally heavy traffic on our roads, except when my motorcade is driving on them.”
“One of the perks of power,” I replied.
“Did you enjoy the children’s dance at the ceremony?” he asked.
“I thought they were wonderful and full of energy and innocence,” I said, looking at Coop for support.
“Yes, they were fantastic,” Coop said, on cue.
“The children are from the school that I went to as a boy. I try to involve young kids whenever possible. It adds a sense of optimism and a look to the future. And we need both in our country.”
“Well said, Mr. President.”
“Do you know what my name, Camara, means?”
Coop and I shook our heads in unison.
“Teacher. Camara means teacher. Nothing is more important than educating our next generation, for they will one day be the leaders of our nation.”
“That is a wise and forethoughtful focus for your government,” I said, as Coop nodded vigorously beside me.
“I am so happy that you are here, and I very much look forward to showing you around the palace, the grounds, and other special sites in Mali. And I’m eager to hear about your new novel. Thank you for coming.”
“Well, thank you for accommodating us on such short notice, and giving us some of your precious time to introduce us to your country and government. We’re excited to be here.”
What little of the city we could see through our tinted windows did not make me want to vacation in Bamako and visit its hot spots. Frankly, all the spots were hot. Temperatures were stifling and well on the way to searing.
And how was I feeling as we headed to our destination? Well, I think I felt fine. I was excited but not overly anxious, though distinguishing between the two is not my forte. On the other hand, I knew how to play the role of a reasonably high-profile thriller writer and had dealt with hundreds of fans over the years. President Camara just seemed like another in a long line of fanboys fawning over their favourite writer. Sure, it gave me a bit of a buzz—it always did—but I could play this part in my sleep.
Though I had to admit, lurking beneath it all, I could still feel that little knot in my stomach—the one I’d first discerned before leaving Madrid—and it was tightening. After all, we still had a lot to do and plenty of unanswered questions to, well, answer. Our plan was full of holes that could only be filled with information, intelligence, and insight that we hadn’t yet gathered but would need before pushing the button on our little exfiltration exercise. Not to mention that the Tardif mine and compound were a staggering 267 miles from the palace. In a country like Mali, with a somewhat primitive transportation infrastructure, 267 miles was very far away in both time and distance. How the hell were we going to pull this off? I felt my heart rate kick up a notch.
Okay, step back, calm down, take a breath. We had made it to Mali safely. We’d been welcomed with open arms and atonal music. We were sitting in a stretch limo—though it had seen better days—and we’d soon be checking in to the presidential palace. Not a bad day’s work. So far, so good.
“James?” Coop asked, bringing me back.
“Um, yes?” I said, bringing me back.
“President Camara just asked if you were okay?” said Coop. “You drifted away for a moment.”
I looked to our host and leaned forward towards him.
“Oh, so sorry, Mr. President. I guess I’m a little jet-lagged, and I don’t think the heat is helping,” I replied. “But I’m back now.”
“More air conditioning, please!” Camara shouted towards the front seat.
“Oui, Monsieur le Président,” the driver replied, cranking up the air.
With Coop sitting right next to me, I couldn’t see her without turning my head towards her. I didn’t want to be obvious about it, but I was curious as to how she was feeling. Luckily, when I peered out my side window as President Camara pointed out a few Bamako landmarks, I could see Coop’s reflection in the glass. For the first time since we met, I could watch her without her knowing. She was smiling and gazing about with a happy, cheerful, almost vacant expression on her face. She certainly didn’t look anything like the cool—sometimes cold—steely Coop I’d come to know over the last few days. When she slipped into her cover story, she fully inhabited it. She also spoke more freely, asked questions, and even laughed a few times, particularly when President Camara deployed a witty remark. I’d heard her laugh before—at me—but I’d never heard her full-throated guffaw until we were travelling in the presidential limo through the streets of the capital. I don’t even remember the president’s triggering lines, but they certainly weren’t funny enough to warrant Coop’s outbursts of hysterics. I liked the sound of her laugh, and the president seemed pleased to have sparked it. I thought it made her more human—like a real person and not a by-the-book CSIS operative. I wondered where her cover story ended and the real Lauren Cooper began.
“You will both enjoy our welcome dinner this evening,” Adama said. “We will be introducing you to the very best of Mali’s cuisine.”
I’d meant to do some basic research on the food we would be encountering—some of which we might even have to eat—but I’d run out of time. Despite my research trips around the globe, I didn’t exactly have a broad, international palate. I’m not big on spices beyond pepper, salt, and maybe oregano. I stick to the major food groups: steak, potatoes, pasta, pizza, bread, chicken, cereal, salt and vinegar potato chips, and steak. You get the idea. And, yes, I know I listed steak twice. I meant to. Adventurous in my taste for international cuisine? Ahhhh…no. So, I wasn’t exactly itching to explore Mali’s culinary delights. But when one has a job to do, one must make sacrifices.
We stuck to what the president had called, in his singsongy voice, “happy talk” for the duration of our drive to the palace. There were no knowing glances, no contrived facial expressions, no whispered or even mouthed comments, no meaningful looks. I surmised that beyond the listening devices in the limo, there were probably stealthy cameras, too. So the three of us carried on playing our roles for an audience we couldn’t yet identify.
Not long thereafter, we pulled into the heavily guarded presidential property. Wow, it was quite something. There wasn’t a moat, but the high white walls that encircled the palace, with guard stations placed along them at regular intervals, made it look impenetrable. The front gates, which came with armed sentries, closed behind us as we drove up the road to the palace’s entrance. On the outside, a series of arches ran the length of the building on all three floors. Every inch of the exterior was bright white. It looked like stucco, but I couldn’t be sure.
Uniformed palace employees were lined up to greet us. I hoped the president and I would not also be required to review this honour guard of domestic staff. As soon as I climbed from the limo, the assembly applauded. I’m not sure it was a legitimate standing ovation given that they’d already been upright when we pulled up, but it was still very nice of them. President Camara took my arm and escorted me up a few stairs and into what I dubbed the grand foyer of the palace. Coop, still smiling, refused any assistance as she hauled our luggage from the trunk. She hobbled into the palace lugging our bags before setting them down on the shiny marble floor.
After Coop’s entrance, Demba Dembele walked in and approached the president. He didn’t exactly look pleased. He took his friend’s arm and led him a few steps away and out of earshot. I watched without staring and hoped any observers could see the difference. They spoke intently, with much brow-furrowing and some hand gestures, before Adama took Demba’s arm and dragged him over to me.
“Mr. Norval, may I introduce you to my senior advisor, and an old friend since our days in the orphanage, Demba Dembele.”
I reached out my hand to shake his, but then lost sight of it in Dembele’s catcher’s mitt of a paw. He squeezed almost as tightly as Coop had, which I had kind of expected given his reputation as Mali’s new strongman. He leaned in and spoke through gritted teeth and a fixed—I would even call it paralytic—smile.
“Welcome to Mali for your very brief stay,” he said. “When will you be leaving?”
“Well, thank you for having us,” I replied, ever polite. “I shouldn’t think my research will take much longer than six months.”
He recoiled, utterly baffled. I didn’t wait long before taking him off the hook.
“I’m kidding, Mr. Dembele. Just my Canadian sense of humour,” I said, chuckling. “Depending on the president’s schedule and how quickly we’re able to visit some of the locations I’m considering in the novel, I think we’ll only need a week, but no more than two.”
“A week sounds like long enough to me,” Dembele said. “You will have our full logistical and transportation support to ensure you conclude your work as quickly and efficiently as possible. President Camara is very busy with pressing affairs of state. I hope I have been clear.”
“Demba, do not worry,” President Camara cut in. “It will not take so long. Do not trouble yourself. These pressing affairs of state you cite will not suffer for Mr. Norval’s visit. I promise.”
Without another word—although there was a withering look—Demba Dembele retreated down the corridor and disappeared around a corner.
I craned my neck to take in the grand foyer much like a tourist might gawk in Versailles. There were paintings on the walls and an ornate moulding and ceiling design. I also noted several security cameras, none of which was hidden in the least. They seemed to be everywhere, including the long corridor down which Dembele had receded.
“Mr. Norval, I am so pleased to welcome you to the presidential palace,” President Camara said. “Could I suggest that your assistant get you settled in the two rooms we have ready for you? Then Ms. Cooper can rest up while I take you on a tour of the presidential campus.”
“I’d certainly love to join the tour, too, Mr. President,” Coop replied, bowing slightly.
“That can be arranged, but at a later time,” the president said. “I’d like very much to spend some time with my favourite living author. I have been dreaming of this for as long as I’ve been reading his novels.”
“Yes, that would be very nice, Mr. President,” I said, before turning to Coop. “Please sort out our accommodations and give some thought to our itinerary tomorrow, and I will meet you for the welcome dinner a little later on. Sounds like a dress-up occasion.”
“Of course, James,” Coop said again, plastering on her artificial smile.
Just then, a door to the left opened and two guards entered with a young girl between them.
“Papa!” the young girl said, rushing over and hugging President Camara.
Judging by the placid reaction of the guards already in the foyer, she was not an assassin. Given her salutation, I thought it more likely she was the president’s daughter. I’ve always been good at putting two and two together.
She spoke to him in French, but he shook his head.
“En anglais, s’il te plaît, mon petit, pour nos visiteurs,” he said, pointing our way.
He turned his daughter to face Coop and me, his hands on her shoulders.
“This is my precious daughter, Amina,” he said. “Amina, this is the famous writer I was telling you about, Mr. James Norval, and his research assistant, Ms. Lauren Cooper.”
Before I could say anything, Coop bent down with one knee on the floor in front of Amina. She beamed at her, and spoke slowly, not knowing the young girl’s fluency in English.
“Hello, Amina. So nice to meet you,” Coop said, shaking her hand. “You can call me Lauren.”
“Hello, Lauren. Nice to meet you, too,” Amina replied, demonstrating a strong grasp of the language.
I waved but could not compete with the warmth of Coop’s greeting.
“Ma petite, I am taking Mr. Norval for a tour of the grounds before our big welcome dinner. I’ll come for you after, and we’ll go to the grand ballroom together.”
She nodded, then waved to us and exited through the door she’d entered, the same two guards flanking her again.
Coop grabbed our bags and followed an older, uniformed woman up the sweeping staircase, presumably to our rooms. She did not look happy.
CHAPTER 7
I ACCOMPANIED President Camara and two bodyguards out a back door onto the landscaped presidential grounds. Again, the wall of heat hit me as I stepped across the threshold and into the open air. Concrete pathways criss-crossed the grounds, passing alongside lush gardens and diverse congregations of flowers, shrubs, and trees.
“My predecessor was an evil man, but he did create this wonderful presidential garden that features only flora that is native to Mali,” he explained.
Then he turned to the two guards trailing closely behind us and asked them to give us a little more space so that he could enjoy getting to know his favourite writer without them hovering over us. They agreed and backed off until we were out of earshot.
He put his hand on my arm and chuckled while he spoke.
“Please keep smiling and following where I’m pointing, but listen very carefully. Why have you come to Mali?”
“Well, I, um, am working on a new novel that is set in West Africa, and it involves a coup…”
“Please, be honest with me,” the president cut in. “I am a devoted subscriber to your monthly newsletter, so I know your new novel is not set in Africa. It’s about a nuclear scientist abducted in Kazakhstan. What really brings you to Mali?”
Uh-oh. My mind raced as I tried to figure out how to respond. I hadn’t anticipated this line of questioning. By his earlier comments at the airport, I had thought he believed we were there in response to the Bat-Signal he had displayed on his bookshelf. He was waiting, looking right at me, looking right into me. I had nothing, so I went with my gut, which at that moment was feeling a little queasy. And my gut was advocating for the truth, or at least some of it.
I pointed to various landmarks and nodded while I answered his question.
“Okay. Maybe I’m wrong, but I thought you might be in trouble when I saw how you had lined up my books behind you at your news conference,” I said. “I thought you needed help.”
His gaze bore into me once more and he said nothing for a time. Then he looked out across the palace grounds and pointed to the hills in the distance.
“Bless you, James Norval. You got my message, and you came. Bless you.”
“Yes, but what exactly did you mean?” I replied, nodding and pointing in the same direction.
“I mean, this regime is not what it appears to be. It is a carefully crafted mirage. I am nothing but Demba’s marionette,” President Camara said, working hard to keep smiling and pointing. “He is twisted, rotten to his core, out to fill his pockets and wring as much wealth from our country for himself as he can.”
I laughed, prompting him to laugh, too.
“I see,” I chuckled. “Then, yes, Mr. President, we did receive your message.”
“Please, when we are alone, you may simply call me Adama,” he said. “That is my given name.”
“Of course, and please call me James,” I replied. “But what power does Demba have over you that you do not just have him arrested for corruption?”
“He has my most precious possession.”
Then the penny dropped.
“He’s threatening to harm your daughter?” I asked.
“You are a quick one, James Norval.”
“But he’s just one man,” I replied. “You are the president.”
“Yes, it is true. I have the presidency, but Demba has the power.”
“I see. I suspected as much, thanks to your carefully contrived array of books,” I said. “Very clever on your part.”
Adama nodded and kept us moving down the path.
And very clever on my part, too, I figured. It was just as I had postulated. I confess it was satisfying to have figured out the coded message the president had sent at his news conference. We hadn’t been in Mali for more than an hour and we already had a solid grasp on the power dynamic in the palace, and in the country for that matter. Not a bad start.
“Demba and I were close friends—the best of friends—until our years at Harvard, when he latched onto a more malignant version of the American ideal, driven by small government, individual liberty, naked greed, and personal aggrandizement regardless of the cost. Whereas I, on the other hand, maintained my optimistic outlook, a leftward ideological slant, and a commitment to bringing the new knowledge we were acquiring back to my birth country to improve the lives of Malians.”
“A noble calling,” I said.
“Now, many years after our return from the U.S., Demba orchestrated the coup that ousted our previous leader, and installed me in his place. I am but the reluctant and largely powerless face of the new regime. In reality, Demba is forcing me to do his bidding as he grows richer and richer through corruption, raking in ill-gotten gains that should be used to advance the government’s social and economic goals.”
“But why isn’t Demba the president?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that be simpler?”
He laughed again and pointed over in a different direction, turning me to face other structures on the site to at least appear to be explaining them to me.
“Demba is more at home in the shadows, free from public scrutiny. The lower his profile, the easier it is to do what he does best, line his pockets and strip this country bare for his own benefit. The presidency would constrain him and his greed.”
