Where Witch Birds Fly

By Eugene Harkins

This novel permits insight into the strange and horrific civil war that erupted in Sierra Leone in the 1990s in the twilight of the Cold War, leading ultimately to a UN War Crimes Tribunal for Crimes Against Humanity. It captures the toxic brew of forces that ultimately unleashed a conflagration in this small West African nation––Big Oil, Big Diamonds, competing external powers, foreign mercenaries, and the local dominant Lebanese trading community– –all pillaging and degrading the African population’s assets and destroying its chances for development until, not surprisingly, a brutal insurrection breaks out. The protagonist, Richard White, is an African-American international lawyer who first arrives in Sierra Leone during the Cold War on a mission to collect a forty million dollar oil debt owed by the local Freetown refinery. He returns a second time, post-Cold War, representing Lebanese interests in the largely illicit diamond trade, only to be kidnapped and held for ransom by Foday Sankoh’s Revolutionary United Front. Where Witch Birds Fly is also––and not less so––an illuminated portrayal of White’s process of loss and redemption. An outwardly successful man,White is in actuality seeking to come to terms with the personal malaise brought about by his rejection of family and ethnic heritage. He travels through life with all the accoutrements that demonstrate his professional success––sharp clothes, fast cars, and flashy white women––but inside, he feels troubled and alone. Long-term psychoanalysis does little to alleviate his malaise. White’s road to peace lies through the maelstrom. Harkins projects the deadly social forces at play in Sierra Leone over a decade with the socio-political acumen and high moral vision of John Le Carre in The Constant Gardner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clarity Press
• Release date: Mar 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9780932863942

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Author’s Note

This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Names, places and incidents are either used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination.

PART I

Chapter I

Summer 1985

The wind and rain pelted the DC10 as it continued its rapid descent. Richard White felt a sharp pain in both ears and swallowed hard. He fidgeted in his window seat then checked his watch—5:25.

What time are we due? he asked, turning to his seatmate.

Half past five, responded the balding, thin-lipped man. His name was Youssef Abboud. He was the Managing Director of a local bank—all of which Richard had learned when they’d introduced themselves and exchanged business cards in London.

Two deafeningly loud thunderclaps exploded all around them, and a fiery flash of lightning shot through the first-class cabin. Richard peered out the window, looking for some sign of the ground below. But there was nothing but swirling dark storm clouds and the heaviest rain he’d ever seen.

Dat was too close fo comfort, said a fat black man sitting across the aisle, nervously mopping his brow with a checkered handkerchief.

We soon be on di ground, said his seatmate, a nattily-dressed little black man with a gold Rolex watch. Earlier in the flight, the banker had told Richard that the man was none other than the Minister of Finance.

The storm raged, and the jumbo jet shuddered like a child’s kite on a blustery day. Richard felt his heart skipping a beat, then another and another in rapid succession. He grimaced. It felt like his chest was about to explode. Both his cardiologist and his analyst had told him not to worry. It was purely psychosomatic, they’d assured him. They’d further explained that what he felt wasn’t skipped beats but rather extra beats—extra systolic beats to be exact. And a hell of a lot of good that did him now, he thought, as he began to tremble. He wondered whether his fellow passengers were also frightened, and glanced around the first-class cabin. The pretty English woman one row back definitely looked scared. The bearded man in front, an Israeli diamond dealer whom he’d met before take-off, appeared shaken as he shifted nervously in his seat and gazed out the window. The two black men across the aisle gesticulated and chattered nervously. Only the banker appeared calm. The thunder boomed and the lightning flashed. The cabin filled with a sickening smell reminiscent of singed hair. Suddenly, the rain turned to hail, pummeling the outer skin of the jumbo jet like a sandblaster. And somewhere back in economy, a woman screamed as the huge plane hurtled downward caught in the maelstrom.

This is it. We’re all going to die...

But suddenly, miraculously, they broke through the thick cloudbank. Seconds later he felt the wheels touch down with a surprisingly gentle thud, eliciting a raucous round of applause from back in economy. What a relief! He took several deep breaths and stretched his legs under the seat in front, nudging the Israeli’s shoes just as the man reached down for them.

That was a close one. I’m sure of it, said the Israeli, who had perspiration on his brow.

I’ve done a lot of flying in my day, but I won’t forget this landing for a while, said Richard.

The DC10 raced down the runway, splashing up tall geysers of rainwater in all directions. Richard stared out the window as the extra heartbeats continued to rumble through his chest. This was not a good beginning, he told himself. He hoped that it wasn’t a harbinger of what awaited him.

Welcome to Freetown. The local time is 5:40. On behalf of Captain Clark and the entire British Caledonian crew... The flight attendant delivered the instructions he’d heard in airports all over the world, though somewhat less serenely this time, given the violent storm. The plane came to a halt, and the first class passengers slowly rose from their seats and gathered their belongings. His legs hadn’t yet accepted the fact that the danger had passed, and as he got up, his knees buckled. Steadying himself by holding onto the seat back, he watched as the two flight attendants struggled to open the cabin door, succeeding only when one of the pilots came out and lent a hand. A gust of wind and rain then invaded the first-class cabin, scattering people in all directions. Richard stood his ground, hoping that it would revive him.

Do you mind if I use you as a shield? asked the pretty English woman standing behind him.

Not at all, he said, as she placed both hands on his waist and nestled up against him. Her feminine touch felt comforting, and he would have liked more of the same.

I have a raincoat here somewhere, if I can just manage to slip it on, she said.

You’re certainly going to need it, Richard said, attempting to sound calm but betrayed by his quavering voice. The two female flight attendants planted themselves firmly against the aircraft door now as the wind and rain swirled about the cabin.

What did you think of that storm? Richard asked the banker.

Typical West Africa for this time of the year. You spend any time at all on the Coast during the rainy season and you’ll come to expect it. Late afternoon’s when the storms hit, but there’s no way to avoid them unless you take the UTA red eye out of Charles Degaulle. Has stops at Nouadibbou and the Gambia—very tiring indeed.

What was that first place you mentioned? Richard asked.

NOO WA-DI-BOO, the banker responded, phonetically pronouncing the word in what sounded like flawless French. It’s in Mauritania. Richard struggled to keep the conversation going, hoping to forget that frightening landing.

I meant to ask you, did you speak French or Arabic in Lebanon?

Both, Youssef replied.

I wish I’d taken more French. I concentrated on Spanish and Portuguese, because most of my practice has been in Latin America. But recently I took up Russian.

Well, you may get a chance to practice it here, my friend. Sierra Leone has quite a large contingent of Russians. In fact the best party of the year here is the October Revolution celebration at the Soviet Embassy. You won’t see it well tonight, but Freetown has one of the world’s finest deep-water harbors. I’ve heard it said that the entire Soviet and American fleets could conduct simultaneous maneuvers there with plenty of room to spare. And of course that’s one of the principal reasons why the Russians are here... Richard didn’t speculate on the extent of the American presence, either out of tact or because it was to be presumed the Americans were everywhere.

Aand you could trow in di French aand Breetish fleets as well, interjected the fat, black man across the aisle, who casually joined the conversation as he struggled to open the overhead luggage bin. Richard, a fastidious student of language, shot the man a glance, noticing his strange and exotic intonation and pronunciation.

So this storm is typical for this time of the year? Richard asked.

Well, I have to admit, Youssef said, This was a bit worse than usual. The crew did a fine job just getting us down safely. I’ve had times here when we couldn’t land at all and had to go on to Monrovia. Now that’s an unpleasant journey. A wry little smile broke out on Youssef’s thin lips.

You know it was bad when even the flight crew looks worried, said the Israeli. Did you see the look on their faces just before we broke out of the clouds?

My God, that was dreadful! said the English woman. Frightening! The worst storm I’ve ever seen, she added as she hurriedly began brushing her long black hair.

It was Richard’s turn to exit. As he stepped onto the metal stairway with Youssef, they were met by sheets of blowing rain and a young, slender African carrying an enormous blue and white umbrella, bearing the B’Cal logo. The young man beckoned for them to follow, and they started tentatively down the stairs, huddling together. About halfway down, the wind caught the umbrella, blowing it inside out. Youssef’s glasses went flying, and the young African abandoned them, taking off in a flash to retrieve the glasses.

Sorry, Maastah, sorry. Deh no break. But the umbrella had, and as Richard and Youssef hurried down to the little orange bus waiting below, they were both soaked to the skin.

The bus was filled with heavy diesel fumes, and Richard’s stomach began to pitch and roll, not unlike the DC10 in the storm. Youssef, meanwhile, seemed immune to it all. He matter-of-factly dried his face with a handkerchief, wiped the seat and sat down.

Take a load off, my friend. Let’s try to relax. Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch that seven past ferry.

Thanks, but I think I’ll stand, Richard said, not yet able to relax.

Oh, God, I do hope we can make that ferry, said the English woman, who’d entered the bus and taken a seat next to Youssef. Her name was Cynthia Chapman, and she’d been in London visiting her parents. Her husband was local manager of a British company. All of that, Richard had learned during a pleasant and what seemed to him mutually flirtatious conversation during the flight.

We deserve some luck after that dreadful storm, Cynthia said, shedding her raincoat and unknowingly spraying Youssef with rainwater.

Our umbrella had a blow-out halfway down the ramp, and Youssef here almost lost his glasses, Richard said, attempting to maintain eye contact while unavoidably peering down at her splendidly large breasts.

Yes, I saw you. I was right behind you. I...

Oh, forgive me, Cynthia, interjected Richard. This is Youssef Abboud. He’s a banker and lives here in Freetown.

Not all the time, Richard, Youssef said.

And this is...

Cynthia Chapman, very nice to meet you, she said, before Richard had finished introducing her to Youssef.

I’ve seen you before, but I don’t think we’ve ever met. Do you live here in Freetown full time? Youssef asked.

For the time being, she said.

Ah, yes, now I know where I’ve seen you—the Freetown Country Club, said Youssef as he wiped the raindrops from his face.

Yes, that could be it. My husband, Gavin, plays golf there, and I go to the Sunday brunch with him...

By the way, what kind of a ferry are we talking about here, and how long of a ride is it? interjected Richard, remembering that Mobil Oil’s Dan Porter had told him that the airport was located on a peninsula, isolated from the mainland.

Well, it depends upon when you actually board. The ride itself is less than an hour, but if the ferry’s not there when you arrive, it can take a good while longer. They’re supposed to run on the half hour, but as you can imagine, maintenance is not a high priority. Sometimes you’re lucky and sometimes you’re not, Youssef said.

Are they safe? Richard asked.

Youssef adopted a little, thin-lipped smile, but before he was able to respond, Cynthia answered the question. They’re reasonably safe. Wouldn’t you say, Mister Abboud? But they do break down. Last year Gavin wound up stranded and adrift midway across the harbor, when apparently a propeller shaft snapped. They had to be towed, and that didn’t happen until the next day. But Gavin said they played bridge and drank gin-and-tonics until the tug arrived some ten hours later. Didn’t sleep at all but had a surprisingly pleasant time of it...

The rain began to let up and the sky brightened as the little orange bus approached the small, one-story terminal. Although the bus was full, there was not the usual rush of people trying to funnel through the exit in hopes of beating their brethren to the baggage claim. No, they were a wet and weary bunch, who’d managed to escape with their lives in what could have been a major airline disaster.

You did say you were being met, Richard? Youssef asked.

Yes, Mobil’s local manager’s supposed to meet me. His name’s Sam Bangura. Do you happen to know him?

Yes, as a matter of fact I do.

Their New York financial man might also be here. I think he arrived yesterday, Richard added.

They entered the terminal and were greeted by a large sign with crude, black lettering attached to a shaky, wooden stand. The sign bore the full-body image of an elderly, smiling African dressed in a multicolored tie-dye robe.

Well, now, Richard, here you have a pre-introduction greeting from Pasiaki.

Who?

Pasiaki. That’s what the people call President Siaka Stevens. ’Pa’ is a term of endearment and respect reserved for elders—those lucky enough to have beaten the odds and survived past forty, the average life expectancy for men in Sierra Leone.

As they lined up to present their passports, Richard began to ponder whether it’d been wise to tell the banker of the planned meeting with the President. Indeed, was it wise to have told him everything else? Richard mentally rewound the tape of their conversation, then played it back slowly. They’d talked for several hours. It had been a free-ranging conversation, which included their career histories and present business pursuits. Youssef had told him that while his bank was headquartered in London, he’d established a local branch in Freetown two years earlier. He’d told Youssef that he was the founding partner of a New York law firm that specialized in international collection work, and that he’d been retained to collect a long-outstanding oil debt owed by the local refinery. Without being specific, Youssef had mentioned that he might be able to help. They’d also discussed foreign affairs. Youssef had seemed surprised and pleased when Richard had agreed with him that the U.S. was overly supportive of Israel and didn’t fully understand or appreciate the Arab point of view. It wasn’t a position common to Americans.

As Richard looked around inside the terminal, he caught sight of a very large, very black man rapidly approaching from beyond customs. Dressed in a dark blue safari suit, the man reminded him of someone, but it took a few seconds to click—Idi Amin. Richard watched now as the big man rolled through the two skinny military guards at the immigration post like a massive black bowling ball.

Reechaard White?

Yes, I’m Richard White. And you’re Sam Bangura? Richard’s right hand became encased in a massive black hand that was slightly moist to the touch.

Dat’s right. Aah’m Mobil’s Freetown manager. Pleased to meet you. Do you haave much baagage?

Just one suitcase.

Geeve me yo passport and customs papahs, and Aah’l try to make dis queek. Follow me, please. Richard bid a fast good-bye to Youssef, noticing that his local man had also arrived to pluck him from the line.

I’ll call you once I get settled in, Youssef.

"Yes, do that, Richard. Good luck, and keep in mind what I told

you."

Richard started off after the impatient Idi Amin look-alike but then heard his name being called.

Richard, Richard, Cynthia called out, I’ll ring you at the Mammy Yoko, and we’ll get together for a drink. She had wound up farther back in the line.

Richard turned and saw her smiling and waving enthusiastically. I look forward to it, he said.

He was amongst the first to arrive at the musty-smelling baggage claim, where he saw a tall, thin man dressed in a white guayabera waiting fretfully. He was smoking a little cigar.

Richard White? I’m Dan Porter, Mobil, New York, Finance Department. They shook hands and exchanged business cards.

Any new developments since we spoke last week? Richard asked.

Yeah, lots, but let’s first get your bags. Oh, and one thing I should mention to you right off the bat about this place: the walls have ears. Freetown’s like the old company-town thing in the States. Everybody knows everybody’s business, so you really have to be careful what you say, where you say it and whom you say it to. And another thing—before I forget—let me give you some Leones to cover your local expenses. He handed Richard a salmon-colored envelope stuffed with a wad of weather-beaten bills.

Is there anything to buy in this place? Richard asked.

Diamonds. That’s about it. But these Leones are for paying your hotel and other local expenses. Porter shot a glance at the small group of people who’d reached the baggage claim. Then he whispered: We’re expecting a devaluation any day now, and we’re loaded with leones in the queue at the Central Bank. This five-to-one rate can’t possibly hold, but where’s Sam? Porter asked, smoothly changing the subject and blowing a surprisingly thick cloud of bluish-gray smoke, as a rangy coal black African dressed in a dark blue uniform, complete with cap and name tag announcing Johnny Conga Mobil Driver, approached them.

Meestah Bangura go baack to di baagage hut.

How will he know which bag is mine? Richard asked

Meestah Bangura know, Johnny answered with a big grin.

The tourist-class passengers began to arrive and a cacophony of dissonant shouts erupted all around as they jockeyed for advantageous places before the slow-moving conveyor belt. In spite of the three-to-one ratio of blacks to whites, the whites were noticeably more aggressive.

Grab that brown one with the silver buckles, shouted a tall, sweaty Brit in a bush jacket. Get it now, Goddamit! he yelled to his servant. Grab it, you son-of-a-bitch! But the bag in question went past as the young African’s path was blocked by the crowd.

These bloody bastards can’t do anything right, shouted the Brit. Richard heard someone in the crowd laughing and repeating what sounded like WA WA. WA WA.

I’m not fluent in Krio, said Porter, but I do know that one— ’West Africa Wins Again’. Whereupon all the whites within earshot chuckled, all of them except the angry Brit, who began bullying his way through the crowd at the conveyor belt in hot pursuit of his bag. Rudely pushing aside some young Africans, he tried to barrel through two white men, one of whom was the Israeli diamond dealer. There, he met resistance.

Just a minute, fellow. We all have to wait our turn.

Piss off! Get out of my fucking way! If I have to wait for that bag to come around again, it’ll be half empty...

Talk about the ’ugly American,’ said Porter. That’s the ugliest Brit I’ve seen in all my trips over here. Somebody better rotate that guy out of here real quick. These people are passive, but you can’t get away with that kind of behavior. He’s either just a naturally-nasty son-of-a-bitch or giving him the benefit of the doubt, he’s been here too long.

"Meestah Bangura haave di baag ?said Johnny, motioning for them to follow.

Sam Bangura had already proceeded up to the Customs station, and in animated Krio was engaging the tired-looking inspector to let the bag pass. Dis man’s American and he haas only clothes. Dat’s it.

The customs agent shot Richard a glance then stared down quizzically at the Customs Declaration.

He’s lookin’ for some ’mas mas’, Porter whispered. That’s Freetown Krio for what’s called ’dash’ in other parts of Africa. But Richard was suddenly distracted by some other passengers, who were approaching the Customs area. He saw Cynthia standing there, holding a little brown-haired boy. Beside her was a middle-aged man in a white shirt and tie, holding onto a little girl. By the time Richard turned his attention back to the matter at hand, the Customs agent was stamping his documents and smiling broadly.

Let’s get the hell out of here now and try to catch that ferry, said Porter. They walked through the shabby airport lobby and went outside, where Johnny Conga stood beside a large, black, four-door, late model Chevrolet. Richard, somewhat calmer now, turned to Sam and asked:

I’m curious, how did you know that that was my bag?

It just haas di look of a solicitaa’s baag, Sam answered, smiling at Richard for the first time and revealing an immaculate set of very white, strong-looking teeth. Aand besides it haas yo name on it. The big man laughed heartily, and Richard thought that he just might like this guy.

Dis yo first treep to Freetown, Reechaard?

Yes it is, Sam. In fact it’s my first trip to Africa. Most of my work’s in Latin America.

Well, dats where most of di debt collection work haas been, Aah would imagine.

Yes, there’s no lack of debt in Latin America.

The weather had improved with just a light, lingering shower from the violent storm, and in its wake, a multicolored-sky rushing towards twilight. The cool air outside felt good, and Richard took several deep breaths to cleanse his lungs, grateful now that the extra heartbeats had subsided. As he got in the back seat of the Chevrolet with Dan Porter, he noticed a silver Mercedes in front that was just pulling out.

Hey, that’s the banker I met on the plane in that Mercedes. Do you know him, Sam? His name’s Abboud, Youssef Abboud.

Yes, Aah know him.

Judging by that car, he must be Lebanese, Porter added.

No, actually he’s Syrian, Dan, Richard responded. But he lived in Lebanon before the civil war. He’s a very interesting person, and he said he might be able to help us with the debt.

Porter shot Richard a disapproving look.

He’s a bankaa, Mariama Jamil’s bankaa in fact, said Sam.

I hope you didn’t tell him too much, said Porter, his stark expression reminding Richard of the bit of advice Porter had offered moments before at the baggage claim.

No, I didn’t tell him much of anything. He already knew about the debt. Who is this Jamil, you just mentioned?

Porter looked up at Sam Bangura and smiled.Shall I tell him, Sam, or you?

Sam just smiled and shook his head.

Well, for starters nothing happens in this fucking country without her approval. She’s the richest, most powerful person in Sierra Leone. Am I right, Sam?

The big man smiled, nodding his agreement.

The diamond trade, the rutile, the bauxite, the alluvial gold, the palm oil, the rice, the automobile imports. You name it. She owns or controls it. What’s even more extraordinary is that she’s been able to achieve that in a country that treats women like chattels. Hell, you can literally buy a good woman here—call her a wife if you like—for about fifty bucks. And if you want, you can have three or four more, and their sole purpose in life is to serve you. Am I right, Sam?

Aah wouldn’t recommend mo den two, Dan, Sam said, chuckling.

Porter flicked his cigarillo ash but missed the small ashtray, watching it fall on the floor.

How old is she? Richard asked

I’m not sure. Sam, how old is Jamil? Porter asked.

Bout tirty-eight, tirty-nine, tall woman and not baad lookin. Her fathah was Lebanese and her mothah S’a L’onan, from di Mandingo tribe. Sam turned to Johnny Conga, whom Richard noticed had been listening intently, and motioned for him to go. They sped off in the Chevrolet, and Sam turned on the cassette player.

Your cheatin’ heart will tell on you.

You’ll cry and cry the whole night through..."

 Sam here’s an expert on Country and Western music. He knows them all.

Dis one’s di old Haank Williams’ classic, one of my favorites.

...but sleep won’t come the whole night through. Your cheatin’ heart will tell on you...

 Say Dan, would you mind putting out that cigar? Richard asked. My stomach’s still a little queasy. We had a very rough landing.

No problem. I didn’t realize it bothered you.

Richard watched with relief as Porter threw the cigar out the window.

Sam, maybe you can lower that volume a little so I can brief Richard here. Porter’s face took on a grim and serious look. Let me start by telling you what I only hinted at on the phone last week. We’ve got a real powder keg brewing. The refinery’s shut down. There’s about a ten-day supply of diesel and no more than a week’s worth of gasoline. I’m not sure about bunkers for the ferry and fishing vessels, but it must be close to empty. Do you know, Sam?

Bout a week, week aand a haaf at most.

If we don’t program a tanker by the latest, tomorrow, this whole fuckin’ place is goin’ to shut down, and you could be lookin’ at political chaos and riots. Both the U.S. ambassador and the British High Commissioner are on our ass to supply the country. And here we are, starin’ at their forty million dollar debt. Mobil’s share’s the highest at about thirteen million, and what’s worse, it’s our turn to supply. Now, if we bring in a cargo, our share of the debt goes up to twenty million. The Central Bank has zero—you heard me—zero dollars. I spoke with the Chairman yesterday, and he told me that the proceeds from the next diamond sale’s already been slated for textbooks and medicines. And in any event it won’t amount to more than two million U.S.

Porter went suddenly silent, glancing out the window, apparently distracted by something. Then he began fidgeting with his pack of cigarillos, and for a minute it looked like he’d forgotten Richard’s plea and was about to light up again.

Sam turned up the volume a little on the cassette player

Put your sweet lips a little closer to the pho-one.

Let’s pretend that we’re together all alo-one.

We’ll tell the man to turn the jukebox way down lowww

and you can tell your friend there with you he’ll have to go

What about the other companies? Richard asked. Could you go over the refinery’s corporate structure?

Porter snapped out of it and immediately took on a look of impatience, suggesting a weariness born of the need to explain a complicated story once again to newcomers like Richard.

Okay, you’ve got the Sierra Leone Petroleum Refining Company, SLPRC. It’s a local corporation owned fifty percent by the Government and fifty percent by the four oil companies. Mobil’s got sixteen percent; Texaco nine; Shell twelve-and-a-half; and BP the other twelve-and-a-half. By our Concession, the four oil companies are obligated to supply crude oil to the refinery in proportion to their percentage interest in SLPRC. Now in reality, our marketing-company affiliates actually supply the crude.

Richard nodded, listening attentively.

"It all worked pretty well up until the 1979 Iranian oil crisis, when crude oil prices went through the roof. The Government ran out of foreign exchange, and obviously none of us wanted to put another fuckin’ barrel in here, cause we weren’t gettin’ paid. And in fact we stopped deliverin’ about a year ago, when the total debt reached twenty-six million. But then they came through with a payment of three million, just a token really. But they cajoled and wheedled and used their ambassadors in Washington and London, pleading with the State Department and the British Foreign Office. There were articles in the New York Times, the Financial Times, the London Times, you name it, about how the big greedy oil companies were bleeding the poor little African nation of Sierra Leone. They lobbied before the IMF and everywhere else you can think of. You’d be surprised just how well they can play the exploitation theme. And finally, we had to cave. Shell brought in another cargo of crude. Now, we did get them to sign a debt rescheduling agreement to pay two and a half million a month as a condition to bringing in that cargo and another one to follow. Well, the bastards made the first two payments then defaulted. And here we go again... "

Irene, good night, Irene, Irene good night.

Good night, Irene, good night Irene,

I’ll see you in my dreams

 Sam, you’re gonna have to keep that volume lower or maybe turn off the rear speakers. It’s too loud back here, Porter said, looking somewhat annoyed after his long discourse.

Now, as I explained last week on the phone, Porter continued. All four companies have agreed to turn this thing over to you, because these bastards have just played one company off against the other, and nobody’s collected anything. There’s an SLPRC Board meeting tomorrow, and I’m goin’ to present you as our representative, to come up with a new enforceable repayment agreement, one that gets all four companies paid and enables us to bring in another cargo of crude oil...

"Pardon me, but didn’t you say that if a tanker wasn’t programmedby tomorrow,you’d run out of fuel? I’m an experienced international collection practitioner and negotiator, but I’m not a magician."

We know that, Richard. We understand and we don’t expect miracles. This is going to take some time... Porter tapped Sam on the shoulder, leaned up, and said something which Richard didn’t catch. Meanwhile, Richard glanced out the window and saw that it was beginning to get dark. He was just able to make out the dim, orange glow of what appeared to be campfires in the squat, little shacks along the narrow two-lane road.

You know, Richard, back to your point. Even if you were able to get an agreement that fast, they wouldn’t comply with it, anyway, Porter said. Quite frankly, there’s no way we’re goin’ to program a tanker by tomorrow. And now that I think about it, it may be better to let the bastards run out. Yeah, Porter said with a grin, that’ll give us some leverage when we meet with the President.

When’s the meeting? Richard asked.

Tuesday,10:30 at the Statehouse. We’ll need to prepare very carefully.

Theirs was one of the first cars to arrive at the ferry. As Richard got out of the car and trudged up the steep, metal stairs behind Porter, it occurred to him that he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. Maybe he should have left Friday evening, he thought, which would have allowed for a sleepover in London. But it was his son Kenny’s ninth birthday, and he’d already missed too many birthdays over the years. No, he told himself, he’d done the right thing. The legal and emotional bonds of marriage can be terminated, but those of a father and son last a lifetime.

Feeling the fatigue now, Richard smiled apologetically and took a seat as Porter and Sam walked over to the bar. Richard stretched out and was just beginning to drift off, when he heard his name being called.

Richard, Richard, come on up here a minute. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. He got up, but too quickly, and felt suddenly dizzy. Dan Porter and Sam Bangura were standing at the bar next to a heavy-set man with a full, reddish-colored beard. Richard, this is Hans Zimmerman, one of the most important people in Freetown. He runs the local brewery where they make Star Beer. Now, he’s such an important fellow, Porter continued, chuckling and putting his arm around Hans’ shoulder, that he sometimes goes ahead of us in the foreign exchange queue, so that he can import hops, barley, vats and whatever the hell else he needs to keep the Star Beer flowing. Notice what he’s drinking? "

How do you do, Richard? Would you like to try one? asked Hans. He was a big man with expressive, light-blue eyes, and he spoke with a slight German accent. Richard, still somewhat groggy, forced a smile and shook hands.

Hans here’s from Heidelberg, but he loves Freetown so much that he’s managed to spend the last five years here, Porter added.

And I hope to spend the next five years as well, said the brewmaster, taking a hearty swallow of his beer. I couldn’t live back in Heidelberg now. Freetown may be hot and dirty, but it’s anything but boring. So many different kinds of people: different races, different colors, different nationalities. In Heidelberg everyone looks the same—same color, same language, same everything. It’s monotonous and stultifying. Hans motioned to the bartender to set up another round.

Will it help me sleep? Richard asked, feigning congeniality and not really wanting a beer but, under the circumstances, feeling obliged. The bartender opened the bottle, then ducked to escape a cloud of Porter’s cigar smoke that had drifted over the bar.

Not only will it help you sleep, my man, it will help you survive. It fends off malaria and intestinal parasites. I drink a minimum of eight bottles a day. Hans drained his bottle with a long gulp and picked up another. You know every time I see my friend, Dan, here in Freetown, he’s scrounging around for foreign exchange. He tells me how important it is for the country to keep the oil flowing. Indeed, it is. But keeping the beer flowing is even more important. If it ever stops, there’ll be blood running in the streets. Hans laughed heartily and slapped Porter on the back.

Aah betta haave anothah, queek, said Sam, motioning to the bartender. We may be runnin low again.

Hans here’s been fightin’ the foreign exchange battle for as long as we have, Porter said.

Richard continued the good-natured small talk, but at the same time hoping to get back to business, took on a more serious expression and adopted just the right intonation: I’m sure he’s got some insight for us on how to deal with this problem.

I know Dan doesn’t like to hear this, but the only sure way to get your foreign exchange is to deal with the Lebanese. You won’t get dollars waiting patiently in the Central Bank’s queue. But just in case you didn’t know it, dealing with the Lebanese isn’t easy. The German looked straight into Richard’s eyes, and then quickly wiped his mouth with a sweep of his arm. The Lebanese are suspicious of anyone who isn’t Lebanese. Given the choice, they’d much rather deal with Africans than Europeans or Americans.

Like I’ve told you many times before, Hans, Porter said, a company like ours has a high profile not only here but world-wide. We’ve gotta be careful who we deal with. Sure, the Lebanese have the money, and they own the fucking country, but they’re pariahs. You know that as well as I do. Just look at the civil war in Lebanon, one of the longest and bloodiest known to mankind. And just ask the Israelis where all the terrorism comes from. No, we gotta take the high road, Hans. Porter’s smile had vanished, and Richard was surprised at how serious he’d suddenly become.

By the way, are there Syrians here in Sierra Leone as well? Richard asked.

’Syrians’, ’Lebanese,’ it’s all the same species, my man. That should give you an idea of just how long they’ve been here, because a long time ago, Lebanon was a part of Syria.

Well, the reason I ask is because coming in on the plane, I met a Syrian banker, maybe you know him, Youssef Abboud? He seemed to be an intelligent and knowledgeable individual, someone you could deal with. He said he might be able to help us.

Porter pursed his lips and shook his head, while Richard waited for Hans’ reply.

Abboud? Sure, I know him, met him last year at the October Revolution party at the Soviet Embassy. He seems somewhat different, not quite as clannish. In fact, I run into him at all the major events here in Freetown. Business-wise, he tries to keep a low profile. Of course, that’s pretty hard to do because his bank handles all of Jamil’s business. She’s been trying to polish up her image of late, and that’s probably why he’s here. Hans’ smile returned, and with a sweep of his large arm, which was covered with fuzzy red hair, he signaled for the bartender to set up another round.

Not for me, Hans. Thanks, Richard said. It tastes like good beer, but it’s gone right to my head, probably because I haven’t slept in more than twenty-four hours. In fact if you gentlemen don’t mind, I think I’ll go out on deck and get some fresh air.

Sure, check out that beautiful harbor, said Dan Porter.

Richard walked over to the heavy steel door, and using both hands, opened it and walked out.

*

Tell me, Dan, just what makes you think that lawyer’s going to have any more success than your own people? Hans asked.

He’s got a lot of experience in international collection work, and he comes highly recommended.

Hans took a slug of his beer, smiled and looked at Porter and Bangura.

Well, it’s going to be interesting to see how the Government reacts to him. I’ve seen very few African-Americans here in Freetown, said Hans, turning to Sam now, who’d gone over and put his back up closer to the air conditioner. What do you think, Sam? Is that a plus or a minus?

Di fact dat he’s African-American? Neithaa. It’s his action dat will count, and not his appearance or his race, Sam said, an indecipherable expression on his very black face.

Well, the fact that he’s African-American had nothing at all to do with our choosing him, Porter said defensively. He knows his business. We checked him out real good. He collected a similar refinery debt in Honduras where they had blocked funds. He brings home the bacon, and that’s what counts.

Well, I only just met him, but I’ll predict one thing about him, Hans said, smiling broadly. If he spends any time at all in the Freetown cocktail circuit, those expatriate wives will be all over him.

They all laughed.

He’s a good-lookin guy, isn’t he? Did you notice his language and speech? Oh so correct and formal, not at all like most African-Americans, said Porter, glancing at Sam to gauge his reaction. You know who he reminds me of? You remember that Calypso singer, Harry Belafonte?

Why of course, said Hans. He was very popular in Germany. The women loved him, and not just for his looks. His music gave them a romantic, tropical fantasy, a nice little escape from their regimented lives in dreary Deutschland. But you know, looks are one thing. What’s his plan for collecting your debt?

Porter looked at Hans, smiled and took a drag on his cigarillo followed by a swig of Star beer.

Well, Mister Brewmaster, as much as I like you, we’re competitors for a limited number of dollars. And so it all boils down to oil or beer, and Hans, I think you know my choice...

*

Out on deck, Richard found welcome relief from the smoke and the smell of beer inside the passenger lounge. The weather had cleared without a trace of the violent storm that had seemed capable of bringing down a jumbo jet.

He took several deep breaths and looked up at the star-filled sky of West Africa. Seagulls flew in a criss-cross pattern just above the bridge. Before long the fatigue he’d felt was gone. He walked slowly back to the stern of the vessel. When he reached the railing overlooking the main deck, he propped up one foot and stared down below. The spotlights on the bridge illuminated the masses huddled there: women carrying babies in pouches slung on their backs; men puffing on clay pipes and gesticulating animatedly; and little children holding goats and skinny, underfed dogs. Strewn all about the deck were cardboard boxes and large, bulbous bundles. All the while the strange and exotic sounds of a singsong language drifted up from below, enveloping him in a cloud of incomprehension and curiosity. The stark blackness of those Africans below deck kindled within him complex feelings, feelings that both attracted and repelled, leaving him with an acute awareness of his own black blood. Though light-skinned, he was clearly of African descent. But he’d spent his entire adult and professional life disavowing any further connection. He’d rejected and overcome what he’d deemed the educational, social and cultural deficiencies of the Negro race. He’d risen from the ghetto in Watts, lifting himself up by his own bootstraps to eventually found his own prestigious New York law firm. True, his wife had helped, but his singular success resulted mostly from his fierce determination and unceasing hard work. To all appearances, he was a handsome, affluent and eminently successful professional. But beneath that rich veneer was a man who hadn’t made peace with himself; a man who hadn’t reconciled his past with his present in spite of all the years he’d spent on his psychoanalyst’s couch.

The ferry’s horn sounded suddenly, startling Richard and sending those coal black masses below surging toward the back of the vessel in preparation for docking.

******

Chapter II

Richard? Richard? Are you in there?

He threw back the sheet, knowing immediately that he’d overslept. Lunging out of bed, he rushed over and opened the door. Dan Porter, dressed in a dark, conservative business suit, stood there shifting his weight fretfully.

It’s quarter to nine, Richard. You’re going to have to hurry. I’m awfully sorry, Dan. I really conked out. Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll be right down.

Porter looked at him sympathetically.

All right, we saved you some breakfast rolls, but you’ll have to eat fast. The Board meeting starts at ten. It’ll be close.

Richard’s recollection of checking into the Hotel Mammy Yoko the night before was cloudy at best. But as he dashed into the primitive shower with his razor and small mirror, he suddenly remembered the lizard. It had been on the wall next to the luggage rack, but had run into the musty-smelling bathroom. He didn’t see it now as he rushed to rescue a busy schedule on his first full day in Freetown. It was not the first time that he had overslept on a business trip, and he had always managed to put himself together in a hurry. This was no exception. Twenty minutes later, he was standing next to Dan Porter in the lobby dressed in one of his most conservative-looking business suits. Porter led him out to a surprisingly pleasant outdoor eating area shaded by multicolored canvas awnings and overlooking a sparklingly clean, Olympic-sized swimming pool. As he sat down, he looked out to the blue Atlantic and to what looked like a nice beach some two hundred yards beyond the hotel.

We can only give you five minutes to eat, said Porter, puffing nervously on his cigarillo. The drive to the refinery runs about forty-five minutes. That’s if we don’t get stuck in the marketplace. Porter motioned for a threesome of lethargic-looking waiters to bring their pots of coffee and tea. The Mammy Yoko is the best hotel in Freetown, Richard. Siaka Stevens had it built a few years back to attract the meetings of the Organization of African Unity. It was a very expensive venture and one of the reasons why the economy tanked. It’s great to be on the beach, as you can see, but the downside is the long ride to the refinery. But believe me, you wouldn’t want to stay at the old City Hotel right in the downtown area. Just ask Peter Hanes from Shell, whom you’ll meet this morning. He stayed there last trip, and after the first two days we didn’t see him again until it was time to leave. Sick as a dog in his room. Couldn’t get off the toilet.

These croissants look like the real thing. Are they baked here locally? Richard asked, draining a cup of coffee and hurriedly trying to butter the tasty-looking French roll. A waiter quickly refilled his cup, as Richard sneaked another peek at the ocean vista.

No way! This hotel’s owned and operated by a French company. All the food’s brought in from Paris on the UTA flights. That used to be another big advantage of staying here. But the trouble is now the French also have foreign exchange problems. I’ve been here when the food has run very low, indeed. Porter looked at his watch. Okay. We gotta get going. Finish up. Richard watched as Porter fidgeted with a salmon-colored envelope. Here, he said. This is the agenda for the Board meeting. You can read it in the car.

Richard put the envelope in his jacket pocket, gulped down another cup of coffee and got up to leave as Porter signed the check.

By the way, where’s Sam this morning?

He’s down at our local office, Porter said, as they walked quickly through the lobby. "He doesn’t like to attend these Board meetings. Feels it only interferes with his relations with Government people after we all leave. Besides, he’s got a marketing business to run, and he takes it very seriously. Sam’s got a strong sense of duty, probably from his service in the military. He