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“If Okimbo and General Freedom are allied,” Pierce rejoined, “Okimbo is betraying Karama.”

“Maybe so, maybe not. FREE can’t exist without collusion in high places, criminals in office who take their cut. Why not Karama himself?”

Pierce bent forward, elbows on his knees, thinking as he absorbed the rocking of the boat. From the tangle of his thoughts he retrieved the name of Karama’s national security adviser, Ugwo Ajukwa—Roos Van Daan’s patron, a man with ties to Okimbo and, perhaps, to a speculator in oil futures with influence at the White House. “Does General Freedom also work with Roos Van Daan?” Pierce asked.

“PGL’s security man? That I don’t know.”

“Do you know a man named Sunday Opuba?”

Adopu looked from Marissa to Pierce. “He’s dead,” he answered quietly. “Buried in quicksand on the orders of General Freedom.”

“That can’t be,” Pierce blurted reflexively, then realized how foolish this sounded. In the moonlight, Marissa looked pale.

“How do you know this?” Pierce asked Adopu.

“A friend told me, the man who led you to Sunday. He’s angry about Opuba’s murder.”

The man from the Rhino Bar, Pierce thought. “Why was he killed?”

Adopu shrugged. “My friend doesn’t know. Maybe Opuba didn’t realize that Okimbo is the general’s friend. Maybe General Freedom used Opuba to mislead you, sabotaging your defense while the general poses as
your
friend. If I hadn’t told you this, you might still believe that the leader of FREE wishes Bobby well.”

Pierce glanced at Marissa. He sensed her thinking with him: without Sunday Opuba to discredit Lucky Joba and Moses Tulu, their story, however tarnished, would be accepted by a tribunal frightened of Savior Karama. Adopu watched his face. “You want to save Okari,” he said. “Perhaps there’s another way.”

“What’s that?”

Adopu turned to Marissa. “There are many of us, madam, better armed than Okimbo’s soldiers. When they escort Bobby from the courthouse to the prison, we can kill his guards and take him to the creeklands. Tell him this. If he wants us to act, pass the word to me through Dora.”

Pierce was buffeted by the gravest doubts: that this could be a trap; that Adopu might be an agent of Okimbo or Karama; that he could have killed Opuba himself; that his entire story could be a lie, precipitated by the revelations of Bobby’s trial; that Bobby’s death in a violent escape attempt would tarnish his image and spare Karama international revulsion. But Marissa seemed to trust him. “You could die,” she said.

Adopu shrugged. “Your husband
will
die. As for me, my life may not be long. At least this way I’d die for a man I once believed could save us.”

Marissa touched his arm. “We’ll tell him.”

For a moment they continued drifting in the darkness, water lapping at the boat. Then Adopu started the motor and, its snarl low, guided them to the beach.

Pierce got out first, reaching back to help Marissa. Taking his hand, she turned to Adopu. “Be safe.”

Adopu laughed softly. “A pretty thought,” he answered.

A
N HOUR BEFORE THE TRIAL RECOMMENCED, PIERCE ARRANGED TO
visit Bobby Okari. This time, there was no interference; civilly, Major Bangida escorted Pierce to Bobby’s cell. There was light now, and a cot for Bobby to sleep on; though it still smelled of feces and urine, Pierce saw that the cell now had a portable toilet. Grasping the bars, Bobby said, “It’s become a virtual hotel. Having me collapse at trial would make a bad impression.”

Nor could Karama execute a corpse, Pierce thought grimly. “I have some news.”

Quietly, he told Bobby about Jonathan Adopu. “If Sunday’s dead,” Pierce concluded in a low voice, “we’ve got no witness to discredit Joba and Tulu. That leaves Adopu’s offer to break you out.” Pierce’s tone became softer yet. “That’s nothing I’d be part of in America. But once this trial is over, any chance of an escape is gone.”

Bobby gazed at his feet, an absent smile playing on his mouth. “’Shot trying to escape,’” he murmured. “That would make a bad impression.” He slowly shook his head. “Perhaps I’d live; perhaps not. But either fate would finish me as a leader for the Asari. Not so an execution.”

Pierce felt a sense of dread. “That’s a very fine distinction.”

“Not to me.” He looked into Pierce’s face, a plea for understanding. “The manner of a man’s death should be consistent with his life. Tell our new friend no.”

There was nothing more for Pierce to say.

* * *

W
HEN COURT RESUMED,
all was as before: the armed soldiers, the puppet tribunal, the grim sense of premonition. Watching from the jury box, Okimbo appraised Marissa with a proprietary smile, as though she were a prize to be awarded at the trial’s end. Perhaps it was this that made Pierce feel queasy even before he saw Eric Aboh.

A doctor by education, Aboh was a slender man in his forties with a high forehead, a scholar’s demeanor, and a certain elegant precision in his movements and speech. But something about him seemed insubstantial, and he did not look at Bobby. Perhaps fear and shame, Pierce reflected, had hollowed him out.

In cautious tones, he traced his background for Ngara: a physician who ministered to the Asari, he had become Bobby Okari’s lieutenant—a principal adviser in all strategic decisions; a participant, though with increasing doubts, in the planning for Asari Day. Next to Pierce, Bara listened with veiled eyes. Pierce recalled that, like Aboh, Bara had feared where Asari Day might lead.

“Over the time you knew Okari,” Ngara asked, “did his character change?”

“Slowly, yes.” Aboh steepled his fingers. “He became more enamored with his international reputation, and listened to us less. The world was watching, he would say, as if he were playing to a gallery.”

Judges Orta and Uza, Pierce noted, were unusually attentive—perhaps hoping that the witness could cloak the trial in a certain dignity. “How did these changes affect Okari’s leadership?” Ngara asked.

Aboh compressed his lips. “The idealistic leader I once knew came to see himself as infallible, a virtual saint. Saints, I learned to my sorrow, are incapable of compromise. By the end, he was prepared to do anything to maintain control over the movement. To Bobby,
he
was the Asari, prepared to drag us to the precipice.”

Noting Bara’s guarded look, Pierce felt his cocounsel’s disquiet: stripped of pejoratives, the core of Aboh’s answer reflected Bara’s assessment of Bobby. But Bobby’s expression was one of contempt, as though this were the kind of cowardice a strong leader must expect. “Did
you
seek compromise?” Ngara asked Aboh.

“After the lynchings, yes.” Pausing, Aboh glanced at Okimbo, who watched him closely. “I met with Colonel Okimbo and Roos Van Daan,
PGL’s chief of security in the delta. I also spoke by telephone to PGL’s managing director, Michael Gladstone. The essence of our discussions was that only a cessation of militant activity among the Asari would prevent some further tragedy.”

“Did you try to get Okari to concur?”

Aboh hesitated. “Only after we signed the agreement. I did not wish him to abort our negotiations with PGL, or do anything extreme and unexpected. In this I was right. When he saw the agreement, he labeled me a traitor.”

Ngara put his hands on hips. “Do
you
consider yourself a traitor?”

“No,” Aboh answered firmly. “I acted because I knew what had happened on Asari Day, and why those oil workers had been lynched.”

At once Pierce felt on edge. “Will you explain?” Ngara asked.

In the stillness of the courtroom, Aboh’s expression was grave. “A week before Asari Day, Bobby called me, very agitated. Our youth had become impatient, he said. It was time for us to turn PGL’s employees into an example.

“’Isn’t FREE already doing that?’ I asked.

“’Kidnapping for money is rational,’ Bobby answered. Then he said it was time for us to make PGL fear the irrational, and he knew the young men who could act without hesitance.” Aboh’s voice slowed, as though he were reluctant to finish. “I asked him what he meant. He simply laughed, and said, ‘It will be the climax of Asari Day.’ Only when the lynchings occurred did I understand his meaning.”

Pierce considered moving for the answer to be stricken, then decided to make his point on cross-examination. “No further questions,” Ngara said. Murmurs of disquiet issued from the gallery; as though to underscore them, Orta declared a recess.

Turning, Pierce saw a burning anger in Bobby’s eyes. “He’s lying,” Bobby spat.

Pierce touched his wrist. “Did anything like this conversation happen?”

“Something
like,” Bobby answered. “But I meant seizing the platform and pump stations and any PGL employees who were there. To PGL,
that
kind of action is irrational.” His voice hardened. “I was not suggesting murder. If Eric is desperate enough to think otherwise, it is only to save his worthless skin.”

W
HEN THE PROCEEDINGS
resumed, Pierce rose to cross-examine. “Before the lynchings, did you tell anyone about this conversation with Bobby?”

Aboh’s eyes narrowed, as though he were plumbing his memory. “I can’t recall. So perhaps not.”

“So you didn’t take Bobby’s comments to mean that he was planning murder.”

Aboh spread his hands. “I couldn’t be sure what he intended.”

“During your ‘peace negotiations’ with Okimbo, Van Daan, and Gladstone, did you warn PGL that Bobby might be proposing acts of violence?”

Aboh hesitated. “No.”

“Did you warn any other Asari?”

“No.”

Pierce moved closer. “In short, the first time you specifically thought Bobby might have intended murders was
after
the lynchings occurred?”

Aboh considered this. “What I would say,” he temporized, “is that the lynchings made my fears concrete.”

“But you don’t know
who
killed those workers, do you?”

“Not by name, no.”

“Or,” Pierce said with open scorn, “by age, gender, ethnicity, or description.”

Aboh blinked. “No.”

“In fact, you have no clue whatsoever as to the persons who hung those men.”

“I do not.”

“Nor do you—or can you—know their motivation.”

“With absolute moral certainty? I can only know what I know.”

“Which is precious little. Doesn’t it bother you, Dr. Aboh, to come before this tribunal with speculation that you
do
know—to an ‘absolute moral certainty’—may lead to Bobby Okari’s conviction and, quite possibly, his death?”

Aboh drew a breath. “Do me a favor,” Pierce snapped. “Look at Mr. Okari for once.”

Ngara stood, preparing to intervene. But Aboh, as though hypnotized, turned his gaze to Bobby Okari. In a dry voice, he answered, “It is my duty as a citizen to say what I know. I have not come here with any joy.”

“At least you get to leave,” Pierce said. “So let’s return to your efforts to spread ‘peace’ throughout Asariland. In your discussions with Okimbo and Van Daan, did you also discuss whether PGL would give you money?”

Aboh sat straighter, a portrait of offended dignity. “This was not a bribe, if that’s what you’re implying, but compensation for advice on maintaining social stability.”

“You also paid some money to Lucky Joba, right?”

“Yes. And other youths.”

“Did they help you ‘maintain social stability’?”

Aboh bristled visibly. “In a real sense, yes. Our youth are unemployed; many are restless. If paying money will help curb them, it is preferable to violence.”

Pierce smiled a little. “How much did
you
get before signing this ‘peace agreement’?”

Aboh met his eyes. “Fifty thousand dollars U.S.”

“That’ll buy a little peace. Did that payment help influence your decision?”

“Mr. Pierce,” Aboh said in an aggrieved tone, “sanity was needed. I’d have signed the agreement without receiving a dime. The money was for my further assistance or for, as you say, ‘buying a little peace.’ I apologize for neither.”

Pierce stared at him. “Who exactly did you need to pacify?”

“I don’t understand your question.”

“Then let me ask another. When was the last time you went to Goro?”

For a moment Aboh looked away. “A week before Asari Day.”

“Were the villagers armed?”

At once Judge Orta glanced toward Okimbo. “Objection,” Ngara called out. “The question is irrelevant to the charges against Mr. Okari.”

Orta turned to Pierce. “Not so,” Pierce answered smoothly. “The witness has testified that he feared Mr. Okari’s propensity for violence; implied that the defendant knew unnamed people who could carry out violent acts; and said that he, Eric Aboh, took money from PGL to curb the threat of violence among the Asari. It is fair to ask him whether he saw armaments in Okari’s home village.”

Orta’s features slackened; though he understood the implications of the question, Pierce’s rationale for asking it was unimpeachable, thus challenging Orta’s pose of impartial jurist. Turning, he conferred with Uza, then spoke to Nubola, whose eyes became hard. Facing Ngara, Orta said, “Objection overruled.”

Aboh slowly shook his head. “I saw no arms in Goro.”

“To your knowledge, were the activists who seized the platform and pumping station on Asari Day armed?”

“No.”

“By the way, is it possible that those acts of resistance were the so-called ‘irrational’ actions Mr. Okari referenced in his conversation?”

Aboh’s mouth tightened. “His words implied actions more extreme.”

“But you agree that nothing he said specified a particular act.”

“Not in plain language, no.”

“But certain
nonviolent
actions followed.”

“Yes.”

“So why are you so certain that the murders that followed this conversation were what Mr. Okari meant?”

Aboh looked disoriented. “Because that was the tenor of his statement.”

“To whom did you first offer this interpretation?”

“Colonel Okimbo and Mr. Van Daan.”

“But not during your peace negotiations, correct? In fact, you never suggested that Okari was complicit in these murders until after Okimbo ‘arrested’ him.”