ECLIPSE (42 page)

The knob in Femu’s throat worked. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” To Pierce, Orta said, “Begin, counsel. And have a care with how you ask your questions.”

Facing Femu, Pierce asked, “Can you tell us your name and occupation?”

“Beke Femu.” His voice was close to inaudible. “I am a private in the army.”

“In what battalion?”

Femu gave a meaningless nod, as though prompting himself to speak. “The Ninth Ondani, sir. Under the command of Captain Igina.”

“Was the Ninth Ondani sent to Goro to effect the arrest of Bobby Okari?”

“Objection.”
Quickly, Ngara was up, approaching the bench. “These questions are inimical to state security and, we reiterate, irrelevant to the heinous murders of which the defendant stands accused. Mr. Pierce’s sole and insidious purpose is to distract from Okari’s guilt by demeaning Luandia in the eyes of the world. By now you’ve seen the press reports treating these lies as truth. Put this slander to an end.”

To Pierce, the prosecutor’s peremptory tone betrayed his own anxiety, or the knowledge that Orta had been warned. “Is Mr. Ngara now the judge?” Pierce inquired. “Yesterday, this court challenged us to offer a witness to the events at Goro. Now we have. The court should hear his testimony—”

“The court,” Orta interjected, “will hear only as much as it requires.” He stopped abruptly, as though realizing that he could not reverse himself at once without appearing craven. “You will proceed, one question at a time.”

Mentally, Pierce edited his cross-examination, aiming for its heart. Turning to Femu, he asked, “Before entering Goro, did you assemble in a staging area?”

“Yes.”

“What were your orders?”

The witness fidgeted with a cuff. “We were to enter Goro, Captain Igina said. Then we were to arrest Okari. That was all.”

Watching, Orta nodded his satisfaction. Stepping between them, Pierce asked, “Did someone change Igina’s orders?”

Femu’s eyes shut. “Yes.”

Orta stiffened, newly apprehensive. Searching for a question not objectionable on its face, Pierce hoped that Femu would have the courage to answer. Softly, he asked, “What were your new orders?”

Femu’s eyes snapped open, as though he’d just woken from a nightmare. He looked at everyone and no one. “Did you hear the question?” Pierce asked.

“Yes,” Femu answered tonelessly. “We were to kill the people of Goro and burn their village to the ground.”

“Jesus,” a British voice murmured.

“Who gave those orders?” Pierce asked at once.

Femu swallowed. “The one-eyed colonel.”

Pierce felt a constriction in his own throat. Orta seemed too mesmerized to extricate himself; though Nubola leaned forward, signaling the judge to intercede, Orta did not see him. Pierce crossed the courtroom to the jury box, from which Okimbo stared at the witness with a fury beyond reason. Pointing to Okimbo, Pierce asked, “Is this the one-eyed colonel?”

Someone coughed. Miserably, Femu croaked, “Yes.”

Ngara half-stood, as though preparing to object, then seemed to choose another course. With as much calm as he could muster, Pierce asked Femu, “Did the Ninth Ondani follow the colonel’s orders?”

Femu licked his lips. “Yes. After the sun went dark.”

Pierce came forward again, standing near the witness. “Please tell the court what your unit did in Goro.”

Were this another country, Pierce knew, he’d be asking Femu to confess to murder; in Luandia, the consequences of answering were much worse. But now Femu seemed ensnared by the memory of his guilt. “We
murdered. Some also raped—girls and old women, it did not matter. I saw my friends chop arms off the living. People ran from burning houses and were shot.” His voice trembled. “I tried to shoot past them. The colonel saw this—”

He stopped abruptly. Gently, Pierce asked, “What happened then?”

Sweat shone on Femu’s forehead. “’Bring Okari’s father,’ the colonel tells me. We find the village chief, wearing robe and headdress. He’s too afraid to walk. So the colonel says to sacrifice him at the altar of the church.”

The courtroom was still. Pierce felt startled—he had not expected this testimony. “Did you do that?”

Femu stared past him. “We make him kneel there. Oda takes out his machete. The chief starts to crawl away, and his headdress falls off. Ado sees a hammer and nails. ‘Hold him,’ he tells me. So I do, though the chief struggles. Then Oda puts the headdress back on and drives a nail through it.

“The chief screams in pain. Oda drives more nails; the old man crawls like a chicken with no head. Oda gives me the machete to end his screaming.”

“What happened then?”

“After this I puke.” Femu looked down. “Sergeant Doyah says Okimbo wants the head. Doyah puts it under this arm, like a soccer ball. I think about being in church when I was a boy, how I can never go inside a church now . . .”

Pierce glanced at Bobby. His eyes were moist; whether this was for his father or Femu, Pierce could not know. Quietly, he asked, “What happened then?”

“The village is only ashes and the dead. I follow Sergeant Doyah. He goes inside another house. Through the door I see Bobby Okari. He is tied by his wrists to a ceiling fan. The one-eyed colonel watches him turn.”

This was enough, Pierce decided. Scanning the gallery, he saw that Hamilton had returned with Roos Van Daan. “I want you to think back,” he told the witness. “When did you first see Colonel Okimbo?”

Femu clasped his hands. “He came by helicopter. An
oyibo
flew him.”

Pierce walked to the rail separating the courtroom from the gallery, noting the bleak expressions of those around Van Daan. Pointing to the Afrikaner, Pierce asked, “Is this man the
oyibo
?”

Femu stared, as if at a ghost. “Yes.”

Pierce let the silence build, forcing Orta to meet his eyes. “No further questions,” he told the judge.

Orta called a recess.

A
T ONCE
P
IERCE
felt reality changing.

In the jury box, Okimbo beckoned to Ngara. The tribunal disappeared through the door to the judges’ chambers; Okimbo and Ngara followed. They were gone for over an hour. The courtroom remained eerily silent, the gallery filled with the sickened and subdued; for Pierce the scene evoked the memory of watching his forensics team unearth bodies in the Balkans. There were no words.

Femu remained in the witness chair, guarded by two soldiers. Watching him, Bobby said softly, “This is torment.” Fingers steepled to his lips, Bara bent his head in the attitude of prayer.

Okimbo emerged first, then Ngara. Moments later the tribunal returned. Uza looked dissociated; Nubola, expectant; Orta, collected but subdued. Orta told the prosecutor, “You may cross-examine, Mr. Ngara.”

Ngara rose, expressionless. Without moving from the prosecution table, he asked Femu, “While you were in the staging area, did you have anything to smoke or drink?”

The witness blinked. Pierce watched comprehension creep into his eyes; the question had come from Okimbo. His “Yes” was a near whisper.

“What precisely?”

“Weed. Also gin.” Femu looked about. “The colonel—”

“Just answer the question, Private Femu.” Ngara’s demeaning tone stressed Femu’s rank. “How much ‘weed’ and gin?”

Helplessly, Femu shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

“And yet you remember these supposed horrors so perfectly.” Ngara moved toward him. “Had you ever used alcohol and marijuana together?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How did you get to Goro?”

The witness hesitated. “I flew.”

Ngara smiled grimly. “By flapping your arms? Or did you require assistance?”

Pierce stood. “Objection. The prosecution may find demeaning this witness amusing. After this morning, the tribunal should not.”

Orta turned to Femu. Coldly, he asked, “How did you get to the village?”

The witness paused again, as though each question was a trap. “Helicopter.”

Ngara moved closer to Femu. “How did you know the man you claim to have beheaded was Okari’s father?”

The witness stared at him, frightened and bewildered. “Now I’m not remembering.”

“You’re not remembering anything, are you?” Now Ngara hovered over the witness. “How much did Okari’s lawyers promise you for this fabrication?”

“Objection,” Pierce called out.

Orta held up his hand for silence, staring at the witness. “Only expenses,” Femu said.

“’Expenses,’” Ngara repeated derisively. “According to counsel, an invitation to perjury. But this time genuine. When did Mr. Pierce coach you in these lies?”

The witness spread his hands. “We met at a garbage dump.”

Ngara looked genuinely astounded. “At a garbage dump,” he repeated softly. “How much weed had you smoked
then?”

Anxious, Pierce stood. “I was there, Your Honor.”

Ngara fixed him with a scornful look, then turned to Orta. “When counsel first proffered this tale, I warned where it would lead. Now the farce has ripened. I ask the court to remand the witness to Colonel Okimbo for investigation of perjury.”

Gripped by anger, Pierce stepped forward. “This is criminal,” he protested. “The prosecution asks you to dismiss this witness before he’s done, turning him over to the man he’s just accused of mass murder—whose own testimony is so packed with lies that
he
should be in jail.”

“Enough,”
Orta snapped.

“Not enough.” Heedless, Pierce went on. “The potential for coercion is obvious—that’s Mr. Ngara’s purpose. To abet him truly would be a ‘farce’ unworthy of any court.”

Orta stared at Pierce, then addressed Ngara. “Beyond what we have witnessed, do you have grounds for alleging perjury?”

“We do,” Ngara said firmly. “But we don’t wish to compromise our inquiry by declaring them now.”

“Very well,” Orta said. “The witness will go with Colonel Okimbo.”

Pierce heard scattered murmurs of disbelief. “I ask to be heard—”

“We can hear you,” Orta cut in. “But when you are finished, we will revoke your privilege to appear before us. Do you value our attention that much? Or will you remain as Okari’s counsel?”

Pierce gazed at the witness, feeling the weight of his own culpability. Quietly, he said, “I’ll remain.”

“Fine. But the witness will not.”

Two soldiers took Femu away. In the jury box, Okimbo moved his lips to smile at Pierce.

Turning from him, Pierce sat with Bobby. Pained, Bobby watched the witness. “Now it begins. I pity him.”

A
FTER A SOMBER PARTING WITH
M
ARISSA
, P
IERCE FLEW TO
W
ARO
for the weekend.

The trial had shaken him badly. He spent much of the flight fearful that Bobby, or perhaps Beke Femu, would die in prison. Finally, he returned to the task before him. On Sunday night, he would participate by videoconference in the hearing before Judge Taylor to argue for an injunction against PGL. But his broader purpose was to pull together the threads of what he had learned, searching for new pressure points that might cause PGL and the American government to use all the influence they possessed. The last day had made Karama’s intentions clear—however shameful the proceedings, the tribunal seemed compelled by fear to push them to their preordained conclusion. The handful of reporters present, concerned for Pierce, had abandoned their posture of neutrality long enough to shepherd Pierce to the airport; when Vorster and Clellan greeted Pierce in Waro, Vorster offered to return with him for the duration of the trial. “I might improve the odds a little,” Vorster put it tersely. “No point throwing your life after Okari’s.”

Pierce promised to hold the thought.

When he arrived at the hotel in Waro it was close to midnight. His team from Kenyon & Walker was pulling together a filing for the court; Rachel Rahv briefed him at the hotel bar. “We’ve served a subpoena on Henry Karlin,” she reported, “asking for every piece of paper related to his trades in oil futures and communications with Luandian officials—including Ajukwa.
We also sent your letter to the Commodities Futures Trading Commission, formally requesting that they investigate Karlin.”

Pierce nodded. “Now Karlin will use his influence at the White House—either on Bobby’s behalf or to shut down the inquiry into his trades. I have no idea which.”

“And we still don’t know if Karlin’s trades relate to Bobby,” Rachel answered. “Stay here long enough, and you begin perceiving patterns where none exist. Have you made any sense of the missing witness from FREE?”

“Missing,” Pierce amended grimly, “and presumed dead. That seems the likely fate of witnesses for Bobby. For me, the only question is who killed this one. If it was General Freedom, that suggests he’s involved with Okimbo and Ajukwa in a web of corruption that includes God knows
who
else.” He gave her a tired smile. “I know, Rache—conspiracy theories are the first sign of dementia. But this conspiracy theory explains General Freedom’s escape from Okimbo’s custody, the ease with which FREE blew up that facility on Petrol Island, Karlin’s uncanny prescience, Van Daan’s shadowy relationship to both Ajukwa and Okimbo—”

“There’s one glaring problem,” Rachel interrupted. “If we follow your theory to its logical conclusion, it also explains what’s happened to Okari—the lynchings, the massacre, the tribunal. But
that
doesn’t account for Karama.
He
pushed Okimbo as PGL’s protector.
He
came up with this tribunal, appointed those chickenshit judges, and controls Okari’s fate. Either he’s the leader of your conspiracy or it’s happening all around him. If the latter, maybe it’s not happening at all.

“Remember Occam’s razor: often the true explanation is the simplest. The simplest explanation is that, whether Bobby’s innocent or guilty, Karama set out to kill him. Everything else is imaginary or irrelevant.”

The depressing accuracy of this hit Pierce hard. “You’re saying I’m trapped in my own theories.”

Rachel touched his hand with sympathy. “Or maybe you’re getting closer to the truth. The hell of this place is that it’s so hard to know.”