Alassane strode around the vegetables as if he was inspecting them. Bibata removed my shirt and gingerly wiped the blood from around the cut. It was a clean tear through the skin, and would need stitches, but I showed her how to pinch the flesh and strap it tightly to stem the bleeding. Bibata was gentle, her eyes full of empathy, as if she felt the pain herself. She winced slightly with each touch of antiseptic. Her grandmother stood beside her as she worked and watched me as if trying to read something in my eyes.
After a few minutes, the grandmother said something to Bibata in a language I didn’t understand. Bibata uttered what sounded like a gentle rebuke, then looked at me and gave a tight smile, but offered no translation. The grandmother prompted Bibata, as if she wanted an answer to a question. Bibata gave a small laugh, and a slightly flirtatious glance at me.
“What does your grandmother want to know?” I asked.
“She is up to her nonsense,” said Bibata with a smile. “Is that feeling better?”
She had wrapped the bandage tightly, and it looked as if it would hold. I ripped a length of duct tape off the roll her grandmother had found at the back of a kitchen drawer. Bibata helped me wrap it around the bandage. That would keep the blood in if the bandage wasn’t enough.
Alassane appeared at the door, then turned back to stare at the vegetables as if they were responsible for what had happened.
“We must get you out of here,” he said irritably.
“We don’t know who those men were,” I pointed out. “We do nothing until we have more information.”
“They were shooting at us,” said Alassane. “The general knows what you are doing here. Can’t you see that? I thought you were a professional.”
“Those men shooting at us were not soldiers,” I said. “If our target knew of my presence, and purpose here, he would have sent soldiers from his army. That was not who those men were. Our operation is not prejudiced, not yet. Call in to your office, tell them that there was an accident on the road. See what information they have.”
Alassane glared at me, then turned back to the vegetables. He pulled a phone from his pocket with irritation, tapped the screen, and held it to his ear. He stepped out of the kitchen and out of earshot. Then glanced back at me as he spoke into his phone. I wondered about the mixture of anger and fear in his face. The fear I understood. The anger I was not sure about.
Bibata’s grandmother spoke again, her eyes still on me. Bibata dismissed her comment again with a laugh.
“What is her question?” I asked.
Bibata’s eyes fluttered to mine, then back to Alassane with consternation. Then she said, “My grandmother is a little crazy sometimes. You must forgive her.”
“I’m a little crazy myself. What is her question?”
“She asks whether you have decided,” said Bibata with another glance at Alassane to confirm that he was still out of earshot.
“Decided?” I said.
“She says you have an important decision to make today,” said Bibata. “I told you she is crazy.”
I looked at her grandmother, who was still gazing at me solemnly.
“What decision does your grandmother suggest I make?” I asked.
Bibata smiled, pleased perhaps that I was indulging her grandmother. She turned to her and spoke again in their language. The grandmother answered, her eyes still on me. Bibata laughed and shook her head.
“She says you must not hesitate. That would be a bad idea.” She laughed again. “Is the decision about a woman?” Another flirtatious glance. “Don’t take my grandmother seriously. Everyone around here knows she is a little crazy.”
Alassane came back into the kitchen, tucking his phone back into the pocket of his funereal jacket.
“They know nothing,” he announced.
“You said there had been an accident?”
Alassane nodded. “It is not unusual here. The roads are not good.”
“Is the general still expecting us?”
Alassane watched Bibata as she held my spare shirt for me, and I carefully eased my damaged arm into it.
“Yes,” he said. “He is still expecting you. But it would be suicidal to go there now.”
I wondered again about the anger apparent in the way he glared at Bibata. As if dressing my wound and helping with the shirt was in some way a betrayal.
“It is too late for regrets,” I said. “Suicidal or not, we proceed.”
The grandmother made us herbal tea, which was surprisingly refreshing.
“In this heat,” said Bibata, “a hot drink is the best thing.”
The three of us sat on rustic wooden chairs in the kitchen to discuss our options. A sluggish movement of air came in through the open door from the vegetable patch. The grandmother stood at the gas stove where she was chopping and boiling vegetables.
“Don’t worry about her,” said Bibata, noticing my hesitation. “She speaks no French.”
“I need you to tell me,” I said, looking at Alassane, “who else knows about this operation. Who is behind it? How many people are involved?”
“We should abort,” said Alassane, as if he had not heard my question.
“Let me explain, Alassane,” I said. “I am not a man who aborts. I have a task to complete, and there is nothing that will stop me. Not even a bunch of bandits with AK-47s.”
Alassane closed his mouth, and his jaw muscles bulged with silent anger.
“Who else knows about this operation?” I asked again.
“Nobody else knows. It’s the three of us, that is all.”
“There must be someone in the presidential office,” I said. “Or was it you personally who discovered the general’s plans to overthrow the government?”
Alassane shook his head.
“Was it you who contacted the South Africans? Asked for their intervention?”
Alassane shook his head again, then said reluctantly, “My boss. No one else.”
“Your boss?” I repeated and watched his reaction. The jaw muscles bulged again. “Your boss discovered the general’s plans?” I asked. “Your boss put this operation together? Or was it your idea?”
Alassane hesitated. He
