and his family live up in the Congo thereabouts.”
Babel cocked an eyebrow. “Pen pal?”
“I sponsor him. I send a few dollars every month and it pays for his school and medicine and stuff.”
“Ah.” Lohengrin nodded. He approved of noble causes.
“Anyway, his last letter kind of worried me. He was real excited because he’d been chosen to attend a brand-new school. But he said that the soldiers who picked him told him he wouldn’t be allowed to write to me no more. And that when Sister Julie tried to stop them from taking the last bunch of kids to the school-Sister Julie is a nun in his village, you see-well, he said they hurt her. And I thought, that doesn’t sound right. I mean, what the heck kind of school has soldiers? So I figured, maybe the next time I go somewhere, you could send me to Congo and I could check in on him.”
Babel said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Rustbelt. There’s no telling how Weathers and the PPA would react if they believed the Committee was encroaching on their territory.”
“But I wouldn’t be, not really. I’d just be visiting Lucien and making sure the little guy is okay.”
Again, that tone. “Yes, certainly. You know that, and we know that, but the Nshombos would never believe it. And, let’s face it, you aren’t inconspicuous. They’d know you were there. Ostensibly on Committee business.”
Lohengrin yawned again. “Frau Baden is correct that the situation is complicated. We must be careful with the Nshombos.” Wally slumped in his chair. “But,” Lohengrin continued, solemnly putting a hand on Wally’s shoulder, “your cause is just. I promise to do what I can to help your missing friend.”
“Well, gosh. That’s swell, Lohengrin.” Wally practically leaped out of his chair, grinning. The Committee would help him go find Lucien! “I can’t wait.”
“Yes. I believe that if I ask him, Jayewardene will make careful inquiries through diplomatic channels.”
Inquiries? Oh. Wally tried to hide his disappointment. “Right. That’ll be a big help, no doubt. I sure do appreciate it.”
He returned to his table, just long enough to say good night to Ana; the Llama had already left. Wally didn’t much feel like hopping in a taxi when he got down to the street, so he started walking in the general direction of Jokertown.
A thin dusting of snow covered the sidewalks. It fell in large flakes that drifted slowly to the ground like cotton. The clouds overhead and the snow underfoot reflected the soft glow of the city in all its colors, making everything look like a Christmas tree decoration.
Back home, Wally and his brother Pete used to make snow forts during Christmas vacation. He remembered countless snowball fights on winter mornings, too, waiting for the school bus. Lucien had loved hearing about stuff like that; to him, snow was the white stuff on distant mountains. Wally had secretly hoped he’d get to take him to the mountains someday, so he could see the snow firsthand.
But Lohengrin and Babel had been pretty clear. If he wanted to go to Africa, he’d have to go privately.
The Winslow Household
Boston, Massachusetts
They finished off the evening playing bridge and eating another round of pie before retiring to Niobe’s old bedroom. Niobe found this embarrassing and Noel found it charming. He investigated her bookcase filled with a collection of late Victorian and early twentieth-century children’s books- The Bird’s Christmas Carol, The Secret Garden, The Little Princess, Little Lord Fauntleroy. He rooted through the closet and discovered a stuffed animal collection (now consigned to the top shelf), and picked out a few choice specimens to take home to New York. For our baby, he thought, but neither of them gave voice to that. This was the fourth try, and they were both too superstitious to invoke the child out loud lest it lead to another miscarriage.
Noel read aloud from Fauntleroy until Niobe’s eyelids dropped and her breathing slowed. “He had a cruel tongue and a bitter nature, and he took pleasure in sneering at people and making them feel uncomfortable…” Noel’s voice died away. He slowly slipped his arm from beneath her, snapped off the light, and settled down to sleep.
It took a long time because he kept replaying the conversation with Siraj, and wondering what it all meant.
Rusty’s Hotel Room
Jokertown
Manhattan, New York
“Um, hi? DB?”
The phone receiver compressed the noise of a raucous party into a dull roar. “What? Who is this?”
“It’s me, Wally.”
A long pause. “Ollie?” DB sounded distracted. Then, more muffled, he shouted, “Hey! Leave that fucker for me!” This was followed by peals of high-pitched laughter. Wally had looked online; it was a little after eleven in Mumbai.
“No, Wally. You know, Rustbelt?”
Another pause. Then: “Rusty! How the hell are ya? Great to hear ya. Hey, guys, it’s Rusty!”
This provoked a chorus of greetings from the other members of Joker Plague.
“Same to you, fella. Look, I was wondering-”
“You need tickets to the show? No problem! You’ve got a permanent backstage pass, you know that.” Something shattered, followed by more groupie laughter. Bottom shouted something that Rusty couldn’t quite make out. “Wait. You’re in India?”
“What? No. But I was wondering, since your tour is winding up soon-”
“-Yeah, one more month, then we’re back in the States. God damn it, S’Live, I told you to leave it-”
“-if you’d wanna go to the Congo-”
“-bongo drums? We don’t play much world music-”
“-no, I said Congo, like the country-”
“-country? Yeah, I hate that shit, too. What the hell is that? Hey, Rusty, I gotta go, I think I smell smoke. Take care of yourself, pal!” Click.
Well, cripes. Wally had figured that if anybody would join him on a trip to Africa, it would be Drummer Boy. They’d been comrades in arms (and arms, and arms) more than once. But it seemed that DB was busy with his old life.
Wally thought about other folks he knew. Kate was real nice, but it sounded from Ana like she’d had enough of traveling for a while. He would have asked Ana, too, but she’d told him the Committee was sending her to China. The government there had specifically requested Ana’s consultations on a series of giant dams they were building.
He toyed with the idea of contacting Jamal Norwood. Stuntman had probably learned a whole lot about finding missing people while working for SCARE. Plus, he was real tough. And he sorta owed Wally for all that stuff he said back on American Hero. But Jamal would never agree to help him. Plus, Wally didn’t want to travel with somebody who disliked him so much. Even he could foresee an awkward and unpleasant conversation.
One more name sprang to mind: Jerusha Carter. Gardener’s ace couldn’t be better suited to traveling through Africa. She was perfect for the trip in just about every way. He even knew her, a little bit.
It took some calling around to other Committee members before he got Jerusha’s cell number. Wally reclined on the bed in his hotel room. The mattress groaned; somewhere halfway across the country, a telephone rang.
“Hello?” A weary voice, thick with fatigue. Behind it, what sounded like voices raised in quiet song, like they were singing hymns or something. Not like in church, though. It sounded more like a vigil.
“Um, hi. Jerusha?”
“Yes.” Her voice got distant, and the background noise got louder, as if she was holding the phone away from her face to look at the caller ID. “Who is this?”
“It’s me, Wally. Gunderson. You know, Rustbelt? We worked together when the Committee sent us to Timor.”
“Oh, Wally. I thought I recognized your voice.” A pause. “What’s up?”
“I was wondering-um, are you okay? You sound real tired. No offense or anything.”
“Uh… it’s been a tough few days down here. Did you hear about Michelle? Her parents?”
