interrogators took over. If the army didn’t get the information he wanted, he would have to find a way to do it himself. Experience had taught him that if possible it was best to get a sense of your quarry before he had any idea that you even existed, especially when you had no information about him. It gave you a step up, a chance to see how he carried himself, what his attitude was, what he might be like physically and mentally if you had to go up against him. It wasn’t much, but it was more than the other man had.
9
4:47 P.M.
The room was unbearably hot.
The soldier’s uniform had no name tag, just gold oak leaf clusters on his epaulets. The best Marten could construe was that he was a major in the army of the Republic of Equatorial Guinea. He was big and powerfully built, well over six feet and easily two hundred and fifty pounds. A fearsome tribal scar covered most of the left half of his face, while a similar scar was on his right forearm. Taken together they gave him more the appearance of a bush warrior than a military officer. Yet none of it compared with his eyes. Dark brown and bloodshot, they were like those of the soldier who had come after him in the rain forest. Homicidal and wholly merciless, they were the gateway to the possessor’s soul and something Marten would fear for the rest of his life.
“Speak into the microphone,” the major commanded in a deep, heavily accented voice, sweat glistening on his forehead, the microphone of an old-style cassette tape recorder held inches from Marten’s face. “State your name, profession, and place of residence. Then describe what took place yesterday when you were in Bioko South.”
Marten was seated on a straight-backed chair in the center of a dimly lit room. Sweat soaked his hair, running down his neck and his face and into his shirt. To his left two solidly built uniformed officers stood erect and in silence. Beyond them, two more uniformed men guarded the door. The men at the door were clearly not officers but everyday soldiers, young and alert and eager. Their eyes locked on Marten, they seemed almost hungry, as if they were hoping he would do something so they could act on it.
All of them were dressed in the same sweat-stained jungle-green camouflage uniforms, their trouser legs bloused over heavy, laced-up combat boots. Each wore a dark red beret with some kind of bright yellow and black insignia stitched on the front. The major and the two officers carried sidearms, while the men at the door fingered light machine guns.
The room itself was large, its floor covered with cracked linoleum. An aging wooden table was just inside the door and had several old and rusted chrome kitchen stools standing alongside it. The walls were water-stained plaster, long ago painted a sickly green. What little illumination there was came from three bare lightbulbs that hung by frayed electric cords from the ceiling, and from the spill of afternoon daylight that crept in through broken shutters in the room’s only window. A lone ceiling fan turned slowly above Marten’s head, barely moving the stifling air.
Beyond all that, the thing that caught Marten’s eye was a young male goat tied to a leg of the wooden table happily chewing on a stack of old newspapers. Whether it was a pet or regiment mascot or some kind of indigenous good-luck charm or was there for some other reason entirely, there was no way to know, but his presence seemed strange, even in a frightful place like this.
“Sir, speak into the microphone,” the major commanded again. This time his voice resonated with impatience. “State your name, your profession, and place of residence. Then describe what took place yesterday when you were in Bioko South.”
Marten hesitated, then began. The best thing, he knew, was to go along with them. Do just as they asked. “My name is Nicholas Marten,” he said, patiently telling them what he had moments earlier when they’d first brought him into the room, taken his photograph and searched him, then took away his still-damp passport and wallet and the neck pouch in which he carried it. Immediately afterward the major demanded he tell them his name and what he did and where he was from. “I am a landscape architect. I live in Manchester, in the north of England.”
Carefully, he went on with the rest, repeating the story he’d told Marita on the way there. It was a narrative, which, as he thought now, was something he must have quickly and subconsciously put together the day before when the soldiers were pursuing him through the rain forest and he had been certain he would be caught. A simple yet detailed explanation of who he was and why he was in Bioko.
“I came here on a five-day trip to study equatorial plants for possible inclusion in a tropical green house a client would like to build on his estate. You can verify the date I arrived in Bioko by the stamp on my passport. I took a room at the Hotel Malabo for the duration of my stay. My things are still there.”
Marten paused and casually looked around to see how the others were reacting. If they had relaxed. If they believed him. What might happen when he was finished. There was no response at all. The soldiers stared at him in silence, their focus and attitude unchanged.
Marten cleared his throat and went on. “While I was in the southern part of the island I met a priest who introduced himself as Father Willy Dorhn. He asked me about my travels, and when I explained my reason for being there he kindly offered to show me some rain forest vegetation I had not yet seen. Later, as we returned, we heard gunfire in his village. The father was very concerned about his people and left me to go to them. It was then the army trucks came. He looked back when he saw them, and I could tell he was frightened. He yelled at me to run for my life. Which I did. I had no idea what was going on, but the sound of his voice and the fear in his eyes was enough. I ran into the jungle with armed soldiers chasing me. Shortly afterward I slipped from a cliff and fell into a river. The water carried me a long way. Then it became night, and in the morning I found I had reached the sea. I was lost and thirsty and hungry. I had no choice but to start walking, and I did. Sometime later the Spanish doctor and her medical students found me.” Marten stopped and looked directly at the major. “You know the rest.”
“Why would you be afraid of the army?” he asked flatly.
“When you are a stranger in the backcountry like we were and there is a lot of gunfire and the priest you are with, a man who very recently told you he had been serving the people here for half a century, tells you to run for your life, I would think it best to do so. I don’t have to tell you that Africa is filled with bloody civil wars and untold massacres and incursions by armed men from neighboring countries. I had no idea who the uniformed men were. So I ran.”
The major glared at him and seemed about to reply when the door suddenly opened and a hawk-faced, gray-haired soldier wearing the same kind of jungle fatigues as the others entered. Immediately the men in the room snapped to attention. At the same time, two other uniformed men came in. One carried a folding chair, which he opened and placed near Marten. The hawk-faced soldier looked at him, then sat down on it.
Immediately the major turned to Marten. “I would ask you to state your name, your profession, and place of residence and then to tell your story once again.” This time it wasn’t a formal request as before, it was an order.
“Of course,” Marten said politely and patiently, wholly aware of the hawk-faced soldier and how completely his presence affected the others. Whoever he was, he was dark-skinned but clearly not a black African like the rest. He looked more than anything like a sharp-featured Hispanic and was older than he first appeared. Fifty at least, maybe even sixty. Moreover, his uniform bore no insignia other than that of the Equatorial Guinea army. There were no service ribbons, no oak leaf clusters or stars or bars, no indication of rank at all. Yet clearly he was a superior officer, a col o nel or even a general. Who he was or why he was here Marten had no way to know. But it didn’t matter. He had been ordered to tell his story once more, and he did, being careful to leave out nothing.
“My name is Nicholas Marten. I’m a landscape architect. I live in Manchester, in the north of England. I came here on a five-day trip to…”
