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"I don't believe that the Vie
"Possibly not," said the Inspector, "but we are counter- terrorists. Vie
"What reaction," Laura said dully.
"Well," he said, "the great unwashed, the global mob, would panic. Someone would do something rash and we would be forced to use our deterrent, u
"You mean explode an atomic bomb somewhere."
"We'd have no choice. Though it's not a course we would relish."
"Okay, suppose I believe you," Laura said. The coffee was hitting her now, nerving her up like fine champagne.
"How can you sit there and tell me that you would explode an atomic bomb? Can't you see that that's all out of proportion to whatever you want to. accomplish?"
The Inspector shook his head slowly. "Do you know how many people have died in Africa in the last twenty years?
Something over eighty millions. It staggers the mind, doesn't it: eighty millions. And the hell of it is that even that has barely got a handle on it: the situation is getting worse. Africa is sick, she needs major surgery. The side shows we've run in
Singapore and Grenada are like public relations events compared to what's necessary here. But without a deterrent, we won't be left alone to accomplish what's necessary."
"You mean genocide."
He shook his head ruefully, as if he'd heard it all before and expected better from her. "We want to save the African from himself. We can give these people the order they need to survive. What does Vie
"We still send aid, don't we?"
"That only adds to the misery. It props up corruption."
Laura rubbed her sweating forehead. "I don't understand."
"It's simple. We must succeed where Vie
Vie
"No one voted for you," Laura said. "You have no author- ity. You're vigilantes!"
"You're a vigilante yourself," the Inspector of Prisons said calmly. "A vigilante diplomat. Interfering with govern- ments for the sake of your multinational. We have everything in common, you see. "
"No!"
"We couldn't exist if it weren't for people like you, Mrs.
Webster. You financed us. You created us. We serve your needs." He drew a breath and smiled. "We are your sword and shield."
Laura sank back into the chair. "If we're on the same side, then why am I in your jail?"
He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "I did tell you,
Mrs. Webster-it's for reasons of atomic security! On the other hand, we see no reason why you shouldn't contact your coworkers and loved ones. Let them know you're alive and safe and well. It would mean a great deal to them, I'm sure.
You could make a statement. "
Laura spoke numbly. She'd known something like this was coming. "What kind of statement?"
"A prepared statement, of course. We can't have you babbling our atom secrets over a live phone link to Atlanta.
But you could make a videotape. Which we would release for you. "
Her stomach roiled. "I'd have to see the statement first.
And read it. And think about it."
"You do that. Think about it." He touched his watchphone, spoke in French. "You'll let us know your decision."
Another goon arrived. He took her to a different cell. They left the handcuffs off.
Laura's new cell was the same length as the first, but it had two bunks and was a stride and a half wider. She was no longer forced to wear handcuffs. She was given her own chamber pot and a larger jug. of water. There was more scop, and the porridge was of better quality and sometimes had soybean bacon bits.
They gave her a deck of cards, and a paperback Bible that had been distributed by the Jehovah's Witness Mission of
Bamako in 1992. She asked for a pencil to make notes on her statement. She was given a child's typer with a little flip-up display screen. It typed very nicely but had no printout and couldn't be used to scribble secret messages.
The screaming was louder under her new cell. Several different voices and, she thought, different languages too.
The screaming would go on, raggedly, for about an hour.
Then there would be a coffee break for the torturers. Then they would set back to work. She believed that there were several different torturers. Their habits differed. One of them liked to play moody French cafe ballads during his break.
One night she was woken by a muffled volley of machine- gun fire. It was followed by five sharp coup-de-grace shots.
They had killed people, but not the people being tortured- two of them were back next night.
It took them two weeks to bring her statement. It was worse than she had imagined. They wanted her to tell Rizome and the world that she had been kidnapped in Singapore by the Grenadians and was being held in the underground tu
English. Parts of it reminded her of the FACT
communiqué issued after the assassination of Winston Stubbs.
She no longer doubted that FACT had killed Stubbs and shot up her house. It was obvious. The remote-control killing smelled of them. It couldn't have been Singapore, poor brilliant, struggling Singapore. Singapore's military, soldiers Like
Hotchkiss, would have killed Stubbs face-to-face and never bragged about it afterward.
They must have launched the drone from a surface ship somewhere. It couldn't have come from their nuclear submarine- unless they had more than one, a horrible thought.
The sub couldn't have traveled fast enough to attack Galveston,
Grenada, and Singapore during the time of her adventure.
(She was already thinking of it as her adventure-some- thing over, something in her past, something pre-captivity.)
But America was an open country and a lot of the F.A.C.T. were Americans. They bragged openly that they could go anywhere, and she believed them.
She believed now they had someone-a plant, a spy, one of their Henderson/Hesseltines-in Rizome itself. It would be so easy for them, not like Singapore. All he would have to do was show up and work hard and smile.
She refused to read the prepared statement. The Inspector of Prisons looked at her with distaste. "You really think this defiance is accomplishing something, don't you?"
"This statement is disinformation. It's black propaganda, a provocation, meant to get people killed. I won't help you kill people."
"Too bad. I'd hoped you could send your loved ones a
New Year's greeting."
"I've written my own statement," Laura offered. "It doesn't say anything about you, or Mali, or the F.A.C.T., or your bombs. It just says I'm alive and it has a few words my husband will recognize so that he'll know it's really me."
The Inspector laughed. "What kind of fools do you take us for, Mrs. Webster? You think we'd let you spout secret messages, something you'd cooked up in your cell after weeks of your ... oh ... feminine ingenuity?"
He tossed the statement into a bottom drawer of his desk.
"Look, I didn't write the thing. I didn't make the decision.