Islands in the Net (52 page)

A printer began chattering. News from home. The others drifted over. Director Mbaqane moved closer to Laura. “I'm not sure I understand the role of this American journalist you mentioned.”

“He was with the Tuaregs.”

The director tried not to look confused. “Yes, we do have some so-called Tuaregs here, or rather, Kel Tamashek.… I take it that he wants to assure himself that they are being treated in a fair and equal manner?”

“It's more of a cultural interest,” Laura said. “He did mention something about wanting to talk to them.”

“Cultural? They're coming along very nicely.… Perhaps I could send out a deputation of tribal elders—put his mind to rest. We gladly shelter any ethnic group in need—Bambara, Marka, Songhai.… We have quite a large contingent of Sarakolé, who are not even Nigeran nationals.”

He seemed to expect an answer. Laura sipped her orange pop and nodded. Barnaard drifted back—he had quickly assessed the message as meaningless. “Oh, no. Not another journo, not now.”

The director shut him up with a glance. “As you can see, Mrs. Webster, we're rather pressed at the moment … but if you
require
a tour, I'm sure that Mr. Barnaard would be more than happy to, ah, explain our policies to the international press.”

“You're very thoughtful,” Laura said. “Unfortunately I have to do an interview myself.”

“Well, I can understand that—it must be quite a scoop. Hostages, freed from the notorious prisons of Bamako.” He fiddled with his pipe avuncularly. “It'll certainly be the talk of Azania. One of our own, returned to us from bondage. Quite a boost for our morale—especially in the midst of this crisis.” The director was talking over and through her for the benefit of his own people. It was working, too—he was cheering them up. She felt better about him.

He went on. “I know that you and Dr. Selous must be—are—very close. The sacred bond between those who have struggled together for freedom! But you needn't worry, Mrs. Webster. Our prayers are with Katje Selous! I am sure she will pull through!”

“I hope so. Take good care of her. She was brave.”

“A national heroine! Of course we will. And if there's anything we can do for you …”

“I thought, maybe a shower.”

Mbaqane laughed. “Good heavens. Of course, my dear. And clothing.… Sara is about your size.…”

“I'll keep this, uh, djellaba.” She had puzzled him. “I'm going on camera with it, it's a better image.”

“Oh, I see … yes.”

Gresham was doing a stand-up at the edge of camp. Laura circled him, careful to stay out of camera range.

She was shocked by the beauty of his face. He had shaved and put on full video makeup: eyeliner, lip rouge, powder. His voice had changed: it was mellifluous, each word pronounced with an anchorman's precision.

“… the image of a desolate wasteland. But the Sahel was once the home of black Africa's strongest, most prosperous states. The Songhai empire, the empires of Mali and Ghana, the holy city of Timbuktu with its scholars and libraries. To the Moslem world the Sahel was a byword for dazzling wealth, with gold, ivory, crops of all kinds. Huge caravans crossed the Sahara, fleets of treasure canoes traveled the Niger River …”

She walked past him. The rest of his caravan had arrived, and the Tuaregs had set up camp. Not the rags and lean-tos they'd skulked under while raiding, but six large, sturdy-looking shelters. They were prefabricated domes, covered in desert camo-fabric. Inside they were braced with mesh-linked metallic ribs.

From the backs of their skeletal desert cars, the hooded nomads were unrolling long linked tracks that looked like tank treads. In harsh afternoon sunlight the treads gleamed with black silicon. They were long racks of solar-power cells.

They hooked the buggies' wheel hubs to long jumper cables from the power grid. They moved with fluid ease; it was as if they were watering camels. They chatted quietly in Tamashek.

While one group was recharging their buggies, the others rolled out mats in the shade of one of the domes. They began brewing tea with an electric heat coil. Laura joined them. They seemed mildly embarrassed by her presence, but accepted it as an interesting anomaly. One of them pulled a tube of protein from an ancient leather parcel and cracked it open over his knee. He offered her a wet handful, bowing. She scraped it from his long fingertips and ate it and thanked him.

Gresham arrived with his cameraman. He was wiping his powdered face with an oiled rag, fastidiously. “How'd it go in camp?”

“I wasn't sure they'd let me back out.”

“They don't work that way,” Gresham said. “It's the desert that locks people in there.…” He sat beside her. “Did you tell them about the Bomb?”

She shook her head. “I wanted to, but I just couldn't. They're so jumpy already, and there's commandos with guns.… But Katje will tell them, if she comes around. It's all so confused—
I'm
confused. I was afraid they'd panic and lock me away. And you, too.”

The thought amused him. “What, come out and tangle with us? I don't think so.” He patted the camera. “I had a talk with that para captain, when he came out to give us the once-over.… I know how he's thinking. Classic Afrikaaner tactics: he's got his covered wagons in a circle, every man to the ramparts, ready to repel the Zulus. Of course he's a Zulu himself, but he's read the rule books.… Got a camp full of childlike savage refugees to keep calm and pacified.… He's got us figured for friendlies, though. So far.”

“Vienna's coming, too.”

“Christ.” Gresham thought about it. “A little Vienna, or a lot of Vienna?”

“They didn't say. I guess it depends on what Vienna wants. They gave me some song-and-dance about protests from the government of Niger.”

“Well, Niger's no help, eighty-year-old Soviet tanks and an army that riots and burns down Niamey every other year.… If there's a lot of Vienna, it could be trouble. But they wouldn't send a lot of Vienna to a refugee camp. If Vienna were moving in force against Mali they'd just hit Bamako.”

“They wouldn't ever do that. They're too afraid of the Bomb.”

“I dunno. Spooks make lousy soldiers, but they took out Grenada six months ago, and that was a tough nut to crack.”

“They
did
that? Invaded Grenada?”

“Wiped 'em out in their hacker ratholes.… Stupid tactics though, frontal assault, clumsy.… They lost over twelve hundred men.” He raised his brows at her shock. “You've
been
to Grenada, Laura—I thought you knew. FACT should have told you—it was such a triumph for their goddamn policy.”

“They never told me. Anything.”

“The cult of secrecy,” he said. “They live by it.” He paused, glancing toward the camp. “Oh, good. They've sent us out some of their tame Tamashek.”

Gresham withdrew within the dome, motioning Laura with him. Half a dozen camp inmates arrived outside, trudging reluctantly.

They were old men. They wore T-shirts and paper baseball hats and Chinese rubber sandals and ragged polyester pants.

The Inadin Tuaregs greeted them with languid, ritual politeness. Gresham translated for her. Sir is well? Yes, very well, and yourself? Myself and mine are very well, thank you. And sir's people, they are also well? Yes, very well. Thanks be to God, then. Yes, thanks be to God, sir.

One of the Inadin lifted the kettle high and began pouring tea with a long, ceremonial trickle. Everyone had tea. They then began boiling it again, pouring some coarse sugar over a kettle already half full of leaves. They spoke for some time about the tea, sitting politely, brushing without irritation at circling flies. The day's most virulent heat faded.

Gresham translated for her—strange bits of solemn platitude. They stayed in the back of the tent, out of the circle. Time passed slowly, but she was happy enough to sit beside him, letting her mind go desert blank.

Then one of the Inadin produced a flute. A second found an intricate xylophone of wood and gourds, bound with leather. He tapped it experimentally, tightening a cord, while a third reached inside his robe. He tugged a leather thong—at the end was a pocket synthesizer.

The man with the flute opened his veil; his black face was stained blue with sweat-soaked indigo dye. He blew a quick trill on the flute, and they were off.

The rhythm built up, high resonant notes from the buzzing xylophone, the off-scale dipping warble of the flute, the eerie, strangely primeval bass of the synthesizer.

The others punctuated the music with claps and sudden piercing shrieks from behind their veils. Suddenly one began to sing in Tamashek. “He sings about his synthesizer,” Gresham murmured.

“What does he say?”

I
humbly adore the acts of the Most High
,

Who has given to the synthesizer what is better than a soul
.

So that, when it plays, the men are silent
,

And their hands cover their veils to hide their emotions
.

The troubles of life were pushing me into the tomb
,

But thanks to the synthesizer
,

God has given me back my life
.

The music stopped. The camp refugees clapped a little, then stopped, confused. Gresham glanced at his watch, then rose to his feet, lugging his camera. “That's just a taste of it,” he told Laura. “They'll be back for more, later—and bring their families I hope.…”

“Let's do the interview.”

He hesitated. “You sure you're up for it?”

“Yeah.”

She followed him to another tent. It was guarded by two of the Inadin Tuaregs and heaped with their baggage. There were carpets underfoot and a battery, a spare one from the buggies. Hooked to it, he had a keyboard and screen—a custom model with a console of hand-carved redwood.

Gresham sat cross-legged before it. “I hate this goddamned machine,” he announced, and ran his hand lingeringly over its sleek lines. He hooked his videocam to one of the console's input ports.

“Gresham, where's your makeup case?”

He passed it to her. Laura opened the hand mirror. She was so gaunt and thin—a look like anorexia, rage turned helplessly in on itself.

The hell. She jabbed her fingertips in powder, smeared her hollow cheeks. Somebody was going to pay.

She began rouging her lips. “Gresham, we have to figure how to hustle those Azanians. They're old-fashioned, funny about information. They wouldn't let me near their damned telex, and they'll want to clear everything with Pretoria.”

“We don't need them,” he said.

“We do if we want to reach the Net! And they'll want to see the tape first—they'll learn everything.”

He shook his head. “Laura, look around you.”

She put down the mirror and humored him. They were in a dome. Fabric over metal ribs and chicken wire.

“You're sitting under a satellite dish,” he told her.

She was stunned. “You access satellites?”

“How the hell else do you touch the Net from the middle of the Sahara? The coverage is spotty, but during the right tracking times you can make a pass.”

“How can you
do
that? Where does the money come from?” An awful thought struck her. “Gresham, are you running a data haven?”

“No. I used to deal with them, though. All the time.” He thought about it. “Maybe I should start my own haven now. The competition's down, and I could use the bread.”

“Don't do it. Don't even think it.”

“You must know that biz pretty well. You could be my adviser.” The joke fell completely flat. He looked at her, meditatively. “You'd come right after me, wouldn't you. You and your little legions of straight-arrow corporate people.”

She said nothing.

“Sorry,” he said. “It hardly matters at the moment.… I wouldn't want to send this tape to a data haven anyway.”

“What do you mean? Where
would
you send it?”

“To Vienna, of course. Let 'em see that I know—that I've got the goods on 'em. FACT has the Bomb, and they've blackmailed Vienna. So Vienna cut a deal with them—let 'em beat the crap out of the havens, while they covered up for nuclear terrorists. Vienna's failed, and I know they've failed. To shut me up, they might try to hunt me down and kill me, but I've gotten pretty good at avoiding that. With any luck they'd buy me off instead. Then leave me alone—the way they've left Mali alone.”

“That's not enough! Everyone must know. The whole world.”

Gresham shook his head. “I think we could hustle Vienna, if we play it right. They don't mind buying people when they have to. They'll pay for our silence. More than you might think.”

She held the mirror to her face. “I'm sorry, Gresham. I simply, truly don't care about Vienna or its money. That's not who I am. I care about the world I have to live in.”

“I don't live in your world,” he told her. “Too bad if that makes me sound crass. But I can tell you this much—if you want to go back, and be-who-you-are, and live your cozy life in that whole world of yours, you'd better not try to kick its jams out. Maybe I could survive a stunt like that, ducking and dodging out here in the desert, but I don't think you could. The world doesn't give a shit how noble your motives are—it'll roll right over you. That's how it works.” He was lecturing her. “You can hustle—cut a corner here, a corner there—but you can't tackle the world.…”

She examined her hair in the mirror. Wild prison hair. She'd washed it in the Azanian camp and the dry heat had fluffed it out. It stood up all over her head, like an explosion.

He kept after her. “It's no use even trying. The Net will never run this tape, Laura. News services never run tapes of terrorist hostages. Except for Vienna, who knows it's true, everyone will think it's wild bullshit. That you're speaking under duress, or that the whole thing is bogus.”