Chapter 10

Marigold watched the sky darken, her countenance seeming to mimic the weather. As clouds rolled across the sky, they seemed to roll across her expression, too. At the same time as she watched the sky, she watched the summer volunteers taking a break from unloading bags of seed from the truck. When one of them rose, rubbing his lower back, to go back to work, Marigold strode down the hill she was sitting on and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't take any more off," she said, looking at the sky. "Get the tarp back on the truck and get the truck up on the hill... quickly."

The new volunteer nodded, "Okay. My spine feels like it's about to fall out any minute anyway."

They were just lashing the tarp down when Jennifer came trotting up to the young man with the sore back, "Why are you putting the tarp up? We need to get that grain off the truck so that we can get out of here first thing tomorrow morning."

The volunteer pointed to Marigold, "She told us to do it."

Jennifer glowered as she approached. Not for the first time, Marigold regretted having set up Jennifer and Alan. At the time, it had seemed like the perfect solution. Marigold had been unhappy in her own relationship with him. Jennifer had resented her for that relationship, having pined after Alan from afar for more than a year before Marigold had even come to Harvard.

But, ever since she'd set them up, Jennifer's resentment towards Marigold had seemingly become progressively worse. Either she couldn't accept Marigold as Alan's ex or she bore some special animosity towards Marigold for having effectively said, "He's not good enough for me. Maybe he's good enough for you." Either way, she'd become increasingly difficult to work with.

"Why are they putting the tarp back on the truck?" Jennifer demanded.

"I told them to," said Marigold.

"I know that," said Jennifer. "Why? These people need all the seed on that truck. Do you want them to starve?"

Marigold could have taken offense at the accusation, but she was too weary and found it too absurd to take seriously, "We're about to get a flash flood. That shed is in a dry creek bed. Those morons in the Peace Corps must have built it. We need to get the truck to higher ground before the rains start."

"Doctor Anton put me in charge," said Jennifer indignantly. "You should have checked with me first."

Marigold didn't bother to dignify that comment with a response. Instead, she made sure the tarp was secured and started walking towards the truck's cabin.

"Marigold," demanded Jennifer. "Don't walk away from me. I will not have you..."

Marigold turned and faced the older girl. Despite several inches of difference in height, an oddity of the landscape allowed them to see eye-to-eye. She didn't say anything, just stared. It was a trick she had learned from Thule, which he called the "thousand-mile stare." Marigold had tried it before, but it had never worked for her. She always broke down and spoke to break the uncomfortable silence. This time, however, the effect was immediate. Jennifer stopped speaking and actually took an involuntary step backwards. Marigold didn't bother to press her advantage, just turned back around and got in the truck.

After wrestling with the balky clutch, Marigold got the truck into gear and drove it up the hill. Once there, Marigold turned off the ignition and sat, waiting.

For the next ten minutes, it looked like she'd been wrong. The clouds didn't get any thicker and seemed to be dissipating around the edges. Then, they announced their intentions with a gunshot roll of thunder, immediately followed by a wave of fat raindrops that spattered across the truck and the dry ground.

She watched as the sky got darker and the rain heavier. The other volunteers went by on their way to the houses in the village, some asking her to join them. But, she elected to stay with the truck. She wanted to watch the storm's progress, but she also didn't want to be around the locals, whose fields were even now being washed away. She couldn't take their resignation to the fact that rain washed away their fields every few years and they would just have to rebuild.

Even over the fury of the storm, she heard the little shack rip loose of its moorings and collapse into the stream that hadn't been there an hour before. She watched another stream form, this one of refugees, residents of the smaller, outlying villages that had dotted the flood plain earlier today. They too would, at some point, shrug their shoulders and rebuild.

She must have dozed because, after a while, she opened her eyes to see that the storm had passed. Dark clouds still hung overhead, but no rain fell. The plain seemed to have been replaced by a shallow, muddy lake.

The standing water brought fresh dangers with it, of course. Cholera, hepatitis, and shigellosis were all possibilities. The people would go back to their villages as soon as the waters started to recede and try to save as much as they could. They had to. As real as the possibility of disease was, the specter of starvation was ever-present. Only in Africa did people ever die of shigellosis anymore. A flood in the Congo had killed two hundred people by drowning and four thousand by disease.

A glance in the rearview mirror showed her that Dr. Anton was trudging through the mud towards her. As always, Marigold was deeply impressed by his physical fortitude. She didn't know many men in their fifties or, for that matter, in their twenties who could trek across Africa six months out of every year.

Opening the door, the professor did a complicated maneuver that allowed him to shed most of his rain gear before sitting down and still remain mostly dry. Even as he did so, Marigold could see his eyes scanning the roiling brown stream down where the village's fields had been.

"Flood took the shed?" he asked. Marigold nodded.

"Damned shame," he opined.

Marigold laughed bitterly, "I suppose that's one way to look at it."

Dr. Anton looked out the windshield for a while, "You saved the truck, I see. Smart thinking. If you'd waited until it started raining, we could have well lost it, the rest of these seeds, and quite possibly one of you trying to save it. It's happened before."

Marigold nodded, feeling numb, "That would really have been a damned shame."

Dr. Anton looked at her, his eyes searching her face intently, "Is something new on your mind, Miss Tarr?"

Marigold sighed, "The most pedestrian thing in the world, I'm afraid. I had a fight with my boyfriend."

"Ah," said Dr. Anton. "Alan or the one back home?"

"The one back home," said Marigold. "Alan was never my boyfriend. And, besides, he's with Jennifer now."

Dr. Anton nodded sagely, "If you want to vent..."

Marigold didn't. She was already regretting the fight with Thule and feeling foolish for having had it. Instead, she said the first thing that came to her mind, "How much of the seed we brought do you think will actually end up feeding people?"

Dr. Anton shrugged, "Some of it. Maybe a few thousand people will be saved from starvation because of our work here, maybe only a few hundred. It's not what we wanted to do with it, but a few hundred lives saved seems like a better deal than letting it rot on the dock."

"Of course," said Marigold quickly.

Together, they watched the rain for a few minutes. It was the professor who spoke first, "Nothing really prepares you for this. Does it?"

Marigold shook her head, "I learned everything I could. I even knew that all the book learning in the world couldn't prepare me. And, I was prepared to be unprepared. But, I wasn't prepared enough for how unprepared I was going to be..." She let her words trail off, "Does that make any sense?"

Dr. Anton smiled, "Some--in a very meta sort of way."

Another few minutes passed in silence. Again, Dr. Anton spoke first, "Miss Tarr, may I ask you a difficult question?"

Marigold looked at him, "You've been calling me Miss Tarr since you got in the truck. Considering that you called me Marigold from the first day we met, I assumed that you were about to."

The professor made a gesture of acknowledgement, "You were correct. Unfortunately, it's a question that, no matter how many times I ask it, I never find quite the right way to express it."

"Thule," said Marigold, "has a habit of asking the hardest questions in the most blunt way possible. It can be difficult to deal with sometimes, but I'm pretty well inured to it by now."

The professor sighed, "Everyone who comes to Africa with this program has something to prove. That's not always a bad thing and, quite frankly, we don't have enough volunteers to be turning them away even if it were. I don't think that a volunteer without something to prove would last past the initial wave of disappointment at how little we really help sometimes."

"You want to know what I'm trying to prove," said Marigold. "Is that it?"

"Not necessarily," said Dr. Anton. "I want to know if you've proven it yet, whatever it is."

Marigold considered the question for a while, "I've got so many things to prove. I'm not sure if I specifically planned on proving any of them in Africa." She decided to turn it around, "What do you think I'm trying to prove?"

The professor raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, "I would never dare to guess."

"All right, then," said Marigold. "Why are you asking?"

Dr. Anton sighed again, "I've just gotten word that Congress is opening hearings on the use of federal funds to provide food relief that utilizes genetically modified crops to start on the first of September."

"And you need to be there for them?" asked Marigold.

"That's what Dr. Corrigan thinks," said Dr. Anton. "But, I couldn't do it. I don't have the patience for committees anymore, even if they are Congress. Dr. Corrigan will be addressing them."

"Dr. Corrigan doesn't know half of what you do about the subject," said Marigold.

"No," said Dr. Anton. "And, he doesn't have time to get up to speed, either. He'll need a research assistant, one who's already well-versed on the subject."

"Me?" asked Marigold.

Dr. Anton nodded, smiling, "You impressed me with your ability to absorb the material quickly. Plus, you're articulate and photogenic. Not least of all, your name carries influence that doesn't even require exercising. Your family's history of philanthropy is well known."

"But, there's so much work to be done right here," she said.

"Yes, there is," said Dr. Anton. "Important work that will save lives."

Marigold considered it, "But, you want me to go."

Dr. Anton nodded, "There are three components to this work--field labor, fundraising, and lobbying. Surprisingly, lobbying is the one we get the fewest volunteers for and certainly the least number of qualified volunteers."

"What about Jennifer?" asked Marigold. "Or Alan? They've both been studying much longer than I have."

Dr. Anton nodded, "Alan's an acolyte. He doesn't understand people who disagree with the work we're doing. Worse, he can't grasp the idea that most people don't care that their arguments are logically flawed and only get angry when you show them why they're wrong."

"And Jennifer?"

Dr. Anton said evenly, "Jennifer is ideally suited for field work. She lacks the temperament for lobbying."

"And I'm not suited for field work," said Marigold, feeling a little bit peevish.

"No," said Dr. Anton. "You're not. You do a fine job of it and probably could for years. But, Jennifer was born for it. She has an abominably deep wellspring of compassion. And, when it runs out, she'll probably convert her compassion fatigue into piety. She reminds me very much of my first wife. In another era, she would have been a saint... or at least a goddamned nun."

The last few words revealed a weariness Marigold had never heard in Dr. Anton's voice before. She was stunned enough that she said absent-mindedly, "Jennifer is an atheist."

Dr. Anton chuckled, "I understand that many of the best nuns are."

Marigold sighed, "How would I get back?"

Dr. Anton indicated the sky, "The rains will be letting up soon. As soon as the roads are clear, we need to start moving east anyway."

"East?" asked Marigold. "We just came from the east."

"I know," said Dr. Anton. "But, the refugees are telling us that Ivorian rebels have taken up a village about a hundred miles west of here and might be heading this way next. We're going to push up our schedule and head back to Accra for more seed before heading west again."

Marigold scowled, "That'll take a week. You'll never finish in time."

Dr. Anton shrugged, "It can't be helped."

Marigold looked west as if she could see anything more than a quarter mile out, "A hundred miles is an awfully long way, especially in all this mud. It's a three or four hour drive. We could head north."

"We could," said Dr. Anton. "But, the standard operating procedure for these things is to head for a big city or a friendly military base in situations like this. It's not like we could reliably tell if the rebels started heading our way."

Marigold had once asked Thule how he made important decisions so quickly. Thule had told her that he didn't make them quickly so much as he considered his options, even the improbable ones, well in advance. It wasn't about thinking quickly. It was about entertaining possibilities before you found that you had to make your decision.

"I have to get back to the village," said Marigold, starting the truck. "We may have another option."

"Are you awake?"

Helene muttered a response. She'd been awake, but until Jake had asked, she hadn't realized she was awake. She tried to sit up and immediately laid back down as a wave of inertia and nausea washed over her. Jake caught her shoulders in one powerful arm, holding her upright. She looked up at him, eyes still fogged with sleep. Jake handed her a cool glass of water, which she drank from gratefully.

"Where are we?" Helene asked hoarsely.

"Well, Colleen," said Jake pointedly, reminding her of the masquerade they were maintaining. "It appears that we're on a container ship called the Kleine Schweitzer headed somewhere that is about ten days' cruise from Boston. My best guess is that our destination is somewhere off the coast of Africa."

Helene drained her water glass and said more calmly than she felt, "We weren't supposed to actually get captured."

Jake nodded, "We had a gap in coverage and they exploited it."

"Are the other girls..."

"Everyone who came to my office seems to be here," said Jake. "Except for Yuri. I think they killed him during the grab. While we were bringing you on board, I ran into Ioke. Somehow, she's in a position to be ordering crew members around. I don't know why yet."

"All right," said Helene, sitting up to look out the porthole. "I understand why I'm here, but why are you here and alive? Not that I'm not glad to see you, mind you."

Jake gave an ironic smile, "You might not be too thrilled to see me when you hear the answer. I know the captain of the Kleine Schweitzer from when I worked for Ivan. I even made friends with his first mate, Jov. Well, the captain is apparently riding the razor's edge of a mutinous takeover and needed more men to secure his position. I'm one of the men."

"Wouldn't a mutiny be to our benefit?"

"Maybe," said Jake. "But, from what I hear, the most-likely-to-succeed would be a lot worse for our health than Captain Morrison is. I'll try to verify that independently before making any decisions."

"So, why wouldn't I be happy to see you?"

Jake took a deep breath and let it out, "As it turns out, you weren't on Jov's list. He was going to have to throw you overboard to avoid complications. Instead, you're my reward for coming on board."

"Your..." Helene tried to figure out what the word meant in this context. When she did, she blushed furiously and said, "... oh."

"And," Jake hurried on, "in order to convince the captain that I'm worth the trouble, Jov is painting me as Ivan's right hand man and painting the lurid details of all the people I killed for him."

Helene narrowed her eyes, "Didn't we pretend you were a hired killer in the Vandevoort case?"

Jake nodded, "Any time they need someone to appear homicidal, everybody starts looking at me."

Helene smiled. Before she could speak, there was a quick, hesitant knock at the door. Helene lay back like she was still unconscious as Jake went for the door and opened it carefully, one hand on his gun.

When he peeked out, he saw Ioke standing alone in the hall. He opened the door carefully, "Can I help you?"

"Can I come in?" Ioke asked, looking back and forth to either side.

Jake nodded and guided her in, closing the door. As soon as the door was shut, Ioke wrapped her arms around him and hugged him as fiercely as she could, "God, Jake. I know we only talked a few times, but I can't tell you how glad I am to see you. How's Helene?"

"Woozy," said Helene, sitting up. "I'm still recovering from the gas. And, by the way, my identity is Colleen. I just graduated high school and am a Medeforte candidate, although apparently not up to the exacting standards of white slavers."

Jake must have heard the hint of bristling in her voice and said, "I think you probably weren't on Jov's list because you were so recently added to Vanessa's."

"Maybe," Helene said, sniffing.

"We don't have a lot of time," said Ioke. "I don't know who's watching, but I need to get to the other new girls and make sure they're all right." She held up the first aid kit, "Do you need anything?"

"Tylenol?" asked Helene hopefully.

As Helene took the pills and laid back down with her eyes closed, Jake and Ioke filled each other in on all the information they had. Helene tried to focus, but found herself drifting off again. She found herself deeply impressed and a little resentful at how good Ioke was at this sort of thing with no training at all. As near as Helene could tell, Ioke had done everything right so far and maximized their chance of survival. She dozed off wondering if she would have done as well.

The next time Thule's phone rang, he had to look twice at the caller ID to believe it. It was a number he'd never expected to call directly again or vice versa. The shock was enough to make him answer it immediately.

"Dule," said Svetlana. "I am glad to be getting hold of you."

Thule wondered if that was some of double entendre. With Svetlana, you could never tell. He decided to ignore the possibility, "Hello, Svetlana. What can I do for you?"

"Am thinking something bad happened to Jake," said Svetlana. "He left strange message on my voice mail."

"Strange how?" asked Thule.

"It sounds like his phone is far away from his mouth," said Svetlana. "And I hear words like 'keel' and 'sheep.'"

It took Thule a moment to realize that Svetlana meant "kill" and "ship." After eight years in the US, she could speak unaccented English. Her Russian only started to peek through as an affectation or when she was upset. She hadn't bothered with affectation directed towards Thule in a while. Ever since he'd discovered the relationship between Svetlana and Jake, Thule had been trying to figure out her angle. That she might have a deep and abiding affection for his second-in-command had never crossed Thule's mind.

"Did you save the message?" he asked.

"Da," said Svetlana, sounding vaguely annoyed. "Of course."

"All right," said Thule. "I want you to go to the RSS building and ask for... Shit." He normally would have sent her to signal processing, but Robert would be there and he was compromised. His backup for signal processing was Jake. "Hold on, Sveta. I need to figure out who you should bring this to."

"I can not bring it to you?" asked Svetlana.

"I'm in a plane on my way to Africa," said Thule. "Otherwise, I'd be right on top of it. I... Hang on. Marigold is on the other line."

"Sure," said Svetlana, regaining a bit of her old sarcasm. "Is no big deal. I wait."

Thule ignored her sarcasm and switched over. At the same time, he gestured at his briefcase. Melinda smiled and fetched it for him.

"Hello, Marigold," Thule said, sliding his palmtop out of his bag. "I'm dealing with an emergency at the moment. Are you somewhere that I can call you back?"

"Maybe," said Marigold. "It's the same phone you had problems with before."

Thule sighed, "Can you stay on the line a few minutes. I need to juggle."

Marigold sounded disappointed, "I've got a full battery. It should be good for about an hour and a half."

"I just need five minutes," said Thule. He switched back to Svetlana.

"Sveta, go to the mansion and ask for signal processing. A man named Robert will help you. Don't let him out of your sight until someone you recognize is there--one of the FBI agents who..."

"Who helped you catch Ivan?" Svetlana asked. All of a sudden, there was a hint of humor in her voice. She could always be relied on to find amusement in Thule's discomfort, even at moments of great duress.

"Yeah," said Thule. "But, give me an hour to square things away. This is really important and I don't want to risk losing that message."

"All right," said Svetlana. "I go to RSS building, leave in one hour. Give me address."

Thule cursed inwardly and gave her the address. It felt to him like she was taking forever to copy it down. Finally, he was able to end the call. He switched lines.

"Hello, Marigold," he said.

"Hello, Thule," she said. "I need your help."

Thule didn't hesitate. Nor did he outwardly crow at the words, "Of course. What can I do?"

Marigold's sigh was audible, "I need you to get your people to look at satellite photos of where I am and tell me what's going on. We're at the tail end of a flash flood with reports of rebels a few hours west of us. We... I need to know what they're doing and if we need to start moving back towards Accra."

Thule's reaction was a strange combination of elation and concern. He pushed both down and said, "I can get you what you need."

"Thank you, Thule," said Marigold. "I really appreciate it."

"I'll always do what I can for you," said Thule. "I love you, Marigold."

"Oh God, Thule," said Marigold. "I love you too. And, I miss you so much." She sniffled like she was trying not to cry. Taking a deep breath, she said, "That brings me to the big favor I need, Thule. I don't know how you would do it. I don't know how anyone would do it. That's why I'm asking you--because I think it's impossible. But, if the caravan has to go back to Accra, we'll lose so much time and never be able to deliver all the seed we need to."

Thule had a sinking feeling in his gut, but asked, "What do you need?"

"Can you get me out of here?"

The question hung in the crackling air over their phones. Thule wasn't comfortable believing he'd heard her correctly. But, he fought off the urge to ask her to repeat herself. Instead, he just said, "Yes, I can."

"You can?" asked Marigold, sounding stunned. "How?"

"Give me an hour to work out the details," said Thule. "I'll figure it out."

"Thule..." there was a note of question in her voice.

"Marigold, have I ever promised to do something for you and failed?"

"No, Thule."

"I don't intend to start now. Give me an hour, Marigold."

"I love you, Thule."

"And I love you, Little Flower. If you haven't heard from me in an hour, call me back."

Thule closed his phone and leaned back in his seat. His hand came up and rubbed his temples, a look of extreme concentration on his face. Melinda sat across from him, working on her PDA as if she hadn't heard a word of the conversation. For three long minutes, they held that tableau. Finally, Thule said quietly, "I need to get Marigold out of Africa, today if possible."

Melinda didn't answer for a few seconds. Then, without looking up, she said, "I could do it."

"I want to be there," said Thule. "It's important."

Melinda looked up, pushing her hair back out of her face, "You're putting me in a difficult situation here, Thule."

Thule nodded. He'd half-expected her to say that. He asked, "Can we do this and still get to the conference on time?"

"Probably," said Melinda. "We'll be landing in Hanish-Assab in less than two hours. We could refuel and fly on to Accra. From there, I could pull some strings with an NGO that owes me a big favor, pick her up, fly back to Accra, get back on the Gulfstream and be back on the royal estates with a couple of hours to spare. But, you wouldn't get much sleep."

Thule snorted at the idea that sleep was a consideration. Evenly, he asked, "What will it cost me?"

Melinda raised an eyebrow as if she really believed he was asking about money, "About sixty thousand dollars."

Thule waited, letting the answer hang in the air, watching Melinda.

"I can make about forty thousand of it tax deductible," she added. Thule nodded but didn't speak.

Finally, she said, "Thule, please don't make me play hardball here."

Thule shook his head in the negative, "I have to. You're too good of a negotiator for me to give that away."

Melinda sighed, "Thule, I can't do this for you in my current role. I work for Sean. My job is to facilitate the investigation. I can't just put everything at your disposal just because I agree with your motives."

"But, if you worked for me..." Thule prompted.

Melinda sighed, "Look at it from my perspective. I only have three bargaining chips. You crave my knowledge and skill, but have rejected my availability in your offer. The only other chip I have is my influence. If I just give it away whenever you need it..."

Thule rubbed his temples again. The negotiation had played out as he expected. He said, "My offer is three years."

"With no availability clause?" asked Melinda.

"I didn't say that," said Thule. "I've been thinking about what you said, everything you've said. I wouldn't be doing you any favors by excluding the availability clause. Would I?"

Melinda put the stylus for her palmtop between her lips and grinned. When she spoke, her accent was as thick as he'd ever heard it, "Why, Mr. Roemer. Are you suggesting that I might enjoy being at the beck and call of a young, handsome, powerful man like yourself?" The smile she gave him was all sex, "Why, now that you mention it, I think you may be right."

Thule considered Melinda. She sat across from him and bore his scrutiny calmly. If she hadn't wound up working for Medeforte, she could have easily continued a fashion model. Her hips were narrow, like Marigold's. But, Melinda was markedly taller. Marigold was petite. Melinda would be better described as svelte. Everything about her seemed streamlined. Her whole body was a collection of long, gentle curves.

As the silence stretched on between them, Thule started to feel the urge to say anything to break it. He knew that, as a matter of strategy, if you waited long enough to speak, the person you were speaking with would often blurt out something just to end the silence. It was a technique he knew well and had used to great effect. By now, he should be immune to it. But, he felt the pressure building. Knowing he was going to say something, he considered his words carefully.

He leaned back in his seat, letting his eyes play over Melinda's body. Putting aside his natural inclination to be discrete, he hid nothing in his eyes or face as he mentally undressed her, literally. He imagined her without the jacket, then in just the blouse with no skirt. Then, he guessed at what her underwear looked like and how she would look dressed in it. Finally, he lingered over imagining her peeling out of her bra and panties.

The shiver that went through Melinda's body would have been almost imperceptible if Thule hadn't been watching for it. But, Thule caught it, along with the momentary lidding of her eyes and quickness of breath. Melinda knew it, too. When she reopened her eyes, she acknowledged Thule's effect on her with a small grin.

With a small victory under his belt, Thule felt more comfortable saying what was on his mind, "They all expect me to be a hero, you know."

Melinda nodded. When she spoke, her accent was faint and unaffected. Thule suspected he was hearing how she really sounded in unguarded moments for the first time. What she said was, "It's a very convincing mythology you've built."

Thule sat back, "A lot of them know the whole story. Many of them were there. I got where I am by being about as far from a hero as you can get. My primary skills were lying, sneaking around, and convincing people I was their best friend in the world while I slipped the knife in their back. Now, a year later, I'm supposed to be some white hat because the guys I brought down happened to be some of the blackest of the black hats."

Melinda gave Thule that smile again, the one he could feel in the soles of his feet, "You're trying to feed me the next layer of mythology, Thule. You're no more a villain than you are the hero everyone thinks you are."