“No, Dad, but the buck stops with you.”
His distinguished face contorted, thick dark eyebrows with flecks of gray like the rest of his beard and hair crinkling in annoyance. They could see the familiar background of his London home office with the picture of the African continent spread across the wall behind him like a mural. “I’ve let you stay in America far too long. You’re beginning to sound like one of them.”
“Blimey, Dad, you’re going to have to get over it. We lost that war, okay? Been a few years at that. About two hundred thirty-seven, I’d say.” Elin loved reminding him of that little bit of English history.
He steepled his large hands in front of him, leaning into the video, his voice deepening. “What have I always told you girls?”
“Even High Council must adhere to rules,” Nena answered promptly. “We have these rules because if we don’t have rules, then we have anarchy.”
“Life-and-death rules.”
“Yes, Dad.”
Elin groaned. Nena was always in tune with their father’s thoughts. She understood him in ways Elin didn’t.
Nena continued, “High Council must lead by example.” She squared her shoulders. “Dad, I am sorry for any trouble it may cause the Tribe. I accept any consequences for my insubordination.”
“Elin oversees the business side; Network guides; you dispatch,” Dad said, too far into his fussing to stop at her apology. “That’s the job. You do not deviate from the plan.”
“I understand.”
“The Council’s concern, my concern, is that this lawyer may get too close. What if this killing only compels him to look further into Smith’s dealings? What if it all leads back to the new member we’re about to vote in and subsequently the Tribe? We cannot have undue attention. We are so close to cinching our place and being seen as more than a third world continent. Do you understand?”
“He won’t, Dad.”
“Ah, but how? How can you be so sure, my girl?”
She thought about the plastic school ID on her bureau. “I can figure out a way to see what he knows,” she offered.
He scoffed, looking at his elder daughter, who pursed her lips and flipped her wrist as if she wanted nothing to do with the conversation. “Do you hear your sister? She’s a spy now instead of a dispatcher.” He let out a string of Yoruba that said something about nerves and these children.
He pointed at the screen. “Elin, you make sure she keeps a low profile. No further jobs until I smooth things over with the Council.”
“What? Dad, no! I’m not her bloody babysitter,” Elin protested. She threw a withering look at Nena, to which Nena mouthed an apology.
Having had enough of the both of them, Noble disconnected the call.
Nena turned from the screen and gave Elin her undivided attention. If she could make Elin understand the machinations of her mind when she’d seen the man through the lenses of her scope without having to explain her feelings, it would be much easier. It would be too difficult to explain how easily she’d been snatched back to the darkest time of her life, how easily she’d been taken back to her burning village, how quickly she’d felt small again, like nothing, made to fear, introduced to terror, married to grief and loss, just at the mere sight of that man. No, Nena wished not to explain any of it to anyone.
“What’s going on with you? It’s not like you to not follow directives. Smith was the wrong man. He was not the mark.”
But he was not the wrong man, Nena thought, though she remained quiet for the moment. Smith was the right one, the absolute right mark. She’d thought he’d died long ago.
And if he was around, then Paul and Kwabena were not far behind him.
20
BEFORE
The journey from what used to be N’nkakuwe takes the rest of the night. As we travel down the mountain in a caravan of trucks, each jostle over unpaved roads awakens new blooms of pain. They make me drift in and out of consciousness. Unconsciousness is better than having to think about what and who we left behind.
The sun is at the highest point in the sky when we arrive at an encampment, what I soon learn is the Compound. It is to be our prison, a large, sprawling facility comprising numerous cement buildings of different sizes enclosed by walls of cement and iron gates.
Our long line of autos enters through the massive front gates, which open electronically. Atop all the gates and walls are thick razor-covered wires so that even if we were able to climb, we would tear ourselves on the sharp needles. The gates grind to a close and lock behind us, sealing us in, confirming to us there is no escape. Dotting the outer perimeter of the walls are small towers—guard towers where the men currently on patrol duty look down at us with indifference, their automatic rifles pointing in our direction as they watch our arrival and whisper to their mates, sometimes gesturing at us. They are already picking out who they might like to visit once Paul has broken us in.