a choice?”
“You have lots of choices. We know from your track record that you like to operate independently, so from here on out you’ll be pretty much in charge. Your choice of tactics, your choice of equipment. We might even be able to supply you with a few necessities. Within reason, of course. Find out what we need to know and you’re a free man, even if it only takes a week. Then you can tell Omar the job wasn’t your cup of tea and fly home to your rustic paradise on Karos. Like I said, we’re running this from the bottom up.”
“And if it takes longer than three months?”
“That will mean you’re not doing your job. There’s a shelf life to this kind of information, and at three months your coach turns back into a pumpkin and your horses become mice. If you need more motivation than we’ve already supplied, then consider that lives may be at stake. Think of it as your chance to balance the books. Well, sort of. Only if Western lives are worth more than African ones. But hasn’t that always been the going exchange rate? Which reminds me. There is one thing we’re
not
asking you to do, Freeman, and that is to be any sort of action figure who takes matters into his own hands. Your role is to provide information, not to act on it, or even to ‘notify the authorities.’” Black made quote marks in the air. “From here on out, we are the only authorities you are answerable to, and when the time for action comes, we’ll take it. We—not you, not the Jordanians—will stand as judge and jury.”
“And executioner?”
“Let us worry about that.”
“Great. And what about training?”
“Training?”
“Technique. Tactics. What to do in an emergency.”
Black almost laughed.
“The way I see it, you’ve spent your whole life training for this. Playing at neutrality all over the globe. The aid chameleon, jumping from one tree to the next. Rubbing elbows with scoundrels while pretending to be their friend. Just be yourself, Freeman. As for your means of communication, don’t worry. We’ll set something up.”
“And what am I supposed to tell Mila?”
“Whatever you like. If you’ve somehow managed to keep all this hidden from her”—he gestured toward the blank screen, little knowing how close he had just come to the truth—“then I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
3
I n the course of my travels, I have mastered three foreign languages—French, Arabic, and Greek. I’ve picked up enough Spanish, German, and Serbo-Croatian to fend for myself in restaurants and supermarkets, and during my final years in the field I achieved a brisk fluency in “Directorese,” a UN dialect of acronyms and officiousness invaluable when confronting the high and mighty.
But as Black and Gray escorted me back to Mila in a red Opel—a car they seemed to produce from out of nowhere—I confronted a new and unexpected gap in my linguistic skills. Namely, my deficiencies in the language of deception. Because that is what I would need to employ with my wife, less for my own good than for hers.
Over the years I’ve watched less-harmonious couples develop an all-too-easy fluency in this language, and it has never failed to dishearten me. They disguise it sometimes by hiding among crowds of their colleagues, letting their lies blend in with the surrounding babble. If Mila and I were still traveling, perhaps I could have tried something similar. But out here in virtual isolation, only our voices would be heard. In order to describe my current predicament without treading onto dangerous ground, I was going to need a subtle array of half-truths and misdirection.
Yet, as the Opel rounded the final curve I felt as ill-prepared as a lazy exchange student, still fumbling through the phrase book as he approached the host family’s doorstep.
Gray was at the wheel, with Black at his side. I was alone in the back. They had secured the child locks just in case. Black slung an arm across the front seat and
“You have lots of choices. We know from your track record that you like to operate independently, so from here on out you’ll be pretty much in charge. Your choice of tactics, your choice of equipment. We might even be able to supply you with a few necessities. Within reason, of course. Find out what we need to know and you’re a free man, even if it only takes a week. Then you can tell Omar the job wasn’t your cup of tea and fly home to your rustic paradise on Karos. Like I said, we’re running this from the bottom up.”
“And if it takes longer than three months?”
“That will mean you’re not doing your job. There’s a shelf life to this kind of information, and at three months your coach turns back into a pumpkin and your horses become mice. If you need more motivation than we’ve already supplied, then consider that lives may be at stake. Think of it as your chance to balance the books. Well, sort of. Only if Western lives are worth more than African ones. But hasn’t that always been the going exchange rate? Which reminds me. There is one thing we’re
not
asking you to do, Freeman, and that is to be any sort of action figure who takes matters into his own hands. Your role is to provide information, not to act on it, or even to ‘notify the authorities.’” Black made quote marks in the air. “From here on out, we are the only authorities you are answerable to, and when the time for action comes, we’ll take it. We—not you, not the Jordanians—will stand as judge and jury.”
“And executioner?”
“Let us worry about that.”
“Great. And what about training?”
“Training?”
“Technique. Tactics. What to do in an emergency.”
Black almost laughed.
“The way I see it, you’ve spent your whole life training for this. Playing at neutrality all over the globe. The aid chameleon, jumping from one tree to the next. Rubbing elbows with scoundrels while pretending to be their friend. Just be yourself, Freeman. As for your means of communication, don’t worry. We’ll set something up.”
“And what am I supposed to tell Mila?”
“Whatever you like. If you’ve somehow managed to keep all this hidden from her”—he gestured toward the blank screen, little knowing how close he had just come to the truth—“then I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
3
I n the course of my travels, I have mastered three foreign languages—French, Arabic, and Greek. I’ve picked up enough Spanish, German, and Serbo-Croatian to fend for myself in restaurants and supermarkets, and during my final years in the field I achieved a brisk fluency in “Directorese,” a UN dialect of acronyms and officiousness invaluable when confronting the high and mighty.
But as Black and Gray escorted me back to Mila in a red Opel—a car they seemed to produce from out of nowhere—I confronted a new and unexpected gap in my linguistic skills. Namely, my deficiencies in the language of deception. Because that is what I would need to employ with my wife, less for my own good than for hers.
Over the years I’ve watched less-harmonious couples develop an all-too-easy fluency in this language, and it has never failed to dishearten me. They disguise it sometimes by hiding among crowds of their colleagues, letting their lies blend in with the surrounding babble. If Mila and I were still traveling, perhaps I could have tried something similar. But out here in virtual isolation, only our voices would be heard. In order to describe my current predicament without treading onto dangerous ground, I was going to need a subtle array of half-truths and misdirection.
Yet, as the Opel rounded the final curve I felt as ill-prepared as a lazy exchange student, still fumbling through the phrase book as he approached the host family’s doorstep.
Gray was at the wheel, with Black at his side. I was alone in the back. They had secured the child locks just in case. Black slung an arm across the front seat and
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