“Acting President,” Ferdinand Poe corrected him. The old man appeared frail but actually had some color in his cheeks. They’d given him a haircut and a shave and blue cotton pajamas and hooked him up to an intravenous feed. His eyes were a little dull—an effect of painkillers, Janson presumed, as was the slurring of Poe’s words, though his voice was strong. He added, with a small smile, “After years in the bush, the healing effects of two nights’ sleep in a real bed are not to be overestimated.”
“I imagine that winning a revolution doesn’t hurt, either,” Janson replied.
Poe bridled. “We fought our revolution thirty-five years ago against Portugal,” he said curtly. “Our war against Iboga was not a revolution; it was a defense of a democracy against a coup.”
“I stand corrected,” said Janson. The prickly response probably reflected Poe’s realization that the nation he had wrested back from Iboga faced severe consequences from their long war.
Poe pointed out the window at the palace across the water. “It is an important distinction. You see that open square beside the Presidential Palace? Isle de Foree’s revolution ignited on that patch of ground fifty years ago when the Portuguese landowners persuaded the army to attack demonstrators protesting working conditions on the plantations. You probably never heard of the massacre. Your Vietnam War was capturing the headlines and Portugal had already committed similar atrocities in Mozambique. Ours was ‘old news.’ But here on our island, the Porto Clarence Massacre initiated our sense of nationhood.”
His gaze darkened with the memory. “The soldiers made the men, women, and children stand in separate lines. I was a teacher. The little boys were fascinated by the jets sweeping overhead, and the helicopters, how freely they maneuvered. Then they started firing their machine guns.
“People fled. The soldiers chased them in Jeeps and armored cars and drove them to jump from the seawall. I will never forget what my father said as he lay dying: ‘Those who will benefit from this are the wealthy that already have plenty in their hand.’ ” Poe shook his head in disgust. “They slaughtered five hundred of us. The harbor filled with sharks feeding on the bodies. What did you want to see me about?”
“One who already has plenty in his hand.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your chief of staff informed me that Iboga looted the treasury.”
“Yes. It appears that over the past two years he moved millions and millions out of the country. Money we need desperately.”
Janson said, “As I understand it, Isle de Foree will soon take in money from deepwater oil.”
“Only if there are truly great reserves. And even then only after years of preparation, drilling, building infrastructure. Until and if the oil company pays royalties, we will have to eke by on signing bonuses.”
Janson shook his head. Even if deepwater oil was discovered in economically recoverable quantities, it would be years before Poe’s impoverished island nation received royalties. “ ‘Eking by’ will hardly help you rebuild.”
“I am aware of that,” Poe said grimly. “The bankers are offering loans against future oil rents.”
“But to borrow when you need to borrow,” Janson said, “is to hold the beggar’s bowl.”
“We are aware of that, too. Nor are we unmindful of the ‘resource curse.’ A rising tide of oil money will drown a democracy unless we strictly manage it. We can’t do that if we form the habit of borrowing against it. Yet how else do we replace the money Iboga took?”
“Would you like me to get it back?”
Paul Janson’s noncommittal expression concealed enormous excitement. Any hunt for Iboga would be by its nature an investigation of who had sent the Harrier jump jet to rescue the dictator. It might even lead Janson to whoever had sent Reapers to the battle. Ferdinand Poe turned angry eyes on him. “You know I asked your help before to capture Iboga and you refused. This all could have been averted if only you had helped.”
“Under those same circumstances I would refuse again,” Janson replied. “Circumstances have changed. Now I have time to plan, time to go about it meticulously.”
“But it would take forever. Liberia is still hunting Taylor’s loot. Nearly ten years, now, they’ve found nothing in his name.”
“Liberia’s Taylor was in power for a long time. He systematically stole and took bribes and kickbacks over many years. Your Iboga was in power for a little over two years. And there was no great influx of foreign investment money to steal. My company has access to accountants who specialize in this sort of recovery.”
Ferdinard Poe was suddenly impatient. “I propose paying you five percent of whatever you recover of Iboga’s loot.”
Janson’s pulse quickened further. The original job of rescuing the doctor had bloomed into an astonishing opportunity. Five percent of even a poor nation’s treasury would swell the Phoenix Foundation’s coffers and vastly increase its reach. And that kind of money would allow him to pick and choose CatsPaw jobs for years to come. He hesitated only long enough to make Poe wonder whether he would demand more. Then he moved to close the deal. “Plus expenses. Understand that they could be considerable. We will require reimbursement on a weekly basis.”
“Done.”
“Not so fast. There is one other proviso.”
Ferdinand Poe registered Paul Janson’s profound change of expression. The amiable negotiator suddenly wore the face of an unyielding warrior. “What proviso?” Poe asked warily.
“I went to Black Sand Prison this morning,” Janson said.
“To what purpose?”
“Mario Margarido made the arrangements so I could interview the wives Iboga left behind to learn how he arranged his escape.”
“Were you anticipating that I would ask you to hunt him?”
“Professional interest,” Janson answered. “It behooves me to keep up with the methods of people like Iboga.”
“Were his wives helpful?”
“Marginally,” was all Janson would reveal.
“What is this ‘proviso’?”
“I don’t do renditions.” Never again.
“I do not understand you, Mr. Janson.”
“I will not return the dictator to Isle de Foree to be tortured.”
Ferdinand Poe sat up straighter in his bed. “There is no torture anymore on Isle de Foree,” he said staunchly. “At Black Sand you must have seen my edict banning torture—my first edict since democracy’s victory. No doubt Iboga’s officer corps are chortling in their cells at my ‘weakness’—even as they plot schemes to return him to power. But notslaughtering dangerous men as a precaution is the price a free country must pay to remain free.”
“Your edict was duct-taped to the front gate,” said Janson. “And those of Iboga’s inner circle I saw were being treated humanely.”
“Then why won’t you return Iboga for trial? A fair trial, I assure you.”
“Unfortunately, copies of your edict did not make their way to every dungeon in the prison.”
“What do you mean?”
“I found Iboga’s head wife spread-eagled naked on a stone floor. She was manacled hand and foot.”
“That is what she did to our women.”
“When I reminded the jailor about your edict, he told me, ‘Acting President Poe ordered no more beating. But she doesn’t know that and she remembers what she did to our women. Let her skin crawl in anticipation.’ Then he pointed at the whips hanging on the wall and he asked me, ‘Where do you think those whips came from? The Red Cross?’ ”
“One can’t control everything,” said Poe. “By the time you capture Iboga, I will have put the prison in proper order.”
Janson said, “My forensic accountants will run down the money. But I will hand Iboga himself over to the International Criminal Court in The Hague.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe your intent,” Janson replied with a warm smile that would have done the wiliest diplomat proud. “But you have an entire nation to put in order and it will be a while before you can ‘control’ everything.”