CHAPTER 14
YAOUNDE, CAMEROON
Bumping up against the hotels and high-rise apartments between Avenue Monseigneur Vogt and the railroad tracks, running nearly to the wide front steps of the Cathedrale Notre Dame des Victoires, with its pitched gable roof, lofty white crucifix, and swirl of Christian hymns and animist chants spilling on the streets at Mass time, the Marche du Mfoundi was the busiest open-air market in Yaounde, the capital city of Cameroon.
Displayed under faded, slightly tattered pastel sun umbrellas were meat, fish, vegetables, religious totems, folk medicines, sculpted wooden figures, handcrafted rugs, garments, and baskets, and merchandise of countless other varieties. French and English could be heard mingling with Beti dialects as buyers and sellers haggled over prices at the crowded vendor stalls. Motorcycle taxis and yellow cabs weaved through traffic, cutting off cars, vans, and trucks of assorted vintage, startling pedestrians as they veered past. In the near distance, nestling Yaounde’s spaghetti tangle of streets and avenues on all sides, the Central African hills rose with their shags of green forest, tumbledown shanties, and rugged dirt roads, over which many of the vendors made their way down to the city’s marketplaces each dawn, carrying their goods in mule carts or flatbed trucks, hoping to return with lighter loads and something of a profit before nightfall brought its threat of predatory thieves and bandits.
A short walk from the market, Ryan Kealey emerged from his hotel into the warm noonday sunshine, feeling just a little the worse for wear after his trip, which had been long but fairly comfortable. The flight out of Johannesburg on Kenya Airways had been followed by an extended layover at JKIA, west of Nairobi, where his connection, a sleek Boeing 737, had arrived after an hour’s delay for the final sprint to Yaounde’s Nsimalen International. Informed he’d missed his hotel’s courtesy shuttle, Kealey had hailed a taxi for the thirty-minute drive to the Hilton on Boulevard du 20 Mai. As Harper had promised, a prepaid reservation had been made for him there.
He’d left South Africa at eleven o’clock the night before and spent nine hours in travel, reaching his hotel room at about six in the morning due to the difference in time zones. Gaining the two extra hours hadn’t hurt-it had given him a chance to rest up before he met his contact. Though he’d been convinced he was too wired and out of synch to sleep, he’d set his cell phone alarm for ten thirty just in case and actually dozed off on a chair while skimming through a complimentary copy of the Tribune, the country’s bilingual French-English newspaper.
When the alarm went off, Kealey showered, changed his clothes, called room service for some coffee, and headed out toward the market feeling decently refreshed. The temperature even in the full sun was probably in the seventies-about what it would have been in Johannesburg, where the winter climate was similarly moderate.
Now he crossed the boulevard on Rue Goker, passing a statue of John Kennedy on the avenue named after the assassinated U.S. president. Among the people here he was a heroic figure, his status rising almost to the same level of myth as in the States-and the reason, for Kealey, was no mystery. A lifetime ago, when he’d lectured in international relations at the University of Maine, he’d reminded students that the Peace Corps, which most of them believed had sprung from charitable ideals, had actually been brainstormed as a proactive-and cannily pragmatic-foreign policy initiative for staving off Soviet influence in the third world. In Cameroon, then a young republic after gaining independence from French colonialism, Communist maquisards had been entrenched in the bush, launching repeated terrorist strikes at its pro-Western government. It had been an early test of Kennedy’s Cold War plan to offer the carrot before the stick in strengthening American interests. And in this country, at least, it had proven an effective tool.
Kealey went several more blocks on the avenue, then turned right toward the marketplace. It was full of activity, people milling about everywhere, some dressed in Western clothes, others in flowing, big-pocketed cotton shirts and pants with embroidery and colorful patterns spun into their fabric.
His dark eyes scanned the street through the jumble of shoppers crowding the stands-tourists, locals, men and women of every age. Mothers in traditional kabbas, many with three or four children while barely out of adolescence themselves, held babies in carriers against their breasts and urged dawdling toddlers along with quick tugs on their wrists.
Up ahead at the curbside, Kealey noticed black coils of cooking smoke wafting from a food stall occupied by 2 women in traditional robes. Their skin the color of burnt caramel, Kealey guessed them to be mother and daughter, with the younger of the pair stirring the contents of a large saucepan on a barrel-shaped, coal-fired oven. He could smell roasting peanuts and a sweet, not quite identifiable overlaying scent in the thick smoke.
After a moment he checked his chronograph wristwatch. It was 12:20. Still a little early.
There was a gray-bearded man to his left standing over an assortment of knives spread out on a threadbare woven carpet, and Kealey decided to kill a few minutes by having a look. The vendor had a large choice for sale-machetes, bowies, hunting knives, a whole array of combat blades.
Kealey picked up a Spanish-made Muela Scorpion with a rubber grip and seven-inch black chrome finish blade, then simultaneously tested its balance and examined it to make sure it wasn’t a knockoff.
“How much?” he asked.
“Eighty euros,” the man said.
Kealey leaned over to put it down.
“Sixty, no lower.” The vendor lifted its sheath from the carpet to display it. “Come with this!”
Satisfied, Kealey got out his wallet, paid for the knife, and slipped it into his carryall.
A moment later he wound his way toward the food stall, paused a short distance from it, and stood quietly observing the female vendors. There was something at once sad and impressive about them. It was hard for him to separate the feelings or even know where they came from. He did not examine them any more than he had any others inside him, not for a very long time. He was keeping things simple. Blackwater was done. There was nothing more for him in South Africa. And he had agreed to do a job for Harper. He did not want to look further back than that. Or beyond it.
Kealey checked his watch again, grunted with mild impatience. Half past noon, not early anymore. At the food stall, the elder stood in front of the oven, repeatedly sliding baking sheets out of its front door and shaking their contents into plain white cardboard food containers. He watched quietly as she arranged the containers on a wooden table beside her or held them out to passing customers.
“Are you on line for the honey peanuts?” someone said from behind him. Speaking in a soft, French-inflected female voice.
Kealey turned. The woman facing him was tall and slim, with slightly up-slanted eyes and long, glossy black hair gathered into a ponytail. She had on a light cream-colored, midlength skirt, a yellow sleeveless halter, and open-toed sandals.
“I prefer an African fool,” he said and took her hand. “Ryan Kealey.”
“Abigail Jean Liu,” she said. “Though Abby would be fine.”
Kealey nodded, looking at her in silence.
“As far as your mango custard…I am afraid you’re looking in the wrong place for a chilled treat,” she said.
Kealey kept his eyes on hers. “Anywhere else you’d recommend?”
She tilted her head sideways over her bare, tanned shoulder. “There’s a delightful cafe over on Avenue de l’Independance, where it is served with a touch of lime… I was just going in that direction, if you’d like me to point it out.”
Kealey gave another small nod. “I’d appreciate it. If you don’t mind.”
He identified her smile as altogether professional. “Not at all,” she said. “In fact, I might just stop in and have a bit myself.”