The Illegal (30 page)

T
HINGS WERE NOT GOING WELL FOR
R
OCCO.
T
HE
fireside consultations had been farcical. Candace had turned him down for a date. Ivernia and scores of other people were writing letters to the editor of the
Clarkson Evening Telegram
. They had been reading the pieces by Viola Hill and wanted to know: why were boatloads of refugees being redirected back to Zantoroland? They also asked about Yvette Peters. Everyone had an opinion. To top it all off, Geoffrey had convinced the PM to revoke some of Rocco’s powers. As of June 22, Rocco wouldn’t be able to sign permits granting interim legal status to refugees. That would be handled by the Prime Minister’s Office.

Today, the boy wonder John Falconer showed up again at his office, uninvited, at 7:10 a.m. Rocco was going to tell him to get lost, but the kid dropped a little bomb.

“I was there, the night the prime minister was in the room with Yvette Peters.”

“Son, you’re telling a tall tale.”

“And I was there the night you were with Darlene too. The night of the raid.”

“That’s quite enough, son.”

“Don’t treat me like a child.”

“You have an overactive imagination.”

“I recorded it, Mr. Minister. You did
not
go to bed with that girl. You sat and talked. She took you into the bathroom and—”

“Enough. Have you discussed this with anyone?”

“Just you.”

“You’re saying you recorded this?”

“I’m saying I recorded you, and the PM—I have it on a USB—and there are a few things I do not understand.”

“Why should I talk to you? What do you want? Why is everybody coming at me?”

“I want answers. For my documentary.”

“I cannot be in your assignment. Not that part of it!” Rocco said.

“You’ll be in it whether you like it or not, Mr. Minister. So you might as well put your best foot forward.”

Rocco sat down at his desk and laid his head on its surface. He was finished. Not only in politics, but perhaps in sales too. Who wanted to buy a minivan from a guy who’d been caught on tape in a brothel?

“Mr. Minister,” John said in Rocco’s ear. Rocco jumped. The kid was certifiably sneaky. “Mr. Minister, we need to talk about Keita Ali.”

“Everybody wants to talk about him.”

“He is my friend, and he is in a bad way.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“I will do something for you, if you do something for him.”

“What are you saying?”

“I will get the USB back to you. You may destroy it. You can do whatever you want with it.”

“Then hand it over.”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“First, you have to help me.”

“What do you want?”

“A minister’s special permit for Keita Ali to stay in this country. I looked it up. Last year your office issued one special permit. The year before, two.”

“He would still have to go through the proper process. And you would have to return the recording to me and tell me what you know.”

“Easy,” John said. “But there are a couple of things I need to figure out. First, who is Bossman?”

“Bossman is the term Geoffrey Moore uses for the PM,” Rocco said.

“And what is DOA?”

“Deport on Arrest.”

“ILD?”

“Information Leading to Deportation.”

“Thanks. That helps. I need you on camera now.”

“Fat chance.”

“Do you want the USB?”

Rocco sighed. “An interview about what?”

John flipped on his video camera and sat in the frame with the minister. He gave the time, date and location. He named the minister, and he named himself.

He asked Rocco if he had any knowledge of the deportation of Yvette Peters or any involvement with it. The answer came back: “Categorically not.” John asked who was responsible. The answer: “I don’t know.”

John then read aloud parts of the message from Whoa-Boy to Bossman that he had videotaped Yvette reading before the prime minister caught her looking at his documents: “‘Bossman. I firmed up the deal with GM . . . Citing NS we can bypass CO and do this on your orders. Off books, $ only. We can keep intercepting bathtubs, return to Z. We pay $2,000 p/k for each IRBL. To cover Z’s A + R costs. . . . Also . . . We pay Z—through GM—$10,000 p/k for ILD for up to 20 dissidents/year on the lam here. GM fingers them for us. Points us right to them. Every one of those suckers, we can DOA. Good results. Minimal cost. Win win. Please approve ASAP. Whoa-Boy. P.S. Lula has three for you. Asking 10x the usual fee. Petty cash issues. Talk her down?’”

John looked at Rocco, his head tilted.

“NS is National Security and CO is Cabinet Office,” Rocco said.

“Z is for Zantoroland,” John said, “but what is p/k?”

“Per capita.”

“OK. But what does it all mean?” John asked.

Rocco said it looked like someone was sending cash to Zantoroland officials on two levels: two thousand dollars for each “Illegal Returned Before Landing” and ten thousand for “Information Leading to Deportation” of each Zantorolander dissident hiding in Freedom State.

“What is A + R?”

“Assimilation and resettlement,” Rocco said. “Basically, it’s money in the president’s pocket.”

According to the memo, Rocco said, Lula was in on the action too. She was also getting paid for information about Illegals hiding in Freedom State.

John sat back. “Man. What a scam. What a story.” He turned off the video camera.

“Now give me that USB,” Rocco said.

“I can’t.”

“We had a deal!”

“But I don’t have it.”

“Who does?”

“Keita Ali.”

“What is
he
doing with it?”

“He doesn’t know he has it. I put the USB in his bag.”

“He has until noon on June 21. And that’s it. If he gets it to me by then, I will give him a special permit. But if he does not bring the video to me by then, he is out of luck. And you are out of a deal.”

K
EITA HAD BEEN OUT FOR HOURS.
F
IRST, AT AN
Internet café, he had contacted George Maxwell to ask about his sister. He said he was getting ready for a race and asked for the details about the bank into which he had to make a deposit by June 22. Then he went to Ruddings Park for a thirty-kilometre training run. When he finally returned to Elixir Bridge Road, five police cars with flashing lights were parked outside Ivernia’s house. Keita turned right around and kept running until he got to AfricTown.

“W
HAT’S IN IT FOR ME
?” L
ULA SAID.

“I can’t offer you anything today,” Keita said, “but if you protect me and I succeed in athletics, you will always be able to call on me for assistance.”

“How long do you want to stay?”

“One month. Enough time to train for the Clarkson Ten-Miler.”

Lula stood up. She told him that she would put him in two shipping containers arranged in a T shape for maximum space. She’d set him up with a cook, DeNorval Unthank would see to his medical needs and he’d be given food so he could stay healthy and train.

“I need a safe place to run,” Keita said.

“The only people who run in AfricTown have somebody after them with a knife,” she said.

“Well, I have to run somewhere.”

Lula agreed, but said Keita had to render a service in return.

Lula was planning a demonstration at Ruddings Park. She had organized protests before, but they’d never drawn much attention or media coverage. It would be different this time, she promised. She wanted all of her AfricTown people out there to support her, and since he was a famous runner, she might want him to say a word or two.

“I can’t come to a political demonstration,” Keita said.

“Relax. All you gotta do is run up on stage in your shorts and wave. It will give all the ladies a thrill, and it will give me cred.”

Keita said, with great hesitation, that he would do his best.

“Oh, and you’d better win that race,” Lula said.

O
N
K
EITA’S FIRST TRAINING RUN AROUND THE NEIGHBOURHOOD
, he saw that he was not alone. In the densely populated core of AfricTown, people carrying buckets to and from water taps, balancing platters of fruit on their heads and walking barefoot to school stopped to cheer him on.

“Keita Ali, Keita Ali, go for gold, Keita Ali!”

There was no gold to run for, but it was hard to explain that. He was running for cash to get his sister out of prison, and there was only one race left with a big purse.

Lula had ordered one of her aides to drive a Volkswagen Beetle fifty metres ahead of Keita when he ran. On top of the Beetle, a tinny loudspeaker broadcast:
Attention for Keita Ali. Attention for the champion of AfricTown. Look out, Olympians, here comes Keita Ali.
Children stood by the roadside and clapped, and they ran after Keita, sprinting alongside him for a few metres at a time. Offering him water and slices of oranges, which he sometimes took just to please them. Occasionally a teenager would surprise him by keeping up with him for more than a few metres. There were no true runners in AfricTown. It was not at all like Zantoroland, where it seemed that
a child in every household ran seriously. Perhaps, if Keita managed to get himself straightened out and able to stay in Freedom State, he would start up an AfricTown running club. Get somebody to donate shoes and running clothes. And see if there was any talent waiting to be discovered.

He ran every day on the undulating AfricTown Road but dared not venture into Clarkson.

John came to see him and filmed Keita running. He brought greetings from Ivernia and the insulin from her fridge. Keita had to ask Lula if she could keep it cool in a part of AfricTown that had electricity. John explained that Anton Hamm had broken into Ivernia’s house and stolen Keita’s cash. The police had responded to a call about a break and enter and an assault. Once they got there, they started asking questions. It turned out that Jimmy Beech had placed fourteen calls to the Clarkson Police Department over the last few weeks, and when the cops came out for the B and E, they finally decided to investigate. They charged Ivernia with harbouring an Illegal and confiscated all his possessions. She’d been released, but she knew she was being watched.

And there was more. John explained about the videotaping at the brothel, and passed along the message from Rocco Calder. John said he had put the USB in Keita’s bag, but assumed the police had taken both during the raid on Ivernia’s house.

“But my bag wasn’t at Ivernia’s.”

“What?”

“Most of my stuff’s still at the bus station. As a precaution. I only left a little at Ivernia’s place.”

“Keep it there till the race,” John said. “That USB is as good as a citizenship card. Better, maybe. But it’s only good until June 21. Why don’t you go see him right away?”

“It’s too risky,” Keita said. “What if something goes wrong? I’ll be of no help to Charity if I get arrested.”

Keita and John agreed to the plan: he would run the race, and if things went well, win the money and have it sent to Charity’s
captors. And then, immediately after the race, he would go see the minister to obtain his special temporary residency permit. John, for his part, would tell the minister to expect Keita on June 21.

“He’ll need the USB,” John said.

“I’ll be sure to have it with me. Can the minister be taken at his word?” Keita asked.

“It’s your only shot,” said John.

W
HEN
M
ITCH
H
ITCHCOCK CAME TO SEE
K
EITA IN
A
FRIC
T
OWN
, he was on a training run. Mitch was amused to see the security car riding ahead of Keita, and all the children running and chanting behind.

“Nice set-up here,” Mitch said. “But we could give you better training facilities in Clarkson.”

“This is the best I can manage, for now,” Keita said.

“How is the insulin working?” Mitch asked.

Keita said he had no more headaches, cramping or dizziness. No hyperventilating. He had tested himself on a hard run: ten kilometres at a 2:50-kilometre pace on the broken AfricTown Road. No problems. His body had not betrayed him. Mitch asked again if Keita would like to train with the Olympic marathon team. No, Keita said. It would not be safe to train in Clarkson. Mitch agreed to let Keita enter the Ten-Miler without having to pay the two-hundred-dollar entry fee. Keita would have to register under his own name, but his registration could be confidential until the day of the race. Nobody would know before then that Keita was to take part.

“How are you doing with those problems of yours?” Mitch asked.

“I will be doing a little better if I win that race,” Keita said.

“I’m afraid this may be your last chance,” Mitch said.

“What do you mean?” Keita asked.

Mitch explained that the government of Freedom State was quickly moving to close a loophole regarding Illegals. An amendment
to the Act to Prevent Illegals from Abusing the Generosity of Freedom State had been tabled. This would make it illegal for the director of a sports event to provide a financial reward to any competitor who was neither a citizen of the country nor a visitor with a valid visa, or who had entered the competition under a false name.

It would take a few weeks for the amendment to pass through Parliament, Mitch said. But it was coming soon.

Keita would have to give this race all he had. Everything depended on it.

W
HAT PAINS THEY TOOK TO COMPLICATE AN
old woman’s life! Ridiculous. She had been arrested. Fingerprinted. Photographed. Charged with harbouring an Illegal. And once she was released, she received a notice from the Office for Independent Living. Her file was once more under active review.

Somebody had even gotten to the library. It came to her boss’s attention that Ivernia had been handing out library cards to bogus applicants. She was fired—a volunteer!—and banned from the building.

When Jimmy came to visit, she refused to let him in and spoke to him only through the locked door.

“Why’d you do it, son?”

“You were harbouring an illegal alien. Do you realize how dangerous that is?”

“What’s your reward for having tipped off the police?”

“Mother. Please.”

“How much is it?”

“I won’t see a cent unless they catch him, convict him and deport him.”

“Go away, Jimmy, and don’t come back.”

“Mother! As fate would have it, I’m short of cash and I was wondering . . .”

Ivernia turned away and walked down the hall until she couldn’t hear her son at all.