The Illegal (35 page)

The man with the gun took three steps into the office.

“Careful, Saunders,” Geoffrey said. “Just be careful.”

“Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?” Calder said. And then, turning to Keita, he said, “Just stay seated, and I’ll work this out.”

“Put down that form, Rocco, and give me the flash drive.”

“Come and get it.”

“Saunders,” Geoffrey said. “Exert some pressure, would you?”

“Minister, hand the stick over, and stand against the wall,” Saunders said.

“I shall do no such thing.”

Saunders raised the gun and pointed it at Calder.

Calder took a few steps away from Keita. “Geoffrey, what the hell is this about?”

“We need this man. We need that stick. Hand it over.”

“Not on your life,” Calder said.

“I’m afraid it’s
your
life,” Geoffrey said.

“I am the federal minister of immigration, and I have given this gentleman a residency permit. I am not relinquishing anything to you.”

“Saunders,” Geoffrey said again.

“Last warning, Minister,” Saunders said. “Hand over the stick.”

“You’re bluffing,” Calder said.

Saunders raised the revolver, aimed at the minister of immigration and fired. A lamp exploded, a window shattered and the minister fell back.

“You shot me, asshole!” Calder said. “My shoulder!”

“The stick,” Saunders said.

“Fuck,” Geoffrey said. “You have to finish him off now, Saunders. Both of them.”

“Wait,” Calder said. “At least tell me what the hell this is all about.”

“We need this man, and the USB stick,” Geoffrey said.

“Why?”

“The stick shows Bossman in a . . . situation.”

“In AfricTown,” Calder gasped. “With Yvette Peters.”

“You’re not quite as stupid as you look,” said Geoffrey.

Calder clamped a hand over his bloody shoulder. “So why do you want the runner?”

“Apart from the fact that he has something I want? He left his country and is wanted back. You remember the platform we ran on, don’t you?”

“But he just signed Form 179. He’s no longer an Illegal.”

“In about one minute, nobody will know about that form—or care.”

“You’re paying Zantorolander officials in exchange for information about Illegals, whom you then deport. Is that right?”

“Saunders, we are short on time. The minister, please, and then this runner. But first, Rocco old boy, give me that USB stick.”

Geoffrey walked to Calder, who was now slumped against a wall. But before he reached him, Hamm burst into the room.

“Minister, I’m here to tell you—”

Hamm stopped in his tracks when he saw Saunders pointing a gun at him.

“You motherfucker,” Hamm said, looking at Saunders. “You stiffed me for my money, and you fucking shot me, to boot.”

“This is your lucky day, because I’m about to shoot you again,” Saunders said.

Hamm charged. Saunders took aim. Hamm dived. Saunders re-aimed and shot. Hamm let out a grunt and tumbled through space, holding his left arm. Blood flew everywhere. Hamm slumped on the floor, breathing raggedly and staring at his injured limb.

Keita saw Hamm staring at him. Part of him wanted to help the man who had been hunting him down. Keita looked up at the window. He could jump through it. Or he could make a run for the door. No. Not the door. It was suddenly blocked by the tallest white man Keita had ever seen. Greying hair. Fit. In a fancy grey suit. A tanned complexion.

“Geoffrey,” said the tall man, “you have buggered this up royally.” He walked into the room. “Saunders, a bloody good thing you use a silencer. This is going to be one tricky matter. Sorry, Rocco, but you’re going to take this one for the team. Saunders, do him first. And then this fine running specimen. And then finish off that idiot mule of ours. Wait. Do we have the evidence?”

“That’s what I was to you?” Hamm said to the prime minister. “You were elected to lead a nation, but you use a mule?”

“Best way to move money, if the mule is witless, and mules always are,” Wellington said. “Geoffrey, get that damn stick.”

Geoffrey pulled the USB stick from Calder’s hand.

“You’ll never get away with this,” Calder said.

“Sure we will,” the PM said. “This illegal refugee burst into your
office and started shooting like a madman. My man here seized his gun and shot the terrorist and saved some lives. Some, but not all.”

“It will never work,” Calder said.

The prime minister glared at Keita. “And you, you little prick. This will teach you to run off with things that don’t concern you. I was going to come get you personally in AfricTown and watch while DiStefano gave you up. But this is better. You saved me a trip. Saunders, it’s time.”

Saunders walked calmly over to Calder. Keita could jump out the window the minute Saunders fired. But even if they didn’t shoot him on his way out, they would catch him; he knew it. There was no place left to run in this country.

But Keita wasn’t afraid. He had run second, and the money was on its way. With luck, his sister would be free soon. If he died now, so be it. Keita stared the politician right in his eyes. The prime minister turned away.

“Saunders,” the PM said.

Saunders raised the gun. He aimed it at the minister’s head. Keita saw movement at the door.

“Saunders, wait!” Keita shouted.

Saunders trained the gun on Keita, instead. “All right, then, you first.”

With his good hand, Hamm grabbed a glass paperweight and hurled it, hitting Saunders in the stomach.

Saunders gasped. “Fuck.” But he regained his balance, turned back to Hamm and shot him in the stomach.

Hamm groaned and lay bleeding from the belly and the mouth.

“This time, asshole,” Saunders said, “you die.”

Saunders took aim again at the minister, but before he could pull the trigger, another explosion rocked the room. Saunders fell to the ground, blood splattering on the wall behind him. Candace stood in the doorway. She lowered her gun.

“Mr. Prime Minister, you are under arrest. And so are you,” she said, her gun now aimed at Geoffrey.

“Please, don’t point that at me.”

“What is that in your hand?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Toss it here,” she said.

“I’d rather hang on to it.”

“Things will get a lot rougher for you, and very soon, if you don’t cooperate. Toss it here.”

He tossed the USB stick, which she caught and pocketed.

“Stand back,” Candace said. “Keita, grab that phone and call 911. Nobody else touch anything or anybody. Mr. Minister, squeeze your hand over your shoulder. Hang on. Help is coming. John! John, can you hear me?”

“Right here,” said a voice from the closet.

“Open the closet door now, but don’t come out. We have a crime scene here.”

Keita picked up the phone and made the call.

“Minister Calder,” John said.

“Did you get it all on video?” Calder asked.

“Yes,” John said.

“You slimy two-timer,” said the prime minister.

“Who’s the slimy one?” Calder said.

June rushed into the room. “Mr. Minister! Message from Viola Hill, the reporter. She’s detained in Zantoroland and might be killed. She’s with Keita’s sister. Amnesty International is also calling, and asking you to contact the Zantoroland authorities. Urgently!”

“Not a good time, June,” Calder said.

“I already called on your behalf,” June said. “I told them you insisted that they release both women and that you would arrange for their safe transport to Freedom State.”

“You what?”

“I’ll resign if you wish,” June said. “But it had to be done. Call now to confirm.”

“This is hardly the time to—”

“Yes,
now
,” Keita shouted. “Minister! You can save their lives.”

“Do it!” Candace said. “You’re the minister of immigration, and this asshole”—she pointed at the prime minister—“is going down. Make the call!”

Calder reached with his good hand for the phone. “What’s the number, June?”

She dialed for him.

“Keita,” Candace asked. “Did you win?”

“Second.”

“Second is mighty fine in my books.”

“Today,” said Keita, “second was good enough.”

Freedom State, 2019

W
ITH HER
MA
FROM
H
ARVARD AND HER
legal status in Freedom State resolved, Charity Ali chose to leave Boston and to live in Clarkson, where she could be near her brother.

Keita was living with a staff sergeant of the Clarkson Police Department, which Charity found disconcerting. Where they came from, police were only on hand to do the dirty work for the president. But Charity had to give Candace her due: she was hard-working and loved Keita. Candace had already told Charity that she wanted to be the first woman and the first black person to make captain of the Clarkson Police Department.

Financed by Ivernia, who had finally seen the charges against her dropped and had freed herself from the clutches of the Office for Independent Living, Keita had opened a bakery in Clarkson and named it Pâtisserie Chez Yoyo. He already sold lemon tarts, poires belle Hélène and six kinds of madeleines, and he was dreaming about how to expand the business when the time came that his legs finally gave out. Keita was surely the only baker in the country who, because of his diabetes, generally avoided his own creations. He and Candace were both training with the Freedom State Olympic marathon team. Keita, who had received citizenship papers, was also helping as a volunteer with the Zantorolanders Refugee Association to advocate for a general amnesty for all undocumented refugees in the country. Charity was helping with
the association, too, and looking for a job as a newspaper reporter in Freedom State.

The former prime minister and his lackey would be in prison for decades, convicted of inciting murder, bribery of foreign officials, forcible confinement, unlawful deportation and breach of public trust, among other charges. The list was endless. Rocco Calder, the former immigration minister, was now prime minister, appointed by his party to serve out the rest of the government’s term. The Family Party, at this point, was sitting low in the polls.

V
IOLA
H
ILL HAD FILED MANY NEWS STORIES, BEEN PROCLAIMED
best investigative news reporter of the year, and watched John Falconer’s award-winning documentary and all his raw footage. She had written a letter of reference to support John’s successful application to board at the school with all fees waived. Viola had joined a party of friends to welcome John’s mother back home. Afterwards, she had gone out with Charity for a lunch that lasted for hours.

A year had gone by, but Viola wasn’t finished with the story. She wasn’t entirely satisfied. She still did not know exactly how Yvette Peters had come to be deported. Every time Viola thought of Yvette Peters, she ached to explain her death. So she dug like a dog in sand.

Viola finally located Darlene Wood, who was now living in Buttersby and studying to be a certified general accountant, and had changed her name to Wendy Smith. Darlene was nervous about saying a single word, but Viola promised to not quote her or identify her in any way. She just needed details. Darlene told Viola about the man she had slept with, as payment for taking Yvette to the airport. Viola pressed for more. What did he look like? And could Darlene describe exactly what had happened the night she saw him come and take Yvette away? After several interviews and endless reassurances, Viola got the answers she needed.

Next, Viola found the man Darlene had described as having a
scar like a pickle running down his right cheek. He was retired, didn’t seem afraid, said he hadn’t broken any laws and was happy to accept Viola’s offer of dinner and booze at the best steak house in town.

Men. A fuck. A steak. They could hardly tell the difference. He didn’t mind talking. No, he had not received a direct order from the prime minister to take Yvette away. It had come second-hand: Lula said the PM had ordered him to come for a D-3 pickup. What was a D-3? Viola asked him. He explained: D-1 meant the Immigration and Refugee Board had declined an application and ordered the deportation. D-2 meant it had come from the Office of the Minister of Immigration. And D-3, the only route that required no paperwork, was a direct order from the Prime Minister’s Office.

It took two more months and required some pull from the new prime minister, but Viola finally found the second man, who had accompanied Yvette on the plane heading to Zantoroland. Yes, he had been told by phone on the night that Yvette was deported that it was a rush order from the PM’s office, on the D-3 form. And who had told him so? By then, Viola knew the answer.

Viola asked if Yvette had said anything to the man while they travelled together. Yeah, he told her; she’d said,
Tell my mother I never did anything wrong and that I always intended to see her again when I got straightened out.
Viola asked if he had passed along the message. No, he replied, what the hell was he supposed to do with that?

Viola asked how he felt about having escorted a seventeen-year-old girl to her death. He didn’t think about it, the man said, jumping up and knocking beer bottles off the table, because it wasn’t his responsibility, see, because he was just fucking well doing his fucking job. That pretty well ended the interview.

J
UNE 15, 2019, WAS THE DATE OF THE
F
REEDOM
S
TATE
National Marathon Championships. The top three male and female finishers would be selected to represent the country at the 2020 Olympic Games. They would also have their training sponsored by
the Freedom State Athletics Association. Thanks to a funding drive spearheaded by Mitch Hitchcock, they would receive living expenses of five thousand dollars a month, plus a housing subsidy. It was not as much as athletes in some countries made, but enough to encourage better results from the country’s best marathoners.

Keita was expected to qualify, and Candace had an outside chance of nabbing the third spot in the women’s marathon. They had a bet going. If Keita finished more than thirty-two minutes ahead of Candace, she would have to make him breakfast in bed for three days in a row. And vice versa, if Candace finished less than thirty-two minutes behind.

“You are going to owe me so bad,” Candace said the day before the race. “And I’d like madeleines, please. Freshly baked. And then, after satisfying my every wish, you’re going to do the dishes and put them away. Properly.”

Keita gave out a long laugh. Candace leaned in and kissed him deeply.