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chapter 9
Two officers walked toward them with brisk strides, navy blue uniforms frayed at the hems, ill-fitting and spotted with stains.
The older of the two wore a piece of industrial cord as a belt and, in addition to the whistle, carried a black baton-shaped stick slipped through a makeshift loop on his pants.
He didn’t stop until he had invaded nearly all of Bradford’s personal space, and then he said loudly, “You must obey the law, you must obey!” and demanded to see Bradford’s papers.
“He speaks no Spanish,” Munroe said, and the officer, inches from her face and smelling of cheap beer, commanded that she interpret.
He examined Bradford’s residency card and after a few moments handed it back and demanded to see Munroe’s.
He looked it over and then gave a grunt and waved it in her face.
“Your residency is invalid,” he said as if in triumph. “You have only two names. You are here illegally.”
Munroe stared at the ground, bit down hard on her lip, and, when the urge to laugh had passed, looked into his eyes and with a voice full of humility said,
“I apologize for having only two names. Sadly for me, I was only given two names at birth. It’s not unusual where I come from.”
The officer’s face darkened, and he placed a hand on his baton. “It doesn’t matter how things are done in your country.
“You are in the Republic of Equatorial Guinea, and you will respect the way of our land and our laws. You have only two names. Your residency is invalid.”
“I understand what you are saying,” she said, “but I was only given two names, and the representative who signed my permit understood this.”
The officer scowled and said again, “You are here illegally. The law provides peace to the republic, and foreigners must also abide by it.”
With slow and deliberate movements, he placed the card in his chest pocket.
“Present yourself at the police station tomorrow morning. Until that time I will retain your document.”
Then, with the younger officer following, he walked stiffly to the cordoned-off avenue.
Bradford watched them go and in a whisper said to Munroe, “What was that all about?”
She hooked her arm in his, drew him around in the direction of the hotel, and started walking.
“That,” she said, “was an example of why this country is what it is.
“No matter how much the well-intended try to intervene or how much oil is pumped out of the ground, some things are unchangeable or made worse by the presence of money.
“When nepotism is de rigueur, today’s goatherd becomes tomorrow’s despot, and a shiny new whistle and a used uniform are all it takes to create a new tyrant.”
She looked over her shoulder toward the officer who stood again on a corner with three others dressed in blue.
“The laws are arbitrary. It’s fine to drink and drive, but you’ll be cited for having a dirty vehicle.
“It’s illegal for you to offer a bribe but permissible for them to accept one. According to him I’ve broken a law by having only two names.”
She sighed in quiet amusement. “As for us, the only thing to do is flow with it and do our best to stay out of trouble.”
“Are you going to try to get it back?”
“The residency card? Nah.
“If I want it back, I’ll need to spend the better part of tomorrow and possibly the rest of the week at the police station attempting to figure out who has it and what hoops I have to jump through for it— not to mention shelling out a small fortune.”
She gave his arm a playful squeeze. “I had the cards made so that I wouldn’t have to deal with that in the first place.”
They stayed in the hotel that evening, Munroe preferring to avoid another encounter with the police while the city was cordoned off.
Instead of roaming the streets and socializing with the locals, they dined on the hotel’s patio, where each of the umbrella-capped tables hosted its own assortment of oil-related patronage.
When the waiter came to clear the table, Munroe stopped him and nodded toward the far end of the dining area,
where two of the Shadows nursed imported Spanish beer and occasionally passed a furtive glance in their direction.
“Do you know them?” she asked.
He followed the direction of the nod and then, looking back at the table, said, “Perhaps it would be better not to know them.”
She requested three of what they drank, and when the waiter returned with the beer, she took the cans and stood to leave the table.
As she did, Bradford stopped her with a hand on her forearm.“Where’re you going?” he said.
The warmth of his fingers wrapped around her skin, and Munroe’s vision blurred to gray.
She waited a heartbeat and took a breath, then leaned down toward him, looked him full in the face, and said softly,
“I’ll tell you this once, Miles, because I like you. Touch me that way again and I swear I’ll break every one of your fingers.”
He removed his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Bad habit.”
“To answer your question,” she whispered, “I want to know who they are and what they want.”
And then she straightened and walked across the patio to where the Shadows sat.
She stood in front of the men with a smile of demure innocence.
In Spanish she said, “I’ve seen you around town,” and then, placing the beer on the table, “Can I join you for a drink?”
There was a moment of silence. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled out a chair, and with a teasing glance in the direction of the one who’d been so focused on her at the airport, she sat.
She leaned toward him with girlish coyness and stuck out her hand. “I’m Michael.”
After a second’s hesitation, he took her hand and returned the smile. “Nicolas.”
His hands were small and thick, and the grip was solid. He wore a heavy gold ring and on his wrist a Fendi watch.
Across the table his companion sat with arms crossed, and in Fang he whispered a warning.
Nicolas said nothing and instead turned to Munroe and motioned toward his companion. “My cousin Teodoro.”
She flirted in Teodoro’s direction, offered her hand, and said sweetly, “Are you scared of me?”
Both men laughed. It was a nervous laugh, but it was the opening she needed.
She pushed a beer at each of them, then popped the top of her own and raised it in a mock toast.
They drank, and she engaged them with harmless questions about life in the city. In turn they asked about Bradford.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
She gave a playful smile. “No, he’s not.”
“Your husband?”
A pout. “Not that either.”
“Are you married?”
Raised eyebrows and wide eyes. “Are you looking for a wife?”
Laughter.
Munroe ordered a second round of drinks. Behind her, Bradford sat, leaned back in the chair with his arms draped loosely across his stomach, legs stretched out under the table.
His eyes were half closed, and though to anyone who might have noticed he appeared pleasantly relaxed, to Munroe he screamed attentiveness. She ignored him.
For the fourth round of drinks, Munroe switched to distilled alcohol, knowing that the boys were used to chasing beer with the harder stuff.
During village celebrations, half-filled glasses would be refilled with the nearest bottle, lending to mixtures of vodka, whiskey, wine, and more— she would bring it on.
A few more rounds and Munroe shifted the conversation from the mundane to their homes and families.
Children? Yes. Wives? Only Nicolas. Teodoro could still not afford to buy one— pay the dowry rather— but he had girlfriends and children.
Brothers and sisters? Many. Famous parents? A chuckle. Maybe one day.
“You speak Fang,” she said. “Are you from the mainland?”
“Yes. From a large village, an important village.”
She smiled in adoration. “The most important village in the country?”
Laughter. “Of course.”
Shock. “But nobody’s village could be more important than the president’s village.”
“That is our home!”
Pay dirt. The questions continued, friendly and noninvasive: the landscape, the animals, the tribal customs,
each innocent detail building on top of the last as she constructed a composite picture of the Mongomo area,
of the roads, military presence, and security on the mainland, knowing what to expect and what had changed.
After the boys had put away their eighth round, her questions shifted to why they’d been following her,
and at that, Nicolas stood and excused himself and Teodoro followed suit.
The conversation was over.
Munroe watched them stroll across the patio, their walk not quite as coordinated as it had been when they’d come in,
and once they passed through the doors leading out to the front of the hotel, her posture tightened and the look on her face changed.
The charade was done, the information gleaned far beyond what she would have hoped to gain, all but the most critical piece.
She returned to the table, where Bradford still sat stretched out with half-shut eyes.
“With both of them drunk and gone,” she said, “Shadow Three will soon be in the vicinity. I’m heading to bed.”
He tilted his head back to look at her. “Sit with me? I have a question.”
She pulled a chair from the table. He was silent for a moment, his eyes studying her, and she sat quietly, watching in return.
Finally he spoke. “Why do you do it?” He gave a breathy chuckle, ran his fingers through his hair, and leaned forward.
His expression straightened. “Why debase yourself, put on that doe-eyed doll act, the performance? I don’t get it.
“You’re one of the most brilliant people I know. To watch you stoop to that level, it’s so… I don’t know… insulting… painful.”
“If I’m making an ass out of myself, I’m the one who’s the fool— why should it bother you?”
He shrugged.
Munroe sat forward in her chair, mirroring his position. “Listen, Miles, there are a lot of things in my life I’m not proud of, but tonight certainly wasn’t among them.
“I do whatever it takes to get the information I need to be able to do my job, and the doe-eyed doll act, as you put it, was what those guys would respond to.
“It’s why I’m paid what I’m paid to do what I do— the information I need is out there, and I will always find a way to get it. Tonight was child’s play.”
She stood to go and then placed her hands on his shoulders, bent down, and whispered in his ear,
“I know just as well as you do why it bothers you, Miles.” And she walked away.
LIFE IN THE tiny capital started before dawn in preparation for the coming of the water.
It was accumulated in the mountains during the night and then released to flow through the pipes of the city.
By seven or eight, the stream trickled into droplets and the faucets ran dry,
and whatever water remained, collected in buckets and containers, would have to last until the next release.
Those living in more elevated areas would be fortunate to collect enough water to bathe, wash dishes, and flush toilets.
For a country with one of the highest rainfalls in the world, water in the capital city was a scarce commodity.
At eight, Munroe and Bradford hailed a taxi for the five-minute trip to the ministry.
The blockades that had shut down the city the day before were gone, and the narrow roads were already teeming with life.
They were not the first to arrive in the foyer of the minister’s office; an elderly woman, no doubt recently arrived from a village, sat at one end of the sofa.
She wore a bright floral-patterned dress that had obviously been kept and cared for over many years.
Her shoes were from another era, laced-up leather, worn and resoled, clean and polished.
Her hands, gnarled from decades of hard work, lay folded in her lap.
The woman hailed from the mainland, a survivor, one of the few left from the missing generation, those who somehow managed to survive the genocide of Macías Nguema and his decade of terror.
Through the waiting of the morning, she graced Munroe with stories rich in history and legend.
It was nearly noon when the minister arrived. He was without his entourage, and as he passed through the foyer, he nodded at Munroe and Bradford.
A short while later, the secretary directed the two of them toward the closed door of his office,
and the elderly woman remained on the sofa, silent, giving no protest that her turn to speak to the great man had been overlooked.
When the minister received them, he remained seated behind a large wooden desk.
His handshake was as soft as his hands, and he wore a tailored Italian suit. He spoke in English, his voice dry and raspy.
He gestured for them to sit in the chairs facing his desk— plush and antique, upholstered in well-worn deep red velvet.
Having dispensed with the pleasantries and ample humility and praise for the Republic of Equatorial Guinea,
Munroe handed him a photo of Emily Burbank followed by a sheet of paper with Emily’s physical data.
“We are looking for a friend of ours,” she said. “She has been missing for a while, and we have reason to believe that she is or was in Río Muni, possibly in the Mongomo area.
“Knowing the reliability of your government and the care with which you treat foreign visitors,
“we had hoped that Your Excellence would know something of our friend, perhaps having received word about her. We are checking with you first before traveling ourselves.”
He took the photo, looked it over intently, and followed with an air of disinterest.
Then, while he gazed indifferently at it, he said, “How long ago did she enter the country?”
“We’re not certain of the exact date,” Munroe replied. “About four years ago.”
“It’s a long time,” he said. “So many things can happen in four years. I wasn’t the head of this ministry four years ago.”
“I understand.”
“And her purpose for entry? Which company was she working for, or perhaps a church?”
“She was here as a tourist,” Munroe replied. “At least that is what we understand.”
“Do you mind if I keep this?” he said, and then, without waiting for a reply, tucked the photo and the sheet of paper into his breast pocket.
He eased back in his chair. “Nothing comes readily to mind, and I make no promises, but I can have my people look into it and then get back to you.
“I would suggest you return tomorrow morning. I will be in the office by nine.”
They left the foyer for the stairs, and on the ground floor was the minister’s H2, black and shiny, parked under the center of the building.
Munroe stopped in front of it and stared at her reflection in a window. “What do you want to bet that vehicle is the only one of its kind in the country?”
“Should it matter?” Bradford asked.
Munroe shrugged. “Not to me or you. I’m sure it will to the owner when it comes time for new parts,
“but who I’d think it would matter to most is the woman on the vinyl sofa upstairs waiting to speak to the great man who before the discovery of oil was just as poor as she is.”
She turned from the Hummer and walked toward the street. “And he has no driver,” she said.
“I suppose that means something?”
“Yes,” she said, almost as if to herself.
She stopped and turned for a second look, then stared at the ground for a moment.
Finally she said, “People of importance are rarely without an entourage or at least a driver.
“The president came into town yesterday, which means that most of the sycophantic ministers are not even showing up for work today.”
She was quiet. “He came alone.” Another pause. “You know, it’s possible he came to the ministry for nothing more than to see us.”
THE DOWNPOUR STARTED in the early evening and continued on through the night,
a heavy pelting of water that thundered against rooftops and drowned out the sound of all else.
By morning the city streets were shallow rivers rushing toward the ocean.
Pedestrian traffic was light; when the water’s onslaught against shoes and clothing came as much from the ground as it did from the air, only the most desperate ventured into it.
And like the population of the city who watched the rain from doorsteps and windows and under porticoes,
Munroe stared out the balcony window, debating against returning to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and knowing that she would go anyway.
By the time they arrived and assumed the position on the sofa that they’d filled for the past two days, they were drenched.
The foyer was empty, even the secretary absent.
“He won’t show up,” Munroe said. “When it rains like this, everything shuts down for a de facto holiday.
“Between the rain— which is over half the year— and all the official holidays, it’s surprising any work gets done at all.”
Bradford flicked water off his neck. “If you’d told me that at the hotel, I would have worn my bathing suit instead.”
“That I’d’ve liked to see.”
Without a second’s pause, he pulled off his shirt and, wrapping it around his fists, wrung it out.
The water joined a puddle by his feet, where a stream of droplets from his pants had already collected.
“How long do you plan to keep doing this?” he asked.
Munroe smiled at his torso. “The waiting?”
“Yeah.”
“With three weeks until Christmas and then everything shutting down through mid-January, we’ll have to get what we can in the next week. If we don’t have it by then, we head to the mainland.”
She paused for a second and then pointed to his legs. “What about wringing out your pants?”
He winked, pulled the damp shirt back over his head, and said, “I don’t think so.” And then, “What do the people who live here do for entertainment?”
“You’ve seen the bars— work, drink, and food, that’s all there is— and the women— if you’re up for a good dose of HIV.”
By afternoon the rain had eased slightly. Shortly before the close of the business day, the minister arrived.
He was alone, as he had been the day before. From the foyer he invited them directly into his office.
He was brusque, formal, and lacking the undertone of friendliness he’d borne toward them the day prior.
“I have no new information for you,” he said. “But it is possible that Don Felipe, Malabo chief of police, does.”
On a piece of lined paper, he wrote in a quick scrawl. “A brief letter of introduction,” he said. “Take it to him and see what he can do for you.”
“Forgive me for asking,” Munroe said. “But if our friend was last seen in Río Muni, is it likely that the police on Bioko Island have information?”
“You would have to find that out for yourself. I do know that Don Felipe is also head of the presidential security detail and a confidant of the president.
“It’s possible he has learned things that I am unaware of.” He handed Munroe the paper and then stood and took them to the door.
In a pattern that had become more than familiar, they were followed from the ministry to the hotel and again from the hotel to the restaurant.
During dinner, on more than one occasion, Munroe caught the eye of one of the Shadows, and in acknowledgment they would smile or nod in return.
She saw that they no longer drank alcohol and in response to this had soft drinks and desserts sent to their table.
The next morning she and Bradford located the office of the chief of police in the city’s single-story station, an overpacked structure with scuffed and mud-splattered walls.
The windows were empty rectangles fenced by open wood-slat shutters, and from them the sound of striking typewriter keys filtered to the outside.
The anteroom to the police chief’s office was taken up completely by three desks and an ancient sofa,
and the small space that remained was occupied by people waiting to speak with the man.
Munroe left the letter of introduction with an aide and returned to the building’s bare front entrance.
She leaned against an empty space that served as a window and, prepared to wait the better part of the day, watched the passing traffic.
Within minutes a plainclothes officer approached. “I work for Don Felipe,” he said. “He is on his way to the station now.”
He opened a door that connected to the building entrance. “Please wait,” he said, and then he left them.
Like the anteroom, the office was filled nearly wall to wall with furniture,
the pieces having been pushed so closely together that Munroe’s and Bradford’s knees touched when they sat.
Cut through the wall above a plywood-barricaded, glass-filled window was a boxed air-conditioning unit that almost managed to cool the room but did nothing to erase the stale smell of must that permeated the building.
Don Felipe entered the room accompanied by two young men wearing civilian clothes and holstered sidearms.
He carried with him the letter that Munroe had left. He shook their hands, took a seat across from them, and then, almost as an afterthought, offered them coffee.
He spoke in brusque, commanding Spanish. “Silvestre Mba has asked that I help you,” he said. “Tell me more about this girl that you are looking for.”
Munroe handed Don Felipe another photograph of Emily Burbank, along with a sheet of paper identical to the one she’d given the minister,
and, in words similar to those she’d previously used, explained the desire to find Emily.
Don Felipe took the photograph and, as the minister of foreign affairs had done, studied it intently, then handed it to the young man who stood silently to his right.
“In the Republic of Equatorial Guinea,” he said to Munroe, “we have an illustrious record of wholesome relationships with our guests.
“We treat all foreigners fairly and properly, and if something ill should befall a man or woman who is in our great country, it is because that person has failed to live by the law.
“In fact, our president, representative of God to our people, is known as a good friend and a supporter of human rights by your country.
“There are many things you Americans can learn from us.” Don Felipe lit a cigarette. He leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other.
He drew a deep breath and then exhaled the smoke into the room. Taking a second draw, he reached forward and placed the cigarette in the ashtray.
“I know of this girl you are looking for,” he said. His eyes remained fixed on Munroe. She sat expressionless, holding eye contact, and silence ensued.
To the man who stood on his right, Don Felipe spoke in Fang, ordering the retrieval of a document.
When the aide left the room, the silence continued, broken only by his return.
He carried with him a small envelope, which he handed to his boss. “I believe,” Don Felipe said to Munroe, “that this document brings you to the end of your journey,”
And he placed it on the coffee table and slid it to her. Inside was a single piece of paper, which Munroe looked over and then returned to the envelope.
Don Felipe ground his cigarette into the ashtray. “The law is supreme in the Republic of Equatorial Guinea,” he said.
“No person is immune to it. Now that you have the information you came for, I recommend you return to your country.”
Munroe nodded. “Thank you for your kindness and your warm welcome,” she said,
and then, “As I’m sure you are aware, the trip from my country to yours is very long and tiring.
“I have heard wonderful things about the beaches of Bata and of the animal habitat EQUOFAC. Before returning home, we will vacation for a few days.”
Don Felipe rested in the chair. He was silent for a moment, his eyes focused on Munroe.
Finally he stood and shook her hand, “All respectful visitors are welcome in our land.”
He walked with her toward the door and opened it. “It’s unfortunate,” he said. “Some have entered who are unwelcome— dangerous people from the neighboring countries.
“My men and I do the best we can to keep the peace. If you choose to stay, that is your decision,
“but please know we cannot guarantee your protection against such unwelcome elements.”
“I thank you for your graciousness and concern,” she said. “Your people are blessed to have a protector such as yourself.”
She turned, and with Bradford ushered out next to her, the door closed.
It would have been less than a ten-minute walk back to the hotel had Munroe opted to go on foot. Instead she flagged a taxi.
Bradford raised his eyes in question as she did so, but she offered no explanation.
She remained silent for the ride, her head kicked back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the car, and Bradford, too, said nothing.
At the hotel she headed toward her room and would have shut the door without a word if Bradford hadn’t placed a hand against it.
“Michael, I really want to understand what just happened.”
She paused and then held the door open for him.
He sat on the chair by her bed, and she walked to the glass door that led to the balcony and stared out the glass.
“I didn’t catch even half of what went on in there,” he said. “What did he give you?”
She was still staring out at nothing. “Emily’s death certificate.”
Silence filled the room, and after a moment Munroe turned toward Bradford.
His shoulders were slumped forward, and his head was in his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair and then straightened.
“So she’s really dead?” His face was tight and expressionless. “I never supposed that when we got the news it would come so unceremoniously.”
Munroe turned again toward the balcony. “That paper is worthless. Trust me,
“if there was even a remote possibility that the document had value, I’d be out of here in a heartbeat— job over, mission accomplished— collecting a fat bonus for providing hard evidence of what happened to Emily.”
She turned to Bradford. “No, the search just got a little more dangerous and a lot more complicated.”
“I’m not questioning your judgment,” he said. “If you believe there’s still a chance she’s alive, I’ll grasp at that straw, but I really have no idea where you’re going with this.”
Munroe walked to the bed, sat down, and opened the envelope. “We’ll start with this,” she said,
“although there are so many things wrong with it, it’s hard to know where to begin.”
She bit on her lip and squinted at the document. “For starters, there’s the paper itself.”
She held it up so he could see the designs printed around the border and the details of the heading.
“See the number at the top? It’s five-thousand-CFA paper— government paper. It has to be purchased from the Ministry of Finance.”
His face was completely blank.
“Anytime people want an official document, they have to buy one of these and then take it to whatever government branch has the information they need.
“If you want goods processed through the port, the approvals are put on government tax paper.
“You want a birth certificate? Government tax paper. You want a license for your vehicle? Government tax paper.”
She handed it to him. “Someone had to pay for this at the Ministry of Finance and bring it to the police station.
“I doubt that the clerk who typed it out and is making fifty dollars a month was the one to do it.”
“So what you’re saying is that whoever requests an official document has to supply the tax paper in order to get it?”
“Exactly,” she said. “And that brings us to the next glaring inaccuracy: A death certificate in this country is meaningless.
“Nobody has them or has use of them. When there’s a death in a village, there’s no autopsy or police report— certainly no ‘cause of death’ to be determined.
“There’s a village ceremony, a burial if the person is lucky, and that’s the end of it.
“You ask the government for a death certificate and the big question is going to be, what for?”
“But we’ve got one.”
She nodded. “I’ll get to that in a minute.
“This document is just a lot of misspelled wordiness that certifies that the person named died in the Republic of Equatorial Guinea.”
She pointed at the paper. “No details whatsoever. It doesn’t even say where it happened or what nationality she was.
“For all the flaws of this country’s government, let’s not forget the ten years they spent under communism.
“They’re real big on redundant paperwork and following procedures by whatever the day’s formula may be.
“At the least we should expect an indication of whether she died on the mainland or the island.”
“Look, Michael,” he said, “I want to believe you more than you can possibly know, but why would they even have that document?
“Wouldn’t it be so much easier for them to simply say that they have no idea what we’re talking about?”
“I can think of several possible answers to that question,” she said, “but here’s what I think holds the most water: This piece of paper doesn’t even prove that Emily was in the country.
“They got Emily’s name from us— copied it off the bio we gave Mba at the ministry.
“What this piece of paper means is that someone who was educated abroad, who knows what a death certificate means to people like us,
“doesn’t want us snooping around the mainland and hopes that this is enough to convince us to go home.”
Munroe took the death certificate and sealed it inside the Ziploc bag that held her passport and that she kept in a security belt worn underneath her pants, around her waist.
“Miles, things are going to get dangerous from this point. We were issued a threat, and if we’re not careful, someone’s going to make good on it.
“Maybe you should call Burbank, see if he’ll let you out of the assignment.”
“I stay,” he said. “So what’s next?”
“We need to get out of the city as soon as possible, preferably in the direction of the mainland.”
She looked at her watch. “We’ve got time before the GEASA office closes.”
Like most places of business in the city, the airline headquarters was located on the first floor of a three-story building.
The office was small, dark, damp, and empty but for a desk on either side of the room.
There were two people in the office, one a secretary or clerk, the other someone of importance who took their money and wrote out the ticket information by hand.
The transaction was completed within fifteen minutes— they would be on the first flight leaving in the morning.
On the way out of the office, Munroe handed Miles his ticket.
“Flying to Bata is a bit like playing Russian roulette,” she said. “Literally. The machines are old Russian planes that get no maintenance.
“They’re stuffed beyond capacity and flown until they go down— usually into the ocean. Hopefully tomorrow won’t be the day.”
Munroe stopped midstep and searched up and down the street through the pedestrians and a steady stream of vehicle traffic.
Bradford followed her eyes. “Did the Shadows follow us here?” he asked.
“I was certain of it,” she said.
“So was I.”
“Think they could’ve gotten good enough to avoid our spotting them?”
“I doubt it,” he said.
“So do I.”
Munroe and Bradford walked the return trip to the hotel hoping to spot a Shadow and find relief in the normalcy of being tailed, but instead they found that they were alone.
Over dinner they said little to each other, and for the first time since arriving in the city Munroe heard the wisps of threat.
It came not in words but in the silences, in things unspoken and in the background banter among the hotel employees that was no longer there.
The waiter, previously friendly and good-humored, was tonight solemn and taciturn.
He brought their drinks, and Munroe had them sent back, requesting unopened cans,
and then in unspoken agreement neither she nor Bradford ordered anything to eat.
Rather, they sat in silence nursing Coke out of the can, pretending to be amused by a rowdy party of drunken expats two tables down.
And when they had sat long enough so as to keep up appearances, they left the patio to return to their rooms to wait for light and get out of the city.
They had decided that it would be best if they both slept in the same room.
Bradford returned to his to retrieve some of the bedding as well as his belongings, and while she waited for him, Munroe kicked off her shoes.
When she tossed them against the bed, the first signs of dizziness hit.
She doubled over to steady herself, braced herself against the bed, and felt darkness closing in.
She opened her mouth to yell for Bradford, but no sound came.
She crumpled to the floor, and the last thought to go through her mind was to wonder how the hell it had happened.
