which accounted for a third of its income. Fitzhugh’s belief in the worthiness of the clandestine operation remained steadfast (when he experienced doubts, all he had to do to dispel them was recall the flaming ruins of Manfred’s hospital), but the secrecy it demanded had polluted the atmosphere. He, Douglas, Wesley, Mary, and now Barrett had become co-conspirators, speaking in whispers, fudging the numbers, ever on the lookout for a breach in security. They were all flying on the dark side.
Rachel helped him put the report together. She was very good with accounts and could have been the company’s finance director instead of its secretary. Because she didn’t know she was participating in a fraud, Fitzhugh’s disgust with the job increased. He felt he was taking advantage of her innocence. As the afternoon wore on, different feelings took hold. He noticed how attractive she was, a woman of twenty-seven with hips and breasts that invited comparison to the African fertility statues sold in the crafts markets. Strange that he hadn’t noticed her attributes in all this time. Distracted from the task at hand, he asked himself, “Why didn’t I fall for her instead of for a white woman sixteen years older? What’s wrong with me?” His mind leaped all at once into a fantasy—he would woo and win this healthy Kikuyu and sire a brood of children, infusing a fresh river of pure African blood into the diluted veins of his family’s mongrel line. A notion seized him that if he could get Rachel into bed for just one night, he would be cured of his obsession with Diana and released from his dilemma. He imagined Rachel’s robust body under his, his sperm swimming into her fecund womb. Without a conscious thought as to what he was doing, he drew his chair closer to hers and leaned toward her as she worked the calculator. He suggested they have a drink after work. “No, thank you,” she replied, and pushed her chair away from him—a rejection that brought him to his senses. He stood, pretending to get something from the file cabinet, and rapped his temple with his knuckles, as if to physically knock the lustful thoughts from his head. Other thoughts intruded. If he did forsake his hopes for a family and marry Diana, how would they live? He would be out here, she would be in Nairobi, unless he quit and moved in with her. What then would he do for an occupation? He would be as good as a kept man. She wouldn’t be Mrs. Martin, he would be Mr. Briggs.
When Adid showed up with Douglas at around five, Fitzhugh welcomed the business discussions, which he generally loathed, as a diversion from his emotional turmoil. The wabenzi looked out of place in his custom-tailored sport jacket and Italian loafers as he made a quick inspection of the company’s aircraft. While he did, Douglas murmured to Fitzhugh, “Might be big news, my man. We’ll find out at dinner.”
They went to the office, where Adid studied the report and remarked that more business had been done with International People’s Aid this quarter than last. That was good, but what accounted for it? Douglas didn’t miss a beat—the increased sales were due to his promotional gambit, the Nuba Day event, which had inspired IPA to deliver more aid. The ease with which Douglas lied almost made Fitzhugh wince. The sincerity in his voice and the candor in his gray eyes were perfect forgeries, offering a glimpse of something hidden in his nature, a glimpse fleeting and disturbing, like the wink of a veil that reveals a scar on an otherwise attractive face.
At the Hotel California mess, Adid, who was accustomed to being waited on, endured the indignity of standing in a cafeteria line with grubby aid workers, aircraft mechanics in greasy coveralls, sweaty loadmasters. He, Douglas, and Fitzhugh sat at a corner table, out of earshot of the other diners. While they ate, Adid withdrew from his briefcase a sheaf of papers containing pie charts and bar charts and launched into a monologue about market share, gross profits, net profits, net profits after dividend distribution, retained profits. The company’s performance had been good overall but not as good as he’d expected. One of the pie charts was presented, showing that most gross sales came from the independent NGOs, the remainder from the NGOs affiliated with the UN.
“You have not marketed yourselves aggressively enough when it comes to the latter, and you