a reassuring manner.
"It could be worse," she says, as if trying to convince herself. "We could be in the real jail. I think I would have gone batshit in there."
Jacob nods. That would be worse. Much worse. They passed through the jail on the way in; lightless, overcrowded cages so crammed with men that some had no room in which to lie down or even sit, cells that stank of vomit and diarrhea, fear and despair. Some of the prisoners were naked. All looked slumped and listless, uninterested in their visitors. Jacob supposes they don't get enough food, that's one way to keep your prisoners weak.
The cage in which they now sit is inset into a small room with cinderblock walls, a brick floor and a barred window. The ceiling is so low that Jacob has to stoop. The air is painfully stuffy and smells almost as bad as the jail. A number of disturbing stains smeared across the cage's rusting walls make Jacob suspect that Ugandan interrogation techniques have not advanced much, ethically speaking, since the days of Idi Amin; but at least they have the room to themselves, and are being treated with distant courtesy. He doesn't want to imagine what their fate would be if they were black and Ugandan.
"At least they gave us something to wear." Jacob looks down at his T-shirt, which says FOR AN AIDS-FREE GENERATION, obviously a bulk donation from some Western aid organization. It actually fits him fairly well, but Veronica's is several sizes too large. He searches for any other silver lining, something cheerful to say. "Nice driving back there, by the way."
"Thanks."
"You think Prester will make it?"
She takes a deep breath and visible forces herself to think. "I think he's got a good chance. The ambulance people actually seemed pretty on the ball." By the time the police drove them away from the scrapyard Prester had been carried into an ambulance.
"They're a private service, they contract out to the police for emergency calls." Jacob's first job for Telecom Uganda Uganda was the prioritization of ambulance cell-phone service on the Mango network.
"They'll have to fly him out. He needs a real hospital."
"Will they? I don't know if he's even an American citizen."
Veronica blinks. "But - but he works for the CIA."
Jacob shrugs. "So did Derek, and he was Canadian. Deniable front, that's what Prester said, remember? They hire non-Americans as a cover. They might just cut him loose."
"Shit. What about us?"
"I don't know." He considers saying something comforting, but decides to go with the truth. "But I think we might be staying here for a while."
Veronica's face tightens. Jacob wishes he could help her somehow but doesn't know how. He supposes holding her close is exactly the wrong thing to do.
A minute later the door opens, and the big policeman comes back in, leading a lean, gray-haired white man with a scarred face.
"All right," Strick says. He sounds disgusted. "Let's get you two out of here."
Chapter 22
Entering the American embassy is like teleporting back into the First World, into an office complex occupied by some moderately successful business. Everything is clean, new, imported from the USA.
It takes five minutes to get past the security gauntlet of razor wire, concrete barriers and guard posts. Strick parks, leads Jacob and Veronica into a side door, up a staircase and into a meeting room dominated by an elliptical wooden table surrounded by big office chairs. One wall is a large whiteboard. The other three are lined with folding plastic chairs, maybe thirty in all. A sleekly designed conference phone sits in the middle of the table. Strick reaches over, pushes a button on that phone, sits down, and motions for them to do the same.
Once they are all seated Strick says, his voice controlled, "This is the part where you tell me everything. And don't you dare fucking leave anything out."
Jacob thinks back to what Prester said: Strick is a prick, but he is not dirty. That's one thing I am fucking certain of. He begins to tell the whole story. Veronica chimes in from time to time. Strick listens without asking questions. Jacob thinks his expression softens slightly as they tell their tale.
"I hope you still have those airline tickets," is all he says when they are finished.
They nod.
"Being full-fare first-class tickets, they're good for a year after purchase. I can't actually make you use them tomorrow. But I very strongly suggest it."
"And then what happens?" Jacob asks.
"And then we take care of