The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [16]
Beyond all that, the thing that caught Marten’s eye was a young male goat tied to a leg of the wooden table happily chewing on a stack of old newspapers. Whether it was a pet or regiment mascot or some kind of indigenous good-luck charm or was there for some other reason entirely, there was no way to know, but his presence seemed strange, even in a frightful place like this.
“Sir, speak into the microphone,” the major commanded again. This time his voice resonated with impatience. “State your name, your profession, and place of residence. Then describe what took place yesterday when you were in Bioko South.”
Marten hesitated, then began. The best thing, he knew, was to go along with them. Do just as they asked. “My name is Nicholas Marten,” he said, patiently telling them what he had moments earlier when they’d first brought him into the room, taken his photograph and searched him, then took away his still-damp passport and wallet and the neck pouch in which he carried it. Immediately afterward the major demanded he tell them his name and what he did and where he was from. “I am a landscape architect. I live in Manchester, in the north of England.”
Carefully, he went on with the rest, repeating the story he’d told Marita on the way there. It was a narrative, which, as he thought now, was something he must have quickly and subconsciously put together the day before when the soldiers were pursuing him through the rain forest and he had been certain he would be caught. A simple yet detailed explanation of who he was and why he was in Bioko.
“I came here on a five-day trip to study equatorial plants for possible inclusion in a tropical green house a client would like to build on his estate. You can verify the date I arrived in Bioko by the stamp on my passport. I took a room at the Hotel Malabo for the duration of my stay. My things are still there.”
Marten paused and casually looked around to see how the others were reacting. If they had relaxed. If they believed him. What might happen when he was finished. There was no response at all. The soldiers stared at him in silence, their focus and attitude unchanged.
Marten cleared his throat and went on. “While I was in the southern part of the island I met a priest who introduced himself as Father Willy Dorhn. He asked me about my travels, and when I explained my reason for being there he kindly offered to show me some rain forest vegetation I had not yet seen. Later, as we returned, we heard gunfire in his village. The father was very concerned about his people and left me to go to them. It was then the army trucks came. He looked back when he saw them, and I could tell he was frightened. He yelled at me to run for my life. Which I did. I had no idea what was going on, but the sound of his voice and the fear in his eyes was enough. I ran into the jungle with armed soldiers chasing me. Shortly afterward I slipped from a cliff and fell into a river. The water carried me a long way. Then it became night, and in the morning I found I had reached the sea. I was lost and thirsty and hungry. I had no choice but to start walking, and I did. Sometime later the Spanish doctor and her medical students found me.” Marten stopped and looked directly at the major. “You know the rest.”
“Why would you be afraid of the army?” he asked flatly.
“When you are a stranger in the backcountry like we were and there is a lot of gunfire and the priest you are with, a man who very recently told you he had been serving the people here for half a century, tells you to run for your life, I would think it best to do so. I don’t have to tell you that Africa is filled with bloody civil