Shadow of Betrayal

THE SOUND OF THE DISTANT GUNFIRE HARDLY registered on Marion Dupuis. It was at least two kilometers away, and intermittent at best.

Just another night.

No doubt morning would bring a report on the government-run radio station about another successful raid against a rebel cell. The same report, if it stayed true to form, would also note that the government troops would have suffered no fatalities. Just like all the other times, President Pokou’s forces would appear victorious.

Only, if Pokou’s army was winning, why did the violence seem to be increasing?

Marion knew the answer. She had seen the reports, the real reports, and she’d heard other members of the UN observer force discuss the unrest. The way she understood it, there was at least a fifty-fifty chance that within the next couple of months Côte d’Ivoire would be plunged into another full-out civil war.

And once again, no one outside the tiny West African nation would care.

More gunfire. A short burst.

Marion didn’t even flinch.

The action seemed to be containing itself to the east, away from where she was, and where she needed to be. She would be willing to bet most of Pokou’s troops would be moving in that direction, too. In a way, she thought, it was sort of a blessing.

As long as she didn’t think about the lives that were being lost.

She checked the street ahead of her. Dark, quiet, no movement. She took a deep breath, then pushed herself off the building she’d been leaning against and crossed to the other side of the street. She paused, making sure she was still unnoticed, then headed down the street.

Driving would have been faster, but she felt safer on foot. With the 8 p.m. curfew in effect, a car’s engine would have drawn unnecessary attention on the otherwise quiet roads. So she stuck to the shadows and moved silently from building to building.

Most of the homes and businesses she passed were dark. It was after midnight, so even without the curfew, much of the city would already be asleep.

Five minutes later, she reached a large avenue that went east and west through the city. She started to cross, then stopped abruptly and pulled back into the doorway of a darkened building.

She’d seen headlights coming from the east, and heard the unmistakable sounds of several army vehicles. She peeked around the edge of the wall to get another look. There were at least five vehicles: three jeeps and a couple of trucks with loud diesel engines and transmissions that ground in protest of their unskilled drivers.

She estimated they would pass by her position in less than a minute. Though she knew any delay could be crucial, crossing now would be suicide. They’d spot her the second she stepped onto the street. She had no choice but to wait until they passed.

But her current position was only slightly better than standing still in the middle of the road. If one of the soldiers decided to aim a light in her direction, she would be discovered. So she slipped out of the doorway and stayed tight to the building as she looked for someplace better. She found it half a block down, an alley no more than four meters wide between a store and what looked like an abandoned restaurant.

Signs on the outside walls of the store advertised sodas and cigarettes. Like all the other buildings, it was closed up tight, but as she turned down the alley, she noticed light seeping out of one of the back windows. Marion guessed the shop provided not only a means of income for the owner, but also a place to sleep.

About a dozen meters down the alley was a pile of rotting wooden crates. She slipped behind them, crouching down so she was hidden from anyone passing by on the road. She was able to move one of the boxes a couple centimeters to the right, creating a peephole through which she could keep an eye on the army caravan as it drove by.

The rumbling of the trucks got louder and louder until the street in front of the shop grew bright from the vehicles’ headlights. She watched first as two jeeps passed, then the trucks, and finally the last jeep. Each had been full of young soldiers dressed in dark fatigues and berets.

Even with Marion’s limited vision, it looked to her like all the men were armed with rifles. She had yet to be able to figure out what distinguished one type of rifle from another. To her, they all produced the same result.

As the rumble of the convoy receded, Marion stood up and started back toward the street, intent on making up for lost time.

“Qui étes-vous? Que voulez-vous?”

Marion froze. The voice had come from behind her. It was male, deep and urgent.

“Répondez-moi. Que faites-vous ici?”

She raised her hands. “Please,” she said. “I’m just trying to get home.” Though French was her native tongue, she answered in English. In the unlit alley, her olive-colored skin might look darker than it really was, so she wanted to emphasize the fact that she was a foreigner.