Ejecta Read Free Page A

in so many places throughout Africa, anyone who hoped to escape grinding poverty was well advised to work
both
sides of the law. But none of that was visible on the police chief’s narrow face as he nodded. “Let Monsieur Guiscard wait for fifteen minutes—then send him in.”
    The policeman, who was used to Jann’s ways, smiled knowingly. “Yes, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Fifteen-minutes and then send him in.”
    Meanwhile, out in the police station’s lime green waiting room, Palmer was sitting next to a man who looked as though he’d been there for years. As did many of the other people who crowded the benches. All waiting to be summoned, or in some cases, dismissed. The only source of entertainment was the gloomy looking sergeant who stood behind a fortress-like counter where he was working his way through a stack of travel documents. The old fashioned stamp made a monotonous
thud-thump-thud
as it made contact with the ink pad, left an impression on paper, and returned to the pad.
    But finally, after exactly fifteen-minutes had elapsed, a corporal appeared. He was a northerner, and therefore of Arab descent, like all of the other policemen Palmer had seen thus far. Dozens of people turned to look, each hoping to hear his or her name, but it wasn’t to be. “Monsieur Guiscard?” the policeman inquired politely. “Chief Jann will see you now.”
    Guiscard, who had been looking at a plastic covered wall map, turned at the sound of his name. “Thank you…. Would it be alright if my friend Monsieur Palmer comes along as well?”
    The corporal had no instructions to the contrary. So he opened a waist-high door and motioned for the men to pass through the portal that served to separate those who were in need of something from those who could provide it. Those left in the waiting room had no choice but to remain where they were, endure the steadily increasing heat, and watch the ever present flies circle the stationary ceiling fan. The morning wore on.
    ***
    Jann could be quite personable when he chose to be—which was one of the reasons why he had risen from gendarme to chief. He rose as the visitors entered his office, left the protection of his tidy desk, and came out to meet them. “Bonjour!” Jann said cheerfully. “I’m sorry about the delay—but criminals never take a day off!”
    Guiscard laughed politely. “Chief Jann…. This is Alex Palmer. He was a guest at
Le fort
when the bandits attacked. You read my report?”
    “Yes! Of course!” Jann lied smoothly, as he shook the American’s hand. “Two dead…. I was very sorry to hear of it. And they took your truck. The thieves grow bolder with each passing day. Please…. Have a seat. I will ring for coffee.”
    A civilian arrived thirty-seconds later and placed a tray on the desk. Jann lifted the brass pot with his left hand, poured the piping hot coffee into a cup with his right, and took a tentative sip. Then, having assured himself that the brew was acceptable, he poured coffee for his guests. Guiscard first, given his position with the government, followed by the American.
    Then, once both men had been served, it was time for all three of them to drink. The coffee was strong, dark, and flavored with cardamom. There was a moment of silence so each person could enjoy their coffee, followed by a polite “
fi sehtuk
” (to your health) from Guiscard.
    “Thank you,” Jann answered automatically. “Now, as to the bandits, I will dispatch Sergeant Antalas to your home. He and his assistant will take statements, dust the metal ladder for fingerprints, and collect any other evidence that may be available. Meanwhile a bulletin has gone out—and police units throughout Chad will be on the lookout for your truck.”
    ***
    Guiscard thanked the police officer, but Palmer could tell that his old friend was pissed, even if it wasn’t clear why. Five-minutes later, as the two of them exited the building, his suspicions were confirmed. “That rotten