ECLIPSE by Richard North Patterson Page B

“They are going home. They fear the gangs and soldiers.”
    Ahead Pierce saw the spire of what appeared to be a mosque. “Are there Muslims here?” he asked.
    “Some. Not so many as in the north.”
    The wail of a siren split the air. The taxicab in front of them screeched to a halt, Bara braking with a jolt to stop inches from its bumper. Feeling a spurt of nausea, Pierce saw an SUV convoyed by two police trucks speeding through a cross street, nearly hitting a pedestrian. Then the flashing lights disappeared, and the wails receded into the night. “Most likely an oilman,” Bara said tightly, “arriving on a business trip—they pay the police as though hiring their own militia. If this one’s smart, he won’t leave his hotel.”
    At the side of the road Pierce saw a watery trench. “Is that an open sewer?”
    “Yes. But then the shantytown we just drove through is a sewer of its own—no electricity or running water. Even here you have four or five or six people living in a room, sharing a toilet with thirty or forty others. Potable water’s hard to come by. So people get malaria, TB, diphtheria, typhoid, cholera, and, of course, HIV/AIDS.”
    The traffic began moving again. “How many people live here?” Pierce asked.
    Bara’s brow furrowed. “Two million or so—no one knows for sure. After the oil boom, it grew without the government or the oil companies caring how. So Port George became the desperate place you see.” He pointed to the wall of a brick dwelling on which was painted, in white, THIS HOUSE NOT FOR SALE . “The latest fraud is selling houses that don’t belong to you. Home owners are wise not to go on vacation.”
    Pierce sat back. “Hard to believe.”
    “Why? Do you think a man can move here and start up a business? One needs money to buy a generator; or bribe our officials for a business license; or pay the police for the protection they won’t give.” He turned to Pierce, anger etched in his youthful face. “Our people lack what you Americans call a ‘social safety net.’ They are not criminals—they’re resourceful, intelligent, industrious, and determined to survive. So they do what they must. But all Westerners see, if anything, is oil and corruption . . .”
    Bara braked abruptly. Pierce saw the police van speeding from an alley a split second before it sideswiped Bara’s car. Together they skidded to a stop, the van looming in their front window.
    Bara froze behind the wheel. Two policemen with semiautomatic weapons jumped from the van. The taller one strode swiftly to the driver’s side, staring in at Bara as the second man stood with his gun aimed at the windshield. “Get out,” the first man ordered in English. “Both of you.”
    When Bara cracked open the door, the policeman jerked him upright. Pierce got out, approaching them with the reflexive confidence of an American accustomed to having rights. Then he felt the second policeman put a gun to his temple.
    Bara’s eyes widened, a warning to Pierce. All Pierce could do was breathe.
    The first man grasped Bara’s collar. “You damaged our car,” he said. “You should go to prison.”
    Bara slumped. “I was careless. Truly, I am sorry.” He hesitated. “Can we help with your repairs?”
    Still clutching Bara’s shirt, the policeman studied him with rheumy, bloodshot eyes. Turning to Pierce, he demanded, “Who are you,
oyibo?”
    Pierce felt the gun pressed harder against his temple. He forced himself to stay calm. “I’m a businessman.”
    “American or English?”
    Pierce hesitated. “American.”
    Cars inched around them, their drivers’ eyes averted. At once Pierce understood that the policeman could shoot him in the middle of the street, and those near them would turn blind. Sweat glistened on Bara’s forehead.
    “Five hundred dollars American,” the first man told Pierce. “Or your driver goes to jail. You can walk these streets alone.”
    Slowly, Pierce reached into the back pocket of his