“Who are you talking to?”  I hated that question.  I hated the French words.  «À qui  vous parlez?»  Again and again.  He would sit with his knees touching mine, face thrust forward, alight with intensity.  Just inches away.  His stinking breath.  He was in my space.  He wanted inside my head.  He wanted me to talk.  To tell him.  Just tell him.  Just tell him and all would be forgiven.  Just tell him and I could leave.  But I didn’t believe him.  I had come to the conclusion that I was most likely going to die soon. 

Strangely enough, the thought didn’t bother me as much as it should have.  I wanted to go to sleep.  I wanted a decent meal.  I wanted to see the sun.  I certainly wanted to go on living.  But more than anything, I simply wanted this insane bastard to quit asking that question.  “Aquivousparlez. Aquivousparlez.”  He never got tired of asking me that question.  He wanted to know who I was talking to.  He was quite emphatic.  I was very worried about the things he might do to find out.

***

“You’ve got your idealists, of course,” said Nigel, an acquaintance of some years who probably didn’t really work for the Foreign Office.  “They want to quit playing silly buggers with the wealth and resources and make an effort to build a real country there.  Then you’ve got your connected oligarchs, your kleptocratic bureaucrats, and various and sundry officials who are on the payroll of one or more nations with an interest in the region.”

“Including Her Majesty’s payroll?” I asked with an eyebrow raised. 

Nigel took a slow look around the bar of the London Mandarin Oriental, smiled demurely and took a sip of the drink I was buying him.  He had a preference for pricey Scotch named after boggy valleys.  His dusky skin contrasted nicely with a crisp white shirt, blue suit and regimental tie.  Three generations from Delhi shopkeepers to keepers of the Establishment flame.

“The thing is,” said Nigel. “It’s a dodgy place, and uranium’s very big business these days.  Do the sums and you’ll understand why you need to keep your wits about you.”  Then he adopted a more serious mien and met my eyes.  “Would you like a name?” he asked, quietly.

I appreciated the thought.  Nigel’s a decent fellow, and he was offering to put me in touch with someone, official or not, who could keep an eye on me.  Something less than a minder, but a contact I could turn to if I faced any difficulties.

“Thank you, Nigel, but no,” I replied.  “It’s a short trip, and I have an official letter of invitation from the Ministry of Mines.  It’s a straightforward project.”  He remained seated as he shook my hand good-bye, and began to thumb his Blackberry as I headed to the elevators.

***

Six hours after departure from Charles de Gaulle airport, I was washing down some cheese with a glass of port.  The pretty Air France flight attendant proffered a smile and a refill.  I returned the former and refused the latter, and went back to thinking about my assignment.  An Australian company with big plans had put up big money for an honest assessment of the potential for a big investment.  They were close to pulling the trigger on a joint deal to extract and export uranium from this West African country. 

They wanted to know if the locals could deliver the volumes required.  They wanted to know if the political situation was stable enough for such a large bet.  They wanted to know if there were other players in the game, companies or state actors, who might have the power to turn their plans into a financial sinkhole.  And the Aussies had been frank:  mine wasn’t the first analysis they’d commissioned.  As they’d put it, they had questions about the credibility of the previous reports.

***

“Aquivousparlez!”  His face was all I could see.  That was alright.  His face was all that was important.  If I could just focus on it.  I was trying.  Really trying.  But my head kept lolling on my neck.  My eyes were hot and sticky.  Things were blurry.  I was thinking slowly.  My lips were sticking to my teeth, and I wanted to lie down.  Could I please have some water?  The refusal was screamed at me.  I covered my ears.  I coughed a few times.  Then I fell out of my chair.

***

Five days after my arrival in the capital, I was almost ready to leave.  I’d spoken with the engineers, both locals and international visitors.  I’d listened to the shiny promises of government personages with wide smiles.  I’d listened to a sullen professor at the University, who asked whom I was prepared to bribe.  I’d flown on small planes in poor repair to working sites and proposed new sites.  I had the answers to most of my questions.  There was definitely uranium here, lots of it, close to the surface and fairly easy to access.  But there was another side to the story, and I was trying to refine my conclusions.

There were a lot of foreigners here.  They weren’t on vacation.  Many of them were speaking with Chinese and Indian accents.  They were staying in the best suites at the capital’s hotels.  They weren’t dressed for surveying.  They were wining and dining local decision-makers.  None of the women with them looked like anybody’s wives. 

It was mid-afternoon.  I was in a small bar, drinking a beer and writing in my notebook, killing time until an appointment with an editor at one of the city’s newspapers.

A man in suit pants and an open shirt sat down opposite me.  He smiled, white teeth in a round, brown face.  “You speak French, monsieur,” he stated, in that language.  I admitted I did.  “This is your first time in my country.  How do you like it?” he asked.

“I like your country very much,” I said, not liking that he was telling me facts about myself.

“You travel very often to many places, I think,” he said, still smiling.

“Excuse me, but may I ask your name, monsieur…?”

“Monsieur is exactly correct,” he replied.  “You will call me ‘monsieur’, and I will call you ‘monsieur’ so that we are respectful, yes?”  Smiling, he rose and put a hand on my upper arm.  Two other men joined him from behind me.  I glanced at the barkeep, who met my eyes briefly, then lowered his gaze and turned away to the sink.

“We will talk about your travels, monsieur,” said the man with the round face, taking my notebook and pulling me up from the table.  “We will talk about your friends, and who you talk to,” he grinned.

***

My mouth was parched.  I had a terrible headache.  It was so hot.  I could smell myself.  I was so tired.  Monsieur was asking more questions about my time in Beijing.  I was talking, but I couldn’t hear what I was saying very well.  I wished I knew what I was saying.  It could be important to know.

I wanted to ask for water again, but he always screamed at me when I did.  So I just tried to focus.  Focus.  Hold your head up.  Look at Monsieur’s face.  I couldn’t do it.  My head was so heavy.  I felt myself drifting off again.  I was vaguely aware of Monsieur saying something to one of his subordinates.

“Wake up, monsieur,” said the man with the round face, quite gently.  He tapped my left cheek and my right.  I opened my eyes.  He was holding a gleaming steel machete upright in both hands, a foot from my face.  I was immediately awake.  Heart pounding like a piston.

“Falling asleep when we are talking does not show respect, monsieur,” he said, civilly.  “Now let us start once more.”  He touched the machete to my left ear.  “Aquivousparlez!”

That was when I started to cry.

###