The Foreign Service Journal, September 2011

the fingers felt like roughened con- crete against his skin. Vance hadn’t wanted his father’s hands: stiff to open and painful to close. His parents had never understood his desire to leave behind those empty roads and clear skies, let alone to leave them for parts unknown in the U.S. Foreign Service. Of course, he hadn’t told them that his position as the political-military of- ficer at the U.S. embassy in Lusaka was a cover for the CIA — and not a par- ticularly good one at that. His official duties, as he’d recently been forced to explain to the ambassador’s obnoxious son, were to liaise with the Zambian military on matters of security, like landmine abatement programs. The kid was all of 16 years old, and drunk at the time, but his glassy eyes had still seen through the lie. It was Sunday, and Vance was only four hours south of Kitwe and its cop- per mines, with a long way yet to go before he could enjoy a small pour of whiskey on two rocks. He never al- lowed himself enough whiskey to get drunk. He was making good time at 140 kilometers per hour. Zambia had bet- ter roads than its neighbors. Free from severe potholes and explosive pockmarks, the road was confirmation that the country had never been rav- aged by the inhumanities of civil war. This peaceful legacy of self-gover- nance, dating back to independence from Britain in 1964, was truly unique among African nations with multi- tudinous tribes. The Zambians had achieved it through an emphasis on unanimous consent, an emphasis that often pushed the legislature into the dual realms of unobtrusiveness and ex- treme lethargy. Zambia was almost as proud of its roads as it was of its lack of landmines. Here in the north, near Kitwe, the road reminded Vance of the highways in Colorado: long and narrow as they passed through breath- taking nature. But he was not in Colorado. He should have kept driving when he saw the two disabled cars sitting just off the road. A dusty Mitsubishi Pajero sat behind a small pick-up truck with its hood open. It was the sun flashing off the hood that got Vance’s attention. Then he saw an elderly white couple standing next to the pick-up. Vance’s brain had not fully registered the scene; he was on autopilot, cruising through the long drive. His upbringing was already firmly in control of the situation, and he started to slow down as soon as he saw the cars. The Pajero flashed its brake lights at him, which struck Vance as odd. That the elderly couple were not wav- ing him down was also odd. The car crept forward, kicking up little plumes of dust. Vance edged his own car off the road, loose gravel crackling under his tires like popcorn. The couple still hadn’t moved. After 30 or 40 yards the Pajero stopped suddenly, kicking up more dust, and slammed hard into reverse. The white reverse lights seared into Vance’s brain like interrogation lights, illuminating the holes in the picture his upbringing had wrought. But it was too late. He was only 20 yards be- hind the truck now. The next five seconds confirmed the danger his brain had been trying to identify since he had crested the small hill and spotted the cars. First two men, then a third, leapt from the Pa- jero brandishing Kalashnikovs. The first two pointed their rifles di- rectly at him, while the third stayed a few steps behind, holding his own rifle loosely at his waist like some modern- day cowboy. The men appeared to be Zambian, and from the overly cine- matic way they held their rifles, Vance guessed that they were not military. Vance killed the engine as soon as he saw the rifles. Leaving the car in drive, he got out slowly with his hands on his head: the universal sign of sur- render. He didn’t want to give the hi- jackers an excuse to open fire. With a gun trained on him, Vance stood next to the couple while two of the hijackers disabled the Pajero as they had disabled the pick-up, by cut- ting the fuel line. Not terrible damage, to be sure, but enough to prevent ei- ther vehicle from giving pursuit. With the Kalashnikov’s muzzle hovering near his face, Vance felt that small talk with the other victims was unwise. So he merely looked at them. The wife confined her fear to shell- shocked eyes, but the husband re- turned Vance’s gaze unflinchingly, clenching and releasing his jaw at pace as if trying to chew his way out of the situation. The couple seemed even paler up close, the shadows cast by their straw hats precluding any tan they might otherwise have obtained. Vance could not have imagined a more awkward silence, but he wel- comed it. Experiencing awkwardness amidst such tension was actually quite amusing. Vance had a brief, horrifying urge to laugh, and then the moment was over. The two hijackers dumped Vance’s duffel bag unceremoniously from the trunk and piled into the embassy’s Sub- urban. The third hijacker kept his rifle sight trained on the erstwhile mo- 40 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / S E P T E M B E R 2 0 1 1 He hadn’t told them that his position as the political-military officer at the U.S. embassy in Lusaka was a cover for the CIA.