--------------------------------- [u][b]June 6th: Addis Ababa[/b][/u] --------------------------------- Leyla Masri was among the murmuring crowd at the fence in front of the Rhodesian embassy. It was a pristine gothic manse not far from the [i]Gebi Iyasu[/i], in a neighborhood that included several embassies and homes for rich foreigners, so that the crowd was unusually multiracial for Addis Ababa's typically native population. Beyond the iron fence, the stately house didn't seem changed in any physical way, but an air of dread hung over it. Three types of authority figure were gathered in the yard. Officers from Addis Ababa's police force were the most out of place, most consigned to guard duty at the fence and it's gate, though some just mingled in the yard and stared uselessly at whatever seemed good to stare at. That left two conflicting authorities, the security at the Rhodesian embassy in white colonial uniforms with pith helmets, and Ethiopia's own [i]Shotel[/i]. The [i]Shotel[/i] sent three agents, men in khaki uniforms with no sort of decoration, who were engaged in a conversation with the Rhodesians that somehow reminded one of Trench Warfare, tense and unmoving. "They caught the camera-man." a familiar voice said in her ear. Chemeda Magana was standing behind her, a young man in the khaki uniform. She knew him because he was training to be an officer in the very same complex she worked. "Did you follow me?" "No. Everyone's coming out here." She kept looking forward, afraid somebody they knew might see them talking and reach an unjust conclusion. "Cameraman?" she asked. "Someone took a photo of the murder. I don't know how he got in." A black van pulled up and with difficulty was let through the crowd and into the driveway. An eruption of excitement followed as the bodies were wheeled out in black bags. There were three. "Whose the third?" Chemeda asked. "The murderer." There were seemingly infinite rumors floating around about who the murderer was. A servant. A Communist. Someone in the French embassy involved in a [i]ménage à trois[/i] with the Rhodesian ambassador and his wife. The authorities were not letting out too many clues if any of those were true. With the bodies bagged, those who'd came looking for answers were disappointed yet again, and the crowd grew thinner. Leyla joined the exodus, needing to get back to work. Chemeda followed. "I came here in a car." he bragged. "You want a ride back to the Academy?" "You know we can't be seen like that. Addis Ababa isn't so sinful that a boy and a girl alone in a car won't be a scandal." "Maybe scandal isn't so bad." "Don't be foolish." she said, walking up to one of the several cycle rickshaw's that'd pulled up to the crowd expecting the exodus. She felt powerful paying the cyclist with her own money in front of a man who was trying to woo her. "I'll see you later." she said to Chemeda before turning to the cyclist, "The Menelik Roundabout". She was off, leaving Chemeda behind her. She arrived at the Academy just after noon, when most everyone had wandered off for lunch. The wind was pleasant as it rustled through the eucalpytus trees in the courtyard garden. She entered through the open door below the sign of the crossed swords and was greeted kindly by the very same receptionist she'd haggled with when she first applied to work here. They'd put her in the Propaganda Section, an open place on the second story consisting of a few shared desks and a cabinet full of supplies. There was very little need for Propaganda in Ethiopia. What they mostly put out was the equivalent of public service announcements. Everybody had left except for their director, who sat on the sill of an open window and smoked. He looked at her sort of startled. "[i]Woizerit[/i] Leyla, I thought you went for coffee?" "I went to see the Rhodesian Embassy." she said, "But nothing is happening there." "I can't have you around the office." he said, "I'm letting you go for the day. All active agents are on call just in case whatever happened at the Rhodesian embassy happens again. We have no orders until then." "Oh. Where do I go?" "Home." he put out the cigarette and stood up, "Or the shooting range. Have you been? They said you shouldn't have a problem." "I haven't yet." "Do that I guess." she shooed her, "But you can't stay here." Feeling embarrassed, she left. She couldn't shake the feeling she had done something wrong, though she couldn't think what the earth it might be. Still, she had the day. And he had a point. She'd go shooting. The range was across the way, in a room made to hide the sound. It was open to the [i]Shotel[/i], even those who were mere clerks, to practice shooting. The [i]Shotel[/i] wanted their entire workforce to be able to shoot, just in case they were drafted into the military as a civilian regiment during a future war. Of course, they hadn't thought of women, and the agent watching the range barred her from entry at first. Her director managed to get her permission, but by that time she'd been spending excess break time talking to Chemeda. She liked Chemeda. She liked watching him, talking to him. But she didn't want to marry him. She was young, her life ahead of her, a world to see beyond a bubbling pot of [i]wat[/i] and children clinging to her skirts. And with marriage off the table, why talk to him at all? That was how rumors started. Rumors that could ruin his career, and hers. The man watching the shooting range, Agent Reja, watched her distrustfully when she walked in. He had to let her use the range, but he didn't want to. He picked up a German Luger, standard issue for the [i]Shotel[/i], and showed her how to load a magazine and prepare it to be fired. Then he handed it to her. This was the first time she'd ever touched a gun. It was like handling a holy object, something of uncertain magical power. She weighed it with her hands. It was, ominous to her, heavier than it looked. All thoughts of work or men or murder on Embassy Row went from her head. He pointed her in the direction of the range. She went as solemn as a priest. The [i]Shotel[/i]'s firing range was not especially impressive. It was a concrete room, its floor, ceiling, and walls chipped by stray bullets. Paper targets hung from steel frames, replaced fresh for every new user. A plywood box marked where a person was supposed to stand. She felt nervous, and playfully mused if this was what it felt like going into combat as she took her place in one of the firing boxes. Taking a deep breath, she guessed at a proper stance, aimed, and after a moment's hesitation, she pulled the trigger. She knew guns were loud, but the noise seemed too loud, and that combined with the kick back made her think she'd done something wrong. She almost dropped it, and let in a quick gasp that was almost a yelp. When it was over, she was stunned, looking down at the smoking gun. Laughter rang out from the doorway. Agent Reja had been watching her the whole time. "That is not a coffee pot, is it?" he said. "But you did not do so bad, little lady." He pointed to the target. She'd sent the shot into the outer red ring. "Maybe they'll make you a field agent, eh?" he laughed again.