Saturday, February 2nd, 2003

I've infiltrated a compound of an African militia leader who's raising an army. For some reason, I'm investigating a plagarism charge against a wealthy white woman in his midst. I'm in a room meeting with her and asking about her book. She denies everything and lounges about nonchalantly.

An older woman in my team starts speaking to me in a different language. Insread of words, it comes in captions like comic book dialogue. She tells me to notice the other woman's face - how it's been worked on, how it has puckered area and how she keeps pursing her lips.

Later, I'm in a compound yard where many soldiers are gathered. Most of them are African, with a few Arabs and Europeans among them. Two young African Americans wander in carrying their afro shavings in a box. One of them lays his jewelry on a pile on the ground and looks for the leader. He points to a tall, imposing man in royal trible garb and asks me if that's the leader. I tell him the real leader dresses like a common soldier but has a great presence. I tell him he's know the leader when he saw him, that he looks like Ving Rhames in fatigues.