“My name is Eric Truell.” Fear was in my voice. I paused and took a few deep breaths. “I work for a newspaper in the United States called The New York Mirror. I want to interview you. My paper is very powerful. It is read by the president. Here’s my card.” I took a business card from my wallet and handed it to him. My hand was shaking slightly. He looked it over and handed it to a man with light brown skin—he might have been a North African or a Frenchman, it was hard to tell—who had emerged from the back room. He was neatly dressed in a gray business suit and a fine silk tie. He looked at the card dubiously, and then at me. I guessed he and the darker man with the pistol were the group’s leaders. He gave a nod, and then retreated back to the foyer.

“Ask your questions,” said the African.

My mind went blank for a moment. “What is Vert/Vertu?”

“We are a global movement!” answered the big man. His voice boomed like a loudspeaker. “We have many thousands of members. We want radical action to save the environment. Africa is the last frontier. We are the wretched of the earth. We have been colonized, victimized, patronized. Our lakes and forests have been poisoned. We want to save Africa before it is destroyed.”

I was scribbling notes in the reporter’s notebook I had put in my back pocket that morning, as I did every morning. I wrote down what he had said, but it had all the spontaneity of a canned recording. “Why hasn’t anyone ever heard of your group, if you have thousands of members?”

“Because we are secret. We want radical action to save the environment. Africa is the last frontier. We are the wretched of the earth. We have been colonized, victimized, patronized—”

“I understand all that,” I said, stopping him before he repeated the whole speech. “Where are you from, personally?”

“From Africa.” He smiled.

“And what is your name?”

“I have no name; I have every name. You can call me Monsieur Afrique. I am the spokesman for Vert/Vertu. I speak for my continent.”

I was still writing it all down, but inwardly cursing my stupidity. This interview was not worth the risks involved. So far, he had said less than what was in the statement the group had faxed to Reuters a few hours ago. I should at least get the ultimatum in his own words.

“What are your demands, Monsieur Afrique? Tell the world. What will it take to get you to release the hostages?”

“The French must pay reparations to their African brothers. Some of the money they have stolen from us. It is billions of dollars.”

“Ten billion. Is that right?”

He flicked his hand, as if he were brushing away a fly. “The French know how much. Now they must pay.”