Dictators must be overthrown with words, and not pistols. This way is slower but more reliable. Otherwise, there is a big chance that everything will happen again and the country will be involved into a war. Only the interpreter can know the true value and strength of the right words. Sylvia Broome works as an interpreter at the UN headquarter. She is just a tiny cog in one complex mechanism. Her work is very important, as the leaders of the different countries have to find a common language with each other. Suddenly Sylvia finds out about the preparation of a murder. The Matobo President is to be a victim. Then agent Keller appears in her life. He is in charge of investigating the case. The agent does not trust Sylvia as some details from her dark past are constantly coming out. Still he is devoted to his work and strives to protect the interpreter. It is not his duty unlike the foreign leaders’ protection. But is this interpreter so defenseless as it seems?
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The Interpreter by Charles Randolph
The hot sun burned down on the small town. An old wooden sign above the road was shaking in the strong wind. The words on it were unclear now, but it read: WELCOME PRESIDENT EDMOND ZUWANIE.
The car moved slowly down the road. The driver was a black African man. Next to him, a fair-haired white man was writing a list of names in a blue notebook. Another white man with long, dark hair sat in the back seat, holding two cameras.
“She refused to tell me her husband’s name,” the white man in the front seat shouted above the noise of the wind.
“The names of the dead are bad luck,” the driver replied.
“Zuwanie murdered half the town. Can their luck get worse?”
The driver slowed the car. “He can murder the other half.”
The fair-haired white man put a gun and a new notebook into his bag. He and the driver climbed out of the car.
“Stay here,” the driver said to the cameraman.
Slowly, the two men walked across the street toward a large, old stadium. Outside, two boys kicked a ball around the dry, brown grass.
One of the boys shouted to the two men.
“They want to show us the bodies,” the driver said.
The boys took the men into a room inside the stadium. There was a strong smell of death. The men covered their noses and told the boys to go outside. In the dark corners of the room, they could see piles of bodies on the floor. “XOLA NOW!” was written in blood on the walls.
They started to check the bodies. They recognized some of the dead and found the names of others from the papers in their pockets. The white man pulled the notebook out of his bag and started to write.
Suddenly, there was a shout from one of the boys outside.
“Somebody’s coming!” the white man said.
The two men ran out into the bright sunlight. There was nobody outside – only the two boys. Slowly, one boy lifted a gun and shot the black African in the chest. Then he turned to the white man and shot him in the stomach…