The Tanzania Conspiracy

by Mario Bolduc

Max couldn’t believe Valéria had hidden all this from him, this foundational fact about her life. It made him furious. Roselyn could only agree. After all, she’d been deceived by Albert, who had hidden such a large part of his life at the penitentiary. That was what had brought them together: lies and omissions by people they’d loved, who had jealously guarded their most intimate secrets.

  “We’re not worth much in the lives of others,” Roselyn said. “We’re sure the people we love care about us and then it turns out it’s nothing more than an illusion, a projection, a self-created fantasy. And we believe them because we want to think we’re indispensable.”

  Cruel words, a cruel judgment of both of them. But Max had no counter-argument in good faith. As his investigation revealed new information, Valéria seemed to move farther from him. Instead of letting herself be known, she became a furtive silhouette, harder and harder to distinguish. What he was discovering about her was changing his memory and modifying the image she’d left him. An image she’d partially manufactured.

  How could Valéria have tolerated her son’s participation in the trafficking of albinos? On Ukerewe, Naomi Mulunga had told Max that the lawyer hadn’t known about Samuel’s involvement at first. She’d learned the truth only after Samuel had been arrested, discovering with horror that the young man used his position as a nurse to funnel albino children to traffickers, and in particular to the witch doctor Zuberi.

  Her reaction? Astonishment. A terrible, horrible mess. He’d broken her trust. She’d solicited his help to save these children from horrible deaths by sending them to Ukerewe, as she herself had saved Samuel’s life by entrusting him to Thomas Musindo. He’d then turned around and taken advantage of the situation to make some money — betraying everything Valéria stood for in the process.

  Then, during the trial, her maternal instinct had taken over. Yes, he was a killer, but he was her son, and despite his horrendous crime, she couldn’t just let him die. Max could imagine Valéria’s dilemma. She couldn’t look away and wait for the state to kill him. She had to act, yet without harming her cause.

  Still, questions remained in Max’s head. How had the person who’d killed Valéria, Sophie, Thomas Musindo, and Zuberi learned of Samuel’s faked execution? Perhaps a rumour had been started in Janeth’s circles, or even Valéria’s, when Thomas Musindo had shared the news? Whatever the case, someone knew about it, and that was what had begun this terrible wave of murder and violence, this long trail of blood, with Valéria and her daughter the first victims.

  Had the perpetrator been a former Ugandan rebel? A Tanzanian soldier using the methods he’d learned from Idi Amin’s opponents? It hadn’t been Kilonzo, no. Then who? Walter? The man who’d tortured Max in the prison he’d briefly been incarcerated in? It was unlikely.

  And where was Samuel Musindo hiding?

  “What should we do now?” Roselyn asked.

  Max looked up. He’d practically forgotten about the woman. He shrugged. No matter the reasons that motivated Kerensky and the other killer, Valéria’s son was still a target. He had to do everything in his power to prevent another murder. But how? Only one option made sense to Max: to reveal it all, to set the cat among the pigeons, to tell everyone what had happened years ago. Force Musindo to come out of hiding to finally face justice.

  Roselyn frowned. “You want him to be executed a second time?”

  “Sooner or later his secret will be revealed and he’ll have to flee again.”

  “Which he’s done already, I’m sure.”

  “Or he hasn’t moved at all. He’s lying low in whatever lair he’s found, knowing that any movement might attract attention.”

  “Possible.”

  “We’re dealing with an animal that’s being tracked, fearing for its life, in survival mode.”

  “Where do you think he might have gone after the execution?” Roselyn asked. “He could have stayed in Africa.”

  Now that the news of his faked execution had come out, Samuel wouldn’t be able to live in peace, no matter where he was hiding. Sooner or later Kerensky or someone else would find him. Samuel would disappear without a trace, since he was already dead in the eyes of the legal system. They had to find him before Kerensky and the other killer.

  For Max, Valéria might just be the key to the whole affair. If she was at the origin of the subterfuge, as he believed she was, she needed accomplices. Mitch Arceneaux had been responsible for one facet of the operation, and Sophie had lent a hand, as well as Thomas Musindo. But at least one key person was missing: the man or woman who had prepared fake papers and sent Samuel into hiding.

  But, more than anything, the question Max had to ask was this: Where was Samuel?

  Max, a connoisseur of fake identities, knew how difficult it was to disappear and reappear elsewhere under another name, perhaps with modified physical features. If Samuel had feigned his death with Valéria’s help, if he was the artisan of the hoax with his mother, they likely needed the help of a few experts, including a counterfeiter.

  Another element preoccupied Max: either Samuel hadn’t been informed of Valéria’s death, or he had and had decided not to show his face.

  How could they go about finding him?

  Or send him a message?

  “Do you have children, Mr. O’Brien?”

  Max shook his head. Roselyn was looking at him intently.

  “Norah was adorable,” she continued. “An intelligent girl who became an incredible young woman. Albert and I were both absolutely amazed we’d brought this person into the world.”

  Roselyn glanced away, her eyes unfocused, staring out at Lake Michigan. “I haven’t stopped thinking about her since she passed. Sometimes I have dreams where I die, just so we can be together again. I join her in a place known to just the two of us, where we can pretend death is only a bad dream, or a practical joke on life, on our friends, on our neighbours, on all of us.”

  Max fully understood what she was saying.

  “If I were Valéria, if I had a chance to see my son for real … I’m certain she visited him regularly. If I were her, I couldn’t have stayed away for very long. Did she ever travel outside Africa?”

  “Only for fundraising. She never really took a vacation.” Max grabbed his phone. What time was it in Bukoba? Who cared? He woke Teresa Mwandenga, asked her to tell him everything about Valéria’s travel plans since July 2003, after Samuel’s execution. The accountant didn’t have that information on hand but promised she’d get in touch with him as soon as possible.

  Two hours later, as Max and Roselyn were eating together, Mwandenga called back. Valéria had travelled to London a few times, as well as elsewhere in Europe and to the United States. But her most canvassed donors were located in Vancouver.

  “Do you have the dates of those trips?” Max asked.

  “Every year in February. Since 2004, she didn’t miss a trip.”

  Around February 8, probably. Samuel Musindo’s birthday. Even after her son’s execution, Valéria hadn’t broken her promise of spending every birthday with him. The same promise she’d made to Sophie. Max recalled what she’d told him that first time they’d met in Toronto: “When she was born, I made a vow. As long as I live, no matter where I am in this world, I’ll be with her on that day to hold her in my arms and wish her happy birthday.” A promise she’d kept with Samuel, too.

  Vancouver, Canada.

  “Put yourself in Valéria’s shoes,” Max said to Roselyn. “She wanted to keep Samuel safe. They wouldn’t take the chance of sending him to a country with an extradition treaty with Tanzania. It would put Samuel in too much danger.”

  That explained Canada as a destination of choice. Its government hadn’t signed such a treaty with Tanzania.

  They weren’t the only ones who had come to the same conclusion. Roselyn told Max about what she’d deduced from her husband’s movements. He carried a Beretta and could cross borders only by bus or car, hiding his weapon. According to her, if Samuel was in Canada, Alb
ert knew it. Which is why he’d renewed his passport. Kerensky’s only objective was to find Musindo and finish what he’d started. Repair the one mistake of his career.

  Max and Roselyn had to locate her husband and neutralize him before he could follow through.

  29

  From O’Hare Airport, Max and Roselyn grabbed an American Airlines flight for Seattle. In the plane, unable to sleep, Max tried to gather his thoughts. Since Valéria and her daughter had been killed, it seemed time had accelerated. Revelations came one after the other, some answers had been revealed, while many truths still remained shrouded. Although the events that had transpired were now clearer, their meaning still escaped Max.

  For years Samuel had lived under an assumed identity, leaving Africa — and Clara Lugembe’s murder in particular — behind him. He’d spoken to no one from his old life except for his mother. Which put her at risk, of course. She could be made to talk …

  At least once a year Valéria had visited her son. Her fundraising trips were her alibi, allowing her to justify frequent trips to Vancouver, one city among many. No one had ever noticed that these trips weren’t as lucrative as others in her fundraising ventures — even Teresa Mwandenga hadn’t noticed.

  Albert’s madness had made a mess of her plans.

  The plane landed in Seattle four hours later. Another Westin, and a car rental agency where Max picked up a Lincoln Town Car while Roselyn rested in her room adjacent to his. He woke her very early the next morning, and they hit the road, heading for the Canadian border. After Bellingham, Max turned off on the 539. This early in the morning they were almost alone at the Lynden-Aldergrove border crossing, sharing the lanes with a few tourists eager to beat rush hour. The size and luxury of Max’s car piqued the interest of the customs officer, though not his suspicions. The elderly woman in the passenger seat seemed to lower his guard.

  Soon Max was gaining speed, reaching the Trans-Canada Highway before heading for Vancouver. Once they were settled into a suite at the Wedgewood on Hornby Street, Max and Roselyn took a moment to breathe.

  “So what do you suggest now?” Roselyn asked after emerging from a long shower.

  Max had neither plan nor strategy. On the drive from Seattle, he’d tried to put himself in the killer’s shoes. After avoiding his own execution, Samuel had travelled under a fake name, a fake passport — probably a Canadian one — before landing in Vancouver. Had someone been waiting for him? No way to know. But if Valéria had managed to organize Adrian’s kidnapping from Bukoba, she’d certainly taken care to properly organize her son’s exile. It would have been Musindo’s first time in Vancouver, and with fake papers. Surely, he had needed some help.

  “Airport cameras?” Roselyn suggested.

  Even if the tapes from six years back were kept, which Max doubted, it was unlikely he’d get access to them. What was more, if by some miracle he could locate them, there would still be hundreds of hours of tape to go through, and Max didn’t know how long after his non-execution Musindo had actually reached Canada.

  “He might have come through Europe,” Max said. “Spent a few weeks in Paris, for example, to confuse anyone tracking him.”

  Not to mention his appearance. To change his life so radically, Samuel likely had a new face. Facial surgery. Likely high-quality work.

  Roselyn sighed. “Does this trip serve any purpose? Will looking for Musindo really lead us to Albert and stop him from committing yet another murder? And let’s say I manage to reason with him and divert him from the bloody quest he’s begun. Then what? Albert will be arrested and extradited to the United States, where he’ll have to answer for the murders of Angel Clements and Mitch Arceneaux, each one of which could get him the needle. Those murders were committed in Louisiana, a state that’s not shy about handing out the death penalty.”

  Max could see that Roselyn had grasped the tragic irony of what could happen for the first time. She’d agreed to follow him, knowing she was setting off a series of events that could only end in her husband’s death.

  Roselyn and Max didn’t have much to go on in their search for Musindo. They knew he was in Vancouver, but even that could be wrong. Max could try to reach out to him by publishing an ad in a newspaper or on the Internet, something that might make the man curious enough to contact him. But that was counting on Musindo’s willingness and desire to show his face. Max doubted Musindo would emerge from his lair. What was more, through such a message, they’d be signalling to Kerensky and the other killer that more hunters had joined the fray. They would keep a low profile, even if that didn’t guarantee their safety.

  “He’s a black African,” Roselyn said. “Perhaps he joined a community group for immigrants.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Nostalgia? Homesickness?”

  “Any other immigrant and I’d say you were right. But not Samuel Musindo. It would be too risky to bump into someone who might know his identity. A Tanzanian who’d followed the trial closely, as well as his execution. A small risk, sure, but a real one.”

  In short, there wasn’t much to go on. Almost nothing.

  “What about Valéria Michieka?” Roselyn suggested. “We could try to retrace her movements, figure out when and where she visited her son.”

  “Good idea.”

  The following day Max began his search. Valéria likely hadn’t stayed at a hotel, since she would want as much time as possible with her son. There wouldn’t be much point going to the major hotels with her picture. Max tried to follow the money but couldn’t figure out where her fundraising sessions took place. In the file given to him by the accountant, there were no receipts for room rentals or audiovisual equipment, supporting the hypothesis that Valéria travelled to Vancouver only to visit her son, not to raise funds.

  Had they celebrated Samuel’s birthday in a restaurant?

  Roselyn combed through the Yellow Pages and questioned the hotel concierge to figure out the perfect place to hold such an event. But the calls she made to various restaurants yielded no results. On February 8 of this year or the previous year, Samuel and his mother hadn’t been seen dining at any establishment, at least not under their real names.

  It was time to change tack. Since looking for Valéria wasn’t generating any leads, Max and Roselyn thought they should reach out to allergy specialists. Musindo might have needed to continue his treatments.

  “Discreetly, you know,” Max said. “As soon as he got to Vancouver, perhaps he found a clinic where he wouldn’t be known. Never misses an appointment, doesn’t make waves, he’d just be one patient among others.”

  Roselyn doubted that would generate any leads, but it didn’t hurt to try.

  On the phone with Susan McGillivery, a represent­ative for a local association of allergy specialists, Max discovered a new passion: the integration of recent immigrants into British Columbia’s health care system, especially those suffering from allergies. On the Internet, he’d found the name of an obscure magazine catering to the newcomers and was now calling under the guise of writing a piece for the periodical.

  McGillivery agreed to meet with him, and later that day, she welcomed him to her messy office on Davies Street. An energetic woman who didn’t have a minute to spare, she thought Max’s mission was a little on the pointless side but had agreed to help, anyway.

  “Our patients aren’t indexed by race or colour,” McGillivery stated as soon as they shook hands.

  Max couldn’t help but smile. “Of course, of course. What I’m more interested in is their origins. Anglophone Africa, for example. Allergies that are unique to Kenya and Tanzania are of particular interest to me.”

  “That’s confidential information.”

  Meaning the information existed, Max understood.

  “I’d be interested in statistics, in a way of describing the phenomenon, you understand?”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help.”

  Max tried to convince McGillivery how useful his article would be, how he�
�d be able to demonstrate how hard the government was working to ensure that recently arrived immigrants received top-flight care for their allergies. McGillivery was unmoved.

  He then contacted an association working for the integration of recent immigrants, but again, the information he required was confidential. Perhaps it was time to think outside the box and search different avenues.

  Perhaps in a less official manner, off the beaten path.

  But where and how?

  Back at the hotel, Max couldn’t hide his discouragement from Roselyn. As they ate, his thoughts were elsewhere. He was worried. Preoccupied. Roselyn looked the part, as well, as if Max’s pessimism was contagious.

  She rummaged through her bag and took her hypertension medication out. When she raised her eyes, Max was staring at her curiously.

  “What is it?”

  To fight his allergies, Samuel Musindo frequently used ephedra. An illegal drug, though easy to obtain. During the trial, it was established that Musindo got his supply from Chinese workers trying to make a few yuan in Tanzania. The plant grew in China and was used as a stimulant there when mixed with tea.

  Max and Roselyn made their way to the nearest pharmacy. There, they learned some good news: products containing ephedra were heavily regulated by Health Canada. Only tiny quantities could be sold over the counter, just as in the United States. If Musindo had continued using ephedra as regularly as in Tanzania, he must have found a source outside the law.

  That meant the black market.

  It was a bit of stretch as far as clues went, and it might lead nowhere at all, since it was based on three hypotheses they couldn’t confirm: that outside Africa Musindo still had strong allergic reactions and needed to use ephedra to manage his symptoms, that he’d been forced to find large quantities of the drug outside the law, and — the shakiest hypothesis among the three — that he had chosen to contact the same sorts of people here as he had in Tanzania to get his fix — Chinese workers.

  Max and Roselyn went off to explore Chinatown. Long a rundown part of town, this neighbourhood near Vancouver’s core had been slowly revitalized thanks to massive investment from Asia. In the 1990s, fear of the imminent annexation of Hong Kong by China had incited millionaires to move their fortunes to the other side of the Pacific, especially after the repression in Tiananmen Square. To these Chinese fortunes was added the money spent by Japanese tourists. Often Vancouver was their first port of call in Canada.