by Jeff Buick
“Is Nikala Shambu one of those friends?”
Telling a lie now would be the next closest thing to suicide. “Yes.”
“And you were visiting him when we arrested you?”
Anderson nodded. “So I am under arrest. What is the charge?”
His interviewer laughed, a hearty chortle that echoed about the spartan room. “No charge yet. We are simply holding you until we determine if you have done anything illegal.”
“Have you figured that out yet? Whether I’ve done anything bad?”
Again, the laugh. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve done many bad things, Mr. Anderson. It’s all a matter of perspective.”
“Perspective?” Anderson asked, impressed with the man’s command of the English language, but totally unimpressed by their judicial system.
“Yes, of course. Perspective. From yours, you are simply paying people to ensure your safety, and that of your villagers and the elephants that live inside the tract of land our government has allowed you to police. From ours, you are giving money to a very dangerous man. A man who may use that money to oppose the authorities.”
“That would be bad,” Anderson said, nodding. “He told me the money was for a new house he was building.”
“You can see the problem with perspective, Mr. Anderson. Everyone has one, but only one counts.”
“Yours.”
“Yes. Mine. Ours, if you wish.” The man stared into the American’s eyes. “So that brings us to our problem.”
“Which is?”
“What to do with you. If we charge you with assisting antigovernment forces, you will never get out of that cell. Except to face a firing squad.”
Anderson swallowed heavily. “I don’t think I like that option.”
“It doesn’t matter what you think, Mr. Anderson.” Any civility in his tone was gone. “It matters what I think.”
“I understand.”
Silence settled over the room for a full two minutes. To Anderson, it felt like a week. A week with his balls in a vise. The room was hot now that his body temperature had returned to normal. He was sweating, and felt the droplets trickling down the sides of his ribcage. He avoided his interrogator’s eyes, focusing on a loose floorboard instead.
“There may be a second option.”
Mike didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His mouth was too dry.
“There is still a considerable amount of money in the bank.” The man’s voice was upbeat again. “And you know what they say. Money talks.”
Anderson wet his lips, his tongue felt the size of a football. “It’s not my money.”
“But you may have some influence over how it is spent. For your good, I hope you have this influence.”
Mike weighed his answer carefully. Agreeing would only guarantee his death if he couldn’t get his hands on the money. Disagreeing could have disastrous results on the spot.
“The money is controlled by a woman in the United States. I have her confidence. She trusts me. There is a possibility I could have some, influence, as you put it. I would have to speak with her directly.”
Silence cut through the room like a barracuda in cool water. Finally the man said, “I am not so sure that will work. I’ll have to think about it.” He looked at the other guards. “Take Mr. Anderson back to his cell.”
Anderson stood and bowed his head respectfully toward the other man. He wanted to leap across the table and snap the bastard’s neck, but that would only serve to get him killed. No upside to that. At least he had a chance to get himself out of this mess. Probably not a great one, but right now he’d take whatever he could get.
24
It was early for the phone to ring. Too early. Nothing good ever came from phone calls in the middle of the night. Leona glanced at the clock beside her bed as she picked up the receiver. Four-eighteen on Sunday morning.
“Hello?” She tried to sound awake, but sleep resonated through her voice.
“Miss Leona.” The voice was commingled with heavy static, but recognizable as Kubala Kantu.
“Kubala?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Is everything all right, Kubala?” she asked, waking up quickly now.
“Mr. Mike didn’t show up at the village, Miss Leona.”
“He’s not there? You haven’t seen him?”
“No. You said he would be arriving again sometime last week, but no one has seen him.”
“Where are you?”
“Nairobi. I drove to the hotel where he usually stays, but he wasn’t there.”
“Did he check in?”
“Yes. Friday afternoon, nine days ago. But he left the next morning and the desk clerk said he never came back.”
Leona rubbed her eyes and thought for a moment. “Have you checked with the police?”
There was a pause. “That might not be a good idea.”
“Why?”
“You know my country, Miss Leona. If I speak with the police, they will be interested in why Mr. Mike is in Kenya.”
“Yes, of course.” She flipped on the light next to the bed and ran her hands through her hair. “Is there any other way of finding out what happened to him? He has two men who drive him around Nairobi. Maybe you could talk to them.”
“I know these men. I’ve met them. Momba and Tuato. I’ve tried to find them, but have had no luck.”
“Is there anyone else?”
“I could talk with the man he delivers the money to, but I don’t know who that is.”
Leona racked her brain. It was early and her thought processes were barely working. “It was something like Nike. Nike Shamba.”
“Nikala Shambu?” Kubala asked.
“Yes, that’s it. That’s the name.” When there was no response, Leona said, “Do you know this man?”
“Yes. He is very bad. Very dangerous. The most violent man in Nairobi.”
“Could you ask him about Mike?”
“It would be very dangerous. This man, he is powerful, and ruthless. I have heard many stories of how he kills people who get in his way.”
“Don’t go near him if you think it will put you in danger,” Leona said. “I’ll think of some other way. Mike is an American citizen. Maybe the American embassy can find out what happened.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. If no one on the street is talking, there will be no information.”
“I’ll contact the embassy, Kubala. You do what you can to find him.”
“Yes, of course, Miss Leona.”
“Be careful.”
“This is Nairobi. I am always careful when I’m in the city.”
“Call me back in a day or two at the most. Or when you get some information.” She thought for a second, then added, “Can you leave me a phone number where I can reach you? In case I find out something through the embassy.”
“My friend has a phone. The one I am calling from.” He recited the country code, then the number. “Ask for me when you call. If I’m not here, they will get the message that you called to me. I will call you back.”
“Good. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Yes. Have a nice day.”
Leona hung up, Kubala’s final words echoing about her head. Have a nice day. It was merely a colloquialism, but it stuck with her. How was that possible? Mike Anderson had disappeared, swallowed up by the mass of deceit and corruption that was the Kenyan capitol. She had worried about this happening from the first time Mike left the United States with money destined for Kubala and his village. Was he being held captive? Or dead? There was no way of knowing. Either was possible. Probable, in fact.
Leona slid out of bed, no longer tired. Her mind was alive with possible scenarios, all playing out like movies on the big screen. So vivid, so real, so brutal. The chances of Mike taking a detour before he visited the village and handed over the money were zero. After, maybe. But he didn’t care for Kenyan beer, and would have nothing to do with the women because of the high rate of AIDS and HIV. Mike took his job serious
ly and had always found some way to deliver the money. Something was wrong. But what? Standing in her town house in Washington DC, a world removed from the violence of Nairobi, she had no idea. It was Sunday, but there had to be some way of contacting the American embassy. And with the time difference, now was probably the best time. She had a quick shower and put on a rare pot of coffee, calling the international operator and getting the embassy’s number while the dark roast Colombian blend brewed. She dialed the number and waited.
A voice answered and she said, “My name is Leona Hewitt. I’m calling from Washington, DC. A business associate of mine has gone missing and I need your help.”
Kubala replaced the cracked handset in its cradle. Nikala Shambu. He knew Mike Anderson was paying off someone in Nairobi to ensure his safety and keep the conduit for the money open. He suspected it might be Nikala Shambu. He hoped not. The man was a monster. A legend that had evolved from a trail of mutilated bodies, murdered families, and young women violated to the point of suicide. If Shambu had his hooks into the American, he wouldn’t be letting go. But it made no sense that Shambu would kidnap or kill the American. Shambu was collecting money on a regular basis from Miss Leona’s foundation. He wouldn’t kill the messenger of good tidings.
Which meant something else had happened to Mike Anderson. And even if Shambu weren’t involved, he would probably know who was. Kubala shuddered. If he wanted to find out, he would have to approach the most feared man in Nairobi. His life would be in the man’s hands. If Shambu decided to kill him for poking around, asking questions, he would die. If Shambu’s decision was to humor him and tell what he knew, then the chances were good he would live. And find out where Mike Anderson was.
Or his body.
Kubala looked around his friend’s tiny house, the paint peeling from the walls and the floor a jumble of old tiles and pieces of wood. Poverty. They all lived with it, every day. Parents worked sixteen-hour days under horrible conditions, and their children still went hungry. Violence was everywhere. Clean water and food difficult to attain.
But Leona Hewitt had taken an interest in the elephants of Kenya, and its people. She sent money and expertise that improved lives. She was making a difference to so many families that would have little, or nothing, without her. And Mike Anderson was the man who brought the money into the country. A dangerous job at any time, yet almost suicidal in Kenya. He risked his life . . . for them.
Kubala’s hand was shaking as he realized he had made a decision. A life-or-death decision. He couldn’t leave Mike Anderson alone in a time of need. He was going to see Nikala Shambu.
25
Sunday morning dawned brilliant blue, not a solitary cloud scarring the sky over Salt Lake City. Claire Buxton woke at six, a half hour before the alarm. She rolled out of bed and tiptoed to the shower, careful not to wake her husband, who usually slept soundly until seven. A quick shower invigorated her and by the time her kids and husband rolled into the kitchen a few minutes after seven-thirty, she had breakfast prepared and on the table.
“Since when does this happen?” Deirdre, her seventeen-year-old daughter, asked. “You never cook in the morning.”
“Special day.” Claire removed her “Kiss the Cook” apron and draped it over the back of a chair. She sat with her family. “Dad gets to golf and we head out for a day trip to the mountains.”
Her son, Abraham, said. “I like going to Logan. It’s cool up there. Lots to do.”
“For a fourteen-year-old,” Deirdre said. “Things change when you get older. Like you get a life.”
“You’re a witch,” Abraham said. “If we lived in Salem, they’d burn you at the stake.”
Claire gave her daughter a sideways look. “Don’t start anything, honey. It’s not often I get to spend time with you two. It would be nice to have a fun day.”
Deirdre smiled. “Okay, Mom. Logan’s not so bad. The canyon is neat.”
“We’ll visit it. After lunch.”
Eric Buxton finished his breakfast and kissed his wife on the cheek before loading his golf clubs and heading out for an early tee time. Claire and the kids were twenty minutes behind him. They took her van, a Chevy Uplan-der, and headed north through the city. The prominent spires of the Salt Lake Temple flashed through the thick canopies of leaves, and the State Capitol rested on a hill to the north of the downtown core. The Georgian marble in the Ionic columns glistened in the sunlight. They passed the central part of the city and headed north on Highway 89.
Dry expanses of scrubland greeted them and the temperature rose as the sun heated the arid land and sent undulating heat waves drifting up from the hard-packed sand and dirt. Claire sat alone in the front, the kids watching a Jennifer Lopez movie on the DVD screen in the back. They pulled into Logan, home of Logan State University and a stunning Mormon Tabernacle, slightly before noon. Claire found a parking spot two blocks from the Bluebird Restaurant and they ducked in for lunch.
“Love this place,” Deirdre said, standing near the soda fountain. The inside of the Bluebird was a throwback to the fifties and early sixties, with checkered tiles on the floor and vinyl-covered stools lined up along the counter. “Was this really what it was like when you grew up?”
Claire laughed. “Pretty much. Times were simpler. Nobody had much money, we lived in smaller houses and drove old cars, but I think growing up when I did was easier. Not as many diversions or pressures.”
“And no video games,” Abraham said.
“Not true, we had Atari.”
“Pong, or whatever they called it,” Abraham said, laughing. “I saw something on TV the other day about that game. It was a paddle you moved up and down and a ball that bounced across the screen. Totally lame.”
“Like I said, times have changed.”
They ordered and ate lunch, followed by a dessert from the soda fountain, then walked down Main Street for an hour. The bookstore, complete with a musty smell that told of old tomes on the shelves, was a favorite. It was closing in on two o’clock when they returned to the van and traveled northeast from the city, parallel to Logan River and toward the canyon. The slope of the road increased as they climbed into the Wasatch Mountains, the river and canyon to the south side of the winding road. They crested the plateau at Bear Lake Summit and Claire pulled the van over at one of the many roadside stops.
“It’s weird breathing up here,” Deirdre said as they picked a trail and hiked.
“Air’s thinner,” Abraham said. “We’re almost eight thousand feet above sea level.”
“This would be tough enough even if I could breathe normally.” Claire picked her way along the narrow trail. Her cell phone rang and she answered it, surprised that there was service in the area.
“Senator Buxton, it’s Bradley.”
“Things okay in Washington?” she asked. The phone she carried with her was her private line—only her husband and the staff in her DC office had the number.
“Fine. No problems. But I’ve got something for you. The information you wanted on Reginald Morgan’s death.”
“Go ahead,” she said, breathing deeply. Her lungs never seemed to fill and her body craved more oxygen.
“The Mexican police came aboard Brilliance of the Seas when the ship docked. They spent the entire day walking each of the decks, looking for traces of blood. One of their team was a forensic specialist and she gave Morgan’s room a thorough search. They came up empty and allowed the ship to sail on schedule. When Brilliance arrived in Miami, the FBI boarded and repeated the procedure. Again, nothing.”
“So they’re looking at the incident as an accident.”
“Yes. There’s no proof of any sort that would point to foul play. Their stance is that Mr. Morgan slipped and fell overboard. The investigation is closed.”
“Interesting,” Claire said. “The timing is certainly suspicious.”
“There’s probably never a time when a rich guy dies that the timing doesn’t look that way,” Bradley said. “That’s the problem
with being rich. Everyone trying to kill you for your money.”
“And you’d know about that?” Claire asked.
“Not yet. Maybe someday.”
“Okay, thanks for looking into that. Anything else on the go while we’re talking?”
Bradley took a few more minutes to run over a few things that had come up since Claire had been in her office. He wished her a good day in the mountains and she tucked the phone back in her pocket. She buttoned her coat against the wind, cool even on a beautiful summer day. The kids were a hundred yards ahead of her and she quickened her pace. No sense appearing any more out of shape than she was.
Claire Buxton’s van was parked halfway along a row of eight spots, facing an outcropping of rock. Five minutes after she and her children left the parking lot, a rental car pulled in next to hers. The driver remained in the car, tinkering with something. After a few minutes he looked around the empty lot, then opened his door and got out. That simple action put him inches from the van’s passenger door. He pulled out a thin piece of metal and slipped it between the window and the rubber and pushed down. A few seconds of fishing for the locking mechanism and he pulled sharply upward. The door opened to his touch. He set the tool back in the front seat of his rental and slid into the van, closing the door behind him.
Darvin glanced about, but there was no one in the parking lot and the vehicles were far enough from the road that it was impossible for anyone to have noticed him breaking into the vehicle. He removed a canister with a small metal and rigid plastic mechanism attached to one end from under his windbreaker and leaned across and down so he could see under the driver’s seat. The space was cluttered with wires running to the motors that moved the power seat. He tucked the device in among the jumble of wires and activated the receiver on the remote control. A tiny red light glowed.
Darvin straightened up and looked around. Nothing. The parking lot was still deserted. He slipped from the van into the front seat of his rental, then backed up and pulled into a spot at the far end of the lot. He turned off the car and settled in with the latest Dean Koontz paperback. Now it was time to wait. Utah’s representative to the Senate would be back soon enough.
