Delicate Chaos

by Jeff Buick

  Would Mike Anderson live or die? The next few minutes would tell how that story ended.

  51

  Someone was trying to kill her.

  The realization sunk in slowly, like an iceberg melting as it drifted south. Nothing about it seemed real. How could it be? She was an average person, living a normal life in Washington DC. People like her didn’t make it into a killer’s Rolodex. They went about their business and 99. 99 percent of the world ignored them. Now the question was, what to do? Go home? What if he, or she, was waiting for her? What if her car ignition had been tampered with? What if there was a bomb wired to the starter?

  Leona fingered her car keys with one hand and ran the other through her hair. She had been away from her car for an hour, having a bite of lunch with a friend. That would be plenty of time for someone to tamper with her vehicle. Her heart was beating fast, adrenaline surging through her body. All in anticipation of starting her car. Something she had done tens of thousands of times in the past without a second thought. Now everything had changed. Danger, death, could be a fraction of an inch away.

  Where was Mike Anderson? She needed him right now more than ever in her life. He was tough and resourceful. Fearless even. Mike would know what to do. But Kubala hadn’t called since last night. Eighteen hours. A lot could happen in eighteen hours. Or nothing. She had no idea whether Mike was still alive or if he had been murdered and thrown in a shallow grave somewhere outside Nairobi. Leona leaned against the car and choked back the tears. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried. She tried, more to take her mind off things than anything else, and it finally came to her. Years ago, at her cousin’s funeral. She had died of brain cancer at twenty-seven. What a waste. Leona remembered sitting next to her father in the funeral service, looking over at him and seeing the wetness in his eyes. He had cried that day, too. It had never registered with her before, but now she could envision him sitting on the hard wooden pew, struggling to hold back the tears. It was a side of her father she had seen, but had never recognized.

  Her phone rang and she snapped back to the present. She checked the caller ID. It was George Harvey of the DC police. “Detective Harvey,” she said. “Calling to check up on me?”

  “Actually, yes. Everything okay?”

  “So far. But I’m a little spooked. I’ve been envisioning a bomb planted under my car, and that it’s going to explode when I turn the ignition key.”

  “That’s probably a little extreme,” the DC Homicide cop said.

  “Someone blew up my restaurant.”

  “Point noted.”

  “What should I be watching for?”

  “People who are watching you. The same face in the background more than once. It’s not that difficult to pick someone out if you stay alert.”

  “Do you have anything new? Any sort of lead or clue as to who’s doing this? When I was in your office on Friday you were checking the passenger manifest from the cruise ship. Anything come from that?”

  “No. If Swanson’s person did buy a ticket close to the sailing date, he did it without leaving a trail. But we did get a sample of Derek Swanson’s DNA today. It’s at the lab now.”

  “And if you get a match to the blood at the crash scene?”

  “Ms. Hewitt, I never said there was blood at the scene other than the victim’s. You assumed that.”

  “Yes, I did. But I think it’s a pretty good assumption.” She paused. “Will you tell me if it matches?”

  Harvey didn’t answer for a few seconds, then he said, “I’ll give you every bit of information I can without jeopardizing the integrity of the investigation.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You have my card. Call me if you need anything.”

  “I will.”

  Leona killed the call and slipped the cell phone back in her pocket. She thumbed her key fob and clicked the button to open the doors. There was a thunking sound as the locking mechanisms released. She swung open the driver’s door and dropped into the seat, then inserted the key into the ignition and turned. No hesitation. God hates a coward. The engine caught and settled into a low idle. Before she could shift into gear, her phone rang. The screen read private caller. She took the call.

  “Leona.” It was her father.

  “Hi, Dad.” Her hand gripped the stick shift a little tighter.

  “I thought I’d call and see how things were going at the bank. With the new vice president.”

  “May not be doing that much longer,” she said, not willing to play games. Her father suffering with the truth would be easier than her forcing a lie.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Things went badly with the first file I was handed. I’m not sure the position will be mine much longer.”

  “Isn’t there some way to fix it?” he asked, concern creeping into his voice.

  “This one is out of my hands, Dad,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do but wait and see how things play out.”

  “Maybe if you talk to the CEO.”

  Leona didn’t respond right away. When she did it was off topic. “Dad, do you remember cousin Sheri? She died of cancer about four years ago.”

  “Yes, of course I remember her. Why?”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “Not all that well. She was your mother’s sister’s daughter. You probably saw her as often as I did.”

  “I only saw her about twice a year. Christmas and the yearly family barbeque.”

  “Yes. What’s this all about?”

  “Nothing. Listen, Dad, I’ve got to run. I’ll tell you about what’s happening at the office when I have a few more minutes.”

  “You’re sure everything’s okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. Talk to you soon.”

  “Okay.”

  Leona let the phone fall on her lap. She stared out the window at the Sunday DC traffic, but it wasn’t registering. Who was this man that was supposed to be her father? Her dad was a man’s man—one who would never look for the easy way, and would certainly never offer it. His demands were great, as were his expectations. Perhaps that’s what had driven her to overachieve. In fact, she was sure it had. But the other side, the man who cried at funerals, not because he knew the person intimately, but because he perceived an injustice in life. This man she didn’t understand. Had he always been there? Had she missed it? Had she lived her life in an emotional bubble because that was where she had put herself? Too many questions, no answers.

  She slipped the car into gear and pulled out from the curb, pushing the thoughts from her mind. Right now she had one, and only one, thing to worry about. Staying alive.

  52

  Bawata Rackisha moved down the aisle slowly, enjoying the fearful glances from the passengers. None of them wanted to be the one picked. None of them wanted to be the one to accompany the police from the plane to a small room with no windows or cameras. Sometimes the ones who disappeared never came back. Rackisha looked into every pair of eyes, sensing the fear like a predator stalking trapped prey. He felt powerful, invigorated, aroused even, by the control.

  Most of the passengers were African, with varying shades of black skin. Picking out Mike Anderson would be easy. The lone white guy. Rackisha was about halfway down the aisle and he glanced ahead. Many black faces stared back at him, lowering their gaze when their eyes met. He caught a glimpse of white skin near the back of the plane. You can hide, but you can’t escape. He touched his shirt lightly, the feel of his gun under the cotton reassuring. Not long now. He increased his pace slightly, anxious to have the American back in his grasp.

  Would Anderson try anything—to run, to push past him and bolt from the plane? Or would he go quietly? Rackisha didn’t know the answer but suspected there may be trouble. Certainly Anderson would understand that this was it. That there was no way he could ever be released. That he would die in a most horrific way under the harshest of conditions. Mike Anderson could never possibly foresee the torture that lay ahea
d, but if he suspected he was going to die, he may try for the gun. Desperation breeds panic.

  The inspector was almost to the rear of the plane. He slipped his hand under his shirt and wrapped his hand around the pistol grip. Two more rows. He could see the brown hair and snippets of white skin. He felt an incredible surge of power as he drew abreast the seat. The executioner had arrived. He steeled himself for a reaction and peered into the row. A white man between two Africans. The man turned and looked upward.

  It was not Mike Anderson.

  Rackisha stared for two or three seconds, then jerked his eyes back to the last three rows of the plane. He could see every person and not one of them was white. There was no chance he had missed him. Anderson was not on the plane. Rackisha turned and strode up the aisle, moving quickly and with purpose. He cornered the purser in front of the door to the cockpit and stood within a foot of her.

  “Michael Anderson. He was supposed to be on this flight. Where is he?”

  She opened the passenger manifest with shaking hands, running her finger down the list of names. She stopped, then said, “He was in row nine, seat C, but I can tell you for sure that he’s not on the plane.”

  “How can you do that?” Rackisha asked rudely.

  “Our headcount was one short, and we noticed it was him. We called back to the personnel at the gate and they told us he had informed them he wouldn’t be taking the flight.”

  “Where is he?” Rackisha’s face was inches from the woman’s.

  “I have no idea, sir,” she said. “He’s not our responsibility if he’s not on the airplane.”

  Rackisha considered grabbing her and dragging her down to police headquarters, but came back to his senses. The chief of police and his lieutenants had no idea what he had done, and it was best kept that way. If he were to show up at the precinct with the flight attendant, there would be questions. Tough questions to answer. There was no upside to taking her off the plane.

  “Thank you,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Rackisha returned to the terminal and walked about, searching the crowds for the American. The only group of whites was a safari tour preparing to leave the country on another outbound flight. The inspector looked at all of them closely. Anderson was definitely not among them. He posted a guard on the front doors and searched the bathrooms. Nothing. Anderson had escaped. He walked out into the late afternoon sun and stared at the chaos. Anderson was gone. Somehow, the American had managed to elude him.

  Rackisha allowed himself a small smile. Who cared? He had the money. Killing Anderson would have been a bonus. An unnecessary bit of fun. He slid into the backseat of his car and shook his head. Son of a bitch. Tricky little bastard, Michael Anderson.

  Mike Anderson accepted a rum and Coke from the flight attendant and downed it in two gulps. God, that felt good. He asked her politely for another one. A wave of exhilaration and relief swept over him as he looked out the window at the scattering of clouds and the vast African tract thirty thousand feet below. He had escaped, only with Kubala’s help and ingenuity.

  I tried to get you a window seat, but was unable. I had to settle on the airline’s second choice. I think you’ll be pleased with it.

  For a few minutes he hadn’t understood the message. Then, as he leaned against the wall, waiting to board the Air France flight to Paris, he realized what Kubala was saying. He hated window seats, much preferred the aisle, and Kubala knew that. That was to get his attention. Then the mention of a second choice. Why those words? He opened the folder from the airline and pulled out the boarding pass. Underneath, folded in half and almost invisible, was a second boarding pass, this one on the Lufthansa flight departing for Frankfurt at eight forty-nine.

  Do not be on the flight to Paris.

  The message was very clear. He checked with the Air France airline personnel at the gate and told them he would not be flying due to a problem in Nairobi. Because they knew he would be a no-show, they scratched his name off the passenger manifest and didn’t announce his name over the intercom. The boarding area was extremely crowded and it was easy to slip onto the other plane, which left twenty minutes before the Paris flight. Kubala’s resourcefulness had probably saved his life.

  The flight attendant brought his drink and he thanked her by name. Nancy. It was nice to be back with people whose names he could pronounce. No more Bawata Rackisha. No more sadistic police officers with the power and resources to torture and kill innocent people. No more Africa.

  The thought of not returning brought on a dichotomy of emotions. He loved Kubala and his family and the village, but hated the corruption and violence that plagued almost every level of life on the continent. Save Them had worked miracles, but its time was done. Leona had saved some of Africa’s wildlife from the poachers, but her real gift had been the difference she had made in so many lives. Schools, churches and hospitals now stood where before had been scrubland and dusty plains. Water flowed from deep wells and crops and livestock were well watered and nourished. He had been a part of it, and there was a pride associated with that.

  Anderson finished the drink and closed his eyes. The softness of the seat and the steady drone of the plane’s engines were sedatives, and he felt himself drifting off. The last thought he had before his world settled into black was that he would call Leona from Frankfurt. Give her the good news. Soon he would be back in the United States and it would be life as normal. That thought felt good.

  53

  Mike Anderson found an open pay phone and closed the glass door, cutting off some of the noise echoing through the Frankfort airport. It was busy, considering it was the middle of the night. Numerous incoming flights were on the arrival board, most originating at a reasonable hour in different time zones on the other side of the Atlantic. It was nine o’clock in DC and Leona would still be up. Anderson entered his calling card and password from memory, then dialed her number and waited.

  “Hello?” It was Leona’s voice, but she sounded unsure.

  “Leona, it’s Mike.”

  “Mike, are you all right? Where are you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m in the Frankfurt airport.”

  “I almost didn’t pick up. The caller ID shows some weird area code.”

  “Pay phone.”

  “Kubala never called. I didn’t know what was happening. I was worried sick about you.”

  “Yeah, it was a little tense there for a while. Kubala probably didn’t call because he was trying to get out of Nairobi before the asshole who kidnapped me got his hands on him.”

  “Is Kubala okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Anderson said, watching a stream of peo- ple walk by on their way to the baggage carousel. “He’s pretty resourceful. I imagine he’s fine. He’ll probably call you when he gets back to Samburu and has his family with him.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Later, Leona. When I’m back in the States. It’s a long and ugly story.”

  “Okay. When are you flying in?”

  “No idea. I just got here. I have no money, no credit card, no clothes . . .”

  “Naked in the airport. That’s interesting.”

  He chuckled—the first time in weeks. “Funny girl. I need you to wire some money so I can buy a ticket.”

  “I have a better idea. Go to the airline and book the flight, then call me and I’ll put it on my credit card.”

  “Yeah, that might work,” Anderson said, his head swiveling as an attractive woman walked past the booth.

  “It has to work, Mike,” Leona said. “I need you back in DC. Fast.”

  He stiffened at the words and her tone. “What’s wrong?”

  There was a pause, then, “Someone’s trying to kill me.”

  “What the hell? You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Leona, what’s going on?” His grip tightened on the handset and he turned away from the concourse and stared at the phone, concentrating on every word.


  “It’s all tied in to the Coal-Balt income trust conversion.

  It looks like the president of the company is killing anyone who stands in his way. The company’s CEO and he weren’t seeing eye to eye on the conversion. He’s dead. Then a senator in Utah tabled an antipollution bill that could have cratered the deal. She’s dead. Yesterday my restaurant exploded, killing two of my staff, missing Tyler and me by inches. Things are not good over here right now.”

  “What about the police? Are they protecting you?”

  “From whom? We have no idea who’s doing this. We suspect that Coal-Balt’s president, Derek Swanson, has hired someone, but there’s no proof. The forensics crew is still piecing together what caused the explosion at the restaurant. Could have been an accident.”

  “Are they saying that?”

  “No. They’re pretty sure it was intentional.”

  “What are you doing to protect yourself?”

  “Nothing, really. I’m not sure what to do. The police call every now and then. They told me to watch for suspicious people. Try to notice faces, and if I see the same one more than once to call them.”

  “I want you to get out of your house. Right now.”

  “Where do I go?” she asked, panic rising.

  “My place. There’s a key under the flowerpot on the stoop.”

  “That’s original.”

  He ignored the attempt at humor. “Wait until we get this plane ticket sorted out, then leave. Use the time to pack.”