City of Saints & Thieves

by Natalie C. Anderson

  “Glad it sank in. Okay, Michael hasn’t left his room, but the Greyhills aren’t in their bedroom. It looks like maybe a car is gone.”

  “Perfect. They must still be at their dinner party.”

  “I’ll try hacking into the security firm they use for their car and see where their GPS puts them. Hang on.”

  I turn to the mirror and only then notice that what I thought was a black top is in fact black covered in dark red kissy lips. I make a face. I can just imagine Boyboy’s reaction if he could see me now.

  Oh well, it’s not a fashion show.

  It’s a robbery.

  “Boyboy? Are you ready? I’m heading out.”

  “Wait! Don’t you want to make sure they’re not pulling in the driveway right now?”

  I fidget while the seconds tick by. Finally Boyboy says, “Security puts them a few miles away in Miambu. Okay, I’m putting the interior cameras on a loop starting now.”

  “All right, here I go.”

  “Just a sec. Bug Eye wants to talk to you.”

  I hear the phone change hands, and then Bug Eye’s deep voice. I wait for him to chastise me again, to warn me not to mess up, but he just says, “You got this, Tiny Girl. Soon as you’re done, you can get out of that house. Get back to real life.”

  “Yeah,” I say, not quite sure how to answer. “I’ll call back once I’m in the office.”

  After I hang up and put my phone into my pocket, I shake my arms and legs out, getting loose. When I slip into the hall, there’s no light coming from under Michael’s door. Creeping back through the tomblike house, I feel my pulse quicken. The familiar surge of adrenaline brings a smile to my face. Everything suddenly feels right. This is what I know. This is who I am. A thief. A good one. This time I’m not leaving until all Mr. Greyhill’s secrets are mine.

  TWENTY

  Two minutes later the office door lock is picked and I’m in. “Too simple,” I whisper when I call Boyboy back.

  His voice crackles over the line. “Just listen out for lover boy creeping up on you again.”

  I snort. “Lover boy?”

  “Hey, girl, I just call it like I see it. That boy is sweet on you.”

  “You met him for, like, two minutes,” I say, wondering if Bug Eye is listening in. I reach the other side of the dark room by the light of my phone and switch on the desk lamp.

  “You forget that I—genius—therefore very perceptive.” Boyboy’s voice cuts in and out. “—too bad you’re—totally mess his family up. You two would—cute couple.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re too far away for me to punch you,” I say, but I shift in Mr. G’s big seat, sparks of guilt igniting in my gut. I look over at the leather couch. The thought of my mother slumping into death kindles my anger again and the moment passes.

  It doesn’t take long to get back into Mr. Greyhill’s computer and hard drive, now that we’ve had practice. Soon Boyboy is shuffling screens like a card trick.

  “Come to Papa,” he says. After a few seconds he clucks impatiently. “The signal is still weak. I tried to boost the bandwidth, but it’s slow.”

  He’s talking more to himself than me, and I let him do his thing while I turn to inspect the bookshelf. I tuck the phone between my shoulder and my ear and run my fingers along the shelves’ edges. Nothing. No hinges, no indication of a hidden door or camera. I pull books out, mess with the little wooden statues of Masai warriors that line one shelf. It doesn’t move.

  I look back at the computer. The screen is full of lines of code.

  “Keep the phone—next—computer, Tina. I—to close the GPS tracker,” Boyboy says. “It’s slowing—down too much. Bug Eye will—their car pulling in.”

  I lay my phone next to the computer, go back to the bookshelf, and continue to poke. Where is the camera? And how did Michael get the door open? When he came through, I was too busy staring at the photo of my mother to know he was even there, much less how he got in. I don’t see anything that could be a latch. Starting from the bottom, I work my way back up the shelves again. I’m at the Masai statues when I hear Boyboy’s faint voice shouting my name.

  I grab the phone and put it to my ear. “What?”

  “Greyhills’ car—pulling in right now!”

  I curse, then watch as a tiny screen pops up on the computer. “What’s that?” It looks like surveillance footage.

  “The hallway leading to the office—keep an eye on it!”

  “How much time do you need?” I ask.

  “More than—got,” Boyboy says. “Just—let me see what I can do.”

  I look around helplessly. Damn this room and its no windows. Mr. Greyhill may not come directly up to his office, but I’m not ready to stick around and find out. I’ve got to have enough time to get out the office door and around the corner without being seen.

  “Hurry,” I say.

  “That’s not helping,” Boyboy singsongs.

  I keep my eyes glued to the hallway. It’s empty. For now. If Mr. G shows up on the screen it means I have about ten seconds before getting caught. Unless . . . I put the phone back next to the computer and swivel to the bookcase. There has to be a way to open it. But I’ve tried everything. I turn back to the desk, and grope underneath.

  “It’s too late,” I hear Bug Eye say. I grab the phone back with one hand and keep searching with the other. “The cameras are show—coming inside. Greyhill—be there any second. Get out, Tina.”

  Boyboy must still be working. The computer screen continues to flash through files.

  “Did he get it all?”

  “You can come back later!” Bug Eye says.

  I don’t answer, my fingers sliding down the desk’s wood paneling. There has to be a lever or a button or—“Got it!” I jab the tiny switch and turn to see the bookshelf gliding noiselessly open. A cool breath of air rushes in. “I got the secret door open!”

  “Oh Lord, good thing,” I hear Boyboy say in the background.

  I look back at the screen.

  Mr. Greyhill is coming down the hallway.

  “Are you done?” I ask.

  “It’s almost—mavi.”

  “What?”

  The computer screen flickers and then goes black.

  Boyboy’s curse comes through loud and clear. Suddenly a cartoon rabbit pops up on the screen and wags his finger at us. “No, no, no!” the bunny says.

  “What the—?” I hear Boyboy’s fingers pause, then start to tap again. More rabbits appear.

  “I’m leaving,” I say, and reach for the USB.

  “Wait!” Boyboy shouts. “It’s a fork bomb! He’ll know someone’s been here!”

  Bunnies jump all over the screen, and choruses of “No, no, no!” grow more dense.

  “We don’t have time!” I look up, listening for the sound of a key scraping in the lock.

  “Aaaaand, okay, now! Go!” Boyboy says.

  I yank the USB out. The screen goes black, and I slap down the lid. I throw the computer and hard drive in the desk drawer, then shove myself into the space behind the bookshelf. I pull it shut just as the door to the office opens. Bracing myself on the cold damp wall, I listen, my heart hammering. I lift the phone back to my ear with a shaking hand. Through static I hear Boyboy sucking in deep asthmatic breaths, even though he’s not actually in physical danger.

  “Oh my God—Tina?” Boyboy gasps. “Are you okay?”

  “I made it. I’m in the tunnel,” I whisper.

  Boyboy’s breath whooshes in relief. “Now I rem—why you’re the thief and I—nerd. I think I’m having—panic attack.”

  “Shh. Did you get it all?”

  “I think—need to check.”

  I use my phone to find the screen next to the door and press its buttons until it comes on, bathing the tunnel in a soft gray glow.
/>
  “What are—doing in there?” I hear Bug Eye say. “Can—get out—is there—back door?”

  “One second,” I say. “I can see him on the camera.”

  I go quiet as Mr. Greyhill walks into the frame and sits down at his desk. He pulls his laptop out of the drawer and then the hard drive. I hold my breath, waiting to see if he notices anything amiss, but his tired posture doesn’t change. He’s poured himself a drink, which he sets beside the computer. I can only see the back of his head. He rubs his eyes, then loosens his tie and undoes his cuff links. I see him pull his phone from his pocket and put it to his ear.

  Boyboy has stopped hyperventilating. “Is there—plug—adapter to the screen—” he whispers.

  I hesitate.

  “Do it,” I hear Bug Eye say.

  I find a place on the side of screen to insert the USB. “Did that work? Can you see?”

  “Yeah,” Boyboy breathes. “Turn—audio.”

  I press the volume button and hear Mr. G saying, “Yes, of course,” into his phone. He’s tapping at the computer, but his back is blocking the screen.

  “Think he noticed the bunnies?” I whisper.

  “No, I cleared that business up,” Boyboy says. “Smart piece of screwage, that.”

  “Shh.” I lean in closer.

  “Same as before,” I hear Mr. G saying in his cold, Big Man voice. “Don’t let Huan-Xi give you any trouble about tariffs. He knows better than to try and pull that . . . Right. No, I’ll be at the mine, so you’ll have to handle it. The one in Walikale Territory, near Kasisi. No, that’s the closest town, and then the mine’s still ten kilometers farther into the mountains. Satellite phones only up there.”

  My skin prickles. Kasisi, my home village.

  “. . . It is the tin mine. That’s where they bring it. I want to pick up the samples myself . . . I don’t trust anyone else to do it. And I have other business there too . . . Looking into that new comptoir trying to get in on the action. No, I’m not worried about him. He’s just proving to be harder to get rid of than the others . . . No, the rebels know better. They’ll stick with us. We’re reliable. No one else is going to get them the things they want at the prices we offer . . . Yeah, I tried, but this new fellow’s got himself a little posse, apparently. And something about his operations just make me think he’s . . . Never mind. No, it’s nothing . . . Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

  The way he says take care of it sends a chill through me. It’s the same voice Bug Eye uses when he’s talking about what to do about someone who’s become a problem.

  Mr. G goes on, “. . . Chicago certainly does not need to know . . . No, better you don’t know either. It’s just how things work out there. You’d think the militias would all be tired of fighting but . . . Sure, the offer stands, but no one seems interested in doing business that way . . . I keep telling them it would be more profitable, but . . . not in this lifetime.”

  I strain to hear, trying to piece together everything Mr. G is saying.

  “Yeah, we work with what we’ve got. If I need to I’ll meet with the general in Kigali before I come back to Sangui. No, that’s the part you don’t need to know about . . . No, the Rwandan general. I’m not dealing with those Congolese bastards. Army, militia, they can’t figure out which team they’re on half the time, why should I bother?”

  A Rwandan general. I wonder if that’s Gicanda, the guy whose name came up in Mama’s police file.

  “. . . You just keep on greasing all the proper palms. Throw in some Johnnie Walker . . . bring a case. I should take out stock options.” He makes a funny noise that it takes me a second to realize is a laugh. “Right . . . I’ll let you know soon as I’m back. Mm-hm, same to you. Good night.”

  He hangs up and sets the phone down. Then he takes a drink, rattling the ice cubes in his glass. For a few seconds he doesn’t move. Then he opens his desk drawer and I see a flash of silver.

  It’s the gun.

  I stare, transfixed as he picks it up and turns it over in his hands.

  “What’s he doing?” I hear Boyboy whisper.

  “I don’t know.”

  Greyhill holds the gun almost tenderly for a few more seconds, then replaces it in the drawer. His chair has been covering the computer screen, but then he leans back and it suddenly comes into view. When I see what he’s looking at, I suck in my breath.

  It’s the photo of Mama and her friend.

  My fist clenches, like I want to punch through the screen and snatch her away. I feel something like a growl inch up my throat.

  Just then there’s a knock on the office door, startling both Greyhill and me. Mr. G hits a button on the computer and Mama vanishes. “Yes?”

  The office door opens a crack. “Coming to bed soon, dear?” Mrs. Greyhill asks.

  “Two minutes.”

  She leaves and Mr. G closes the computer. He starts to follow her, but a step from the door he pauses and turns to look back in my direction. I shrink from the light of the screen, even though I know he can’t see me. His deep-set eyes gleam like ice.

  I hold my breath.

  He looks toward my hiding spot for a moment longer, then turns and walks out of the room.

  I let my breath out in a low hiss.

  On the other end of the line, Boyboy and Bug Eye are quiet.

  “How do I erase?” I finally ask Boyboy through a clenched jaw. He walks me through buttons on the screen until I find what I’m looking for: traces of my presence in the room. In a little while I’ll creep back out in the dark. The camera won’t pick me up if I don’t turn on the light. There will be no sign of me left.

  ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DELETE? the screen asks. It is frozen on the last image of Mr. G’s face.

  I touch the word YES.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I wake at dawn to dead quiet.

  It’s disturbing.

  Normally, mornings on my roof are full of the sound of traffic screaming through the city or the nasal chorus of ibises. But I forgot to open the window before falling into bed last night, so the air is both stale and silent. Even when I pull the curtains back and open the window I hear only the polite chirping of birds in the garden. They leave a lot of room for all the thoughts crowding my head.

  I check, but there’s no message from Boyboy on my phone about the files I transmitted last night, so I just send him a text that says, ? It’s probably too early to hope he’s even awake, especially if he stayed up to decrypt files last night. I just hope Bug Eye let him go home.

  I dress and poke my head out to see if Michael is up, but his door is still shut. I go downstairs, and hearing Mrs. G in the kitchen giving marching orders to the servants, I head in the opposite direction, out onto the patio. The sun hasn’t yet cut through the haze, and the garden has milky edges. Iridescent sunbirds shoot through the mist, flinging themselves from flower to flower. I lean against the balcony railing for a minute, looking out, feeling the damp and chill of the night rising from the ground.

  Snippets of Mr. Greyhill’s phone conversation float through my head. He’s going to a tin mine near Kasisi and getting samples of something. Probably gold, right? And he’s going to check out a comptoir. Donatien’s used that word before. Comptoirs are the middlemen who buy gold from militias and smuggle it into other countries. But they’re mostly small-time. Maybe this one is from a different mining company that’s trying to butt in on Greyhill’s deals with the militia? Greyhill is going to take him out, from the sound of it. Or maybe get a Rwandan general to do it . . . ? It sounds bad. It also sounds totally murky and confusing.

  Will the files off his hard drive make things any clearer? The files. My shoulders tighten. What if there’s nothing else on them? What if Boyboy can’t decrypt them? What if there’s not enough there to give Donatien? What do I do then? Move on to step two, or—

  “Good
morning, Christina.”

  I jump. Mr. Greyhill’s voice sounds close in the thick air. I turn to see him walking toward me with two cups of tea in his hands. He looks ready for the office in a silk tie, his ash-colored hair combed flat to his head. He comes to stand beside me at the railing, so near that I could reach out and touch the crisp pleat on his sleeve.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  He hands me a teacup.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?” He looks out over the yard. “I like to come here in the morning before work. Clears my head.”

  I follow his gaze: the roofline of my old cottage is just visible behind the trees. “Yes, sir.”

  He sips his tea, and I sip mine. Steam swirls around our faces. It and the birds the only things moving. I try to think of things to say, but all that goes through my mind is, Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. Does he know it was me who interrupted him the night before Mama died, when he had his hands around her throat? It was right down there, under that tree. Maybe I should just ask him what he was chatting about on the phone last night. What sort of things or people are you “taking care of” today, sir?

  Finally, Mr. G says, “You know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

  I dart a glance at his smoothly shaven face, surprised at the kindness in his tone. “Thank you, sir. But I’ll have to get back to school in a few days.”

  “Yes, of course. Where did you say you were in school again?”

  “I didn’t,” I say carefully. “The Alexander Academy, in Paris.”

  “I see. Do you like Paris?”

  I try to remember what Michael said. “The people are rude.”

  His mouth lifts into a small smile. “Do you make it back here often? To Sangui, I mean?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m sure it’s quite strange being back.”

  You have no idea. “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. G keeps his eyes on the garden. “For the first few years I lived in Africa I couldn’t wait to get back to the US. Every vacation, every work trip to our headquarters in Chicago, was a relief. In America, there are good roads and traffic lights, and in most places you can walk around at night without any worry.”