by Layton Green
3
Harris and Grey exchanged a glance. Cults conjured for Grey the worst religion has to offer: manipulation, gullibility, charlatanism.
“Isn’t this a bit premature?” Harris asked. “We haven’t interviewed any witnesses, and his girlfriend could be lying. It sounds like she’s lying. Disappeared from a circle of people? Either she’s hiding something, or Addison slipped off with someone younger and firmer.”
Professor Radek didn’t answer, initiating an awkward silence. When Nya spoke again Grey thought he detected a hint of reluctance. “There is precedent.”
Harris started. “This has happened before? A disappearance at one of these…”
“Yes.”
Harris sighed and showcased the palms of his hands. Nya gave a long pause before she resumed speaking, as if considering what to reveal or how to reveal it. “Zimbabwe is comprised of two main ethnic groups—the Shona and the Ndebele. Zimbabwe is predominantly Christian, but like any African country, we have our own native traditions. About three years ago, a traditional religious movement took hold in some of our villages. Not a religion indigenous to Zimbabwe, but to Nigeria. From the people of Yorubaland.” She turned to Viktor. “Professor?”
Viktor said, “The Yoruba are a sizeable West African ethno-linguistic group. There are large diasporas in Sierra Leone, Brazil, Mexico, and across the Caribbean. While many Yoruba have converted to Christianity and to a lesser extent Islam, the religious practices indigenous to the Yoruba have survived surprisingly well, despite attempts to stamp them out. The ancient Yoruba religion is known by many names: Ifa, Orisa, Juju, Sango, or simply Yoruba. Are you familiar with any of these?”
Neither were, and Viktor said, “Due to the slave trade, West African religions were mixed and infused with Catholicism, and evolved into an intriguing syncretism of beliefs and practices. Perhaps you recognize the terms Lucuma, Oyotunji, Candomble-”
Grey leaned forward. “You’re talking about Santeria. Voodoo.”
“The Vodou religion of Haiti, more commonly known as Voodoo, derives from the Fon-Ewe of present day Benin, and from the Congo-Angolan region. However, Vodou does incorporate many Yoruba deities, ideologies and practices and can be considered a cousin religion.”
“Fascinating,” Harris said. “Tell me again how a history of barbaric religions helps us find Addison?”
“It was at a Yoruba ceremony that William Addison disappeared,” Nya said. “And it was at Yoruba ceremonies that at least ten other people disappeared as well; the first has been missing for months. Your personal opinion of the Yoruba religion is irrelevant to this investigation. What is relevant is understanding what sort of practice, and what sort of man, we’re dealing with.”
Nya’s reproach was lost on Harris. ‘”What do you mean what sort of man? Is there a suspect?”
“Yes. Although perhaps you consider our police procedures archaic, and our primitive conjectures not worth your time. Perhaps you wish to wait until the next disappearance to begin piecing together the clues.”
Grey fought back a grin. Harris muttered to Grey under his breath, “Have fun with her,” and then aloud, “Ms. Mashumba, I meant no disrespect. I have no use for religion unless it’s essential to an investigation. It appears that might be the case here.”
She inclined her head. “As I began earlier, a movement deriving from the Yoruba religion began to surface among the villagers.”
“Why?” Grey asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Why did this new religion spring up all of a sudden in a different part of Africa?”
Viktor stepped in again. “For the same reasons any cult or religious movement develops and spreads. To provide hope in a threatening world, to return chaos to order. A place like present-day Zimbabwe is a breeding ground for cults.”
“A few years ago,” Nya said, “we heard reports of villagers engaging in the practice of—Professor, what would you term the movement?”
“Let’s refer to it as “Juju” for clarity.”
“This practice of Juju,” she said, “was confined to the most rural areas and to Harare’s Nigerian immigrants. We’ve kept an eye on it, and seen no cause for concern. Until eight months ago.”
“I’ll bite,” Harris said. “What happened eight months ago?”
Nya gave a quick glance around the room. “A babalawo arrived. A Juju priest.”
In spite of Nya’s cross, Grey thought her nervous glance curious. She didn’t seem the superstitious type.
“A Juju priest,” Harris repeated.
“We don’t know his name, or even his nationality, though we assume he’s Nigerian. Think what you will, but we believe this man is responsible for these disappearances. Perhaps including Mr. Addison.”
“Why not just arrest him at one of the ceremonies?” Grey asked.
“We don’t know when or where they’re held. Nor do we possess any evidence.”
“That’s never stopped this government before,” Grey said, low enough for Harris alone.
Harris said, “How do you know it’s a man?”
“The rumors agree on that much. We assume he arrived eight months ago because,” she hesitated, “this is when the nature of the Juju ceremonies began to change. Reports circulated that a real babalawo had come to Zimbabwe, and the villagers are either in awe or complete terror of this man. And the ceremonies—Professor, this is your territory again.”
Viktor stood and began to pace, filling the room with his presence. “As we discussed, Santeria, Candomble, and other syncretic religions are offshoots of Juju in the Americas. You’re probably aware of some of their alleged practices: animal sacrifices, necromancy, curses, spirit possession—I assume these sound familiar?”
Grey shrugged. “Sure.”
“Practitioners of these sects are deeply religious. They believe our world is populated by spiritual forces, both good and evil, and they seek to petition, placate, and even interact with them through spells, ritual acts and sacrifice. I see your expressions, but the Judeo-Christian tradition is rife with similar beliefs. You’ve simply been conditioned to Christian doctrine. Concepts such as resurrection, prophecy, the Virgin Birth, turning water into wine—these don’t sound fanciful or outlandish to you, even if you’re not a believer. They’re part of your milieu.”
Viktor waited as his statement sunk in. Grey didn’t like it, but he had to admit Viktor had a point.
“The Yoruba religious system includes a pantheon of lesser gods, goddesses, and spirits that the Yoruba believe take a direct hand in this world. The Juju practitioner believes these lesser gods, called “Orisas”—you might liken them to the Christian concept of angels and their demonic counterparts—can and must be dealt with.”
He stopped pacing and leaned on the table. “Enough rhetoric. Understand that the practices of the derivatives of Juju in the Americas—understand that these are adulterated, watered down, Westernized versions of Juju. In Nigeria, the practice of traditional Juju is alive and well. And this Juju has a dark side, filled with black magic, ritual sacrifice, and worse.”
If it wasn’t for Professor Radek’s sober air of professional authority, Grey would have chalked his speech up to melodrama.
Viktor sat back and averted his eyes. “I assisted on a case involving Juju once before. The mutilated body of a young boy was found floating in the Thames, and a forensic examination identified the boy as Yoruba. After a lengthy investigation twenty-two men were arrested. The men were part of a Juju cult based in London, and they’d tortured and killed the boy during a religious ceremony.”
Grey saw Nya pale.
“Occurrences of this sort outside of Yorubaland are rare, but it’s estimated that hundreds of Nigerians are victims of ritual murder every year.” Professor Radek looked at Grey, and then Harris. “Before you judge, remember that the vast majority of babalawos are not evil—no more so than any other priest who adheres to religious tradition.”
“That’s comforting,” Ha
rris said.
Viktor smiled as though Harris were a clever, but misguided, student. “There are exceptions. The mixture of traditional Juju with greed and capitalism has led to the existence, especially in the urban centers of Nigeria, of rogue babalawos who corrupt their religion for their own gain. These Jujumen employ men called headhunters to gather human body parts for use in various rituals believed to enhance wealth, power, or even sexual prowess. Last year a taxi driver was arrested in Lagos for plucking out the eyes and tongue of his wife and decapitating his fourteen month old son. He sold the parts to the headhunter of a prominent Jujuman.”
“Good God,” Nya whispered, and Grey sank into his chair. He’d seen and heard a lot of terrible things in his life, but that was pretty near the top.
“Do you see now,” Viktor said, casting his eyes on each of his listeners, “why this man should be taken seriously?”
“I find it hard to believe human sacrifices are happening in the twenty-first century,” Grey said. “I thought we’d at least put that behind us.”
“Sacrifice is at the core of most religions. Biblical Judaism was rife with animal sacrifices, Abraham was ready to sacrifice his own son, and the very concept of Christian salvation centers on sacrifice. African and Far Eastern religions, Pre-Columbian Mesoamericans, Celts, Scandinavians, Minoans, sects of Hinduism—I dare say cultures from every corner of the globe have practiced human sacrifice at one time or another.”
“”At one time or another” being the key phrase,” Harris said. “I’m sure the cavemen did lots of nasty things.”
“Today you won’t hear of a government or religious group admitting to the existence of human sacrifice,” Viktor said. “But ritual murders are a reality, and not just in Yorubaland.”
Harris scoffed. “How do you know? That sounds like urban legend.”
“Because I’ve investigated them.”
Viktor uttered that statement with the soft emphasis of someone who doesn’t need to boast. Maybe, Grey thought, he isn’t a stodgy professor after all.
“You’ve convinced me Juju has some thoroughly horrifying practices,” Harris said. “Professor, you seem like an intelligent man—but be honest. Are you asking us to consider that Addison was sacrificed at this ceremony? I think his girlfriend might’ve noticed if that had happened.”
Grey again found himself in rare accord with Harris.
“You’re correct. A sacrifice should have been readily apparent to all in attendance. I find the lack of a body a troubling element of this case.”
Harris threw his hands up. “Human sacrifice? Disappearing bodies? The only thing I’ve gotten from this discussion is that we have no clue what happened.”
“Then we’re finally on the same page, Mr. Powell. I find it safe to conclude no one here has any idea what happened inside that circle.”
Harris turned to Nya. “Is there anything else you know that’s pertinent to this investigation?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Then I’m sure we all agree the next step is to speak to a flesh and blood witness. Addison’s girlfriend, and anyone else we can find from the ceremony.”
“It will be difficult to locate other worshippers,” Nya said. “Juju is frowned upon in Zimbabwe.”
“Excellent,” Harris said. “Duly noted. Thank you both for coming. And thank you again for your government’s support in this matter. The Ambassador is very grateful.” He motioned to Grey, and they stood.
Nya rose and handed them each a card. “Let me remind you no one from your office is to investigate this matter without my presence.”
“Of course,” Harris murmured, already opening the door.
Grey glanced back before he followed Harris out. Nya watched them both leave, her face unreadable. Viktor’s arms were folded, and he was staring into space.
4
A soft breeze lent the night a temperate feel as they returned through downtown. Harris waved off a mosquito. “What the hell was Addison doing at that ceremony, anyway? This is the kind of thing that happens when you go off into the bush with a bunch of fanatics. I suppose we’ll need to get on this in the morning. That is, you need to. I have a couple of important briefings to prep for this week, so I’m putting you in charge of the day-to-day. Keep me updated, though. The Ambassador wants progress reports.”
Grey had expected as much. He knew Harris had no intention of being shadowed by the Ministry, but given the Ambassador’s involvement, he had to hold himself out as the point man.
“I’m not sure if I’m the best man for this,” Grey said. “Religion isn’t my cup of tea.”
“You’re perfect. I don’t want some Georgetown twit working on it. I need someone who thinks outside the box and hell, you never were in the box.”
After the carjacker debacle in Colombia, Grey had no room to argue. Besides, he’d wanted something different, and this was definitely different. “How close is the Ambassador to Addison? How’s he taking this?”
“They went to Dartmouth together, golf three times a week, and share a vacation home.”
“Lovely.”
“I wouldn’t worry. He’s probably shacking up with some wide-eyed peasant, or holed up at a bordello in Jo’burg. There’s no ransom note, no evidence of foul play—and can you believe the crap that nutjob professor was spouting? Look. Just try and find something to placate the Ambassador with before Addison turns up in an opium den.”
“In that case you’ll probably find him before I will.”
Harris gave a short, agreeing laugh.
“Nya seems a bit young to be in charge,” Grey said. “Competent, though.”
“You think anyone really in charge around here gives a damn about a bunch of missing villagers, a witch doctor, or a retired civil servant? Someone probably wanted her out of their hair.”
“I suppose.”
“She’s a hot little number. I might handle this myself if I thought she wouldn’t be tougher to crack than a steel coconut.” Harris stopped on Union Avenue, in front of the declining façade of the Victorian: a hotel cum brothel frequented by the diplomatic set. “I prefer my women a bit more cooperative. In fact, I think I’ll stop in for a Castle. I just realized how thirsty I was. Care to join?”
When Grey was fifteen, his father dragged him to a whorehouse in Tokyo. The girl was even younger than Grey, and he saw the gratefulness in her eyes when a nervous Grey suggested they just talk. Grey was no saint, but since that day he stuck to the vices that only affected himself. “You know my answer to that question.”
“All too well, Grey, all too well. You’ll be singing a different tune when you’re my age, I guarantee it. What are you, thirty? Wait until you have to work for it a bit. Good looks, hairlines, and prudish morality have a funny way of receding at the same rate.”
Harris vanished into a smoke-filled lounge. Grey stood at the intersection, watching as a few furtive, solitary figures scurried around Harare’s underbelly. Finally he turned, and began walking back to the Embassy.
• • •
Grey closed up his cubicle and called a taxi. The fuel crisis in Zimbabwe made keeping gasoline in his government car not worth the trouble. The last time Grey heard fuel was available and he’d gone to a gas station, the queue was five hours long. Gas could be found on the black market, but civil penalties were harsh, not to mention the embarrassment to the Embassy.
Grey stepped outside to wait, and reflected on the meeting. The reflection didn’t last long. The possibility that ten other people had disappeared gave him pause, but high-ranking United States diplomats did not disappear into the African bush. At this point, Harris’s theory about a domestic squabble made more sense than Professor Radek’s insinuations. Grey had never investigated a kidnapping, but it was his experience that human beings, for the most part, acted according to a few time-worn motivations. Tomorrow he’d talk to the girlfriend.
He heard a rough shout from behind. When he turned he saw a man down the street yelling
at a woman next to him. They had two young children with them. The man rose and pointed a finger at the woman’s face. She tried to look away, and he screamed louder.
Grey’s stomach clenched, and he wanted to walk back and shove the man’s finger down his throat. He knew, with intimate certainty, that the discipline in that family went far beyond the public display. He saw his own father, fist raised, face mottled, eyes alight. He saw that uniformed fist come down again and again.
Grey’s father had been a champion boxer and a trained soldier. As he taught Grey to fight, he demanded Grey hit him back, and when Grey complied, his father hit harder. Grey’s mother tried to intervene, and his father hit her as well.
When Grey was ten, after years of hopping from base to base in various countries, his father was assigned to Japan. Traditional Japanese karate would not be good enough for his underweight and introspective son. His father sought out the most vicious and effective martial art in Japan: Jujitsu.
Jujitsu developed as a form of self-defense for unarmed samurai forced to face a heavily armored warrior. The theory behind Jujitsu was to use an attacker’s energy against him, rather than oppose it, and the art was designed to attack the weakest parts of the human body: joints, pressure points, organs, digits, soft tissue. The particular style Grey’s father stumbled upon, Zen-Zekai, happened to be one of the most violent, even among Jujitsu schools. Brutal fighting took place in class on a daily basis.
Grey’s coordination, quick hands and sharp mind lent themselves well to the art. Shihan, the principal instructor, noticed his potential. Shihan knew more about pain and suffering than most knew about breathing. And Grey became his star pupil.
Grey swore he’d never become his father, and knew he was lucky he hadn’t. But his father left him with a legacy of violence, which was Grey’s cross to bear, and he shuddered every time he experienced the sweet thrill of physical superiority.
At fifteen, when Grey’s mother died of cancer, home became unbearable. A year later, Grey left.
