by Layton Green
Nya drove Grey to his apartment in silence, and muttered a formulaic goodbye as Grey stepped onto the curb. She’d been even quieter than normal since their meeting with Dr. Fangwa. Grey had to admit the man unnerved him as well, and he wasn’t easily rattled. Something about him was just wrong. It seemed unlikely a cultural attaché could lead a double life as a renegade Juju priest, but again, Doctor Fangwa was about as representative of the typical cultural attaché as Nya was of the traditional Shona housewife.
Something also wasn’t right about Nya’s involvement in the case. She was far too concerned about the workings of a fringe religious group and a retired American diplomat. She had an interest in the outcome, Grey sensed, unrelated to her position in the government.
• • •
Grey noticed the smell as soon as he stepped inside. He couldn’t quite place it—wet dog, maybe, although tinged with something else. Something putrid.
The kitchen light was on. He never left the lights on.
The apartment was silent, but someone had been here, or was here right now. He tensed and padded into the kitchen. He eased a butcher knife out of the cupboard and gripped it in his left hand, thumb bracing the hilt, blade pointing to the left and hidden behind his forearm. He moved cat-like to the empty living room, then towards the bedroom. The bedroom door was closed, and the smell was growing stronger.
He crouched and prepared to open the door, ready to spring inside or step back as the situation dictated. It took three seconds for the average man to draw, enable, and point a gun. Three seconds was an eternity in close quarters. Even if the man was on his guard, Grey doubted the intruder could get an accurate shot off before he reached him. If there were two or more, then he could still get out of the apartment if needed.
Or he could get behind the first one and go to work.
He maintained his crouch as he entered. His eyes went high and then low, then whipped about the room before he straightened. He didn’t see anyone.
But he gagged at what he did see.
The nauseous stench of dead flesh bored into him, flooded his other senses into submission. He covered his mouth and nose with one arm, and his eyes fixed on the scene before him. His bed lay where it always did, headboard against the wall opposite the door. Normality, rationality, ended there.
At each corner of the bed a black candle rested on a thin piece of wood, guttural sputters revealing a grotesque sight. Fresh dirt covered the surface of the bed. A vervet monkey lay on its back, the mound of earth around it stained dull with blood.
The monkey had been positioned to look serene: arms folded across its chest, legs together and straight, arranged as a corpse inside a coffin. Grey moved closer, and the illusion of serenity shattered.
Empty sockets stared back at Grey. The eyes had been plucked, leaving a blood-encrusted hole where each orb should have been. The ears and nose had been sliced off, the throat slit. Rigor mortis in the jaw had locked the tiny mouth in a silent scream.
Something protruded from its mouth, and Grey bent to look. He stumbled backwards, stomach turning.
The monkey’s mouth had been stuffed with its own genitalia.
The inspection was over; he didn’t know or care what other tortures the poor animal had suffered. He went to the balcony and gulped in the night air. He clenched the railing until his knuckles turned white.
A cold rage coursed through him. Someone had tortured and slaughtered an innocent animal, and they’d done it in his apartment. On his bed.
The gauntlet had been thrown.
He just didn’t know who had thrown it.
12
The sharpness of the cerulean sky pierced Grey’s soul, the promises offered by the pale dawn light almost veiling the memory of the night before.
Almost.
Grey had scoured his apartment and found no sign of anything else amiss. He’d taken his bedding and its gruesome contents to the dumpster, scrubbed his bedroom, and then stood on the balcony as the smell drifted away in the cool night breeze.
Calling the local police would be pointless; it could be weeks before they responded to the complaint. The questions at hand were who was to blame, and what Grey was going to do about it.
Who knew about the investigation, outside of the Embassy? Nya, Professor Radek, Ms. Chakawa, and Doctor Fangwa. The suspect among those four was obvious. He supposed the local police knew as well, and someone else might have found out about it, but until more information came to light, speculation was useless. Fangwa would be hearing from Grey very soon. Very soon indeed.
There was also Lucky. He struck Grey as a self-serving businessman rather than a diabolical priest, but judging from the reaction of the people at his club at the mention of the word N’anga, Lucky and his crew were at the very least aware of the cult.
The gruesome message in his bedroom convinced him something sinister had befallen William Addison, and he paced the balcony. He’d already called Nya and gotten her voicemail. He needed to walk off his anger. After a quick breakfast he headed into the city, taking the long way to work.
Her call came just before noon, and he told her what had happened. Her decision was swift. He was to meet her at the Meikles in an hour.
• • •
Nya was waiting for Grey as he approached the entrance to the hotel. “That was a despicable act.”
“I’d have to agree. Nothing happened to you last night?”
She shook her head.
“Then I guess we know who the message was meant for.”
“Yes,” she said, with a set mouth and folded arms. She put up a good front, but Grey could see tendrils of fear snaking through the creases of her armor.
She seethed. “These things are not done in Zimbabwe.”
“Tell that to the monkey.”
She turned towards the door. “Come. We’ll see what the Professor has to say.”
They went to the front desk and asked the concierge to ring Viktor. His face twisted quizzically. “Are you by chance Ms. Nya Mashumba and Mr. Dominic Grey?”
Nya gave a curt nod. “Is there a problem?”
“Not at all, madam. But the Professor left early this morning on urgent business.” The concierge produced an envelope, which he handed to Nya. “He told me to give this to you if you called.”
She took the envelope and stepped outside. Grey waited while she opened the envelope and read from a single sheet of stationery, then handed it to Grey.
On the piece of paper was a name and an address, and below that a single handwritten line.
‘This man can help with information. Will return soon. Viktor.’
• • •
“Nigel Drake,” Grey said. “Any idea who this is?”
“No. But I know the street.”
Nya drove deep into the low-density northern suburbs. As they went through Alexandra Park, Mount Pleasant, and then Borrowdale, they passed an unending number of beautiful homes, each with sizeable plots of land covered with tropical foliage.
The northern suburbs of Harare were as attractive a collection of neighborhoods as Grey had ever seen. The only flaws were the unfortunate security measures: high hedges and walls, most topped with cemented-in broken glass, surrounded virtually every property.
Still, the beauty of the landscape and the homes outshone the safety precautions. Towering forests of bamboo and jacaranda and banana trees shaded the streets, curtains of hibiscus and purple bougainvillea turned the contiguous walls into block-sized Impressionist paintings. Dazzling flame trees dotted the neighborhoods like living infernos stilled and trapped in time by nature’s Medusa. Cacti and palms of all shapes and sizes, paw-paw and msasa and granadilla and ladyslipper—Grey could only gawk.
Yet an aura of gradual decomposition pervaded even this portion of the city. Upon closer inspection, many of the houses were softly crumbling, the grass a bit too high. The pallor of colonial decay waited just behind the gates, in a proud umbra of graceful decline. Zimbabwe’s woes had taken their toll even on th
e privileged.
Or, he thought with a frown as they drove further north, at least most of them. Some family fortunes eclipsed even the direst of political circumstance, their vast holdings secreted away in London or some offshore banking stronghold. And then there were those who thrive in the sort of chaotic environment offered by Zimbabwe. The oversized swimming pools of these gladiators sparkled, their lawns lay perfectly shorn, their brand-new imported vehicles, unattainable in Zimbabwe to all but the most privileged, preened in circular driveways.
Grey soon realized that Nigel Drake fell into one of these two categories. As they reached the end of the Northern suburbs, where the walls of the enclosed estates brushed against the looming bushveld, they entered a neighborhood called Greystone Park, and found the address Viktor had given them.
A winding driveway led to an iron gate set into a wall too high to see over. Nya leaned out and pressed a button beneath an intercom. The gate slid sideways and Nya flashed her identification. The guards grinned at each other and waved them through.
They cruised down a long driveway fringed with Shona stonework. They passed two in-ground pools, a Jacuzzi, tennis courts, domestic quarters larger than most houses, and a spacious lawn swaying with elephant ear palms and pampas grass. At the end of the lawn sprawled a gigantic Dutch Cape Colonial.
Grey whistled. “This guy could feed half of Zimbabwe by himself.”
Nya led the way to the door and pushed the brass doorbell. Moments later a black-suited white man opened the door, unremarkable except for his stony gaze and the handgun holstered in plain view by his side. The man led them, expressionless, into the house.
Grey caught a glimpse of the three-speared end of a tattoo snaking out of the man’s right sleeve, recognizing it from one of the briefings on paramilitary groups in the region. He touched Nya’s arm and slowed just enough to whisper out of earshot.
“He’s a mercenary,” Grey said. “Ex-military.”
“Chopper,” she whispered back, with a scowl.
Grey recalled the briefing. After Ian Smith and the Rhodesian army were defeated in the Zimbabwean War of Independence, the new government enacted a surprising policy of tolerance. A fair number of whites occupied government positions, and even the infamous land redistribution of white-owned farms was not truly racially motivated. The President had failed in his promises to compensate the politically powerful and volatile veterans of the War of Independence, and used the convenient pretext of patriotic land redistribution to appease them.
But one group of whites was still persona non grata in Zimbabwe. During the war, select regiments of Ian Smith’s Rhodesian army traveled around the country as scouts, using increasingly cruel and inventive methods to inspire such fear in the native population that they would lose all interest in rebellion. The revolutionaries called them Choppers, for literal reasons.
The man led them through a series of spacious rooms and brick archways to a set of double doors. He pressed an intercom button, a buzzer sounded, and the man pushed the doors open.
He ushered Grey and Nya into an oak-paneled lounge filled with leather couches and the gaping mouths and eternally defiant horns of preserved game. The room smelled of Scotch and cracked leather. An assortment of hunting rifles hung above a teak bar slung along the wall to Grey’s left. Amidst the animal heads he spotted a map of Rhodesia and a portrait of Stanley. A large bay window on the far wall showcased a garden fading into undulating hills.
A roguishly handsome white man, middle-aged and spry, rose behind a desk to Grey’s right. He offered a wide smile, ran one hand through curls of brown hair that brushed the open collar of a dress shirt, and set down a half-empty cocktail glass with the other. He remained behind the desk.
“Bloody nice view, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage. I assume you know who I am, or you wouldn’t be here, but I confess I can’t recall ever having met either of you.”
His voice possessed a touch of arrogance and a Boer clip, mellowed by the buttering of luxury. Grey thought him the sort of man who wouldn’t hesitate to step on the backs of others to fund his lifestyle. He disliked him immediately.
The man motioned to two chairs in front of the desk, and they all sat. Nya said, “I’m Nya Mashumba, and this is Dominic Grey. We were told you can help with information.”
Nigel put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “I’m a purveyor of goods and services, including information. You’re both aware, I’m sure, of the thriving black market that exists in Zimbabwe, cultivated in large part by the colossally stupid decisions made by our esteemed leader, and nurtured by the resultant vacuum in obtainable commodities. I obtain things for people. All things.”
“I see,” Nya said. “Are you also aware that I work for the Foreign Ministry?”
His mouth curled outward. “Why do you think my men let you in? Government officials are my best customers. Come now. You know as well as I that Zimbabwe would crumble without a black market. The common Zimbabwean can no longer afford bread and milk at the shop—these families must look elsewhere. I’m a businessman, making the best I can of an unfortunate economic situation. Many of the services I provide are of grave importance, even essential to survival, and otherwise unavailable.”
“And of course you hand them out to the poor as judiciously as to the rich.”
He spread his hands. “A bloke’s got to make a living.”
There was a prolonged silence. Grey wondered whether or not Nya was feigning her ignorance. If she was, she was a good actress.
“I find your existence despicable,” she said finally. “But we’re in need of a service. One which I have my doubts you’ll be able to provide.”
“You’d be amazed at what I have to offer. Everything, Ms. Mashumba, is for sale in this world. Everything. And in Zimbabwe, I know how to find it. So what will it be? Forex? Slim drugs? Weapons? Passports? Fuel? And I’ll have to ask how you found me.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“I disagree.”
“As you said, everything’s for sale. And the definition of everything includes the discrete conduct of our transaction.”
Nigel looked her over, as if waiting for her expression to change. “Clever as well as beautiful,” he said to Grey. “I commend your choice of companion.”
“She makes her own choices.”
“Right. Ya, of course.” He looked down at an expensive looking smartphone. “Just as you chose a career in diplomatic security, and were assigned to a superior officer with, shall we say, questionable ethics.”
Grey smiled. “Congratulations on learning how to use the Internet.”
“Just a demonstration of my ability to provide what you seek.”
Grey faked a cough to get a better glimpse of the room. The bodyguard still stood by the door, and Grey had no doubt Nigel had easy access to a weapon behind his desk. Nigel’s shirt covered his arms, but Grey was sure that even if Nigel wasn’t an ex-Chopper, he knew how to take care of himself.
“We’re looking,” Nya said, “for a man known as N’anga. Do you know him?”
Nigel was quiet for a long moment. “Ya, I know this one.”
“Well? Can you find him?”
He stroked his chin. “This is a dangerous man. A man not to be trifled with. Were I to procure information concerning his whereabouts, it would be costly. And I hope I need not mention that the source of your information can never be revealed.”
“How costly?” Nya asked.
He contemplated the question, then rose. “I’ll need a moment.”
Nigel left the room, and the bodyguard stood by the door. Nya and Grey waited with the steady tick of a clock behind the desk. Grey didn’t think they were in immediate danger, but he didn’t like the cruel light in the bodyguard’s eyes as he watched them.
Fifteen minutes later Nigel returned. “I’m afraid the residence of this man is beyond even my considerable resources. Perhaps, given time, circumstances will cha
nge.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Nya said, disappointment creeping into her voice. “Is there anyone else who might be able to help us?”
“If I can’t help you, my dear, rest assured no one can. There is, however, a rumor concerning a ceremony. The type of ceremony that, since you’re asking about this man, I’m quite sure you’re familiar with.”
Nya gripped her chair, harder than Grey thought the information warranted. “You know the location of a ceremony? Where is it?”
“Ah, fair Nya, rumors are information also, and as much a part of my business as their more concrete cousins. There will be a price.”
“How do we know your information is solid?” Grey asked.
His face hardened. “I never guess when it comes to business. There’s to be a ceremony, and it’s rumored the man you seek will attend. Whether or not that rumor comes to fruition is another matter, and not my concern.”
“The price?” Nya said.
“Five thousand American dollars, cash. Delivered within three days. As to non-payment for my services—let’s just say there are rumors concerning that as well.”
“Five thousand dollars for a rumor?” Nya said.
“You have my offer.”
“Five hundred.”
“I’m afraid I don’t negotiate.”
She glared at him. “Then I must accept your terms.”
Grey whistled silently. He’d bet his Japanese art collection that Nya’s budget didn’t include five grand for a rumor. Nigel scribbled on a slip of paper and slid it across the desk. Nya picked it up.
“Three days, Ms. Mashumba. You can deliver payment to the guardhouse out front.”
“You’ll have your money.”
The bodyguard led them out. When they reached the car Grey said, “That’s some expense account.”
“Certain people are very concerned about this man. Do you have a better idea to help find your countryman?”
“So when’s the ceremony?”
She turned the key in the ignition and shifted into gear. She cast a final, baleful stare at Nigel’s compound as she answered.
