by Layton Green
“Get on with it, Harris. Do you have any leads?”
“We’re pursuing a few promising ones at the moment, but nothing concrete yet.”
“Such as?”
Grey interjected. “Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador. As you probably know, we believe William’s disappearance might be connected to the religious ceremony he attended the last night he was seen. We’ve been tracking down leads along these lines, but we’re still missing a piece of information we believe to be vital.”
“Which is?”
“These ceremonies are difficult to find. We’re trying to figure out how he discovered the location. It’s possible whoever led him there has an idea of what happened to him, or where he might be.”
“Do whatever you need to, gentlemen. William is a patriot and a close friend. I wish I could offer more help, but the Ministry absolutely will not allow outside agencies to investigate in Harare. So we’re it.” He closed his eyes and pushed out a frustrated breath. “As if we give a damn if they’re knocking off their own citizens. How’s Professor Radek working out? He came highly recommended.”
“He’s very knowledgeable,” Grey said.
“Excellent. Now, what’d you want to ask me?”
Grey said, “Sir, obviously you would’ve come forth with any relevant information.”
“Obviously.”
“Is there anything useful you can tell us concerning William’s daily life that might produce a lead on the ceremony? Where he shopped, where he went at night, anything?”
“Although I see William frequently,” the Ambassador said, “it’s typically during the day, except for the occasional poker night at Sir Naughton’s.”
“I’ve spoken to him already,” Grey said.
“And?”
“He said he’d give you a loan next time.”
The Ambassador emitted a low chuckle. “I know William was seeing someone—I don’t know her personally, but I assume you’ve spoken to her?”
“She hasn’t seen him since the ceremony, and has no idea what happened to him there.”
“I just don’t understand what could’ve happened.”
“We don’t either, sir.”
The Ambassador sighed. “I’ve already considered this question, and asked around. I don’t have anything to add. No one here knew where he was that night.”
“I assumed so, but I had to ask.”
“Of course.”
They left, and Grey exited the Embassy, frustrated. He doubted the Ambassador knew anything about Addison’s nocturnal activities, and if he was wrong, there was nothing he could do about it anyway. The Ambassador was above investigation, or at least above investigation by Grey.
His cell rang. It was Nya’s number, and seeing it brought him back to the night before. He remembered her hair floating in his face, the velvety pout of her lips, her body pressed into his. His skin burned and he willed away his thoughts with a shudder.
“Can you meet me at Lucky’s at ten tonight?” Nya said.
“My pleasure. We have backup this time?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the plan?”
“We’ll arrest Lucky for the illicit nature of his business, and bring him in for questioning. I’ll make things very unpleasant for him at the Ministry.”
“Excellent. I talked to the Ambassador.”
“And?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“I see,” she said.
“I’m tired of dead ends.”
“Tonight we’ll have our answers.”
Neither spoke for a moment.
“Nya.”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
“And you.”
37
Professor Radek sat patiently on the rocky outcropping, his massive frame hidden from view by the boulders and msasa trees covering the ledge. Below lay a grassy valley known to local villagers as the grave, due to the huge slab of granite that, given its position at the north head of the rectangular valley, resembled a tombstone.
He was on a hilltop at the northern edge of the Eastern Highlands, three hours southeast of Harare by car. In the distance, to the north, he could see the first sprinkling of the lushness of Nyanga. To the east loomed the great primeval forests and the craggy, mist-veiled peaks of Chimanimani and the Vumba.
He had arrived hours ago to procure his position, and he felt secure. The valley floor lay far below him, a rugged slope fell away behind him. No one was going to surprise him.
That is, if anyone came at all. As dusk approached, and with it the uneasy promise of the ceremony he’d come to observe, there was still no sign of anyone. Had Nigel provided faulty information?
He regretted missing the first ceremony. The markings on the fresh body he’d been called to Johannesburg to examine had meant nothing, and the crime had turned out to be sexually motivated, rather than religious.
He picked up his binoculars and scanned the valley. He’d attended Juju ceremonies during the first investigation, but never one dedicated to Esu. This promised to be an extraordinary event. His intellectual side—his professional side—was excited at the prospect.
But he wondered if his other side, the side he knew from long experience lurked, dormant or otherwise, inside everyone, was anticipating the event as well: grinning lasciviously, waiting to slake its craven thirst on the coming depravity. The side of him that he feared, after witnessing too many senseless monstrosities, had caused him to grow not just indifferent to the horror, but on some level beholden to its unholy fix.
The wait brought ruminations. The never-ending quest for the numinous showcases the best and worst of the human race, the intelligent and enlightened striving in vain for that crumb of divine truth alongside the ignorant and narrow-minded—with neither able to prove the other wrong. Viktor found it captivating. Religion is the ultimate anthropological palette, a fascinating arena where each culture’s concept of the divine manifests into intricate social constructs.
Perhaps, he thought, we’ll never know who has it right, if anyone. And that’s the damnable wonder and terror of it all.
Laden with the weight of the eternal, he gazed upon the vastness of the mountain-studded earth before him and pondered humanity’s wraith-like state: doomed to live a half-life somewhere between the absurdity of physical existence and the shadowy quagmire of spiritual truth.
He grew restless, tired of pointless mental perambulation. He reached unconsciously into his pocket, but grasped only fabric. Do prdele. He knew why he’d left her in his suite, but he still berated himself as he peered around the boulder. No matter—soon his second drug would be available: the chthonic milieu of forbidden knowledge. Would he witness something tonight that raised more questions? Would he find another piece of the greatest puzzle of all?
Something moved in the distance. He repositioned himself and reached for the binoculars. A line of villagers straggled towards the valley. He scanned and saw more people approaching the valley from all directions except his.
He put down the binoculars and watched the strange procession with his own eyes. The figures beneath him shuffled into the valley like zombies, silent and listless, creeping into the gloaming.
He noticed a group of six men carrying something covered in cloth. He returned to the binoculars. They entered the center of the valley and peeled back the ragged coverings, revealing a stone altar. They lowered the altar reverently, pounded stakes and iron rings into the ground next to it, and then backed away.
Another group entered carrying hourglass-shaped dundun drums. They set the drums down a good distance from the altar, one in each corner of the valley. They looked to the sky, their lips moved in supplication, and then, as one, they began to beat.
An instant and chilling transformation overcame the valley. Viktor knew that drums signaled the start of celebration at a Juju ceremony: people would begin to dance with abandon, as if at carnival. The crowd sprang to life, but these worshippers writhed in a sensuo
us rhythm that, although captivating, possessed something methodical and sinister.
Something wrong.
More and more people arrived. The drums picked up speed, and then maintained a controlled cadence, keeping the crowd at a slow boil. The valley had nearly filled, and he guessed close to a thousand people had gathered. He had no idea it would be so many.
Some of the men shoved tall, stake-tipped torches into the ground and lit them. The torches, spaced roughly five feet apart, encircled a large area in the middle of the clearing. The circular area was empty except for the stone altar resting in the center.
The ceremony gathered momentum for over an hour as darkness settled into the landscape. The night boasted a full moon, or Viktor would have been hard pressed to see much of anything outside the ring of torches. Just as he began to wonder if the main event was going to happen, the crowd began to chant as Grey and Nya had described. It began to chant for the N’anga.
He returned to the binoculars again; at the far end of the valley, behind the giant slab of granite, he saw the flicker of torches. He observed the approach of this new group, and it was again as Grey and Nya had said: the bodyguards in white linen, the N’anga in red robes and mask.
Viktor wrenched his eyes away from the hypnotic ghastliness of the mask. The sight of it brought memories for which he had no time.
The N’anga drew closer to the circle, and then abruptly stopped. The N’anga tilted his head back, up and to the left, pausing as the mask faced—Viktor had to be imagining this—directly where he was concealed on the hilltop.
Despite the impossibility of that thought, the Professor felt a chill, and did not move. He’d witnessed demonstrations by people with enhanced cognitive powers, and he no longer doubted that people existed who were able to sense the presence of other human beings, people able to see the mysterious energy that emanated from the human body. The concept is archetypal: call it chi, ki, qi, mana, prana, ka, pneuma, spiritus, aether, or, to the Yoruba, the concept of ashe. But at this distance, with so many people in the valley to mask the glow of the energy—no, it had to be a coincidence.
The N’anga moved forward. When he reached the center of the clearing he halted, thrust his arms skyward, and the chanting ceased. The drums increased in tempo, and the men surrounding the N’anga began the sacrifices, spraying the crowd with blood. Nothing too unusual for a Juju ceremony.
More men carried in a sheep, and the N’anga performed the two hundred cuts. Viktor watched, enthralled. He’d never seen this ritual performed live. It was quite chilling.
The crazed bleating of the sheep floated above the noise of the crowd. Viktor knew of a few rituals in other religions that were comparable in terms of pain and suffering, but this one certainly ranked near the top.
The N’anga completed the sacrifice, the crowd began to chant for Esu, and the N’anga turned to face the rear. Two robed bodyguards stood on either side of a man, and all three walked towards the circle. Viktor focused on the man’s face, then cursed.
He couldn’t have been older than eighteen. And his face—was he drugged? He looked dazed, or caught in some manner of trance. Viktor racked his brain to figure out what narcotics might have been used. The only thing that came to mind was the tetradotoxin poison of the puffer fish, used in conjunction with datura weed by the Vodou priests in Haiti to make living zombies. It was a possibility, but highly unlikely. Tetradotoxins impair motor skills, and this young man’s motor control was too fine, too unaffected. He was… a smear of movement clouded the binoculars.
Viktor looked up and saw commotion below. The procession with the captive had reached the edge of the circle, but something wasn’t right. The energy of the crowd had been interrupted.
Viktor retrained the binoculars on the scene and—what was this? An older woman rushed past the bodyguards and flung her arms around the boy. Was this possibly the mother? Good God.
The distraught woman covered the boy with her own body, shook him, pleaded with him. The boy didn’t respond.
Two of the bodyguards rushed in and grabbed the woman, dragging her away from the boy and into the circle. Viktor swung the binoculars around. What would the N’anga do? He would never permit such an insult to his ritual to go unpunished.
The men held the poor woman up before the N’anga. She flung her head from side to side, screaming inconsolably. The N’anga stood before her, head erect, as straight and still as the slab of granite in the distance.
The woman tried to back away, but the men held her fast. The crowd fell silent, the drums slowed to a steady dull throb.
Viktor couldn’t hear, but he was sure the N’anga was performing an incantation of some sort. The N’anga moved his hands across his own robes, touching various parts of his body, and then ran his fingers across his mask. Viktor started—he’d seen this particular ritual somewhere before, perhaps not in person, but somewhere. The woman appeared to recognize it as well, because she bucked in vain to free herself. The N’anga lifted his arms skyward, held them steady, and then dropped his left arm and pointed at the woman.
Viktor would never forget what he saw next. Now he remembered—he’d seen this ritual on a thirty-year-old videotape an anthropologist had made of a Juju ceremony in Yorubaland. Something similar had happened, some disservice or insult proffered against the babalawo, and this ritual had been the result. The videotape, though it had the ring of authenticity, had never been accepted as hard evidence. Videotapes can be forged, events can be staged. But this was happening right in front of him, and mother of God the same thing was happening to the woman in the valley that he’d seen on the videotape.
As he watched through the binoculars, huge, pus-filled boils appeared on her skin. They burst forth onto her arms, her chest, her legs, her face—the grotesque sores erupted in a vile frenzy over her entire body. She looked down in horror at the defilement, and then began to scream, her concern for the young man drowned in her madness. The N’anga made a motion, and the men let her go. She ran, wailing, into the crowd, which scampered to avoid her as if she had the plague.
Viktor was stunned. He had just witnessed, first-hand, a babalawo cause spontaneous lesions to appear on a living human being’s body. It was either the most incredible example of psychosomatic trauma he’d ever seen, or it was… or it was something else.
He forced himself to shrug it off and concentrate on the scene below. The crowd had disintegrated into complete abandon at the display of their babalawo’s power, and the drums pounded out a furious rhythm. The N’anga led the young man to the altar and poured a circle of blood on the ground around him. He stepped back. The crowd hushed, and he faced the boy.
The N’anga’s back was to Viktor, and Viktor saw his arms rise. The N’anga made a hand movement Viktor couldn’t see, and the boy snapped into awareness.
The boy took in the altar, the blood, the frenzied crowd, the terrifying figure of the N’anga ten feet away—and let out a howl of despair that sent a wave of compassion washing over Viktor. Viktor seized the binoculars. His lips compressed, but his eyes never wavered.
The boy bolted and, just as Grey had described, when he reached the circle of blood the N’anga had poured, he bounced off it as if he’d crashed into a wall. He rose in disbelief and probed the air in front of him, unable to pass through the invisible barrier. Finally he stopped trying, and his face shone with such abject terror, such horror at the knowledge of his fate, that Viktor nearly had to turn away. One thing of which Viktor was certain—no tetradotoxins had been used on this boy.
Mist rose inside the circle, obfuscating the view. The crowd grew impossibly loud as it chanted for Esu, the drums assaulted the night air. The N’anga waved his arms, quieting the crowd one last time, and shouted the name of Esu as he swept his arms across the circle.
The fog dissipated, revealing what Viktor had awaited with growing dread: an empty circle.
The crowd erupted.
Viktor waited as the ceremony raged for another few ho
urs. He watched the N’anga leave the same way he had entered, he watched the worshippers work themselves into a stupor and fall upon the ground, twitching and copulating and moaning until the last one collapsed into oblivion.
Only then did Viktor leave the safety of his craggy perch. He climbed down to where he’d hidden his car, lost in thought, his hands trembling as they hadn’t in twenty years.
38
Grey found himself waiting outside the entrance to Club Lucky once again, only this time Nya, two uniformed police officers and an older man in a suit stood with him. Grey smiled to himself. Time for Lucky to atone for his crimes, and time for some answers.
Mr. Pasurai, the man in the suit, ran a supercilious eye over the group. His long, bland face, splotched with an ineffective goatee, suffered the premature tightening associated with a lifetime of narrow-mindedness. He turned to Nya. “I hope your sources were not mistaken.”
“The illicit nature of this business isn’t in question. Club Lucky is in blatant violation of a number of Zimbabwean laws, including child prostitution.”
“You’d better be right,” Pasurai said. “It would be a pity to bring shame to a respectable businessman—and one who gives generously to Zanu-PF. The Minister would not be pleased.”
Nya regarded him with a flat stare and then laughed in his face. “You’ll see just how respectable this man is.”
The officers took up positions behind Nya and Pasurai, and in front of Grey. Each officer carried a nasty-looking truncheon, and kept one hand close to a holstered firearm.
Nya rapped on the door, and Grey looked forward to the look on the face of the doorman—the oversized thug who’d led the assault on Grey and Nya less than twenty-four hours ago.
The door opened, and Grey frowned. A trim young man he’d never seen before, smartly dressed and half the size of the regular bouncer, greeted them with a bow. “Please, come in,” he said, offering his hand to Nya. “There will be five tonight?”
Nya refused his hand and walked by him. She took three steps inside and stopped. Grey already had a hollow feeling in his gut, but he hurried forward to get a better view of the room. What he saw made him squeeze his fists to control his anger.
