“What advice did you give him?”
The nganga sighed and seemed to shrink. “I said he would see blood.”
At this admission, Zoe nearly flung herself at Amos. For a moment she fantasized about choking him to death. Joseph placed a hand on her knee and squeezed gently.
“How did Darious respond?” he asked the nganga.
“He smiled,” Amos said. “I remember it well. He said was going to bewitch the witch.”
“Those were his exact words?”
Amos nodded. “It is not the sort of thing a person forgets.”
“Did he say anything else, anything about a child?”
The nganga shook his head. “He paid me and left. I never saw him again.”
When Joseph concluded the interview, Bob Wangwe reiterated his client’s demand for immunity and threatened to file a complaint with the Commissioner of Police if Joseph didn’t grant it. The lawyer’s smugness so infuriated Zoe that she stood abruptly and stomped out of the house, leaving Joseph to negotiate the terms of the deal.
She skirted the edge of the herb garden and set off up the ramshackle lane toward Los Angeles Road, her pace just short of a run. She knew the evidence offered by the nganga could put Darious behind bars, but suddenly winning the case wasn’t enough. Thousands of girls like Kuyeya were suffering across southern Africa. Until the authorities put the fear of God into men like Amos and Darious, the sorority of victims would only increase.
She didn’t notice the gray Toyota Prado in the lane behind her until she reached the intersection at Los Angeles Road. She stopped beside the nganga’s sign and harbored a fleeting fantasy of whittling it down with a chainsaw. It was then that she saw the SUV and the man behind the wheel. She stared at him in shock.
It was Dunstan Sisilu.
With a roar the Prado leaped forward, screeching to a halt only inches from her. She felt an overwhelming instinct to flee, but her legs didn’t translate the message from her brain quickly enough. Sisilu jumped out of the vehicle, brandishing a huge, silver-plated revolver.
“Get in the car,” he commanded, as her iPhone began to vibrate in her pocket.
Joseph! she thought, staring at the gun. Where are you?
Sisilu pressed the revolver against her ribs and shoved her roughly into the passenger seat. He threw the Prado into reverse and stomped on the accelerator, catapulting them backward down the dirt lane. After a short distance, he made a jarring turn into an alley strung with clotheslines and slammed on the brakes. When the SUV came to rest, Zoe could barely see the lane through the curtains of hanging garments. She felt her iPhone vibrating again—
Without warning Sisilu put the barrel of the gun against her head. Her heart stopped, then nearly jumped out of her chest. The odor of his breath turned her stomach.
“You do not listen very well,” he said, pulling the hammer back until it clicked.
She closed her eyes, certain this was the end.
Then the moment passed and he went on: “You think you can hide behind your boyfriend and his badge. You think your Embassy friends can protect you. You think your father, the Senator, can protect you. You are wrong. This is Africa. There is no place I can’t reach you. If you continue to meddle in matters that don’t concern you, someone will die.”
He drove the butt of the revolver hard into her temple, and stars exploded in her vision even as darkness swept over her. Something thumped, then a hand pushed her, and she felt like she was falling. She saw another meteoric shower of stars.
Then everything went black.
The first thing she heard was an echo. The sound repeated and she realized it was her name. She jolted in fear, then recognized the voice—it was Joseph. She groaned. Her head felt as if a spike had been driven into it. Her senses slowly returned. She was lying on her side in the dirt. Something colorful was fluttering above her—a bolt of chitenge. She saw Joseph’s face hovering over her. He was saying something. The words echoed in her brain. At once she understood.
“What happened? Who did this to you?”
She groaned again and sat up. The splitting pain in her head intensified. She opened her eyes wider and saw that the alley was empty, except for Joseph’s truck. She massaged her face and looked at him. His dark eyes were fraught with anxiety.
“Dunstan Sisilu,” she said at last.
“What?” Joseph hissed. “I watched for a tail.”
“He was driving a gray Prado.”
“Can you stand?” he said with sudden urgency. “We need to get out of here.”
She gave him her arm and lurched to her feet. “He knows everything,” she said, leaning on him until she got to the truck. “You, the Prentices, my father. He put a gun to my head and told me if I didn’t leave this alone, someone would end up dead.”
He helped her into the vehicle and then said, “Just a minute. I need to check something.”
She sat heavily in the passenger seat and closed her eyes. He was gone a few seconds, then he climbed in and placed something on her lap. She looked down and saw a compact piece of black plastic about the size of a mobile phone.
“What is it?” she asked, not understanding.
“A GPS tracking unit. It was under the bumper.” Joseph started the engine and pulled out into the lane. “You remember when we were in Livingstone? Sisilu seemed to know everywhere we were. I figured I must not have been paying attention. I was paying attention today. “I should have thought of this sooner.”
“You’re saying he put one of these things on our rental car?”
“It would have been easy to do.”
She felt a sliver of dread. “Do you think he put one on my Land Rover?”
“I’m certain of it. It explains why you couldn’t find the housekeeper at Shoprite.”
“What should we do?” she asked, fingering the device.
“I think we leave the units alone. Let him think we don’t know. Unless we want to disguise our movements. Then we leave them at home.”
She had a terrifying thought. “He knows everything. All our witnesses …”
He glanced at her, his expression grave. “From now on, we need to be very careful.”
Chapter 21
The next morning, Joseph gave the response team a report on the interrogation of Dr. Amos and its violent aftermath, including the discovery of the GPS tracking unit on his truck and a second unit on Zoe’s Land Rover. Zoe sat beside him at the table, nursing a headache that no amount of Tylenol could alleviate. Mariam had insisted she take the day off, but she had no interest in sympathy. In spite of the discomfort, she was determined to enjoy the moment. The nganga’s story had not only lent credence to her theory about Bella’s past, it had given shape to a story that once had seemed incomprehensible.
“Unless I’m missing something,” Mariam said, “we have a case again. But we need to take precautions. The Nyambos are going to do everything they can to hurt us.”
Sarge nodded. “You should talk to the security company about posting a night guard.”
“I’ll do that today,” Mariam replied, making a note to herself. “And the rest of us should check our vehicles. If we’re being watched, we need to know about it.”
“This is all well and good,” Niza said, “but I don’t think the evidence is there yet. Amos didn’t identify the prostitute. Nor did he know about Kuyeya. We have to make the link.”
Zoe shook her head painfully. “Doris can testify about Bella and Darious.”
Niza spoke in a measured tone. “That’s helpful. But Luchembe will trot out all of the other mahules Darious knew. We have to answer the question, ‘Why Bella?’”
“She had a history with the Nyambos,” Zoe retorted. “And she had a disabled daughter.”
“Look,” Niza said, “I think Bella is the prostitute. But I don’t think we can prove it yet.”
As much as Zoe hated to admit it, Niza had a point. They needed to explain the past.
As soon as the meeting ended, Zoe plac
ed three calls from the driveway. The first was to Godfrey. When he didn’t answer, she left him an imploring message, highlighting the critical stage of the investigation and Kuyeya’s desperate need for family assistance. Her second call was to Mwela Chansa, Cynthia’s husband. To her astonishment, he answered on the third ring.
“Moni?” he said in Nyanja.
Zoe was so shocked to hear his voice that her mind went blank. “Sindimalankhula chinyanja,” she said after a pause. “Do you speak English?”
“Who is this?” he asked hesitantly.
“My name is Zoe Fleming. I’m trying to reach Cynthia about her cousin, Charity.”
She heard static on the line and then a woman said, “Hello?”
Zoe’s heart clutched in her chest. “Are you Cynthia?”
“Yes,” she responded, sounding wary.
Zoe introduced herself. “I met with Godfrey in Livingstone. We talked about your cousin, Charity, and her daughter, Kuyeya.”
Cynthia took an audible breath. “He told me. Why are you calling?”
“He thought you might remember the name of the man who took Charity to Lusaka.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Did Godfrey tell you what happened to Kuyeya?”
“It’s a terrible story,” Cynthia said quietly.
Zoe planted the hook. “Charity had a history with the man who raped Kuyeya. I’m trying to find out what that history was. I need to know why she came to Lusaka.”
After a while, Cynthia said, “I don’t know his name. We met him only once.”
Zoe didn’t allow her dejection to show. “Can you tell me about that meeting?”
“He bought us lunch in Livingstone. He told us he’d offered Charity a job.”
“What kind of job?”
“I didn’t pay attention.”
“It must have been a good job to take her away from nursing school.”
When Cynthia didn’t reply, Zoe thought the call had disconnected. “Are you still there?”
“How long is this going to take?” Cynthia said, sounding wary again.
“Not much longer. Did the man have a relationship with Charity?”
Cynthia sighed. “How would I know? I was only a child at the time.”
“Your grandmother thought she was pregnant—”
Cynthia interrupted her. “My grandmother had her own ideas.”
“She sent you letters, didn’t she?” Zoe asked. “Did she ever mention a relationship?”
Cynthia’s reply was curt. “What about the letters?”
At this point Zoe laid all her cards on the table. “Look, I know this is awkward. I know your family has suffered. But I’ve found no one who knows about Charity’s life in Lusaka before 2004. If she sent you letters, they might help us put the man who raped Kuyeya in prison.”
Suddenly, Cynthia shut down. “You know nothing about what we have suffered. My husband told me not to talk to you. I should have listened.”
The line went dead. Zoe stared at the phone angrily and her headache flared up again. She breathed deeply, trying to quell her frustration. Then she placed the third call.
“Clay Whitaker, please,” she said to the World Bank receptionist. “It’s Zoe Fleming.”
A few seconds later, Whitaker picked up. “Zoe. This is a nice surprise.”
“Thanks, Clay. Listen, I have a favor to ask. I need to know what Frederick Nyambo and his company were up to in 1996.”
“Is this for a case? Because I can’t testify in court.”
“It’s for a case. But I’ll let you off the hook as soon as you answer my question.”
Whitaker laughed. “Are you always this friendly?” When Zoe didn’t reply, he said, “Okay, 1996. That was the year Nyambo Energy won the contract for Zimbabwe’s first private power project. It was a step in the direction of privatization, though it didn’t pan out as Frederick hoped. We talked about that before.”
“How did the private power project come about? Did Nyambo go to Zimbabwe?”
“I imagine he did. Why?”
Zoe weighed her options and decided to trust him. “I need to know if he made a trip to Livingstone or Victoria Falls in March or April of that year.”
“I doubt the project would have taken him there. The Zimbabwean government does most of its dealings in Harare. But Batoka Gorge was on everyone’s mind at the time. It’s possible he went to Vic Falls for that reason. When do you need this?”
“Soon.”
“Let me make a couple of calls. I’ll get back to you quickly.”
“Thanks,” Zoe said and hung up.
She wandered back to her desk and frittered away the next hour on menial tasks. When her iPhone vibrated, she walked out to the driveway again.
“Your hunch was right,” Whitaker told her. “I called a friend at the southern African Power Pool. He told me there was a meeting of dignitaries in Victoria Falls in April of 1996. My friend wasn’t there, but he seemed pretty certain that Frederick Nyambo was.”
“Would he have stopped in Livingstone?”
“I don’t know. Any interest in telling me what this is about? You’ve gotten me curious.”
“Not really. But thanks for the favor.”
“Maybe now you’ll be nice to me,” he quipped.
She ended the call and took a long, slow breath, listening to the jacaranda leaves fluttering in the wind. Sometimes I feel like I know you, Charity Mizinga. Like we’re sisters, like Kuyeya is family. But I still don’t understand. How did you meet him? Why did you drop out of school? What was it that Frederick promised you? And what happened when you got to Lusaka? What drove you onto the street and into the beds of strangers?
She saw dark clouds building on the horizon. The storms would come early today. She entered the office again and found Joseph filling a water glass at the kitchen sink.
“I’m making you a special dinner tonight,” she said. “Tom and Carol are away.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” he asked.
She nodded. “The best way to forget pain is to drown it with celebration.”
“What are we celebrating?”
“Christmas. It came early this year.”
Late that afternoon, a powerful thunderstorm swept through Lusaka, pelting the city with hailstones and flooding the streets with brackish water. Zoe shut down her workstation and went to the window to watch the storm. Lightning speared the sky and thunder shook the ground. The wind whipped violently through the trees and rain drummed on the roof, drowning out all conversation. Soon Zoe’s colleagues abandoned their duties to watch the spectacle.
In time the storm began to relent and the great clouds trundled off over the plain to the south. Lightning continued to flash, but the roll of thunder was muted by distance. When the staff dispersed to wrap up business for the day, Zoe collected her backpack and looked at Joseph.
“Do I need to change?” he asked.
“Not unless you want to,” she said. “You’re welcome to come over now.”
He smiled. “In that case …”
They drove to the Prentice bungalow in separate vehicles. Zoe watched her mirrors but saw no sign of Dunstan Sisilu. They entered the gate and parked together on the drive. The grounds of the bungalow were sodden after the storm and carpeted with flower blossoms.
Zoe inhaled the moist air and grinned when the sun broke free of the clouds. “It seems the gods have given us a royal greeting.”
Joseph looked up, shielding his eyes. “‘Earth perfumed in dewdrop fragrance wakes.’”
“Achebe,” Zoe said, taking his hand and drawing him toward the door. “I’m impressed.”
“Occasionally, we Africans read our own poets.”
When they entered the foyer, he asked, “So what’s for dinner?”
“I have some steaks from the commissary,” she said, heading toward the kitchen. “I also have some of the best wine in Zambia. Hungry?”
He smiled. “Ravenous. I’ll tu
rn on the grill.”
When the steaks were done, she served them on two of Carol’s fine china plates alongside mounds of mashed potatoes and green beans fresh from the garden. She handed the plates to Joseph and followed him to the patio, carrying a tray with bread and butter and two glasses of red wine. They took places across from one another, and Zoe lit candles.
For a while they ate in silence, savoring the food and the serenity of the gardens. The sky fluoresced around the setting sun and then began to darken. A gusty breeze left behind by the storm made the candle flames dance.
“I talked to Cynthia,” she said. “She wasn’t very helpful.”
Joseph’s eyes widened. “You didn’t tell me?”
“I’m telling you now. She’s hiding something. I’m certain it relates to Charity’s move to Lusaka. I don’t really blame her. I just wish she would rise above her fear.” She paused. “I also talked to Clay Whitaker at the World Bank. He told me that Frederick Nyambo was in Victoria Falls in April of 1996. The timing is intriguing, to say the least. That’s the same month Charity left nursing school, the same month a wealthy businessman from Lusaka offered her a job.”
Joseph frowned. “Are you suggesting Frederick might be the businessman?”
She smiled. “The thought had crossed my mind.”
He looked skeptical. “It’s a fascinating theory, but it’s a leap.”
“True, but remember what Amos told us. He said that whatever happened between Charity and the Nyambos happened not long after her arrival in Lusaka. Look, it’s perfectly possible that they met here and that all of this is just coincidence. But what if the dots are connected? You have to admit it fills in a lot of gaps.”
He regarded her in the flickering candlelight.
“What?” she asked. “You don’t agree?”
“I wasn’t thinking about that,” he said.
She fingered her napkin, suddenly self-conscious. “What were you thinking?”
He met her eyes. “I was thinking how beautiful you are.”
Zoe sat back in her chair, surprised by how much his words moved her. Suddenly, she lost all interest in conversation. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She sipped her wine impatiently and watched him clean his plate. She had the leftover half of a chocolate cake Carol had baked in the refrigerator, but she decided not to mention it.
The Garden of Burning Sand Page 22
