by Jon Evans
He hesitates. "I thought you'd be interested."
"I am, I guess. But why not take it to Prester or the US Embassy or something? Or did you already?"
"No. We can't do that."
She blinks. "Why not?"
"Think about it. Derek was set up by someone he was working for. Or with. I take this to the wrong person, they find out what I can do, they'll cover their trail and I'll just be getting myself into more trouble. I go to the Canadian or British embassy, they'll just pass the word on to the USA. The real reason I'm showing you is because you're the only person I know I can trust."
Veronica shakes her head. "You're being paranoid. I'm sure Prester or Strick –"
"You know what Derek was doing in the last couple months before we got grabbed? Investigating Prester."
Veronica stares at him.
"Yeah. Some big boss in the CIA, I don't know who, Derek never told me details, found out there was something rotten in the state of Uganda and sent Derek to investigate. When I got here Derek had me track Prester's phone calls. And in the last week before we went to Bwindi, you know what? He had me tracking Strick's calls too."
"But – no. Not Prester." Veronica thinks of what he said to them in Goma, in the lava field. "He told us what was happening. He was trying to help us."
"Or he was telling us what he wanted us to believe. Plus a few things we would have figured out or found out by ourselves anyways, but we heard them from him first, so it looks like he's a good guy. And while he's at it he just so happens to warn us to stop poking around and get the hell out of Africa for our own good. Just like Strick. They both wanted us gone."
"Maybe because they want us safe," Veronica points out.
"Maybe not."
"They don't even like each other."
"They're intelligence professionals," Jacob says. "They know how to seem like something they're not."
"You sound totally paranoid."
"Only the paranoid survive."
"Come on," she objects. "This is crazy. I mean, even if you're right, like you say, all you're doing is just getting yourself into more trouble. You want to know what I think? I think you should stop playing Sherlock Homes and go home."
"He was my best friend," Jacob says sharply. "Someone set him up. And us too. Someone murdered him, someone he was working with. I'm not just walking away."
A long moment of silence passes.
"You seriously think Prester and Strick might be working with Al-Qaeda," Veronica says, putting as much incredulity into her voice as she can.
" I doubt whoever it is knew their smuggler friends were in bed with Al-Qaeda until after we were taken. And now they'll be extra desperate to cover their tracks. Maybe it's just one of them. Maybe neither and Prester was telling the truth, it's somebody at the embassy." Jacob pauses. "Derek thought your ex-husband was involved. There might be something there."
"Like what?"
"I don't know," he admits.
"Did Derek tell you about Danton?"
"No. All he told me was what phone numbers he wanted information for. He wouldn't give me details, he said it wasn't safe." Jacob spits out the last few words angrily. "If he'd told me, maybe I would have seen it coming. Or at least now I'd know what he knew."
"Or whoever set him up would have found out you knew too much too," Veronica points out. "And you would have been number two on the chopping block."
Jacob pauses. She's right. Derek's secrecy may have kept him alive.
"So what are you planning to do?" Veronica asks.
"What we need is evidence," he says. Veronica raises her eyebrows skeptically at the we. "Once we've got hard actual evidence of who it was, then we can go to the embassy, take it straight to the ambassador, make it public."
"You really think you'll get hard evidence out of this?" She points to the computer screen. "Tracking a bunch of phone calls?"
"I think we're finding lots of stuff out already."
"Stuff that doesn't make any sense."
"It will eventually," he says confidently. "We just have to be methodical. Gather data, make a hypothesis, test it against the evidence, repeat until understanding is attained. The scientific method. It's cracked problems a lot harder than this one."
Veronica shakes her head, unconvinced. "Jacob, you want to know what I think, you should just go home. Maybe both of us should."
Jacob pauses. He can't help but wonder if she's right. Living in danger, investigating mysterious conspiracies – that was Derek's line of work, not his, he's just a techie, of unusual ability to be sure, but he's no swashbuckling superspy. It's true he came to Uganda to help Derek, and it was exciting knowing he was really working for the CIA, it felt like a big, wonderful adventure, like being in a movie, a supporting character to Derek's starring role. But Jacob never dreamed he might find himself in real danger. Until Bwindi. Until it turned into a horror movie.
The safe thing to do is to stop investigating and hope the authorities can find Derek's killer. But he can't turn his back on the murder of his best friend. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be honourable. Jacob has always thought of himself as someone who would do the right thing, in extremis. He supposes most people do. But most people never actually have to find out. He does, and right now. His whole life, quiet and ordinary until now, has in a way just been a prelude to this. What he chooses to do now is the measure of who he is. And if he fails, if he gives up and goes home, he will feel that shadow hanging over him for the rest of his life. He has to at least try.
Jacob tries to think of some way to convince Veronica to stay and help. He can trust her. He doesn't want to have to deal with this alone. And if Derek was right, Veronica's ex-husband is somehow involved in all this. But no brilliant insight or debating tactic that might convince her comes to mind.
Veronica's gaze drifts back to Jacob's computer, to the Google Map full of markers that indicate where Derek placed and received his phone calls.
"Wait a minute," she says, sitting up straight, suddenly alarmed.
He blinks. "What?"
"That terrorist phone Susan picked up. By the satellite dish. Remember what Prester said? It had two hundred phone numbers for Westerners in Congo and west Uganda."
Jacob nods. "And?"
"So they could track those phones like you tracked Derek's calls, right?
He hesitates. "If they had access to the databases, yes. But like I said, the higher the geographical precision, the denser the population. You can't locate specific individuals, they inevitably get lost in the crowd."
"Not in Africa. Not if they're white and the rest of the crowd is black."
Jacob opens his mouth but says nothing at first. She's right. The industry truism that cell phones can't be use to track down their owners is in this case false. White people stand out in Africa, especially rural Africa, like pink paint on black canvas.
"You think they're planning to –" He shakes his head. The idea is too huge to accept all at once. "You think Al-Qaeda are going to try and hunt down all those people. Using their cell phones. That's, no, that's crazy. How would they get access to the databases?" Jacob answers the question himself. "Oh, no. Holy shit. Through their partner in the CIA."
They stare at one another.
"Derek thought whoever was he investigating had an in at a phone company," Jacob says. "The first thing he did was have me make sure Mango was safe for him to use, check that nobody else was tracking his calls."
"We have to tell someone," Veronica says. She looks shaken.
"Don't panic. Not yet anyways. It's just a theory. And I'm sure the powers that be have thought of it too by now." Though Jacob is not at all sure of this. "We don't have any evidence. And I still can't believe a CIA agent would work with Al-Qaeda."
"They would if they were being blackmailed," Veronica suggests. "Help track these phones or we reveal how you were the smuggler who set up the kidnapping and murder of your own agent plus two other Americans."
Jacob nods
slowly.
"Two hundred people. A lot of them, like Peace Corps types, out in rural areas, totally on their own. My God, they'll kill them. Or take them hostage first, like they took us. We have to do something. We have to go to someone."
He shakes his head. "With what? We have zero evidence. Just theory and supposition. And go to who? If we pick the wrong person, if they find out we're chasing their trail and I was working with Derek all along…" He hesitates. "They might come after us. They probably would. Whoever it is, they're not fucking around, we know that already."
Veronica swallows. "So what do we do?"
Jacob looks back at the computer screen and considers. "There's still too many unknowns. We might just be jumping at shadows here. I say we try to find out more before we do anything."
This time Veronica lets the we pass unchallenged. "How?"
"Go back to plan A. Retrace Derek's steps, find out what he knew." Jacob points to the cluster of orange markers on the map near Kampala's taxi park. "I'd like to know who this is, for starters. Must be a friend of Derek's, they talked a couple times a week, every week. Frequently immediately before or after calling the number in Semiliki. What do you say we go pay them a visit?"
Veronica looks at him uneasily.
"Come on," Jacob says. "Downtown Kampala, broad daylight, a friend of Derek's. It's not dangerous in the slightest. I promise."
Chapter 16
Downtown Kampala is an area of wide, scarred boulevards intersected by narrow side streets, clogged by choking squalls of traffic and dense clouds of pedestrians, lined by a dizzying array of African commerce: nyama choma street-meat braziers, boda-boda motorcycle taxis, newspaper hawkers, bakeries, bookstores, Internet cafés, pharmacies, stationary shops, cell-phone stores, fast-food stalls. The grassy meridians of the boulevards are fenced by ankle-high barbed wire. Huge concrete monoliths rise above the retail level, banks and government buildings. Posters advertise Sleeping Beauty cosmetics and Celtel phones.
"I guess this is it," Jacob says, looking up at the rotting concrete stairs that lead upwards beneath the hand-painted sign HOTEL SUN CITY, then down to the hiptop computer in his hand, and the tiny Google Map of Kampala on its screen. He can't imagine why Derek would have had anything to do with this place, but according to the hiptop's GPS receiver, the Hotel Sun City is the real-world establishment that best overlaps the cloud of orange dots that correspond to Derek's twice-weekly calls to a handset located this region.
Jacob closes the hiptop's clamshell case and looks around. His shirt is already damp with sweat. The street they are on is one of the busiest in Kampala. Buzzing pedestrian traffic, aggressive sidewalk vendors, protruding metal signs, dangling vines of casually strung electrical cables, and occasional stands of bamboo scaffolding combine to make walking a careful business. The opposite side of the boulevard, across a churning river of smog-belching traffic, is occupied by Kampala's central taxi park, a gargantuan and mindnumbingly busy triangle of dirt occupied by hundreds if not thousands of matatus, East Africa's ubiquitous minivan shared-taxis, and their associated passengers, drivers, vendors and askaris. On reflection Jacob can think of two advantages to this location: anonymity and quick getaways.
"All right," Veronica says doubtfully. "Let's take a look and get this over with."
Jacob follows her up the cracked and uneven stairs, and despite the uncertainty of their situation, as he climbs he can't help but be distracted by Veronica's trim, swaying hips. He's half-amused at himself, half-pleased that life is coming back to him; he hasn't thought about sex since the Congo, but clearly he is recovering fast, and Veronica is easily the most beautiful woman he's ever spent an extended amount of time with. Not that he has any illusions anything is going to happen between them. He's a geek; Veronica is a former model who married a multimillionaire. Jacob is ruefully aware that he is way out of her league.
They ascend to a glassed-in security box manned by a woman who awards them a hostile glare.
"We want to see a room," Jacob improvises, "we might stay here tonight."
The receptionist frowns suspiciously and passes him a key. "Number 307. Ten minutes."
They advance into the hotel's labyrinthine interior. It's much bigger than it looks on the outside, six stories tall and occupying almost the whole block. The interior arrangements are gloomy and bizarre: a half-dozen interior stairways connect only two or three stories apiece, hallways terminate at doorless walls, benches and chairs sit in dark alcoves. Water drips from leaky pipes. Except for themselves the halls are eerily empty. Jacob is reminded of Gormenghast.
They glance into Room 307 out of curiosity. It's barely big enough for its rickety bed. There are roaches on the filthy floor and the even filthier mattress. The mosquito net is full of holes. The shower is a nozzle set in bare concrete, the toilet has no lid, and there isn't even a light, just a bundle of torn wires protruding from a hole in the roof beside a fan that doesn't work.
"I sure hope it's cheap," Jacob says, appalled. He can't imagine any less desirable place to stay in Kampala. Even a shantytown hut would be better than this.
Veronica closes her eyes. She is breathing hard.
He looks at her. "You okay?"
"Fine," she says without opening her eyes. "I just don't like tight spaces."
"Oh." A few seconds pass. Jacob doesn't know what to say. "Maybe you should wait outside, or -"
"I'm fine. It's no big deal." She takes a deep breath, opens her eyes, looks around again and shakes her head. "Look at this place. Why would Derek -"
"I have no idea. And not just once. A couple times a week for six months." He hesitates, then draws out his hiptop again. It doubles as a phone. "One way to find out."
"You're going to call them?" Veronica looks around nervously. "I don't know if that's such a good idea."
Jacob understands her reluctance. He doesn't particularly want to make contact with anyone here either. This rotting wreck of a hotel feels like the kind of place where people die. But if they turn back at just the implication of danger they'll never uncover the truth. He tells himself to think of this as a test, like an obstacle in a video game.
"It's just a phone call," he says, trying to convince himself as much as Veronica, and he dials.
After three rings a woman answers in a breathy voice. "Hello?"
"Hello," Jacob says. "Hi, um, who am I speaking to?"
"My name is Lydia."
"Hello, Lydia. Where can I find you?"
"The Hotel Sun City, darling. Room 211. Come by any time."
Jacob blinks with surprise. "Room 211. OK. I, I guess I'll be there soon." He hangs up and looks at Veronica. "Well. That was easy."
"Too easy."
"Come on. It's broad daylight. She sounded harmless."
Veronica reluctantly acquiesces. They find their way to Room 211 after a few missteps. Jacob stops in front of it and looks back at Veronica. He is nervous now. She's right, this is too easy. She shrugs but says nothing. He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.
The woman who answers the door is tall and remarkably beautiful, except for her oddly bloodshot eyes. She makes Jacob think of Iman, the model. She is heavily made up, with braided hair, in high heels, a leather miniskirt, and a form-fitting long-sleeved tiger-striped shirt. The room behind her is relatively clean, and empty but for a shabby bed. It smells of perfume.
"Lydia?" Jacob asks.
The woman nods. She seems surprised to see them.
"I just called."
"Yes. How did you get my number?" Her voice is low and doesn't sound Ugandan, the accent is more French.
"From Derek."
Lydia's face flickers. Then she smiles broadly. "Oh yes. A naughty man who likes very naughty girls. Girls like me. But I'm sorry, I don't entertain couples." She frowns at Veronica.
"Oh," Jacob says. Embarrassed understanding floods into his mind. "Oh. Right. I'm sorry. I think there was a misunderstanding. We should be going."
"Perhaps you sh
ould. Today is very busy for me. I don't like having my time wasted."
"Sorry."
Lydia closes the door. Jacob retreats hastily, and Veronica follows. He can feel his face burning.
"I guess that explains it," he says, speaking quickly. "Maybe we shouldn't have, uh, shouldn't have pried. I mean, into his private life. I'm surprised. But I guess, you know, it was hard for him to maintain healthy relationships, with his lifestyle, and I'm sure he's hardly the first guy to move to the Third World and let himself go a little, and he was in Thailand before he came here, I'm sure after a little while it's just normal."
"Normal?" Veronica asks. She sounds amused despite herself.
"Well, not actually normal, but I can see, not see, but I can imagine how after a while it would seem that way, I mean, if you live an abnormal life," he flounders. "Let's just go home, okay?"
They are at the top of the hallway that leads to the bulletproof reception desk when Veronica suddenly stops walking and says, "Wait a minute."
Jacob stops too. "What?"
"Her eyes."
"What about her eyes?"
"She wasn't hung over. Those weren't burst capillaries. Those were lesions. Kaposi's sarcoma."
"Lesions?"
"AIDS," Veronica says softly. "Late-stage. She's very sick. Probably dying."
"AIDS? And - and Derek was sleeping with her?"
"That's what I'm wondering." She pauses. "Any chance he was HIV positive?"
Jacob shakes his head, astonished. "No. He had a bag of his own blood in his fridge, for transfusions, so he wouldn't get HIV if he had to go to a hospital here."
"Then he wouldn't have been having sex with a prostitute with Kaposi's sarcoma, would he? He would have known. She must have other lesions on her too, it wouldn't just be her eyes, that'd be very unusual."
"I wouldn't have thought Derek would ever have slept with a prostitute at all." Jacob isn't sure exactly how true this is. Derek never exactly treated women respectfully, and he spent a year in Thailand, world capital of prostitution, just before coming to Africa. But at least he never talked about it.
