by Lisa Harris
Mr. Chandler tapped the edge of his drink against the desk. “I assume you have proof backing up your claims of negligence for each of the investors you named?”
“I wouldn’t be a good journalist if I didn’t, now would I?” Was it possible for Interpol to help? “I have all the proof you need to start an official investigation. I’ll admit, though, that I never imagined that Interpol might want to be involved—”
Mr. Chandler held up his hand. “While I admire greatly what you are doing, at this point I’m only interested in one person. Alexis Yasin.”
“Yasin?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Yasin is only one of a number of wealthy investors and corporations mentioned in my series.”
“I realize that, but for now let’s just talk about Yasin. Your article said that you weren’t able to secure an interview with him, but that you had proof of his involvement in a number of the mines.”
“I tried numerous times to contact him after a source informed me he was staying in the capital of the Republic of Dhambizao. I even stayed in the country an extra day in order to track him down, but I was never able to verify he was there, and any attempts on my part to get his side of the story were completely ignored. I can, though, verify his financial involvement with at least two questionable mining companies operating in Central Africa whose low standards of safety and—”
“I’m going to need everything you have on him.”
Gabby’s gaze narrowed as she fingered the leather briefcase beside her. “I don’t understand. If this doesn’t have to do with my article—”
“You understand that much of the evidence we have is classified, but we believe he is involved in money laundering throughout Africa and Western Europe.”
Gabby’s mind spun through the implications. “Which means he’s using these mines along with other legitimate businesses as fronts?”
“That’s what I intend to prove.”
She opened her briefcase, flipped through the copied files, and pulled out everything she had on Yasin before sliding it all across table. The three photos she’d printed out from Natalie stared up at her from the back of the folder.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
She pushed one of the photos toward Mr. Chandler and pointed to one of the men. “I’ve been trying to identify him.”
“In connection to your series?”
She nodded.
“Off the record?” Mr. Chandler picked up the photo. “His name’s Benjamin Ayres. He works directly under Yasin.”
Which potentially put Yasin in the middle of whatever had happened in the RD. Which meant he was probably the one after her. Gabby felt her lungs constrict.
“Where did you get these photos?”
“Off the record?” she asked.
Mr. Chandler shot her a half smile.
“Natalie Sinclair is an American working in the RD as a health care worker,” she began, then quickly filled him in on what she knew of the situation. “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to get ahold of her since my arrival back in the States, so I still have a lot of unanswered questions.”
From the look on the older man’s face it was obvious they were thinking the same thing: Gabby might not be the only person on Yasin’s bad side.
“I’ll keep trying to get ahold of her.”
“Keep me informed, then. And there is one other thing I wanted to mention to you.” He stopped her before she left the room. “You know there’s a chance that these people aren’t going to stop at e-mail threats. I know about your father—”
“My father?”
“I read about his death in Sudan.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Her frown deepened. “Just like my father did.”
Mr. Chandler pulled out a card with his private number on it and handed it to her. “I’ll be in touch, but if you find out anything else…or if you need something, call me. Anytime, twenty-four hours a day.”
She took the card and slipped it into her front pocket. She had to find Natalie. It was time to connect the dots.
FIFTY
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 5:06 P.M.
SHACK OUTISDE BOGAMA
Natalie paced the room. Her calves ached from the repetitive movement of marching back and forth across the cement floor, but she simply couldn’t sit still. After seven-plus hours, she’d finally accepted the reality that there was no way out. She’d memorized every crack in the wall and followed every shifting shadow in a room that was now growing darker by the second. In fifteen more minutes, she estimated, the sun would drop below the horizon and leave her in complete darkness.
Twelve o’clock had come and gone without any sign of her captor, a fact that had her worried. She’d seen the exchange as her one chance of freedom. Instead, she’d been forced to spend her time trying to escape. The faint cracks in the wall had eventually revealed more than the glaring African sun. A guard with a machine gun stood half a dozen steps from the front door. She’d hollered at him until her voice was hoarse. All he’d done was turn up his radio and ignore her.
She walked to the other side of the room, following the now familiar path around bags of cornmeal and charcoal. The dog barked, reminding her of its presence. She knew she could handle the dog. The typical African mutt was little threat. It was the discovery of another guard on the east side of the building that had discouraged her from using the can of tuna as a hammer in an attempt to remove the hinges from the door. When it came to an armed man, canned goods weren’t much of a defense.
A cramp gripped her calf, and she sat down on the chair to rub the sore spot. Shifting to the left, she felt the box of matches she’d shoved into her dress pocket. Once the tight spot in her muscle dissolved, she pulled out the box of matches and took one out. She lit it, letting the flame burn until she could feel the heat against her fingers before she shook the match to extinguish its yellow glow. Burning down the place was always an option, except for the high odds of getting trapped inside.
The endlessness of not knowing what was happening was torture.
A key rattled in the lock. Fear left room for a smidgen of hope as the hinges squeaked and the door opened. If she could at least talk to someone, she might be able to do something to help with her escape.
She squinted to make out the burly figure in the doorway.
Patrick stood with a lantern and a plate of food.
The blackened match she’d held between her fingers dropped to the floor. “Patrick?”
Her stomach clenched. Gut instincts she’d tried to ignore surfaced. She hadn’t wanted to believe Patrick was behind all this, but unless he was here with a rescue party, that’s exactly what he’d done.
He set the plate of food on the table before pulling out a chair and sitting down.
She stayed standing as her heart sank. This was obviously no rescue. “What are you doing here?”
It had been hours since she’d last eaten, but the rich scent of the sauce turned her stomach.
“I could ask the same of you. I think I told you more than once not to get involved.” Patrick pushed the plate toward her, then started to untie her bound wrists. “You’ve got five minutes. Eat.”
“Not get involved with what?” Anger seared through her. “The demolition of a village? The disappearance of Joseph’s family? The reality of a slave trade in these mountains? Don’t tell me you actually expected me not to say anything.”
“I warned you to leave things alone. No one was paying any attention to your little demographic reports, but you had to keep poking and asking questions.”
So that was why he’d been interested in her statistics? To make sure she wasn’t close to finding out the truth? Which, thanks to Joseph, was exactly what had happened. She’d discovered the truth: Ghost Soldiers weren’t legends told around the dinner fires at night. They’d stolen hundreds, maybe thousands, of people from their homes and turned them into slaves.
Natalie eyed the door and w
eighed her options. She knew she should eat. As much as she had no appetite, losing strength because of not eating wasn’t going to help. She needed to be ready to escape if given an opportunity.
Patrick gripped the rope between his fingers. “I wouldn’t try anything. Trust me, you don’t want to be out there at night in this part of town.”
Despite the balmy breeze floating through the open door, Natalie shivered. She sat down and managed to swallow her first bite without gagging. If she couldn’t escape, at least she could get some answers. “Did you get the photos from Chad?”
“Things have changed and I decided it wasn’t worth the risk.”
Natalie bit back her frustration, tired of the game. “Then what happens now, Patrick?”
“A good question, but you, unfortunately, have found yourself in the middle of something far bigger than a simple village raid.”
She pointed to her wounded shoulder. “Is that why you sent the cavalry after me? Because of the photos?”
“The photos don’t matter anymore.”
Fear returned. Then why she was still here…alive? Up until now, she’d believed the photos to be her one source of insurance. “The other night at Stephen’s party you told me that if something happened during the elections, you would simply blame it on the UN committee. What do the elections have to do with the Ghost Soldiers?”
“I’ve always believed that it pays to be on the right side.”
She let her spoon clink against the edge of the metal plate. “And whose side is that? The one who pays the most?”
“You never were good at politics, Natalie. I’d suggest you stick to your health care projects.”
She toyed with the edge of the plate. “You’re the one who put out the reward for Chad and me, aren’t you?”
Patrick’s brow rose. “If you think this is my time for confessions, you’re wrong.”
“I can’t believe you were behind all this.”
“Then what do you want to believe? The truth is that this country will never be worth the diamonds hidden inside its mines unless someone stands up and takes advantage of what we already have. We could wait a thousand years and nothing would change.”
She shoved her plate aside, her appetite gone. There were too many people who believed there was no chance for change, and she refused to be one of them. But this way would never help anyone. “I don’t get it, Patrick.”
Patrick retied the ropes around her wrists. “Get what?”
“You’re throwing away everything you have for a chance at what? No, let me guess. A bigger paycheck? The thing is I thought you were too smart to bow to the highest bidder. Especially when you could lose it all in an instant.”
“I don’t bow to anyone.”
“Maybe that’s part of the problem. Your alliances don’t run past the surface. They could change in an instant, and you would be left on the outside.”
He tugged on the end of the rope, letting it bite into her flesh. “That’s not the only way to look at things.”
She ignored the pain. “Really.”
“Have you ever stopped and thought that just maybe I actually want what’s best for my people? So much, in fact, that I’m willing to risk everything to change this country for something better?”
“No, I don’t believe you want what’s best for your people. Not when hundreds are being held against their will and others are being killed because they’re too old or ill. We all know that this election is a chance for the RD to finally prove they’re willing to hold a fair election and listen to the voices of the people.”
“Think about the discovery of oil reserves in Equatorial Guinea, for example,” he countered. “Their per capita income isn’t much lower than the United States.”
“But how much of that income makes its way into the pocket of the average person?” Natalie replied. “I’ve seen the statistics. Thirty percent are unemployed, and their water isn’t even drinkable. The money still stays at the top. Nothing really changed. Is that what you want for your country?”
“You put the right people in charge, and it doesn’t have to be that way.”
She didn’t believe him. Prosperity for the people? Or for a lucky handful who managed to gain power? “And what about those who end up paying the price? What about Joseph’s family?”
He shoved his chair back and stood. “There are casualties in every war.”
“What does Rachel think about all of this? Or does she even know?”
“Rachel…” His gaze shifted to the floor.
Alarm shot through Natalie. “Where is she, Patrick?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It doesn’t matter?” Natalie moved to stand in front of him. “What did you do to her?”
He pushed her back down onto the chair. “I didn’t do anything.”
Natalie’s back struck against the chair, causing her to wince. “Then who did?”
Patrick stopped short in the doorway. “I loved her.”
“You killed her, didn’t you?”
Patrick wiped moisture from his forehead. “It was all supposed to be so simple. Then everywhere I turned, it seemed, things went wrong.”
“I know that taking a life will never right a wrong.” Natalie suppressed her growing anger. “So what happens now?”
“For the moment, I figure you’re worth more to me alive. A sort of…guarantee.”
“A guarantee for what?”
“For the next twenty-four hours. That’s all the time I need. After that, it won’t really matter.”
Natalie swallowed hard. Then he’d kill her. Just like he’d presumably done to Rachel. This had nothing to do with helping his people. “What’s going to happen tomorrow, Patrick? How are you planning to sabotage the election?”
“I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a very busy day.”
The door slammed behind him, leaving Natalie in darkness. She crossed the room, stopping at the small hole in the wall. Stars traversed the black carpet of sky, blinking like diamonds across the vast expanse of heavens.
Suddenly, she felt very small.
FIFTY-ONE
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 11:24 A.M. EST
SHOPPING MALL OUTSIDE WASHINGTON DC
Gabby exited the crowded department store wondering when businesses had started playing Christmas music in November. Not that she didn’t enjoy the season’s hustle and bustle all wrapped in the nostalgic flutter of lights and decorations, but she hadn’t even started thawing the Thanksgiving turkey yet.
She glanced behind her, an impulse that was quickly becoming a habit. While her meeting with Mickey Chandler had left her frustrated that the government wasn’t interested in getting involved like she’d hoped, putting a plausible name to her target had only added to the realness of her fears. But even so, she had no intentions of living her life dictated by a string of threats, even if it was only a quick stop by the mall on her way home. Her father hadn’t allowed fear to run his life. Neither would she.
She stopped at the edge of the wrought-iron railing that overlooked the bottom level of the mall and eyed her surroundings. Breathing in deeply, she let the canned music playing over the sound system and the smell of cinnamon soak in—which only managed to leave her craving cinnamon rolls from the vendor two stores down.
Tightening her hold on her black-velvet dress hanging neatly from a hanger and tucked inside plastic, she watched the shoppers and tried to relax. Sabrina had made her promise she’d do one thing for herself today, and there was nothing like a new outfit to lift her melancholy mood. While the black number hadn’t been on her shopping list, discovering she could slip into a size smaller had cinched the deal and made the past six grueling months at the gym worth it.
Something gnawed on the edges of her mind and snapped her back to the present. Years of reporting and journalism had turned her into an observer of people, which meant ignoring instinct was no longer possible. A man stood in the shadows, talk
ing on a cell phone…and watching her. Cropped hair, blue jeans, and nondescript T-shirt. Maybe she was only paranoid, but she knew she’d seen him before. At the food court an hour ago when she’d bought a cappuccino, and later when she’d left the gift shop with a small basket of soaps for her mother’s birthday.
A familiar wave of panic gushed through her, but she shook it off. Her reaction was nothing more than plain old paranoia from all that had happened the last week. E-mail threats and phone calls were one thing. It didn’t mean a sniper was aiming a bullet at her. And besides, what journalist hadn’t received a threat or two in his or her lifetime?
Determined to enjoy the rest of her afternoon, she moved in front of a jewelry store to study a pair of black onyx drop earrings that caught her eye. The spendy pair was nestled in a bed of fake snow and was certainly more than she wanted to splurge on, but they would go perfectly with the dress. She weighed her options. The first article in her series had just been published, which gave her plenty of reasons to celebrate. She eyed the rest of the display case. A pair of purple tanzanite earrings sat in the top corner. Gabby felt her throat tighten. Six months ago, she wouldn’t have thought twice about buying the stunning earrings on a whim.
But then she’d met Samuel.
Samuel was twelve, but barely looked eight or nine. He spent his days sifting through the sand for the sought-after gem in exchange for one meal a day. His mother sold vegetables at the nearby market, and when that wasn’t enough to feed them, she subsidized her meager income through prostitution.
Gabby’s fingertips touched the surface of the glass before she turned and hurried toward the nearest exit and the parking lot with her purchases, any joy in shopping lost. Outside, sounds of traffic from the busy street adjacent to the mall greeted her. Standing next to a donation bucket, a bundled-up volunteer rang his bell while the dreary skyline showed signs of the evening’s forecasted storm.
She rummaged through her purse, dumped a handful of change into the red bucket, then pulled her coat tighter around her to block the icy wind. For a moment she wished for the clear blue skies of Africa. No matter what tragedies she’d witnessed, there would always be that mysterious pull to the continent where her father had been born and raised. The openness and friendliness of its people had dredged up longings for community that were hard to find in the hectic pace of this city. And with that same longing had come a measure of hope that things would one day be different.
