by Jeff Buick
He turned away from the window and slipped on a suit jacket. Morgantown was okay, and he was a big fish in a small pond, but his life was in Richmond. He missed the restaurants, the theater, the culture that a smaller center could never provide. He hadn’t dated anyone since he moved to Morgantown, at least not with any degree of regularity, and missed the women. A handful of images flashed through his mind—one stayed.
Jill. Jill Brower. A stunning brunette with a wide smile and a quick sense of humor. The last time he had called she was still single. Maybe when he returned to Richmond . . .
His cell phone vibrated and he checked the number. It was an internal number from DC Trust. He knew exactly who it would be. This was one call he was expecting.
“Hello,” he said. “I hope you have good news.”
“Yes,” the voice said. “She’s going to approve the conversion.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Swanson said, allowing himself a smile. “What happens from here?”
“Leona Hewitt submits her report and the bank goes on record as backing the change in accounting practices. You already have regulatory approval from the stock exchange, pending the bank’s decision, so it’s a done deal. Your legal team will handle things from here.”
“Excellent. How long will it take?”
“That’s a question for your lawyers. I can only speak for the bank.”
“I understand. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Not a problem.”
Swanson killed the line. Having a contact person on the twelfth floor of the bank was crucial to his success. He relied on the man to feed him inside information and steer decisions his way whenever possible. That connection would come in handy later, when Coal-Balt needed hundreds of millions of dollars to upgrade their facilities. But that would be someone else’s problem, not his. He set the alarm and exited his house through the garage, backing the Porsche into the circular drive, then winding out the gears as he steered through the tight turn leading to the street. His cell phone rang again as he pulled out from his private drive. He answered without looking at the number.
“Good morning, Derek.”
Swanson tensed. It was Darvin’s voice. “What do you want?” His tone was cool, bordering on uncivil.
“Having a good day?”
“Tell me what you want or I’m hanging up.”
“You haven’t seen the newspapers today, have you?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Darvin’s voice was aloof, almost condescending. “You really should read the early morning paper, Derek. Especially a man in your position. How can you be a leader if you don’t know what’s going on in the world?”
“Stop fucking around,” Swanson said, his anger rising. “I’m busy. I have to go.”
“Read the paper, Derek. You’ll be very pleased.”
A dial tone followed the final word and Swanson flipped the phone shut. What the hell was the demented fool talking about? What could be in the papers today that would interest him more than any other day? He touched the accelerator slightly and the sports car surged ahead. He’d be at the office soon enough. Then he would find out what Darvin was on about.
Darvin set the phone on his kitchen counter and grinned. What a dumb fuck. Derek Swanson was so screwed . . . and he didn’t even know it yet. Soon enough. This time it would be Swanson calling him.
The house was dark, every blind drawn against the sun. A solitary light hung over the tiny island in the kitchen, the light illuminating a stack of dirty dishes and empty pizza boxes piled on the counter and overflowing onto the floor. The stench from the rotting food was overpowering and every breath was an affront to his senses. He left the kitchen and navigated a narrow staircase to the upper floor. The odor dissipated as he reached the second floor and was almost unnoticeable as he opened the door at the end of the hall. The heavy drapes were open a crack, allowing enough sunlight in to showcase a surreal scene.
It was a bedroom, with an armoire and a matching dresser and night table. An old-style alarm clock, with two bells and a ringer, sat on the night table, positioned beside the single bed. The covers were pulled up and the pillow shams smoothed—no wrinkles. A wheelchair sat motionless against the far wall. Darvin walked across the room and threw back the curtains.
“Good morning, Mother,” he said.
The sudden influx of light flooded the room and color sprang from the darkness. The comforter was bright pink, the wallpaper a muted rose with lavender flowers. The corpse sitting in the wheelchair remained pale gray.
Darvin strode over to where the emancipated cadaver sat, its elbows resting on the arms of the chair, its bony hands grasping the wooden curls like eagle’s talons. The eye sockets were empty holes, and any skin that was left over the skeleton was stretched tight with long vertical creases and cracks. Yellow teeth protruded from the petrified jaw. Jagged bones protruded from the dried skin on both legs, evidence of compound fractures inflicted before death.
His eyes fixated on the broken bones, then he kneeled and ran his finger along their sharp edges. “You’re all broken,” he hissed. “Broken and withered and weak. Never thought the day would come when you were the one begging for a doctor . . . begging for your life.” He stopped touching her and leaned forward, his face only inches from the hollow eyes.
“Weak, Mother. Pathetic and weak.” His voice changed, higher in pitch and demanding. “And your tears. I never knew you could cry. But I gave you something to cry about, didn’t I? You felt what it was like to be brutalized. To be humiliated. Poor baby. Poor Mother.” He stood up, a malicious leer etched on his face.
“Another dirty thing is dead, Mother. And Darvin never touched it.” He pushed on the safety brake and silently wheeled the chair about the room. The corpse’s thin hair swayed in the stale air. “Never touch the dirty things. That’s what you told me. I listened well. I don’t touch them, and I never let the dirty things touch me. Never.”
He returned the chair to its original spot, walked over to the window and looked out. The farmhouse was nestled into a large square of hickory and black oak trees, invisible from the secondary highway that ran by a few hundred feet to the north. In the summer, when the foliage on the trees was full, he felt safe from the world. In the winter, when the leaves dropped and the snowy fields were visible from the window, he felt naked. Exposed. He hated the winter.
“The meal I had last night was wonderful.” He continued to stare out the window. “Cajun chicken with risotto and asparagus. Very different from when you were doing the cooking. And I didn’t clean the kitchen yet. It’s quite disgusting. I think you would be very angry with me.” He turned from the window and looked into the hollow sockets that at one time had held hateful eyes. “But you don’t care, do you? You’re dead.”
He stared at her for a few minutes, then added, “Thank God for that.”
Derek Swanson breezed through the outer office and said the perfunctory good mornings to the admin staff in the bullpen. He walked down the hall and stopped for a moment at his executive assistant’s desk.
“Do we have a copy of today’s newspaper?” he asked.
“USA Today and the Richmond Times-Dispatch,” she responded, handing him both.
“Thanks.”
Swanson headed straight into his office and threw the papers on his desk. He powered up his computer and checked his e-mail. Sixteen new messages had come in over the weekend and he scanned them to see if any were high priority. None were. He sat back in his chair and picked up the Richmond Times-Dispatch. The usual drudgery covered the front page—terrorist bombings, murders and high-profile court cases. He flipped through most of the first section, wondering what Darvin had been talking about. He stopped on page twelve, his eyes fixated on one of the articles:
UTAH SENATOR DIES IN CAR CRASH.
Slowly, he allowed his eyes to drop from the headline to the copy. He read it, all the while knowing he was reading a lie. Senator Claire Buxto
n didn’t die accidentally. She had been murdered. He didn’t know the details, but he was sure Darvin was responsible. Swanson set the paper on his desk and closed his eyes. He felt sick. The twisted bastard had taken things into his own hands and removed the senator before her bill was introduced to Congress. And now he was tied in with her death. He would never be able to convince anyone that Darvin had acted unilaterally when he killed the politician and her son. The same brush would paint both of them. Tar and feather them, rather.
He stood on shaky legs and walked to the window. Why had he involved Darvin? The man was a complete psychopath. He had seen something in the killer’s eyes the first time they had met, when the union rep had to die. Something that had bothered him. A coldness that went beyond any vestige of normalcy. A tiny window into a sick and troubled mind. But he had opened the latch and let the man into his life. Now, with everything at stake, that mistake was coming back at him like a runaway boulder crashing down a hill. And there was little he could do to stop it. What did the twisted bastard want? Money, to be sure. But how much? A specific figure, or a percentage of the net gain in the common shares after the conversion? Either one was too much. He had brought the man in to take care of a single task and had paid him well for it. But what would be the final figure? That was the question. And to that, he had no answer.
29
The air was absolutely still, no hint of a breeze. Sweat dripped off Kubala Kantu’s forehead onto his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe his brow. He sat quietly, under the intense African sun and the watchful eyes of six heavily armed men. None of them smiled. And every one of them was staring directly at him.
A door opened and a middle-aged man swaggered across the dusty courtyard to where Kubala was perched on a small stool. He carried an automatic rifle and a revolver was stuck in his belt. As he approached, Kubala could see the line of a jagged scar that ran from the man’s right eye to his jawline. It had been stitched up, but very poorly. The scars from the suture formed a crisscross pattern over the gash. His eyes were yellow and piercing. He reached Kubala and poked him with the business end of the rifle.
“You can see Mr. Shambu now.” He leaned forward, closing the distance between them. His breath reeked of rotting teeth and bad gums. “If you make any sort of movement that I do not like, I will kill you. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” Kubala said.
“Keep your hands where I can see them. At all times. Do not put your hands in your pockets.”
Kubala nodded that he understood. They had already subjected him to a strip search, but there was nothing to be gained by reminding Nikala Shambu’s bodyguard that he could not possibly have a weapon. He walked toward the door, then through it and out of the sun into an air-conditioned room. From the outside, the building was simply another shanty on one of Nairobi’s many side streets. But inside, it was anything but a dump. The walls were brightly painted and the floor was inlaid tile covered with thick Persian carpets. Heavy leather furniture and modern glass end tables were arranged in two separate groupings. Smoke hung in the air, but through the haze, Kubala could see three men sitting on one of the couches. He approached them and stood a few feet back, unmoving and quiet.
“What do you want?” Nikala Shambu asked, picking his teeth. A half-eaten plate of food sat on the coffee table in front of him. Smoke trailed from a thick cigar he held between his fingers.
“I am Kubala Kantu,” he said, his voice even and with cadence. “I work with an American organization called Save Them, keeping elephants safe from poachers in the Sam-buru district.”
“I know who you are,” Shambu said. “I asked what you wanted.”
Kubala cleared his throat. “A man who works for this organization has disappeared. I was wondering if you might know where he is. His name is Mike Anderson.”
Nikala shifted slightly on the couch and picked up a revolver that was sitting next to him. “It bothers me that you would come looking for this man.” He caressed the gun, almost a loving touch. He paused, then continued when Kubala didn’t respond. “Why do you care about him?”
“He works for Save Them. I also work for this organization. When Mr. Mike didn’t show up in Samburu, I phoned the woman in New York who runs the charity. She asked that I speak with you, to see if you had heard anything about what might have happened to him.”
“Why would I know anything?” Shambu leaned forward, his eyes dark.
Kubala knew his life was in the man’s hands. Any mistake at this point would be fatal. “Mr. Mike told me that he had set up safe passage for the money from the United States. In order to do that, he needed to have the most powerful man in Nairobi working with him. He told me you were that man.” Shambu relaxed into the couch. “You keep a lot of information in that head of yours, Kubala Kantu. Information that could be dangerous to your health.”
“I have known of this since you and Mr. Mike first struck your deal. I have never said a word to anyone. There’s no reason to start now.”
“I see.” Shambu reached out and picked up a date from the plate of fruit on the table. “So you want to know what happened to Mike Anderson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The police have him. They picked him up after he and I met. That was a little over a week ago.”
Kubala looked at the floor, trying to piece together why the police would have taken the American. “I don’t understand. Mr. Mike was in Kenya legally. What would the police want with him?”
Shambu smiled. “Come now, it can’t be that difficult.”
“Money.”
“Of course. But what is troubling is how quiet the police are being. I was able to find out where they were keeping him, but that is all I know. Other than they think he is the key to a large amount of money.”
“That is impossible. Mr. Mike doesn’t control the money. Ms. Leona, the woman in America, set things up so that once the money is in the bank, it can only be released to the local bank in Samburu. And that requires three signatures. It is very difficult to get the money. She did that so no one could steal it.”
Shambu nodded. “Mike Anderson told me this some time ago. He said that the only time he could access money was when he first deposited it. After that, he wasn’t authorized.”
“Yes. Ms. Leona arranged that so he could take money to pay you.”
Nikala Shambu chewed on the date and spit out the pit. “It troubles me that you know so much.”
Kubala was terrified, but simply shrugged. “As I said, sir, I’ve known since you first began dealing with Mr. Mike. I’ve never said a word to anyone.”
Shambu pondered that thought, the gun in his hand. Finally, he said, “Mike Anderson is in a basement cell in the old jail on Ngariama Street. Do you know this building?”
“Yes, but it’s no longer a police station. Not for many years.”
“Not an official one.” Shambu waved at the door. “You have the information you came for. Leave. And do not say one word of my involvement, or you and every person you know are dead. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Very clearly. This will not be a problem.”
“Good.”
Kubala returned to the afternoon heat and walked back to the main road and his Jeep. He slipped in behind the wheel and dug in his pocket for the keys. He was shaking so badly that it took him three tries to insert the key into the ignition. The traffic was thick and he concentrated on driving as best he could. But foremost in his mind was what had just happened. He was now known to Nikala Shambu, and if there were ever any doubt if he had said something Shambu considered confidential, his life was over.
But even more troubling was Mike Anderson’s predicament. The Nairobi police had grabbed him and thrown him in jail. But not a regular jail. One that had been decommissioned a long time ago. And that meant the American was being held unofficially. Without charges. And in Nairobi, that was serious. They wanted money—that was the easy part. The not-so-easy part was how to contact these people. How to tell th
em that Mike Anderson did not have access to the money sent over from the United States. And then, how to get him out of the jail.
First things first. He had to call Leona Hewitt and deliver the news.
30
The Salt Lake City police would release no further information than what was in the newspapers. That came as no surprise to Leona—she wasn’t family, and her request for additional details on Senator Buxton’s crash was a long shot that went nowhere. She thanked the officer, hung up the phone, walked to her window and stared out at the gray sky and the drab buildings across the street from the bank.
What to do?
Her two o’clock meeting with Anthony Halladay was fast approaching, and now she was unsure of herself. Of her decision. She had already indicated to the CEO that there would be no problems. But now, with Claire Buxton’s death, she was rethinking things. The phone rang and she turned away from the dreary day and checked her call display. It was Jacquie Cole, her friend who worked in the legal department at the U. S. Department of the Interior. Leona had placed a call to the lawyer first thing in the morning, asking about the status of Claire Buxton’s bill now that the senator was dead.
“Hi, Jacquie,” she said. “What have you got for me?”
“Tough to tell right now. But it looks like Buxton’s bill will go on a back burner for a while. At least until a new representative to the Senate is elected. The general feeling is that no one wants to push ahead with what is a controversial issue.”
“Controversial? How is getting these companies to clean up their acts controversial?”
“The lobbyists are all over this, Leona,” Jacquie said. “Jack Dunn is already in front of a camera, expressing deep regrets at losing such a great stateswoman with one breath, and attacking the bill with the next. This initiative was Buxton’s and hers alone. She was the driving force behind it. Without her, it could well die on the vine. Everything depends on who replaces her. Will they be an advocate of her stance and the work she’s put into this, or will they have their own agenda? No one knows. And it’s going to be some time before a new senator moves into her office.”