Delicate Chaos

by Jeff Buick

  “As sure as I can be. I’m in here and the money’s out there. If it’s where I left it, then it’s all yours.”

  Rackisha edged closer to the American. “Perhaps I should persuade you to tell me where it is.”

  “Much simpler to have Kubala get it for you,” Anderson said, trying to keep the tone in his voice from showing any fear.

  “All right, I’ll arrange for a meeting. But if you try anything stupid, I’ll kill both of you.”

  Anderson nodded. “Okay, now we’re talking. My schedule’s pretty open these days. I’m ready anytime you are.”

  34

  The request to visit the Washington police station came at ten on Tuesday morning in the form of a plainclothes cop at Leona’s office door. She powered down her computer and switched off her light, then joined the young detective by the elevator. They rode down together in silence. In fact, they didn’t speak until they were at the precinct and he asked her to follow him. They both entered a well-lit cor- ner office where two men and one woman were sitting and talking in low voices. The room went silent when she entered, then the man behind the desk stood and introduced himself.

  “Detective George Harvey.” He extended his hand. Harvey was DC Homicide, and had been DC Homicide for twenty-three years. The job had taken two wives, but not his hair. At forty-seven, he still sported thick dark hair that was the envy of the department. Even the young guys in their twenties were envious. His face was taking on some age—character wrinkles he called them, and the creases were getting deeper and more pronounced every year. A goatee, graying slightly, added a few years to his look. “This is Marion Jeffries and Hank Trost. Hank and I are both local; Marion is from Salt Lake City.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Leona sat in the offered chair after shaking hands.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why you are here,” Harvey said.

  “It crossed my mind. I don’t think I have any unpaid parking tickets,” she said, then spoke directly to Marion Jeffries.

  “Salt Lake City. This has to do with Senator Claire Buxton.”

  “Yes. You called the Salt Lake police and asked some very interesting questions about the Senator’s accident. We’d like to know why you did that.” Jeffries pushed a few errant strands of short dark hair off her forehead. At five-nine she was tall, and kept her figure slim and her weight down to a respectable one thirty-six. Her eyes were dark brown, to the point where delineating the iris from the pupil was almost impossible. She was forty-two, a mother of three teenage kids, and didn’t believe in wasting time.

  “I don’t remember leaving my name,” Leona said coolly.

  “We like to know who’s calling,” Jeffries replied. “For times like this.”

  “Perhaps you can tell me why you’re so interested in me—in why I was asking questions about the accident.”

  “We’d prefer to hear your side of things first, Ms. Hewitt.”

  Leona glanced about the room. All three cops were staring at her and she could feel the temperature dropping. No sense antagonizing them. “I’m with a local bank and recently had a file dropped on my desk. It was to okay a change in accounting practice for one of our largest clients. If the deal gets a green light, a handful of people stand to make a lot of money, very quickly. While I was collecting information on the company, one of their senior executives disappeared while on a cruise ship.”

  “Was that the fellow who fell overboard on Brilliance of the Seas?” Jeffries asked.

  Leona nodded. “Yes. Reginald Morgan. He was the CEO of Coal-Balt, the company in question. And I had heard from some reliable sources that Mr. Morgan was not in favor of the income trust conversion. That made the timing of his death kind of suspect.”

  “How does Claire Buxton figure into this?” Jeffries asked.

  “She was drafting a new bill that would require coal-burning power plants to clean up their acts. The impact on Coal-Balt, if her bill was passed and became law, would be huge. They would have to upgrade almost all their equipment within a very short period of time. If Senator Buxton’s bill passed through the Senate and Congress, Coal-Balt was poised to be in dire straits financially. Whether or not I approved the conversion depended on the status of her bill.”

  “So, much better for the company if her bill were to never make it to the Senate,” Jeffries said quietly.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Who stands to gain most from the conversion?” she asked.

  “There are a lot of pension funds and large American corporations, a few multinationals and a handful of individual people.”

  “Who are the people?”

  “Reginald Morgan and Derek Swanson are the two most obvious. CEO and president of the company, respectively. They were the largest private shareholders.

  “I don’t think we have to worry about Reginald Morgan,” George Harvey said. “What about Swanson?”

  Leona shrugged. “I don’t know the man. Never met him.”

  “How much money does he stand to make if you okay the deal?” Harvey asked.

  “I’m not sure, but my best guess would be around forty million dollars. Could be more, but I doubt it would be any less.”

  Hank Trost let out a low whistle. “That goes to motive.”

  “Certainly does,” Marion Jeffries said. She directed her question to Leona. “So that’s why you called Salt Lake asking about Senator Buxton’s accident?”

  Leona nodded. “It was too coincidental. Nine days separating the deaths of two people, both connected to Coal-Balt.”

  Marion Jeffries tapped her pen against one of her knuckles. “Your insight has been invaluable. I’m sure we wouldn’t have picked up the connection. It was too remote.”

  “The only reason I noticed it was because they were both on my radar screen right at that moment. Dumb luck is all.” She asked the Salt Lake detective, “Did you find something suspicious in your investigation?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, Ms. Hewitt. It’s an ongoing investigation and we can’t disclose our findings.”

  “I understand.”

  “Can I ask you a question concerning the bank?”

  “That depends on the question,” Leona said. “We have confidentiality agreements with our clients.”

  “Of course,” Jeffries agreed. “Did you approve the conversion?”

  Leona pondered her answer for a few seconds. Perhaps quid pro quo could come into play. “That’s a difficult question to answer, Detective. Actually, the answer depends on your answer to my previous question.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. I tied my decision to the results of your investigation.”

  “So if we found clues that could point to some sort of tampering, then you wouldn’t approve the deal. Something like that?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, we’ll be releasing our results in about a week, maybe two. We need time to work with what we found.”

  “Interesting,” Leona said. Jeffries’s choice of words was purposeful and very clear.

  “One thing,” the Salt Lake detective said. “You should be careful for the next little while.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Every person who has appeared to be a threat to CoalBalt is dead. If you nix the deal, you immediately fall into that category.”

  The color washed from Leona’s face. “I never thought of that.”

  “It might be nothing,” Jeffries said, “but I’d be careful just the same.”

  George Harvey cut in. “If you need anything, if you see anyone or anything suspicious, Ms. Hewitt, let us know.” He handed her his business card.

  “Sure, I’ll do that.”

  The interview lasted another twenty minutes, and when Leona finally left the corner office, she was in shock. Marion Jeffries had done everything but tell her outright that Senator Claire Buxton had been murdered. The Salt Lake City police had found something that led them in that direction. Jeffries had used that exact word: found. She wa
s giving what she could without breaching the confidentiality aspect of the investigation. Reginald Morgan on the cruise ship. Claire Buxton while driving her car. Both murdered.

  Was she next?

  35

  The meeting was set for Wednesday at one in the afternoon in a coffee shop on Biashara Street, three blocks from the center of the City Market. Kubala was to come alone and unarmed. Mike Anderson would be waiting.

  Kubala sat on a bench overlooking St. Paul’s Chapel and Central Park, and checked his watch. Fifteen minutes until the meeting. He was nervous. Scared, actually. The Nairobi police were not people you wanted to spend time with. They were corrupt, dangerous, and since they were the law, they operated with impunity. Almost everyone in Nairobi had a story about the police. None of them were pleasant. Kubala stood and stretched, then headed away from the riverbank and into the congested and violent streets. A group of thugs taunted him as he passed, but he refused to make eye contact and they left him alone. Committing suicide in the Kenyan capital would be so easy—just insult a gang member by staring at him.

  He turned the last corner and walked halfway down Bi-ashara Street to where a Mercedes sat outside the small café. Two men in street clothes lounged against the car, but Kubala instantly sensed they were police. The condescending look in their eyes and their stiff body language simply confirmed it. He avoided making prolonged eye contact with them and pulled open the battered door to the café.

  Inside it was dark and smelled of grease and smoke. There were six tables, but only one was occupied. Mike Anderson and Bawata Rackisha were seated on the wobbly wooden chairs. Both had water bottles in front of them. Anderson was freshly shaven and looked clean and alert. His eyes were energized pools of brown and Kubala knew the reason. His American friend was experiencing freedom for the first time in almost two weeks. Kubala knew the feeling from personal experience. A very bad personal experience with the Kenyan army.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Kantu,” Inspector Rackisha said as Kubala approached the table.

  “Not a problem, Inspector.” He focused on Mike Anderson. “It’s good to see you again, my friend.”

  “And you, Kubala,” Anderson replied.

  Kubala sat and a moment later a man appeared from the kitchen area with a fresh bottle of water. He set it in front of the newcomer and disappeared into the back room. Kubala unscrewed the top and took a short drink, glancing about the café as he set the bottle back on the table. There were three other men inside the room, standing back in the shadows, almost hidden from view. It was hard to discern their facial features, but not difficult to see the bulges in their suit jackets under their left arms.

  “Could I have a minute with Kubala in private?” Anderson asked.

  The inspector shrugged his shoulders. “That’s fine. Keep in mind what we discussed.”

  “Of course.”

  “You look well treated,” Kubala said when Rackisha was out of earshot.

  “Looks can be deceiving. I have been treated very poorly. I need to get out of the cell where they’re holding me, and I may be down to my last few days to do so. The window of time where I am useful to them is shrinking very quickly.”

  “What do you need me to do?” Kubala asked, leaning closer.

  “They want money. But the funds I’ve already deposited are untouchable. It would take too long and involve too many people in order to access the money.”

  “What can we do?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “When I first arrived in Nairobi, I kept two hundred and sixty thousand dollars in cash. I gave one hundred and eighty of that to Nikala Shambu. That leaves eighty thousand dollars.”

  “Where is it?” Kubala asked.

  Mike Anderson stared into Kubala’s eyes. “This could get very dangerous.”

  Kubala smiled. “This is already very dangerous. There is no guarantee they will let either one of us live.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “You need help. Without it, you will not survive. I am your knight in white armor.”

  “Shining armor, Kubala. Knight in shining armor. And yes, you are, my friend.”

  “I thought it was white.”

  “Your horse is white. White horse, shining armor.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Very good. You know this saying very well.”

  “English as a first language has its benefits.” Anderson glanced over at the police inspector, then continued. “The money is tucked up under the driver’s seat of Tuato’s car. It’s the one he and Momba always use to drive me around Nairobi. Once you find the car, the easiest way to get at the money is from the backseat.”

  “Where does Tuato live?”

  “Kariokor, on the north side of the river. On Jairo Owino Street.”

  “I know this place. Should I bring the money to the inspector when I have recovered it?”

  “No. Absolutely not. Once you give him the money, there’s no upside to him letting me go. When you have the money, you come back and talk with the inspector. Tell him you’ll give him twenty thousand up front and fifty-five once I’m free and at the airport with a ticket in my hand, or inside the American Embassy. Either one is fine.”

  “You said eighty thousand. That’s only seventy-five.”

  “Five for you. Something for you to live on while hiding out. You’ll need to stay out of sight for a few months until things calm down. These guys will eventually forget about you.”

  “Thank you,” Kubala said. “Do you need me to buy your plane ticket?”

  Anderson shook his head. “No. Just get me out of here with my passport. I have an account at First Kenyan Bank with a couple of thousand dollars in it in case something like this happened.”

  “All right. I’ll try.”

  “I need you to do this, Kubala. There is no one else.”

  “There is Tuato and Momba.”

  “I trust Tuato to keep me safe while I’m paying him, Kubala. But I don’t trust him to make a good decision if he finds out about the money. Eighty thousand dollars is a lot of money. I think he would keep it and let me rot in jail. He can’t know what you’re doing. The same thing with Momba.”

  “Yes, I agree.” Kubala took a long drink of water, his eyes focused on Anderson’s. “But you trust me with eighty thousand dollars.”

  “Completely. There is no doubt in my mind that if it’s possible, you’ll get me out of here.”

  “Your trust is a great compliment, Mr. Mike. I’ll do my best.”

  “I know, my friend.”

  Kubala stood up. Inspector Rackisha returned to the table.

  “Do you have everything worked out?” he asked.

  Anderson nodded. “You will have your money soon.”

  Rackisha grinned, but more warmth would emanate from an open fridge door than from his smile. “That’s good news. For everyone.”

  Kubala left the café immediately. There was nothing else to say. He retraced his steps to the park, then cut back through a series of alleyways and narrow warrens, watching for any sign he was being followed. Nothing. When he was sure he was in the clear, he returned to his Land Rover. It was an older model, covered in mud, with a smashed front bumper and many dents, and fit nicely into Nairobi’s traffic. He knew the area of town where Tuato lived and steered toward the neighborhood. It was a rough part of town, as were most, and surviving long enough to find the car and grab the money was going to be a challenge.

  He had one stop to make: to call Leona Hewitt and tell her what was happening, that he had met with Mike Anderson and that he was alive. Not all that well, but alive. And that they had a plan to free him that didn’t require trying to pry money back out of the Kenyan bank.

  He allowed himself the hint of a smile. Mike Anderson trusted him with eighty thousand dollars. What made him happy, proud even, was that he had earned that trust. It was an incredible feeling to know that Mike Anderson, a man he liked and respected, had placed his life
in his hands. That trust was not misplaced. He would do everything possible to save Mike Anderson, just as Mike and Leona Hewitt had done everything they could to save the elephants and villagers in Samburu.

  What worried Kubala was the question of whether his best would be good enough.

  36

  The doorbell rang at 9:18 on Wednesday morning. Derek Swanson was expecting his landscaper and didn’t bother checking to see who had rung the bell before answering the door. He got quite a shock.

  On his doorstep were two people; a man and a woman. They didn’t have to show any credentials for Swanson to realize he was looking at two cops. As it was, they both had their creds out and flashed them in his direction. The man spoke first.

  “Derek Swanson?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective George Harvey, Washington DC Police.

  This is Marion Jeffries. We’d like to ask you a couple of questions. Do you have a few minutes?”

  Swanson looked at the outstretched badge. “Washington. You’re a ways from home.”

  “Can we come in?”

  “A few minutes, but that’s it,” he said, glancing at Jef-fries’s badge and motioning for them to enter. “I have a meeting at ten.”

  “That should work fine,” Harvey said, walking through the foyer into the great room. “Nice place.”

  “Thank you.” Swanson pointed to the couches. “Would you like to sit?”

  The two cops sat on a couch and Swanson settled into one of the wingback chairs. There was a brief silence while George Harvey slipped his notebook from his pocket and silently perused one of the pages.

  “You are the president of Coal-Balt, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “What exactly does your company do, Mr. Swanson?”

  “We mine coal seams here in West Virginia and ship the coal to our power plant where it’s burned to produce electricity. Then we sell that electricity to various companies that distribute it to business and residential customers.”

  “And Reginald Morgan was the Chief Executive Officer of Coal-Balt.”

  “Yes. He was the CEO.”