The Summoner

by Layton Green

  Nya pulled away. “It’s very late.”

  Grey nodded.

  “You should stay.”

  “Your living room is comfortable-”

  “You should stay with me,” she said, her voice husky.

  He pulled her back in.

  34

  Amusement creased the hard lines around Nigel Drake’s eyes. “It’s always a pleasure to do business with my most enigmatic customer. And that is quite a distinction in a business like mine, Professor.”

  Viktor did not return the expression.

  “Will it be the usual, then? Ya, ya,” Nigel smirked, “I believe she has your number, she does. Did you finish off what I gave you already? She’s a killer, you know. And hard to find, here in darkest Africa. Unfortunately the price has increased ten percent.”

  “That’s fine,” Viktor said evenly. “I have another request today as well.”

  Nigel leaned back and spread his arms. “I’m here to serve.”

  “I believe you recently assisted two associates of mine.”

  “I see many people. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “A young man and a young woman. Seeking information about a practitioner of Juju.”

  “Those two. Ya, I remember them. What’s the name of the bloke they were looking for?”

  “N’anga.”

  “What a silly Kaffir name. Don’t tell me you want to know where he is as well?”

  “I do.”

  “Voetsake,” he muttered. “A silly Kaffir name, but a dangerous one. As I told your associates, that’s one of the few pieces of information in this country I don’t possess.”

  “Then I need the same information that you gave them.”

  “A ceremony?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t need him figuring out who’s been supplying free tickets to his parties. It’s bad for business. I’m going to have to decline this request.”

  “Because it’s bad for business or bad for your sleep?”

  Nigel chuckled deep in his throat and rolled up his sleeves, revealing corded forearms criss-crossed with scars. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “There’s no longer anything in this world that causes me to lose sleep.”

  “And the next world?”

  “That concerns me even less. There is only good for business and bad for business. And this man and his attentions would be bad for business. That is all. There will be no information.”

  “I’ll double the price.”

  “The price for this is already quite expensive. Quite.”

  “How much?”

  “Doubled, ten thousand American dollars.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “That’s the price.”

  “I’ll need it today.”

  Nigel guffawed. “A man of means, is it? I’ve never had a customer bargain the price upwards. But as I’m want to say, everything has its price.”

  35

  Grey awoke with a start. His eyes roved the room with that dazed feeling that comes from not recognizing one’s environment.

  Then he remembered.

  He checked his bandages and gently flexed his wounded hand. He was in rough shape, but nothing debilitating.

  He dressed and took a quick glance around the soft blue, white-curtained room. Her bedroom was simple: a bed, a nightstand with fresh sunflowers, a dresser and a closet. Two framed posters from the Harare International Arts Festival hung on one wall, a child-like painting of a lake on another. Various other pieces and objects, closer to the heart than to art, provided decoration. This must be her childhood room, he thought. She hasn’t really moved back in.

  He moved into a hallway, avoiding a large specimen of Zimbabwe’s ubiquitous flat wall spiders that never failed to unnerve him. He abhorred spiders, and they kept these damn things like pets in Harare.

  He walked down the carpeted hallway, where batiks and better art covered most of the wall space. There were pictures everywhere—on every table, leaning in every window frame, stuck in nooks and crannies. Nya smiled back from many of them, from every age imaginable, beside what could only be her parents—a handsome, bespectacled African man with a sagacious presence, and a silver-haired woman with pale skin and a warm countenance. Grey felt the hollow pang he always got in his gut when confronted with a happy family.

  He passed a closed door and the guest bathroom, then found himself in the study again. French doors at the other end opened wide into a cozy flagstone courtyard surrounded by a kaleidoscope of foliage.

  Nya sat at a low table, her back to Grey, toes curled on the sun-dappled flagstones. The scent of dewy freshness wafted to Grey’s nose, and birds chattered from the garden.

  She set down her tea and embraced him. “Sleep well?”

  “Very.”

  She motioned to a chair. “I’ll bring tea.”

  “Do you have coffee?”

  “You’re in luck. I keep some on hand in case a handsome, green-eyed American should stop by.”

  “I hope the bag’s unopened.”

  She laughed and rose. Grey picked up a copy of the Daily News. The day’s headline: ‘President Asks Populace for Donations for Birthday Bash.’

  Unbelievable.

  Nya returned and they looked at each other across the table. “I’m glad you stayed,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  “I have to ask, last night in the bedroom,” she blushed slightly, “when you were massaging me… it was extraordinary. I’ve never felt so relaxed.”

  “My Jujitsu teacher was an expert in Shiatsu massage, and he required me to learn that also. He wanted me to know how to heal as well as harm.”

  “He taught you well,” she murmured.

  Grey found her even more striking in the morning. Her mussed hair, usually drawn back in a tight bun, fell in light waves around her oval face, adding warmth and depth to her sculpted features.

  “There’s something you need to understand,” she said.

  “That the only thing that matters in your life right now is finding your father’s murderer.”

  “It has to be.”

  “And I want you to understand I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”

  “Why?”

  He stirred his coffee. “Because I want to.”

  “I don’t mean to sound cold, it’s just that-”

  “There’s no need to explain. We have a kidnapper and a murderer to catch, and we’re only going to be distracted if we…”

  “Yes,” she said in a grateful whisper.

  • • •

  Nya disappeared again and came back with two cold pastries. She slid one across to Grey. “I apologize. I don’t keep much food around.”

  “I don’t eat much in the morning. Tell me you’re out of coffee and we have a problem.”

  “Americans and their coffee. I thought you were different.”

  “Not that different.”

  She smiled, then looked down. Her smile faded.

  Grey reached across and took her hand. “Let’s finish this so you can enjoy your mornings again. I think we should concentrate on Fangwa. I believe you that he didn’t personally kill your father—but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t behind it. There’s too much coincidence.”

  “We know Fangwa didn’t do it himself, and how could he have arranged it? He’d just arrived. How could he possibly know anything about my father? My father was tortured and killed in a ritualistic fashion. Babalawos, especially the N’anga, don’t outsource that manner of thing.”

  “How’d your father know his name?”

  “I suppose he told him. That’s what arrogant bastards do.”

  “I don’t know. I agree, it does sound like the personal work of a babalawo. We have to assume your father had something they wanted, information or something else, whether he knew about it or not.”

  She was silent.

  “Haven’t you ever wondered why Fangwa’s in Zimbabwe? We both know he’s no cultural attaché.
”

  “Yes, but… I thought you were keen on Lucky’s involvement.”

  “Whether or not he’s the N’anga, I think it’s possible that Lucky, or one of his men, might have actually killed your father,” he said. “We’re eyewitness proof that his men assaulted two government agents. Isn’t that enough evidence to arrest him? We need to question him.”

  She waffled. “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps? Be straight with me. Do you or don’t you have the power to arrest him?”

  “I do in theory, but I’m not supposed to be investigating the N’anga. Neither are you, and that’s why I told you never to act without me. My superiors couldn’t care less about this cult, except for the possibility of negative press. I’m supposed to ‘keep abreast’ of the situation,” she said bitterly.

  Grey sighed. That explained a lot. “Do they know he killed your father?”

  “No.”

  “You’re keeping it from them so they won’t suspect what you’re doing. Which is spending every possible second investigating your father’s death.”

  “I don’t want to be removed.” She put a hand to her forehead. “But you’re right. It’s time. I’ll gather some men and take Lucky in for questioning. You’ll need to be there as well, to corroborate. It won’t be easy. He spoke the truth when he said he has powerful friends.”

  “How fast can you arrange it?”

  “Today. We’ll go to his club late, when the debauchery is in full swing. It’ll give us ammunition to justify his arrest.”

  “Good. I suppose I’ll have to talk to Harris today.”

  “Today will be a long day.”

  Grey grabbed the paper and tried to relax, letting the morning innocence and the natural beauty of the garden soothe him. He scanned the front page of Harare’s last independent paper, filled with articles decrying Zimbabwe’s descent into chaos and economic ruin.

  Grey frowned. “Why do you have a Daily News?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last I checked the Daily News was about the last thing anyone working for the government would be caught dead reading.” She didn’t reply. “Nya, I need to know something else, especially after… last night. How can you work for this government?”

  “It’s my father’s subscription. He was MDC.”

  The Movement for Democratic Change, the opposition party. Risky enough for a surgeon, Grey thought, but political suicide, and probably literal suicide, for a member of Zanu-PF. “And are you?”

  “Not in name, no.” Grey sensed she had more to say, and sat quietly with her until she spoke again.

  “I was a young girl when Zimbabwe won its independence, a teenager in the years that followed. Zim was a paradise. Do you know what we offered, Grey, what everyone wanted so much? Hope. Hope in freedom, hope in love among the races, hope in Africa, hope in mankind. It was a drug. Even the poor—they saw a light, the dawn of something special, a future for their children, a reason to deal with the misery of daily life.”

  Grey listened in silence.

  “And then they ruined it.” She pointed at the newspaper. “He ruined it. He grew up during apartheid, and I believe he meant well in the beginning. He was a leader, he had vision and courage. I won’t take that away from him. But during the process some terrible things happened—he was tortured during the war, and when he was in exile his only son died, and he wasn’t even allowed to attend the funeral. I’m not excusing him, I’m telling you it’s perhaps not as simple as it appears.”

  “It never is,” Grey said softly.

  “But then his anger and paranoia crippled him, and he started disposing his political enemies. The international community got wind of it and handed down sanctions that only served to cripple the common people. The economy spiraled, he made even grosser decisions to stay in power, and now we have this.” She spread her hands. “You know. You see it.”

  “I do.”

  She picked up the pint of milk she’d used for her tea. “Do you know what four million per cent inflation means? My father paid thirty five thousand Zim dollars for this house twenty years ago. Now a pint of milk costs three billion Zim dollars. Three billion. Who knows what it’ll be tomorrow. Nigel’s right. There’s no more economy.”

  She looked away in disgust. “I love my country. In the beginning I was honored to work for this government. Now disillusioned would be a grotesque understatement.”

  “So why do it?”

  “Because someone has to. And isn’t it better if that someone truly cares about its people? I’ll stay until I can no longer do any good, and then I’ll resign.”

  “And after that?”

  She let out a long slow breath, and didn’t answer.

  36

  Father Cowden looked at Nya in surprise. “I didn’t expect you to return so soon.”

  “I was in the neighborhood, and there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Of course.”

  She hesitated, then rushed into the question. “Do you believe in evil spirits, Father?”

  Father Cowden averted his eyes. “This is a complicated question.”

  “Why?”

  “Those words mean different things to different people. Why do you wish to know?”

  “What we discussed last time. Faith.”

  “Yes?”

  She tapped her foot and looked to the side, then back at Father Cowden. “I’ve seen some things recently. Things I have no explanation for.”

  “Would you like to discuss what you’ve seen?”

  “That won’t change anything. But as I said before, I want to be prepared.”

  “You mentioned this. Do you fear it is something I won’t approve of?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be cryptic. I can’t discuss it. I just need to know—do you believe spirits are real? That the devil is real? That he’s able to influence this world?”

  “The devil has only the power you allow him to have.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You must deny him, and put your faith in Christ.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “That’s the textbook answer. Even if it were true, you’d need faith. It’s not enough to simply utter the words.”

  “The words can never hurt.”

  “So you do believe in evil spirits.”

  Father Cowden shifted. “I hesitate to speak in such terms. The spirit world is not so easily characterized-”

  “But you do believe.”

  “It would be a disservice if I did not harbor certain beliefs. But the church frowns upon discussing these matters.”

  “The devil is real, isn’t he?”

  Father Cowden took a long moment before answering. “He is very real.”

  “What if someone needs help concerning these matters? From the church.”

  “Then you would receive that help. But you would have to be able to discuss what’s troubling you.”

  “I see.”

  “Why concern yourself with such questions? The last time we met you were still struggling with your faith. Have you crossed this hurdle?”

  Nya opened and then closed her mouth. “No.”

  Father Cowden didn’t press her, and she used the interval of silence to reflect. She felt so safe here. Father Cowden’s gentle mannerisms, the slow rhythm of the clock, the touch of incense—she understood why her father had come here almost every day.

  She opened her eyes and fixated on the wall to the left of Father Cowden. “Father?”

  “Yes, child?”

  “I’d like to confess.”

  • • •

  “I need to speak with the Ambassador,” Grey said.

  Harris continued shuffling papers. “What for?”

  “Because he may have been the last person who spoke with Addison. He might have something useful to add, even if he doesn’t know it.”

  “I’d rather spend this coming weekend in a monastery than let you talk to the Ambassador.”

  Grey started to retort,
then bit his tongue as he thought of Addison, of the other victims—of Nya. “I still think the key is figuring out how Addison found out about the ceremony. It could help tremendously to know who led him there, even if it has nothing to do with Juju.”

  “So how’s the Ambassador going to help us with that? If he knew anything he would’ve told me.”

  “Probably. But he’s the only known acquaintance of Addison’s I haven’t talked to.”

  “I’ll talk to him myself.”

  “What will you say when he asks for specifics? He’ll know you haven’t been doing anything.”

  Harris mumbled something. “I’m going with you. There’s no way in hell you’re talking to him alone, even with this new submission act you’ve got going on.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t screw with me, Grey. The Ambassador left a message with me this morning asking how we’re doing. I guess he’s lonely, misses the old fart. Probably has no one else to get drunk with and talk about how he used to get laid before he married that troglodyte of a wife. So yes, I can get us an audience.”

  “When?”

  “Now. He’s upstairs, and it’s quiet today.” Harris grunted. “Ever met the Ambassador before?”

  “I’ve shaken his hand, and that’s about it.”

  “Be on your toes. He’s one of those guys who’s so smart he trips on his own dick. We’ll ask our questions and get out of there.”

  • • •

  Mr. Gregory, the Ambassador’s notoriously impassable secretary, accosted them in the Ambassador’s reception area behind wire-rim glasses and a crisp navy suit. Harris explained the visit, and Gregory buzzed them through with a supercilious wave.

  “Limp dick,” Harris said under his breath.

  The Ambassador, a short, florid man with a penchant for tugging on his Vandyke beard, regarded Grey and Harris with the shrewd face of a CEO. Grey watched as Harris, with the sort of utter and biological transformation that comes when a man transitions from employer to employee, fawned before the President’s man.

  “Sir,” Harris said, “we’d like to ask you a few questions concerning William.”

  “I take it this is not a good sign.”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s a bad sign, just…”