A girl approaches. She is about six years old, and she twirls one foot beneath her in a mixture of boldness and bashfulness.
—Jambo, she greets him.
—Jambo, he replies. What’s your name?
She runs away, giggling. Honey comes out and joins him.
—I told her that you get upset when you think about your first wife, she says.
—My only wife, he corrects her.
He recalls the look Kiunga gave him in Honey’s flat: Be careful. He’s angry at the thought that Honey might be manipulating him. And he’s angry about the ring.
—I’m sorry, Mollel. But we have to pose as a couple. It’s the only way we’ll get information about what happens to the children who come through here.
—Where did you get the wedding ring? It sits loose on your finger. Stole it from one of your clients, I suppose.
Honey pulls him around to face her. She looks into his eyes imploringly.
—Don’t be like that, she says. Please. Don’t let her get suspicious. I don’t think she’s noticed anything yet. We can get away with a little bit of tension between us. We are supposed to be married, after all. Remember, we’re trying to find a baby.
—A baby? The matron has appeared at the doorway. —You’re interested in a baby?
Honey links her arm with Mollel’s. —Oh! You overheard us. Well, it’s a point of difference between us. My husband thinks an older child would be better. But I can’t help wanting a baby, you see.
The matron nods her head. —Everyone wants a baby, she agrees. But we try to encourage people to consider the older children. That’s one of the reasons we put a premium on fees for adopting newborns.
Mollel feels Honey’s arm tighten in his. —And how much are they, these fees? she asks.
—We consider a hundred thousand to be a suitable donation. The matron smiles.
—A hundred thousand! Honey laughs. Then her voice drops a tone. Bitterness tinges her words. —So that’s the price of a child.
Honey’s abrupt change of manner causes the matron to look at her warily. This time it is Mollel who hastily tries to put the conversation back on track.
—I suppose you don’t have any newborns up for adoption at the moment? he asks.
—None at all. Our last was several months ago. And there’s a considerable waiting list, as you might imagine. Now, perhaps you would like to talk to some of the older children? Get to know them a little? Some of them are very charming, I can assure you.
The little girl looks over at them and waves shyly at Mollel. He waves back.
—That’s Felicity, says the matron. An adorable child. And we could let you have her in time for the new year, should all the arrangements work out.
—All the arrangements? asks Honey, now barely bothering to disguise her contempt. You mean, your donation? I presume she would cost less, being so much older?
—Well, yes, concedes the matron uncertainly. We’d be keen to get her into a good home. Perhaps … She turns to Mollel. —Perhaps you need to talk about this. As a couple.
—Perhaps we do, agrees Mollel.
—Tell me, says Honey. What’ll happen to that girl? Felicity? If she doesn’t find someone to take her in?
The matron looks at them both. Her eyes are wary now. —We do our best for all our children, she says. But you never know. It’s tough being an orphan. Who knows where she might end up? Some of them, you know—she lowers her voice—get hooked into prostitution.
—Some people might prefer that to being bought and sold like slaves, says Honey, her voice full of challenge. After all, if you’re going to be pimped out to the highest bidder, you might as well take a fair cut.
The matron stiffens. —I think you’d better come back when our director is here, she says. Dr. Nalo. She’s the best one to deal with those kinds of questions.
—What’s the matter? spits Honey. Her voice wavers with emotion. —We’re not good enough parents for you? I bet if we were a pair of rich wazungu looking for a little black baby, with a big, fat check in our hands, you’d find one soon enough, wouldn’t you?
—I think you’d better leave, says the matron.
As they walk to their taxi, Mollel casts a look back. Felicity is standing under the jacaranda tree, watching them leave. Her hand is raised.
He imagines it is still raised a long time after they have gone.
* * *
In the back of the cab, Honey buries her head in Mollel’s shoulder. —I’m sorry, she says. Just the thought of those children in there. Lost. Without their mothers to look after them.
—Some of them will find homes, he says.
—Some of them had homes, she replies. While you were outside, that woman told me more about where the children come from. It’s called an orphanage, but a lot of those children have parents, you know. Parents who can’t afford them or can’t cope, or who have been told by the church that they’re unworthy. Unworthy, Mollel. Like Lucy. Or me.
She sits up and looks out the window. —Did you hear her, Mollel? Everyone wants a baby. A hundred thousand shillings. I’d heard that was the going rate. It’s not just older children they steal, you know. She’d never admit it, but I’ve heard the rumors. Some of these places take babies away from mothers in the delivery room. They lie to them. Tell them they had a stillborn. Everyone wants a newborn. Do you know what a fresh, healthy baby can fetch on the open market? No. Lucy’s baby’s alive out there, somewhere. We’ve got to find it.
—Even if it is alive, concedes Mollel, we don’t know whether Lucy’s baby ever came through here. The matron denied having had a newborn recently.
—No, says Honey. But we can find out. The other thing I learned is that every adoption has to be registered. If Lucy’s child was sold, there’ll be a record of it with the government.
—They took her baby away, Mollel, she says with something like a sob, and he folds his arm around her. Can you even imagine that, Mollel? Can you even imagine what that’s like?
15
—Where the hell have you been, boss? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.
—I got your messages. I was following another lead.
—I thought you might have got mugged or killed or something after I left you last night.
—No. But I want to revisit Orpheus House. And I want to pull in any favors we’ve got, to try to get a forensic team down there.
—You’re a bit behind the game, I’m afraid, boss. Where are you? I’ll pick you up.
* * *
When they get to Orpheus House, one of the big, ancient city fire trucks is standing in the driveway. A crew of men are dousing the smoldering rafters, which are exposed like ribs. A rainbow plays in the spray as the afternoon sun pushes through the leaves, creating shafts in the lingering smoke.
* * *
—If it wasn’t already scheduled for demolition, I’d call it an insurance job, one of the firemen is saying. The old man claims he saw no sign of any intruders, so I guess we’ll just have to put it down to ghosts.
They laugh. Mollel and Kiunga walk past them to where Wanjiku Nalo is standing, talking to the caretaker.
—Ah, Sergeant Mollel, she says as she looks up and sees him. Githaka was just telling me that we’ve had a vermin problem here for some time. I suppose one of them must have chewed through an electric cable. Nasty little creatures. You know, it was only last night that I noticed I’d somehow foolishly mislaid my keys for this place. But I guess I won’t be needing them now.
She casts him a triumphant smile.
Mollel turns his back and walks away.
* * *
He rounds the back of the house, where the damage is even worse. The makeshift operating theater had obviously been the seat of the fire. The glass in the large window has caved in, revealing the bare black walls. The roof is open to the sky, and water drips down from the burned rafters. The floor is covered with roof tiles and the remains of the ceiling; the twisted stirrups gleam in the middle
of the room.
* * *
There is an old tree stump farther down the plot, and Mollel sits on it, his head in his hands.
—What’s up, boss? asks Kiunga. If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem a little—strange.
Mollel is scouring his memory. Could he have been seen last night? Had he left the door open on his way out? He can’t even remember leaving. Whatever the reason, his most valuable evidence has been lost forever.
For a moment he even doubts whether he saw what he saw. But no. How else would he have known about the examination table, its remains still barely visible under the rubble of the collapsed roof?
He gets like this when he misses his medication. He left the flat without taking his pills this morning. Well, he’s skipped a dose before. He took it last night—didn’t he?
But when he tries to recall whether he did take his pills last night, he can’t remember that, either.
—Boss, we’re partners, aren’t we?
—What? Sure.
—If there was anything you weren’t telling me, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If you know what I mean.
—Yes, Kiunga.
—I got some good leads this morning, the young man continues. Want to hear about them?
—Go on, says Mollel without enthusiasm.
—Well, I got hold of someone at the motor vehicle department. That silver Land Cruiser we saw on K Street, with the cagey mzungu behind the wheel? It’s registered in the name of Equator Investments.
Mollel is hardly listening. Alternative lines of inquiry seem pointless. He’s more concerned now with how he can make a case against Wanjiku Nalo with no evidence. And no motive. He scours his mind for a possible reason for the doctor to have done what she did to Lucy. But he comes up blank.
—Well, Equator Investments sounded familiar to me. And then I remembered: here. This place.
Kiunga’s words are starting to break through to Mollel.
—What about this place?
—It’s on the sign, out front. Orpheus House. A project of George Nalo Ministries, with the support of international donors and Equator Investments. So I called a contact down at City Hall. She confirmed it. This land is owned by Equator Investments.
—Who are Equator Investments?
Kiunga laughs. —Boss, don’t you read the papers? Equator Investments is David Kingori. The most powerful, influential businessman in Nairobi. He’s the one—
But Mollel has leaped to his feet.
Powerful, influential. Those were the words Honey had used about Lucy’s client. The one she was scared of.
There might be life in this case yet.
* * *
Mollel strides excitedly through the business district. Equator House is just a short way from Upper Hill and Uhuru Park. Kiunga trots behind him, trying to keep up and filling Mollel in with background on Kingori as they go.
The businessman has been the subject of half a dozen official investigations, at least, that Kiunga knows about, everything from insider trading to gunrunning. Yet the accusations always evaporate, key witnesses always retract their statements, evidence seems to miraculously disappear, and Kingori always emerges more bullish and brash than ever.
—It’s a good job we decided to walk, says Kiunga. The traffic here’s completely backed up. I wonder what’s going on.
A young man pushes past them. Something registers about him: his green T-shirt. Not in itself unusual. But Mollel notices for the first time that several people around them are wearing the same shirt. They are all headed the same way. It’s a political rally, by the looks of things, one of the smaller opposition parties.
—Better go the other way, says Kiunga.
But Mollel continues on his path. More green T-shirts join them to the left and right. He gets a kick out of watching their numbers grow. Soon, as they are making their way down Kenyatta Avenue, he and Kiunga become a minority. They are flanked by green. Banners are unfurled, and Mollel sees shopkeepers pulling down their shutters with a clatter.
—What do we want? calls out a shrill woman’s voice way ahead of them.
—Justice! comes the reply from all around them.
—When do we want it?
—Now!
A startled-looking businessman is stopped in the middle of the sidewalk as he attempts to go against the green tide. As Mollel and Kiunga pass him, he says to them, —What should I do?
—Go home, says Kiunga.
—But I need to go that way, protests the businessman, pointing in the direction of the flow.
—Then ask her for a shirt, says Kiunga. A girl passes them, handing out green T-shirts from a large plastic bag. —Thank you, sweetie. Kiunga takes two, offers one to Mollel, who shakes his head, then throws one to the businessman.
—Congratulations! he shouts. You’ve just joined the opposition!
Kiunga stuffs the remaining T-shirt into his trouser pocket. —That’ll be good for the gym, he says with a grin. A few paces later the two policemen draw to a stop. They have arrived.
* * *
Equator House. It sits anonymously in Nairobi’s high-rise center, but when it was built during the heady optimism of a newly independent nation, its fourteen stories earned it the title of skyscraper. Over the years, it has seen numerous name changes as corporate clients have come and gone, none of them seeming to have made a profit on the site. Rumor had it that the building used to be secretly owned by Moi, the former president slashing or hiking the rent as he saw fit, according to favors deserving reward or slights requiring punishment. But today the building belongs to Equator Investments, whose proprietor, David Kingori, also happens to be the sole residential occupant. On a Friday or Saturday night it is not unusual for the deserted streets to ring with the noise of a party drifting down from the penthouse above.
* * *
Mollel and Kiunga walk into the building’s shadow, push open the doors, and plunge into the air-conditioned lobby. They both blink as their eyes become accustomed to the darkness. Everything is steel, marble, and smoked glass. Even the chants of the demonstrators on the street outside disappear as the doors swing smoothly shut. A receptionist sits behind a desk, absorbed in her mobile phone. She raises her eyes to the visitors, but not her head.
Mollel shows his badge.
—What do you know about the company cars?
—Nothing to do with me. You want to see the head of security?
—Is Mr. Kingori in?
—You have an appointment? she asks with a skeptical click of her gum.
Kiunga slides over.
—Hi, he says, with a grin. So, they’ve got you working Christmas Eve? Must be kinda boring.
The girl raises her eyebrows as if to say No shit.
—Us too. No letup for the brave guardians of law and order.
Despite herself, she giggles. How does he do it? wonders Mollel.
—Look, my friend here is a bit embarrassed, continues Kiunga. The fact is, we’re on an important investigation—nothing to do with this place. We’re watching the place across the road.
—Across the road? Her curiosity is piqued. —The dry cleaners?
—Yeah, we think they might be money laundering.
The girl laughs, catches Kiunga’s eye, looks back down.
—Anyway, my friend needs to use the bathroom. You know these Maasai, they think they can just kojoe anywhere, but I told him, You’ve got to go somewhere respectable …
She giggles again and puts down her phone.
—I’ll just be a minute, says Mollel, squeezing his knees together and making an agonized face.
—Go on, she says, hitting a buzzer beneath the desk. Next to her, the waist-high entry gate clicks. —It’s on the right.
—Thanks, says Mollel, but the girl is already back to chatting with Kiunga. He pushes the gate and goes through. There is a pair of doors marked with toilet signs, and two lifts, but Mollel heads immediately to an unmarked door, which he delicately pushes open wi
th his fingertips. It swings open just wide enough to slip through. He’s in a stairwell. The steps lead up and down; down feels cooler, with a slight edge of exhaust fumes. The car park. He creeps down the stairs and through another swing door.
Most of the spaces are vacant, but he’s drawn to a row with several cars parked in it. A large notice on the wall proclaims PARKING FOR EQUATOR INVESTMENTS ONLY.
One vehicle attracts his attention immediately. It was designed to do so: bright yellow, overspilling the parking lines painted on the floor. It’s chunky and square. To Mollel, it looks more like one of Adam’s toys than a real car. The chrome grille gleams, and the windows are so black it’s a wonder that anyone can see out.
But it is not the flashy Hummer that interests him. A couple of cars down is a silver Land Cruiser—the license plate matches the one he saw on K Street.
Glancing around for a guard, Mollel crosses the car park and goes to examine the Land Cruiser. He walks around it. Looks inside. No litter on the floor or personal possessions in the back, no sign of any personality or ownership. It is probably a pool car. He continues around and, reaching the front once more, notices a dent and a scrape on the front fender. He runs his finger along it, feeling minute, gritty particles. The damage is not from another car. More likely a wall or a concrete post.
There is the sound of footsteps and talking, and Mollel ducks down. He recognizes the booming, self-important voice from radio news reports. David Kingori. Like his car, he exists to be the center of attention, even when there’s nobody around. He’s complaining loudly about something or other on his mobile phone. Mollel squeezes himself down behind the Land Cruiser. Kingori passes within inches of his face, but does not look down. He blips the Hummer and climbs inside. The car roars into life, and Mollel is choked by a cloud of fumes. As soon as the Hummer turns the corner and mounts the ramp, Mollel darts back to the stairwell and runs to reception. Kiunga and the girl are chatting away.
—All done? says Kiunga.
—Let’s go, says Mollel, dashing to the entrance.
—So, you’ll call me? asks the receptionist.
Hour of the Red God Page 11