* * *
Twenty-first floor.
* * *
—A reporter from one of the international papers had heard about me. Tracked me down. Apparently the rescuers at the scene had described this Maasai who, despite his own injuries, kept going back into the rubble to bring more and more people out. The writer wanted a hero. He said that not enough Americans had been killed to keep it on the front pages in his country anymore. He needed to personalize the story. He said the people in his country didn’t know the difference between the Arabs who did this and the African victims. He wanted an African hero to put on his front page. We spoke. Someone took pictures. To be honest, I don’t even remember what was said.
* * *
Twenty-second floor.
* * *
—You know, a lot of things didn’t matter to me after that. Even my son. Faith took over a lot of the work. He was a baby. I didn’t know what to do with him. She did.
—And people wanted to talk to me. So I let them. The journalists came to speak to the hero of the embassy bombing. And I found they were interested in what I had to tell them. Not just about the bombing. About the police department, about how it worked. Chai money here, backhanders there. I suppose I must have told someone about how our division’s new consignment of top-of-the-line patrol vehicles somehow turned into secondhand sedans with the chassis numbers ground off. Because it was the front page of The East African the following weekend.
* * *
Twenty-third floor.
* * *
—It would have been too obvious to sack me. So they sent me on sick leave. The psychiatrist was quite candid. He told me right at the start that he’d been instructed to find me unfit for duty. But after we spoke, he thanked me for not having to write a false report.
—I’d been having blackouts. Not thinking straight. He put me on the drugs. The drugs you’ve seen me take. That’s what they’re for, Kiunga. Not for HIV. But just like HIV, Kiunga, this illness can be managed. Never cured. But managed.
* * *
Twenty-fourth floor.
* * *
Mollel pauses to look back at Kiunga. He has a look on his face. A look of suspicion and distrust. A look Mollel has seen before. Many times.
—I knew I shouldn’t have told you, says Mollel. I should have kept it hidden. Just like the people kept hidden in every village. The ones locked away by their families in case their madness infects others.
—I’m still the same person, Kiunga, says Mollel.
* * *
Twenty-fifth floor.
* * *
—But you’re not, are you? says Kiunga. You’re not the same person I thought you were. I’ve taken huge risks for you, Mollel. And you’ve hidden things from me. You never told me you were going into Orpheus House that night.
—I’m sorry, Kiunga.
—This whole investigation has been conducted your way. Cutting corners. Telling lies. I was prepared to go along with it when I thought there was a rational mind behind it. But now …
—We’re nearly there. Let’s put it to Kingori. He’ll back my theory, I’m sure of it. I’m right about this. I can feel it.
* * *
Twenty-sixth floor.
* * *
Kiunga shakes his head. Mollel knows what he’s thinking. What’s the gut instinct of a madman worth?
—You can go back down now, says Mollel. Leave me to it. I didn’t ask you to come along.
Kiunga stops on the stairs. Mollel continues.
* * *
Twenty-seventh floor.
* * *
—These blackouts, Mollel, Kiunga calls up from below. Do you still get them?
His voice echoes in the stairwell. Mollel heaves himself up a few more steps.
—Sometimes, he gasps. If I’m not taking my medication.
—And are you taking your medication, Mollel? Are you taking it?
Kiunga’s voice becomes more distant as Mollel gets farther away. He can’t bring himself to shout a reply, so he does not reply.
Kiunga’s voice comes floating up again. —The night you broke into Orpheus House, Mollel. Did you black out then?
* * *
Twenty-eighth floor.
* * *
As he rounds the latest flight, Mollel leans over the banister and looks up. He’s almost there. Just a few more steps to go. He turns and looks down. The staircases retreat below him in a foreshortened polygonal spiral, illuminated in sickly fluorescent light. Far, far beneath is a small patch of gray. If he were to topple now, to tumble over the railing …
—What did you do with my lighter, Mollel?
Kiunga’s voice drifts up to him.
—The night Orpheus House burned down, Mollel. You had my lighter. You never gave it back to me. What did you do with it, Mollel? What did you do?
Mollel turns back to the staircase and begins to mount once more.
* * *
Twenty-ninth floor.
* * *
What did he do? He has no recollection. Only the blood, the operating table. Surely, surely, the scene of the crime.
He takes the last few steps wearily. Kingori will tell me, he thinks, repeating it in his head like a mantra. Kingori will tell me everything.
The final paces feel as if he is dragging through waist-high mud. He barely has the strength to take them. When, at last, he reaches the landing at the top, he sees a plain gray door with the word HELIPAD painted on it. A single keyhole—locked. Apart from that, there is no handle. No way of opening it. It’s a fire escape. It can be accessed only from the other side.
He lies down. Feels the cool concrete beneath him. Closes his eyes.
* * *
There is a crash and a sudden blast of cold, crisp air. Revitalizing. He opens his eyes, blinded for a moment by the crisp blue daylight flooding in on him. Kiunga stands over him. The door flaps in the breeze, splintered lock hanging loose on its screws on the external side.
—I thought you’d left me, Mollel says.
—At least this way, says Kiunga, rubbing his shoulder, I’ve got a chance of taking the elevator back down.
33
The door gives out onto an enclosed set of metal stairs leading up to a gap in the overhang above. At this height the air is icy, despite the midday sun reflected from the buildings and the streets far below. The wide lip of the helipad that tops the building casts the gantry into complete shade. Mollel and Kiunga step out. Mollel tries not to look down and instead focuses on the small square of light up ahead.
The wind is powerful here. Not enough to disturb their climb, but enough to create the unsettling feeling that the next gust, or the one after that, might be the one that plucks you from the building and leaves you flying like a cinder in the air.
—Listen, calls Kiunga.
Mollel hadn’t heard it at first, over the wind and the sounds of the city, but there it is—that curious, syncopated throb of a helicopter, the roar of its engines, the beat of its blades. Louder now, the gantry itself buzzes under Mollel’s agonized hands and his weary feet. Up—and out. As his head rises above the small parapet, the city opens before him, dazzling, clear. The sensation is akin to flying.
A group of men, mostly wearing military fatigues and orange ear protectors, are clustered on the other side of the helipad. They’ve not seen Mollel or Kiunga approach. There is a raised section where the elevator ends. The doors are being held open, and a second group of men, dressed in business suits—carrying heavy, steel boxes—are coming out. Commanding them is David Kingori.
The army helicopter is now nearly upon them. As it finalizes its approach, the downdraft causes all those present, Mollel and Kiunga included, to crouch instinctively and grab onto whatever they can. The aircraft’s belly is suspended above them. It wobbles, turns, lines itself up. Mollel relinquishes his grip on the handrail to cover his ears. For a moment, the noise is deafening. A change in pitch tells him that the helicopter has touched down. And merc
ifully, the scream becomes less intense and the blades slow from an invisible blur to a more leisurely pace, though they keep turning.
Mollel and Kiunga are on the far side of the landed helicopter now. A pilot, in sunglasses and civilian clothes, looks them over without curiosity. He casts Mollel a thumbs-up. Mollel returns it. He can see feet emerging on the other side, leaping out from the bowels of the machine. The men with boxes rush forward. Impossible, from where he is, to count how many boxes are exchanged. Fifteen? Twenty?
Above the engines, a shout. Words indistinguishable. Then the helicopter roars again, a puff of diesel fumes heralding its imminent takeoff. It rises, at first unsteadily, like a baby gazelle finding its legs. Then it pitches, teeters, hangs for a moment. Everyone is crouched once more. But as it departs, they right themselves, and the men near the elevator hurry to put the new steel boxes—exactly the same as the others—back inside.
The elevator doors close. Kingori is left alone on the helipad. He looks exhausted. He cups his hand to his eyes to watch the helicopter becoming a dot. Then he scans the horizon. He sees Mollel and Kiunga standing on the far side. He does not move. Mollel and Kiunga walk toward him.
He gestures to the skyline like a man welcoming guests to his home.
—Great view, isn’t it? Have you seen Kirinyaga? Mount Kenya? The Kikuyus’ holy mountain. It’s visible only a few days a year from Nairobi. Auspicious, don’t you think?
—If I were you, I’d be more worried about the smoke, says Kiunga. Kibera, Mathare, Donholme, Eastleigh. The city’s on fire.
—And yet, from up here, it all looks so peaceful, says Kingori with a grin. Just breathe it in a moment, gentlemen.
—You’re stealing the election! spits Kiunga.
—Come on, replies Kingori. You think those ballot boxes aren’t already stuffed to the brim with opposition votes? All sides are playing the game, my friends. We just intend to play it better. Now, when that elevator returns in just a matter of seconds, my companions will take you into their custody. Whatever it is you came here for, you’ve seen things you shouldn’t have seen, and I doubt very much we’ll be seeing each other again.
—In that case, I’ll get straight to the point, says Mollel. Lucy was carrying your baby.
There’s a sudden grinding sound. The elevator doors open, and a group of men step out. They stop and look in surprise at Mollel and Kiunga. With them is an army officer who hastily unholsters his handgun and points it at them.
—It’s sawa, says Kingori. They’re okay, they’re with us. He starts to walk to the edge of the helipad. Mollel and Kiunga follow. Kingori steps up to the railing. Looks down. There is a mesh net below. Through its wire grid Mollel can see the crimson pinpoints of GSU helmets pushing back a growing swarm of protesters at the gates.
—The autopsy came through, says Mollel. She was pregnant. We know the child was yours. You were the only person she was going with at that time.
Kingori shakes his head, not in denial, but in disbelief. —Pregnant?
—If you’d known it before you sent her away, you’d have forced her to have an abortion earlier. Still illegal, of course. But possible to do without risking the mother’s health. She thought she was far gone enough to be safe. That’s why she made contact again. She would have thought that no one could force her into a late-term abortion. It’s practically murder. But she didn’t count on how determined you were to keep your reputation. Or the fact that you had a hold over the one person in Nairobi desperate enough to conduct such an operation. Wanjiku Nalo.
—Boss, says Kiunga. His voice is low and urgent.
Mollel looks up, annoyed at his colleague’s interruption. But Kiunga’s glare is equally challenging. —I need a word with you, he says.
The two of them step away from the edge. Kingori remains there. He sinks his head into his hands.
When they’re at a safe distance, Kiunga asks in low tones, —What are you doing?
—I’m trying to get the truth.
—By lying?
—I’m not lying. Honey told me about the baby, remember?
Kiunga stares at him in disbelief.
—Honey? He spits the name with contempt. —You know there’s not been any postmortem, Mollel. You’ve just told him Lucy was carrying his baby. You’ve got no way of knowing whether that’s true or not. You’re staking the whole investigation on the word of a prostitute?
—Look at him, says Mollel.
Kingori is slumped. His swagger has evaporated.
—He looks broken, says Kiunga.
—Exactly. He’s going to give us what we need to put the others away.
Kiunga shakes his head. —It’s not right.
—Trust me, says Mollel.
—Trust your judgment? replies Kiunga grudgingly. How much are you keeping from me, Mollel? What reason have I got to trust your judgment at all?
Mollel looks up. Kiunga’s raised voice has attracted the attention of the men in military fatigues. One of them approaches. —What’s going on? he asks.
Mollel thumbs at Kingori. —He says you’re to go back to the count, he calls out to them. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time before the next consignment.
The man calls out to Kingori, —Is that right, boss?
Kingori nods and waves them away.
The men look at one another, shrug, and get into the elevator. The doors close.
—We need to stay calm, says Mollel. If we attract too much attention now, we’ll end up going where those boxes are going. Dumped into a lake somewhere, probably. Our only link to safety is Kingori. And if he begins to suspect we’re bluffing him …
—You’re not bluffing him, hisses Kiunga. You’re torturing him. Is this how you get results, Mollel?
Mollel does not answer.
—We’ll do it your way, says Kiunga. Then we’re through.
The two of them walk back to the railings.
—Was it a boy? Kingori asks them. I always wanted a boy.
—I’m afraid it was, says Mollel. By now the lies seem to hardly matter.
—What do you want to know? asks Kingori.
—Everything, says Mollel.
Kingori sighs. He motions his hand at the scene around him. —This?
—We don’t care about the vote rigging. Who’d believe us, anyway? Just tell us about Lucy.
—James found her for me, he says. He was very good at that. He knew my tastes. She fitted the bill perfectly. I was very fond of her, really. She was shy. Damaged. She responded to tenderness the way most of those girls respond to diamond bracelets. I enjoyed her company. It was nice to be nice to someone for a change. But it wasn’t going anywhere. A girl like that’s all right for a little fun, but …
—When she started to get a little too needy, I told her, It’s over. We’re calling it quits. But I still felt sorry for her. So I put her in touch with some people I knew, some people who tried to get girls back on the straight and narrow.
—Orpheus House, says Mollel.
—My tenants, yes. I had no idea what it would lead to. It was quite some time later that George Nalo approached me with his plan. He said he could get funding from the Americans for a hospital. His wife would be director. But it had to be in a prominent location. The Americans like their generosity to be conspicuous. So, he said, he wanted me to sign over the land to him. I laughed in his face. I could sell that land to developers and give you a donation that would run your hospital for five years, I told him. But you expect me to give it to you for free?
—It wasn’t about what the donors wanted, of course. It was all about him. Self-promotion. He needed to be more high profile, have everyone in Nairobi talking about what a great guy he is. Has he given you his talk yet about his lack of political ambitions? Don’t believe a word of it. George Nalo is a politician through and through. I hadn’t realized how much, until then.
—He told me about Lucy. She was a resident of Orpheus House now. Helped out with the other girls. A kind
of outreach officer for them. She’d told him and Wanjiku all about our relationship. And he said Lucy was prepared to go public if I didn’t agree to his demands.
—I sent James to track her down. It wasn’t easy. The Nalos had frightened her off. Told her that I was dangerous. That I would try to silence her.
He gives a hollow laugh.
—Turns out it was the other way around. They were the ones she should have been afraid of.
—I didn’t know that, though. I just saw it as convenient. I mean, girls like that. They only work for two things. Money, and fear.
So once we found her, we let her believe the myth the Nalos had created. That we were the big bad guys. She’d better do what we say. James played the part particularly well. He can be quite menacing when he puts his mind to it.
—And it worked. She became our girl on the inside. Feeding us information about the Nalos.
—They were the ones who had started playing with fire, but they were going to get burned. It didn’t take Lucy long to realize what was really going on at Orpheus House. Sure, they were doing all the outreach, the health services. But they were also doing abortions. Turns out Wanjiku, she’s a fanatic. Early term, late term, it doesn’t matter to her. She reckons she is saving the children from a world of pain.
—I could have destroyed the Nalos if I’d wanted to. If I’d had any idea Lucy was carrying my son … but she was too afraid to tell me.
—And besides, it suited me, this situation. It was important to keep my name clean, with the election looming. State House made it very clear that there were going to be a lot of contracts handed out after the success of this campaign. I wasn’t going to be the one to throw it away in a tabloid scandal.
—So I had James pay them a little visit. Let them know that if they kept quiet about me and Lucy, I would keep quiet about their little abortion racket. The stakes were much higher for them than they were for me.
Kingori shakes his head. —But I didn’t know about my baby. I’m nearly seventy. I’ve got three daughters. I never thought I’d have a chance of a son. And they killed him!
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