by J. R. Wolfe
He slid one arm out of the strap of his daypack and unzipped the main compartment. He reached inside and took out a handgun. “I bought you something too.” He extended his arm and handed it to her. “I thought you might like this one.”
She inspected the weapon and looked at him. His boyish grin had returned. “It’s a Glock automatic,” she said.
“Your favorite, as I recall. Do you like it?”
The anxiety she’d felt was now replaced with relief. “Yes. Thank you.” She placed the Glock inside her messenger bag, which she wore over her shoulder. She wanted to say more, but the dense stillness of the hot air, which had the sticky heat of a dry sauna, seized her attention. She took out a handkerchief from the pocket of her khaki shorts and wiped droplets of sweat from her brow. “We should focus on the task at hand,” she said. “Are we still agreed that I’ll take the lead with Farai?”
“Yes. You know him and I don’t.” Altan hesitated. “Farai has obviously been through a lot, so who knows what he’s doing to survive or what pressures he’s currently under.”
“What are you saying?”
“We can’t fully trust him.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“Portia,” a familiar voice yelled from behind her. “It’s Farai.”
“I knew you’d come,” she said, whirling around to face him.
He stood just inside the medical clinic near the front door. As she remembered, he was tall and lanky like a marathon runner, yet his posture was rounded and slightly bent over. His black hair was short, and he wore a mustache that was neatly trimmed in a thin line. His choice of clothes, a nondescript cotton shirt and lightweight pants, was the same, but his boxer’s nose, misshapen and curved, and his cauliflower ear, the external portion of which was swollen with a noticeable lump on the inside, were distressingly new, different, and horrific. His round eyes, the color of coal and set wide apart, were bleak if not downright sad. Somehow, he flashed a large, friendly smile.
He began heading toward her. She recalled that his long legs used to have an easy, extended gait that gave him the appearance of gliding across a room rather than walking. Now, he had a limp, his open-toed sandals divulging the reason why. He was missing the top portion of three toes on his right foot.
Shock and sadness gripped Portia. Farai’s arrest and imprisonment was an ordeal that had left him permanently scarred on the outside, and who knew what scars he bore on the inside. “You kept your word,” she said. “Thank you. It’s so good to see you.”
“Who is he?” Farai’s forefinger pointed toward Altan like a spear. “You didn’t mention bringing anyone with you.”
“He’s a friend,” she answered quickly before Altan could respond.
“Your friend shouldn’t stand near the window,” he said testily. “The police have been patrolling this area.” He gestured toward a simple metal table that had been used by the medical staff as a desk. “Let’s sit there.”
Altan positioned himself in front of Farai. “You told Portia the clinic would be safe.”
“It was quiet yesterday,” he answered coolly. “I don’t know what has changed. They are probably looking for a criminal. Where’s your rental car?”
“Parked in the location you told me about,” Portia said, “down the road, about a half mile away, in the dirt parking lot of a small church.”
“Good,” Farai said. “Let’s sit down. I can’t stand for too long.” He nonchalantly stepped around Altan and headed toward the table.
Altan glared at her. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Me too,” she said. But what other choice did they have? She’d come this far to discover answers, not to flinch at the first signs of trouble. “If you want to—”
“I’m not leaving you,” he said in a firm whisper. “We just need to find out what this guy knows and then get the hell out of here. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Portia hurried to the table, anxious to finally talk with Farai. She sat in a rusted metal chair across the table from him. “It’s good to see you,” she said.
“It is good to see you too,” Farai answered. The tense wrinkles that aged his face relaxed. “I received your letters, but I don’t read English. A volunteer from the church read them to me. Thank you for the prayers you sent.”
“I wanted you to know I was happy you were alive. If I had been at the clinic during the raid, I could’ve helped. Perhaps things would’ve turned out differently.”
“Impossible.” A fear upset his dark eyes. “There were too many police, and they were heavily armed.”
He was probably right, she thought. Yet, her favorite fantasy was being at the medical clinic, saving everyone, saving Imma. “Are you still working on a tobacco farm?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m not able to do that kind of work anymore. I live outside Harare with my wife and three children. I work at a restaurant. It is better there.” His smile was sadly faint and fleeting.
Altan plunked himself into the chair next to Portia. She leaned slightly forward. “What were you able to find out about Dr. Thoms?” she asked. “Was she executed or did she manage to escape from prison with another prisoner?”
“I have asked around as you wanted,” Farai said. “But people are reluctant to say anything.”
“Someone must know something,” she said.
“Of course, but they are afraid to talk. They think foreigners are trouble, so they tell me not to ask questions. Haven’t you been through enough, they say? They don’t understand that Dr. Thoms was good to us.”
Portia sat back, a weight of disappointment slumping her shoulders. “Thank you for at least trying. I guess we knew this wouldn’t be easy.”
“I can help you find out what actually happened to her,” he said, “but it will take more time, and information is not free.”
“I understand,” she said. “How much does accurate information cost?”
“I have a contact I trust, but it will be dangerous for me and him.”
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Yes, but if Dr. Thoms is somehow alive and hiding somewhere, that would be valuable information, wouldn’t it?”
“Of course,” she said.
“I’ve been told the payment I ask is reasonable.” Farai’s stare dropped to his hands, which he kept clasped together on top of the table. His wrists were emblazoned with wide scars, the type that could only be caused by a rope being tied tightly around his skin.
This was not the same man Portia had known; too much horror had happened to him. “Who’s your contact?” she asked.
“I cannot tell you,” Farai answered.
“That means we have a problem,” she said. “I may be willing to pay for information, but the information must be reliable and trustworthy.”
“It will be.”
“What’s your guarantee?”
“My word.”
“Sorry, friend.” She shook her head. “Not good enough.”
Farai stared at her as he drummed his fingers on top of the table. “If Dr. Thoms is free and alive, I want you to find her. She should not have been arrested. That was not what the police told me they would do.”
“Why would they tell you what they’d do?” she asked.
Farai flinched slightly and tightened his jaw as though the question were a jab to his stomach. “There was an opposition leader who was fighting against the government. He fell ill with cholera, and there was suspicion that he was being treated at our medical clinic. A high-ranking officer in the police force decided to send a squad to arrest him…only him…but the officer changed his mind, and everyone was arrested except the sick. Not all our policemen are bad, but some of them are corrupt.”
“That bastard,” she said. “What did this officer hope to gain by arresting his own people and humanitarian workers like doctors and n
urses who were only in Zimbabwe to help?”
“He wanted to use foreigners for ransom,” Farai said.
“Of course,” she said. “I should’ve guessed. Who is your contact who can help us find out what happened to Dr. Thoms?”
Farai’s response was an annoying silence.
“You’ve asked for a large payment in exchange for information,” she continued. “You must understand why I want assurances that my money will be well spent.”
“I understand,” he said after a pause. “My contact is a police officer. I’ve worked for him before.” He clasped his hands together as if an agonizingly tight rope still bound his wrists. “I cannot tell you his name, but he knows things. He will know about Dr. Thoms. I feel badly what happened to her and the others. You must believe me.”
Portia’s throat burned for a smooth shot of vodka. He had always told her that he hated the police, the army, and any governmental authority. Why would he work for one of them? The day of the raid began whirring in her memory like a cyclone. “You created the perfect ruse,” she finally said, “so that most of the armed volunteers left the medical clinic. You told us there’d been a bus accident, but you knew there wasn’t an accident. I fell for your lie—hook, line, and sinker.”
“I’ve been afraid to tell you what I did that day,” Farai said, “but I wanted to. I have felt very badly ever since, but the police officer threatened my family. He told me to tell the ZIRP staff that there was a bus accident, and if I refused, my wife and children would be killed…” He rambled on with a sadness and regret that choked his voice.
Still, searing anger heated Portia’s cheeks to a deep red. She clenched her hands into tight fists. If she wasn’t careful, she’d punch Farai in the face. She closed her eyes, willing herself to gain composure. After all, Farai wasn’t the one to blame, was he? He was struggling to survive in a harsh world where even the littlest creatures, like mosquitoes, were deadly. But in her head, she kept hearing Imma repeat the question she had asked on the day the medical clinic had been raided: “Can you trust him?”
“No,” Portia said, opening her eyes. “That’s what I should’ve said to Imma, but I didn’t. I was wrong.”
“What are you talking about?” Farai asked.
“I trusted you, but I should’ve known better.”
“I’m sorry I told you a lie, but I had—”
She stared at the man who had ruined so many lives including her own. “Your arrest was obviously intended to cover up your collaboration with this police officer,” she said, “but why were you tortured?”
“I did not cooperate with him quickly enough,” Farai said, “and it’s true. I initially resisted, but I could not risk the lives of my wife and children. He told me I was lucky to lose only a few toes and be released. The guards at the prison wanted to cut off my feet.”
The cruelty of it all caused Portia’s stomach to reel with nausea. “I don’t know what to—”
Car engines roared outside and stopped. There was an instant of silence followed by the sound of car doors banging shut.
Portia bounced to her feet. “What’s going on?” she asked.
Altan rushed to a window, crouched down, and looked out. “We’re in trouble,” he said.
“Is it the police?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “There’s five of them, and they’re each carrying rifles. They’re headed for the front door.”
CHAPTER 11
“We’ve made it to London,” Imma said with relief, as she and Chessa scurried along a concourse at Heathrow Airport through a pandemonium of travelers anxious to catch their international flights. “It’s hard to believe we’re no longer in Zimbabwe. I couldn’t take another day of sleeping on dirt.”
“I couldn’t either,” Chessa said.
Imma rolled a carry-on bag behind her that was practically empty except for a few necessities like a comb, toothpaste, and toothbrush. It also held a quilt she couldn't part with. Still, there was little if anything from Zimbabwe she had wanted to take, but she wanted to look like a typical tourist. She dodged a father pushing his young son in a stroller and returned to Chessa’s side. “Let’s get our luggage,” she said. “Should we contact Robert to make sure he’s still meeting us?”
“No.” Chessa’s voice was firm. “Father instructed us not to do anything different unless I heard from him, and I haven’t. We’ll take the taxi to the south side of Fitzroy Square. Robert will pick us up and take us to his apartment building. Father will meet us there.”
“How long have you known Robert?” Imma had been curious to know ever since the preparations for their prison escape had been finalized.
“We met when we were students at the London College of Fashion. He’s one of my closest friends.”
“He’s taking quite a risk to hide us.”
“He knows.”
“Robert sounds special.”
“He is. I wouldn’t have asked him, but my father thought he’d be a good choice given that our friendship is relatively private and he has no political affiliations.”
“Were you—”
“Lovers?” Chessa shook her head and smiled. Without losing stride, she said, “No. His spouse, Franco, is also a good friend. Besides, my heart is with Jon.”
“Of course,” Imma said. During long hours of boredom in their prison cell, Chessa’s favorite topic of conversation had been Jon and only Jon. “Well, I hope for all our sakes that Bovra’s right about choosing Robert.”
“Father can be wrong,” Chessa said. “But rarely.”
Imma nodded and looked around for signs directing them to the baggage claim area. Her line of vision caught two men, both with the build of linebackers and wearing short-sleeved shirts, khaki pants, and leather Derby shoes. Their black hair was cut short and their horseshoe mustaches were groomed with painstaking care. They would’ve been unremarkable flyspecks in the hubbub of the airport but for their wide-eyed, crazy-man stares, which were fastened on her and Chessa.
Imma’s mouth went dry. Were she and Chessa being followed? Stan had assured them that their escape had been perfect, but there was the driver who had secretly driven them under the cover of night from the women’s prison to a campsite outside of Harare. He had appeared nervous and wimpy. Had he told the PR about the two bedraggled women he had picked up? They could’ve paid him handsomely or forced him to talk.
“Let’s go into the restroom,” she said.
“I’m okay.” Chessa dodged an elderly man who appeared to be walking in slow motion as a flurry of people whizzed past him. “Besides, we shouldn’t waste any time.”
They had no time to argue, Imma thought. She grabbed Chessa’s arm and led her into a female-only lavatory. “I think we’re being watched by two men.”
“That’s impossible,” Chessa said, “Stan—”
“Told us the escape had been flawless, I know.” Imma made sure they were well inside the restroom and out of view of any scrutinizing eyes. “We should know by now that perfection doesn’t exist.” She inspected the restroom, letting her eyes rest on the gigantic mirror that hung on the wall above the sinks.
She wore a wrinkled cotton top that was two sizes too big for her emaciated frame. Her short black hair was crudely cut by dull scissors and was badly in need of a good combing. Malnutrition and endless months of being cramped inside a closet-size prison cell had left her face gaunt and pale. To add to the appalling portrait, her eyes smoldered with fear and panic. “Stan may have thought our escape went well,” she said. “But trouble is out there.”
“Are you sure?” Chessa pointed toward the mirror. “We both look a fright.” Her long hair was tangled and her jeans and shirt weren’t fresh by a long shot. “We’re not wearing makeup, and we’re as pale as ghosts. Those men could just be staring at us because we look like we’re homeless.”
“Maybe, but let’s wait a few minutes before we step outside.”
Chessa stared at Imma closely, but finally said, “Oka
y, doc. Better safe than sorry, I suppose.”
“It is.” Imma began to fuss with her hair, but she kept her real attention on their surroundings. “We’ve come too far to get caught now.”
The other women in the restroom were thankfully busy attending to their own business and exiting as quickly as they had entered.
“Since we’re here,” Imma said, “there’s no sense in wasting our time. Let’s try to improve our appearance.”
Chessa nodded her head in agreement. She grabbed a comb from her bag and began untangling her long blonde hair. Imma turned on a faucet and splashed water on her face. They both pinched their cheeks for color and played with their clothes in a vain attempt to appear less disheveled.
“Okay.” Imma finally whispered to Chessa so that no one else could hear, “Let’s hope those men are gone by now.”
“Good,” Chessa whispered back. “I can’t wait for a hot shower.”
“Agreed. Hopefully, I was wrong about them. Perhaps they’re just harmless pussycats, but wait here while I check.”
Not wanting to attract attention, Imma nonchalantly walked toward the entrance of the lavatory as if she were going to exit, stopping instead to peer around the corner.
A buzz of tourists sped up and down the wide concourse. Looking across the strip, Imma saw the two waylayers still there leaning against the wall, their raven eyes fixed in her direction.
Imma’s heart walloped her chest with the strength of a prizefighter’s right hook, and she jerked back. What should she do? The only way out was through the concourse, which meant walking in front of two hungry lions.
CHAPTER 12
“Let’s jump out a back window,” Altan said, still crouching down.
“We don’t have time.” Portia tried to remember every inch of the medical clinic as if it were her own bedroom. “Stand up, Farai.”