Deliberate Harm

by J. R. Wolfe

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Farai contacted me. He was remorseful for telling you where to find me. He asked for my forgiveness.”

  “Did you give it to him?”

  “Yes.” An angry fire lit Moyo’s ebony eyes. “Farai also said you threatened him and held a gun to his head. You should not have done that.”

  “I wouldn’t have hurt Farai. You must believe me. I was desperate for information.”

  Moyo’s nose, slightly crooked from what must’ve been caused by a solid punch, momentarily wrinkled.

  “Do you remember Dr. Thoms?” Portia asked. “She saved Taalib, your nephew. She was an outstanding physician and a kind person. She didn’t deserve to be held against her will.”

  “That is true,” Moyo said.

  “Did you help Dr. Thoms escape from prison?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Imma was my fia—” Portia held her tongue and twisted her engagement ring with her right thumb and forefinger. Moyo might not approve of two women being in love, much less marrying. “Dr. Thoms treated me when I was injured during the Iraq War,” she said. “I owe her my life. So does my friend.”

  “That is what Farai told me. He also said he likes you, even though you treated him badly.” Moyo’s eyes narrowed. “You want what is best for Dr. Thoms?”

  “Yes. Did you help her escape? Is she alive?”

  He shrugged and reached out and grabbed the brim of Portia’s Chicago Cubs baseball cap. He tossed it to the pavement.

  Her stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot. What was he doing?

  Moyo removed her darkly tinted sunglasses and stared at her. The hot golden rays of the sun caused her to squint but not to lose sight of the cold ruthlessness that twirled in his eyes. With a king’s confidence, he positioned her messenger bag so that it rested on her hip and pulled her close. The smell of his sweat, a nasty combination of spicy cologne and body odor, intruded her nose. He stroked her upper arm with his fingertips.

  Portia’s skin crawled. She pushed him away. Was this guy a psycho? “Stop it,” she said.

  “You must be careful,” Moyo said in a voice as light as air. “You are too easy to read and that means you are easy to scare. When you are surprised, you open your mouth.” He pointed to Portia’s lips, which she quickly closed. “It is slight but noticeable, and your green and brown eyes flicker and narrow. Show no emotions. You must be in control.”

  Her cheeks heated with embarrassment and anger. She snatched her sunglasses from his grip and put them on. “It’s the sun.”

  Moyo raised his arms above his head and looked at the cloud-specked, blue sky. “Oh girl, there’s mostly sun in Zimbabwe.” He peered down at her, his eyes hot coals. “You must learn to cope or else you’ll be exploited, and if that happens, you will be a threat to Dr. Thoms, not an ally.”

  “Is this your way of trying to help? Because you’re sending mixed messages.”

  “Damn it,” Altan groaned. He sat on the sidewalk of the bridge with his legs crossed. He stared up at the two bodyguards standing by his side. Each aimed an assault weapon at him.

  “Sir,” one shouted, “the American is awake. Should we throw him into the river?”

  “No,” Moyo said. “I think they have learned their lesson.”

  “We have learned our lesson,” Portia said. “So tell me, did you help Dr. Thoms escape?”

  Instead of answering, Moyo kept his focus glued on the gangly bungee operator, who was now kneeling on a metal platform that extended just beyond the edge of the bridge. He was busy checking the bungee-jumping equipment.

  “Call and find out what is happening,” Moyo shouted to him. “I want to know how much time I have.”

  The bungee operator stopped his work, looked up, and nodded. He reached inside his shorts pocket and pulled out a mobile phone.

  Moyo refocused on Portia. “Did Farai tell you what I do for a living?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “He also said the police intend to arrest you.”

  “The police want to discourage my philanthropy.”

  “Your philanthropy?”

  “It is simple. They don’t tire of my money or my weapons, but they have tired of me helping people like Dr. Thoms escape from prison. They believe they’ll convince me to stop by arresting me and making my incarceration unpleasant.”

  Portia’s heart flew with joy at the news Imma had been freed. “So, you did help her escape. So she’s no longer in prison.”

  “I was grateful she successfully treated my nephew after a truck accident, so yes, I arranged for her escape.”

  “That means Stanislaw Jager didn’t lie.”

  Moyo studied her closely. “You know that son of a bitch?”

  “He came to Chicago, and he told me—” She froze. How much should she say? This could be her only shot at learning what about Imma’s current whereabouts. “Jager said that Dr. Thoms escaped with another prisoner named Chessa Marsik and that the People’s Revolution is after them.”

  “Jager is right.” Moyo gnashed his teeth. “If I ever find him, and I will someday, I’ll kill him.”

  “You’re too late. He’s already been murdered.”

  Moyo flashed a pleased smile. “Good. Jager caused me all sorts of problems. He was to arrange for Dr. Thoms’s flight out of Zimbabwe, but did not tell me that his real intention was to free Chessa Marsik. That was a big mistake for all of us.”

  “The People’s Revolution must blame you for Chessa Marsik’s liberation.”

  “They did, but I have convinced them that I did not know Jager’s true intent. Still, he made me look a fool.”

  “Is Dr. Thoms alive?”

  “I don’t know. After their escape, she and Marsik went into hiding, but if Dr. Thoms is smart, she’s gone on her own. The People’s Revolution is not after her. They only want Marsik.”

  “How can we find Dr. Thoms?”

  “Sir!” the bungee operator shouted. “It is time to jump. The police are on their way.”

  “Are my men waiting for me?” Moyo asked.

  “Yes.” The bungee operator’s voice crackled with knee-shaking nervousness. “They are positioned down the river. You must hurry.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The den was his favorite room in their 4,000-square-foot home just on the outskirts of Chicago. It was tucked away from the living room and master bedroom, giving him unspoiled privacy. Of course, physical distance from the main areas of the house was unnecessary. His dear wife, fifteen years his junior, knew better than to bother him when he was there. She laughingly called the 500-square-foot room his man cave, but to him the space was a prized haven of a happy past that included his father’s maple desk, tufted swivel chair, bookcase, matching leather couch, and wingback chair.

  He was bathed in a soft, dark light as he paced up and down the oak floor holding his sleeping infant son, who was swaddled in a fluffy blue blanket. The world clock on top of the desk showed it was 3 a.m. in Chicago. He lightly kissed the baby’s forehead. He’d have time to put his son in the crib and catch a few hours of much-needed sleep before going into the office.

  A traditional ringtone rattled the serene moment. He sped to the desk and picked up a cell phone, encrypted for security with the latest and best technology black-market money could steal. Hoping his young son wouldn’t stir, he slowly and methodically sat in the chair. He raised the mobile to his ear. “It’s me,” he said in a low voice. He didn’t need to ask who was on the other end of the line, since only one person ever contacted him on this cell phone.

  “You must leave for London later today,” the voice said in well-spoken English but with a distinct Russian accent.

  “That’ll be difficult.” He glanced down to make sure his young son was still sleeping. To his relief, his little jewel was absorbed in a dreamy world reserved for the innocent. It was a world he missed terribly. “I have a day full of meetings that can’t be canceled.”

  “Find a
way.”

  “Why?”

  “Chessa Marsik and Imma Thoms are in London, and they’ve gone into hiding.”

  “So they did escape?”

  “Yes, but not without help, of course.”

  “We were fed false intelligence about what happened to them.”

  “It’s not the first time your agency has made mistakes.”

  He held his breath and pictured what he thought the lieutenant must look like—tall, bony, and bald with a long, duck-like nose and smoker’s yellowish teeth. That image always made him smile and disregard the insults the lieutenant liked to hurl at the CIA. “What did you learn?” he asked.

  “After kidnapping Marsik,” the lieutenant said, “the People’s Revolution sent her to a female prison in Harare. Our sources said the price to keep her there was expensive. So to say the least, the PR is angry she’s no longer a prisoner.”

  “Did Stanislaw Jager arrange her escape?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “A wealthy arms dealer known for upsetting the Zimbabwe government took a liking to Thoms. He bribed two guards to set her free. Jager fooled him into including Marsik. The PR found out about the escape and pressured the arms dealer to tell them who was involved. He, of course, told them about Jager. The PR hunted Jager down and killed him in Chicago. Getting rid of Jager is the one good thing the PR has ever done.”

  He sighed, uninterested in irrelevant banter. “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Use your resources, including our new recruit, to locate them. Once we capture Ms. Marsik, her father will turn over the flash drive to us in exchange for her safe return.”

  “Why not capture Bovra Marsik?”

  “We’ve tried, but he’s been a difficult catch. Finding his daughter should prove easier, given the spotlight that is on her.”

  “What about Dr. Thoms?”

  “Take care of her. It shouldn’t be a problem, since everyone already believes she’s dead.”

  He knew this cruel directive should’ve caused his stomach to twirl. Imma had saved his life in Iraq. But his stomach was fine; he was even a bit hungry. “You’re right,” he said. “It won’t be a problem. What about the RDD?”

  “The PR has managed to accomplish the unthinkable,” the lieutenant said.

  “You mean they’ve successfully developed a dirty bomb?”

  “Yes. They’ve developed one prototype we believe will work. Bovra Marsik has the data stick containing the schematics for the bomb.”

  Even for him, that news was chilling enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck. He held his infant son tighter. “Are there other copies of the schematics?”

  “Not that we are aware of.”

  “We must destroy the bomb and the data stick.”

  “Those aren’t the orders.”

  “We’ve had a mutually beneficial relationship.”

  “What is your point?”

  “I’ve provided intel to the Golden Triangle, but what I’ve—.”

  “Of course, and for your services we’ve—”

  “I’m only interested in helping rebel groups overthrow oppressive regimes. Acquiring a dirty bomb is beyond our agreement.”

  His pronouncement was met with a disturbing silence, albeit not surprising. He was rocking the boat, and crime syndicates were like any legitimate business—they hated waves.

  The lieutenant finally said, “We’ve paid you handsomely for your services, have we not?”

  “You have,” he said, “but I can’t assist you with this undertaking.”

  “Why do you think you have a choice?”

  He shot to his feet, not caring that his infant son might be jolted enough to wake up. “From the beginning, I stated the parameters of—”

  “Our deal. I know.” The tedium in the lieutenant’s voice was sharp. “Your intelligence on the military strength and strategic plans of governments unfriendly to the United States is so much better and speedier than getting the approval of Congress.”

  “Selling conventional weapons to rebel groups is one thing," he said. “But a nuclear weapon gives them a completely different realm of power and destruction.”

  “Does it? You Americans are all alike, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You split hairs to point out our differences and find a moral high ground. Whether militants use discarded Russian or American weapons or use ancient forms of terror like beheadings, they’re killing people. If they use a nuclear bomb, they’re still killing people, only faster.”

  He silently cursed himself. He’d not meant to steer the conversation into the muddy waters of an ethical debate. If he had any chance of getting out of this predicament, he’d need to humble himself without gagging on his words. “My only point is that this assignment goes beyond our agreement. Perhaps we can—”

  “How is your son?”

  His heart rate quickened. “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve been up with him for the past hour trying to get him to fall asleep. Your wife must be grateful. She spends so much of the day alone with him. She must be exhausted.”

  “Stay away from my family.”

  “We can’t let the data stick fall into the wrong hands. We want it. You’ll get it for us. Understand?”

  “Stay away from my family.”

  “Follow instructions, and we will.”

  He squeezed the cell phone wishing he could crush it. Damn these bastards. “What about the prototype of the bomb?”

  “Let the People’s Revolution use it.”

  “What! Why?”

  “They intend to pull off an assassination that will rock the UK and the West. We don’t need to interfere.”

  “Of course we need to interfere. Who do they plan to assassinate?”

  “Our arrangement is essentially the same, but if you’re not careful, we’ll change the terms to be less beneficial for you and your young family and more…how do I say this? The terms will be like servitude for you. Think about what’s important.”

  He wanted to kill this son of a bitch, but he knew that was impossible. Inhaling, he looked closely at his infant son, whose adorable chubby cheeks and plump lips were upturned in a peaceful smile. Friends said the baby’s almond-shaped eyes resembled his own. “All right,” he finally said. “I’ll leave for London later today.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Secrets are always discovered for the right price,” Moyo said, shaking his head as he marched toward the bungee operator with Portia following closely on his heels. Reaching the platform, he sat in a chair.

  She hovered over him, keenly observing his every move. “Are you really going to bungee jump?”

  “Yes.” Moyo didn’t move as the skinny bungee operator secured a harness to his bare chest. “I’m going to hide out for a while. The authorities will soon miss my business and change their minds about capturing me. Once that happens, I’ll return. Have you ever done this, Portia Marks?”

  “No,” she answered.

  “Victoria Falls is one of the Seven Wonders. There’s no better place to fly, even if it’s momentary.” Moyo looked down through the metal grate of the platform.

  Below was the Zambezi River. Deep green water carved through the spiky, vertical cliffs with the roar and speed of race cars.

  Moyo grinned with a distinct pleasure. His expression, however, turned somber again, and he looked at her. “To find out what happened to Dr. Thoms, you’ll need—”

  “Sir,” the bungee operator said, “there’s no time to waste. The police aren’t far away.”

  Moyo hopped to his feet. The operator bent down and began attaching the bungee cord to Moyo’s ankles.

  “Portia! Look behind you!”

  The panic in Altan’s voice sent shivers up her spine. She spun around to see in the distance a white police pickup truck speeding along the paved road toward the bridge. They were only minutes away.

  She looked at Moyo. “Tell me how to find Dr.
Thoms,” she said.

  “Vincent!”

  The two bodyguards stared at each other, as if they didn’t want to separate. Then the one with the plump, boyish face and lean frame was quickly at Moyo’s side. The other stayed near the railing of the bridge, pointing his assault rifle at the approaching pickup truck.

  “Take the Americans to Daya Gumbi,” Moyo told him. “You know where she is?”

  “Yes, sir,” Vincent answered. “She has gone to the refugee camp.”

  “Don’t delay,” Moyo said. “Daya will be at the camp one more day, maybe two. Once she heads south, she will be difficult to find.”

  “I understand,” Vincent said.

  “Miss Marks will pay you handsomely,” Moyo said, “so take good care of her and her friend.”

  Vincent clamped his teeth together, causing his jaw line to straighten into the serious pose of a hardened soldier. “Yes sir.”

  Moyo walked to the edge of the platform. His ebony eyes shimmered with adrenaline. “Daya may be able to help you. She was incarcerated with Dr. Thoms and Chessa Marsik.”

  Portia’s long legs momentarily wobbled. She was getting closer to finding Imma. “Thank you.”

  Moyo refocused his attention on the river. He bent his knees, held his arms to his sides, and jumped toward the sky. Soaring with the splendor of an eagle, he spread his arms wide and held his legs tightly together. He plummeted toward the raging river below, his large body keeping perfect form.

  A volley of gunfire ripped through the air with a spine-tingling rapidity. Vincent grabbed Portia’s shoulders and pushed her down to the pavement. She held her hand over her bad ear and looked over her shoulder.

  The police pickup truck was parked on the edge of Victoria Falls Bridge, several hundred yards away. Four policemen were positioned behind the bed of the truck, using it for cover. They wore blue riot helmets and pointed automatic rifles in their direction, but they didn’t shoot. One began yelling, but Portia had no idea what he was saying.

  The second bodyguard appeared out of nowhere and plopped down on one knee next to Vincent. “Moto!”

  Without hesitation, he raised his AK-47 to his shoulder and unleashed a barrage of bullets toward the truck.