Night of Knives

by Jon Evans

  The computer goes silent.

  "Zanzibar Sam," Jacob mutters. "Tonight."

  "It sounded like he's on the phone."

  "I think he was. But not his Mango phone. We would have heard it loud and clear. All his calls are now conferenced to and recorded on this computer. He's got another phone. Like Derek did."

  "Half the people where I work have more than one Ugandan phone," Veronica points out.

  "It's not uncommon," Jacob concedes. "Three different networks here, three different coverage maps, phones are cheap, if you travel a lot it makes sense to have one of each. That's true. But how does he know about Zanzibar Sam?"

  "Maybe Derek told him."

  "If Derek told Prester everything, why did Derek have a secret office?"

  Veronica doesn't have an answer for that. Maybe Jacob is right and Prester is guilty of Derek's death. But it's still hard for her to reconcile that possibility with the way Prester talked in Goma.

  "We should take all this to the embassy," she says. "Let them handle it."

  "Take what?" Jacob sounds exasperated. "What do you want to do, go knock on their door and say, listen, we happen to think that two of your CIA agents are actually smugglers who had Derek killed, and are now being blackmailed by Al-Qaeda into helping them kill two hundred Western NGO workers. And by the way, Veronica here thinks her ex-husband is in on it too. Oh, but you know what, all we have for proof is a bunch of Derek's scribbled notes, a few cryptic phone records, and a whole lot of speculation. Can you just drop everything and arrest Prester and Strick right now, pretty please with a cherry on top?" He shakes his head. "I seriously doubt they'll listen. Even if they did, there's no way Prester and Strick wouldn't find out, we'd have shown our hand for nothing, they'd hide their tracks. I mean, if they actually are corrupt. We don't actually know that, you know. We don't know anything. We just suspect."

  "But it makes sense."

  "To us. I seriously doubt we can convince anyone else with what we've got."

  Veronica considers. "Where's Prester now?"

  Jacob flips to a Google Maps window that displays a single red marker on a map of Kampala; Prester's current location. "His office."

  "Is anybody else there?"

  "Nobody with an active Mango phone. That's all I can tell you."

  "But he didn't sound like he was with someone."

  "No," Jacob admits.

  "When he goes out, we should follow him."

  "Follow him?"

  "What do you want to do, wait around until he happens to speak clearly into his phone that he's the guy who set up Derek? If this Zanzibar Sam guy really is some kind of Al-Qaeda terrorist contact, the embassy will probably have his picture. Remember that binder full of Arab faces? I bet they'll start taking us seriously once we can pick him out of a lineup. Unless you can make Prester's phone take his picture for us."

  "I probably could trigger his camera phone remotely," Jacob says thoughtfully. "Interesting."

  "But you wouldn't know when to do it, unless you were watching."

  "No. But - were you just listening to what you were saying? Al-Qaeda terrorist contact. You want to go following a guy like that? You and me, in Kampala, where we happen to stand out like Michael Jordan at Albinos Anonymous? Stop me if I'm wrong, but weren't you the one not long ago at all who wanted to give up and go home because this was too dangerous?"

  "We have to do something. We're talking about two hundred lives in danger here. At least. And as far as we know nobody else even suspects." She thinks of the NGO workers in the Congo and western Uganda, digging wells, installing solar panels, providing medical care. "I'm not talking about endangering ourselves. This is Kampala, not the Congo. We'll stay in busy places, we won't take any chances, no dark alleys. But if we can't take what we've got to the embassy, then we have to get more evidence ourselves."

  Jacob reflects. "I suppose that is actually logical. Insane, maybe, but logical."

  "If we can actually see Zanzibar Sam, even from a distance, then we've got something."

  He nods slowly. "Fair enough. And now that you mention it, this does sound like the perfect time to break out my digital SLR and telephoto lens."

  Chapter 18

  The rest of the day passes slowly. Prester, or at least Prester's phone, does not leave his office. He has a few conversations on his Razr, most of which deal with a complicated contract for a pilot project to mine dissolved methane from Lake Kivu, a venture that doesn't appear to have anything to do with Derek or Al-Qaeda or interahamwe. From what Veronica can gather, officials in Kinshasa and Goma have raised many objections to the proposal, most of which are actually coded demands for bribes that must be paid before the project can proceed.

  She and Jacob quickly grow bored. Veronica passes the time reading an oddly fascinating science-fiction book called Lord of Light. In the early evening she has Henry take her to New City, where she buys sandwiches and a bagful of snacks from the huge Game supermarket. She spends a good hour just wandering around Game, revelling in its towering, well-lit racks full of First World products. She never imagined when she came to Africa that an air-conditioned supermarket could ever seem so poignant.

  Jacob spends the afternoon working on a way to make Prester's Razr take a picture with its onboard phone, and then upload it to Jacob's computer, without Prester ever noticing. He is utterly lost in his technical world, seems unaware of Veronica's presence. She has never seen anyone so engrossed. She has certainly never experienced anything like it herself; even when she worked as a nurse, it was more a question of doing the rounds, filling out forms, and responding to crises and demands, rather than embarking on projects of her own. She wonders what it would be like to be so absorbed by her work.

  It is amazing what Jacob can do. Veronica wonders how many other people would be capable of these feats, tracking calls, reprogramming phones, using someone else's cell phone as a remote camera. Probably very few. No wonder Derek wanted Jacob on his side. She is in the presence of a kind of modern-day wizard.

  The sun is setting, and Veronica is about to propose that they call it a day, when Jacob's computer bleeps a warning sound. He blinks, looks up from the online technical documentation he is studying, and switches windows to the Google Map of Prester's phone.

  "He's on the move," Jacob reports.

  Veronica looks outside. It will be dark soon. She hadn't really considered the possibility of following Prester at night. But they have a car, as long as they stay distant, they should be fine. "All right. Let's go find him."

  Jacob nods and grabs his hiptop.

  "You take that everywhere," she observes.

  "Not to Bwindi. Figured a disposable phone would be fine there. But almost everywhere, yes. Don't leave home without it."

  "I thought that was the Leatherman."

  "I've got that on me too. Souvenir. And you never know, it might come in handy again."

  Veronica frowns. "Let's hope not."

  * * *

  "No, wait, go back," Jacob orders, looking up for just a moment, then back to his hiptop's shining screen. He soon realizes it's almost useless; none of the real-world roads around him appear on the online map. Kampala wasn't planned or surveyed, it just grew. "The other way. Southwest."

  "I have no compass, sir," Henry says. "You must give me roads for directions."

  "I can't. According to this map, we're in the middle of empty wilderness."

  "Go straight and then left," Veronica tells Henry.

  "Thank you."

  They turn off a paved boulevard onto a wide dirt road without electrical power; neither town nor shantytown, but a region between. The buildings here are low and lit by flickering candles. The Toyota's headlights briefly illuminate shadowy figures walking or standing along the road. The dirt thoroughfare is pitted and rutted, scattered with entropic debris and pools of stagnant water. A few piles of organic trash have been set by the road to burn. The last line of street lights dwindles behind them, and Jacob begins to f
eel uncomfortable. He is on the verge of suggesting they turn around when Veronica says, in a relieved voice, "That must be it."

  The it in question is an island of light in the sea of darkness; a large property illuminated brightly from within, surrounded by a wooden fence. Cars ranging from rusting matatus to gleaming black BMWs are parked on the streets and in vacant lots all around. Thatched roofs arranged in a U-shape sixty feet square are visible within the wall, and the open gate reveals a thronging crowd of Africans beneath those largely open-walled roofs. It's some kind of outdoor nightclub, half the people inside are dancing ecstatically, giving themselves totally to the music. Nearly everybody is holding a bottle or a cigarette or both. The babble of conversation is audible a hundred yards away, mixed with the thumping beats and lilting melodies of African music. Four burly men at the gate watch carelessly as people pass in and out. Others congregate at the nearby nyama choma grilled-meat stand.

  Henry pulls to a stop about a hundred feet away and looks around to be sure all the doors are locked before he switches off the lights. "This is a place for bad people," he says, worried. "The men who come here are drinkers and fornicators. Ganja smokers. They have closed their eyes and ears to the Lord's message. They have no discipline, no restraint."

  "Sounds like my kind of place," Jacob jokes.

  Henry looks at him with sad disapproval. It is like being glared at by a priest. Jacob wants to apologize but decides to just shut up. Henry always makes Jacob a little uneasy. He's still not accustomed to having a servant, and being called "Mr. Rockel" by an older man.

  "Can you hear anything from his phone?" Veronica asks.

  Jacob frowns. "Doubt it. It should turn on by itself if it picks up any usable audio. The software's not perfect, but I'm guessing there's too much background noise in there… " He taps at his hiptop, and the car suddenly fills with loud, muddy music. Jacob quickly turns it off. "Nope. He could recite Kublai Khan at maximum volume and we wouldn't pick it up. We won't get anything from in there unless he actually uses his Razr. Maybe not even then."

  "Shit."

  "Yeah. We can't follow him in there. Not surreptitiously. We're probably the only white people within half a mile. Well, maybe we'll get lucky and he'll develop a hankering for nyama choma." Jacob produces his Canon Rebel camera and a long lens from his backpack, assembles them, lowers his window just enough to insert the lens, and peers through the viewfinder at the nighclub. It's hard to make out individuals amid the constant motion. He sees a few men with dreadlocks, but none are Prester. He's short for an African, next to invisible in a crowd like this.

  "Is there enough light to take a picture?" Veronica asks.

  "I don't know. The window works as a poor man's tripod, that helps. Let's see." He sets the camera to its maximum ISO level, takes a test shot, and examines the resulting image. "Hey, that's actually not bad. Good enough to recognize faces."

  Jacob goes back to surveying the crowd through the telescopic lens. It feels like he is in a movie, but at the same time he feels coolly confident, ready for anything, as if he has been training his whole life for this pursuit of Al-Qaeda down dark African alleys. Maybe he has: maybe every movie, book and video game he's ever seen, read and played has honed his instincts and his strategies, maybe this is the triumphant advantage of having lived a Western pop-culture youth, that all the ten thousand made-up adventures he has seen and lived on screen and page have prepared him for this real one better than any formal training ever could.

  "Can I see?" Veronica asks after a few minutes.

  "Sure."

  She has to lean over him and press her body against his to get a decent view, and when she does, Jacob goes still. She is amazingly warm. It feels like a long time passes before she withdraws from the camera and sits back in her seat.

  "I guess we wait," Veronica says.

  Time passes. Jacob wishes he had thought to bring a jacket. By day, Kampala's equatorial heat is oppressive, but the night air is cool.

  "Lot of mosquitoes out here," Jacob says, slapping at his shoulder.

  Veronica produces her pack of Marlboro Lights. "Don't worry. I'll smoke them out."

  "Can I have one?"

  She looks at him. "I didn't know you smoked."

  "I may as well start. We've got bigger problems than lung cancer."

  It feels like sucking air from a car's exhaust pipe, he hacks and coughs on the first couple of puffs, but Jacob keeps going, although he stops inhaling. Soon his fingers are tingling and he feels a little sick.

  * * *

  "Veronica," Jacob whispers. He puts his hand on her shoulder and shakes her, gently at first, then firmly. "Veronica, wake up."

  She gasps and sits up, eyes wide, alarmed. "What is it?"

  "It's okay. You fell asleep. He's outside."

  Prester has emerged alone from the fray of the nightclub, and is buying a skewer of grilled meat from the nyama choma stand. Veronica, Jacob and Henry watch intently. When Prester goes back inside Jacob groans and slumps back into his seat.

  "Jesus," Veronica mutters. "I never knew following someone could be so boring. How long have we been here now?"

  Jacob checks his hiptop. "Almost five hours."

  "Christ."

  Henry says, unexpectedly, "The patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit."

  Jacob blinks. "Says who?"

  "Ecclesiastes, chapter seven, verse eight."

  "Wait," Veronica says. "He's coming out again,"

  This time Prester keeps walking, and disappears into the night. Jacob and Veronica are still considering their options when Prester's familiar green Mitsubishi Pajero emerges from the darkness and drives right past the Toyota. Jacob yanks the camera away, and he and Veronica crouch down in the back seat as Prester's headlights sweep over them.

  "Do you think he saw us?" Veronica asks.

  "No," Henry says.

  She and Jacob exchange glances.

  "All right," Jacob decides. "I've always wanted to say this. Follow that car!"

  * * *

  Prester drives back to the paved road and turns left, away from downtown. Jacob is relieved to be back among street lights. They enter a quasi-industrial zone of warehouses and car repair shops, properties fenced with barbed wire or concrete topped with broken glass, some guarded by askaris or dogs. Then, when the road forks, Prester bends left where all the other traffic goes right. The left-hand fork is paved but has no street lights.

  "Turn our lights off," Jacob orders. "Keep following."

  Henry hesitates a moment before obeying. Jacob is glad he had Henry drive. Henry was born in Kampala, he must know the city like the back of his hand, surely he won't allow them to drive into disaster.

  "Where does this road go?" he asks.

  Henry shakes his head. "I do not know."

  Jacob winces and looks down at his hiptop. The map is utterly blank.

  "He is slowing down," Henry says softly. He is leaning forward and squinting in order to see the road ahead of them.

  "Keep back," Jacob says. "Don't let him see us."

  Prester's lights begin to bounce and jostle. Seconds later they feel the smooth pavement beneath them end, the Toyota begins to rattle violently along rutted dirt. In the moonlight Jacob sees shacks strewn haphazardly alongside the road, closed and dark as coffins. He hears the snarl of a feral dog as it leaps out of their way. They are in the shantytown. Jacob knows the smart thing to do is to retreat. This isn't just shady, this is outright dangerous. But they are so close.

  "I don't think this is a good idea," Veronica says nervously. "We should go back."

  "I think the lady is right," Henry quickly agrees.

  Jacob hesitates, then capitulates. "Yeah. Fuck. OK, let's turn -"

  "Behind us!" Henry says sharply.

  Jacob turns around. Another set of headlights is roaring up behind them.

  Ahead of them, Prester's Pajero stops and begins to reverse towards them.

  "Oh, no," Jacob breathe
s. The moment of awful realization is like an abyss opening up beneath his feet, like the moment he looked into the Bwindi jungle and saw men with Kalashnikovs emerge. "It's a trap."

  Chapter 19

  "Turn around, turn around!" Jacob cries out.

  Veronica can hardly breathe. Her lungs feel trapped in an icy cage.

  "There is no room," Henry says.

  He's right. This dirt path is only a single lane wide, the shacks here are too close together. The vehicle behind them is big, another SUV. Prester's Pajero stops twenty feet away. They have been boxed in.

  "Call the police," Veronica says hoarsely.

  Jacob picks up at his hiptop, then stares at it, disbelieving. "No service. How the fuck? We're in range, we've got to be."

  They hear doors open on the vehicle behind them.

  "The Lord Jesus will shelter and guide us," Henry's voice is low and strained. "Holy Jesus, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death."

  "Run," Veronica says, "we have to run."

  Jacob looks at her helplessly. "Where? How?"

  Prester gets out of the Pajero and walks slowly back towards the Toyota. The gun in his left hand shines darkly in the headlights of the vehicle behind them. Veronica feels paralyzed. She can't even turn her head to look at Jacob.

  Prester bangs on the car window beside her with his gun, so hard that he almost breaks the glass. "Out of the car. Now. There are two hard men with Kalashnikovs right behind you. If you don't do this my way, you will do it their way. Your call."

  After a second Veronica forces herself to move, reaches out with a trembling hand, unlocks the door.

  Prester yanks it open and orders, "Out."

  Veronica obeys. She is trembling, wobbling on her legs, she feels like she hardly has the strength to stand. She half-expects to be pistolwhipped or killed on the spot - but Prester just gapes at her. Jacob follows her out and takes a step forward past her, half-interposing himself between Veronica and Prester.