Sweet Hostage

by Leslie Jones

  “Hmmph. Nandi doesn’t have a son. No relatives at all, as far as I know. She talks like she does, but you’re the first visitors she’s had in years. Maybe ever.”

  Lark frowned. “That’s so sad.”

  “Be that as it may, she’ll probably enjoy the visit. I’ll take you down to her.”

  They walked down a long corridor with doors every fifteen feet. Most were open. They were little more than hospital rooms. Two beds, two dressers, some personal items. The hallway was dim and smelled of dust and mildew. The few residents they passed, mostly on walkers, also smelled musty. Or worse.

  From the hallway, they entered the dayroom. Shelby gagged.

  “What the hell is that smell?” Lark asked, pinching her nose closed.

  “Body odor,” Trevor said grimly. “Urine. Residents who haven’t been bathed in days. Antiseptic to cover it up.”

  What kind of man would put his own mother in a place like this?

  The nurse took them out a back door into the garden, which turned out to be a small square abutting a major street. The noise of passing cars and the smell of exhaust hung in the air. The garden itself consisted of a small grove of overgrown trees and a tiny patch of grass. Several white benches ringed the area. A single wheelchair sat near the fence by the road, with the occupant’s back toward them.

  “Nandi.”

  The nurse had to repeat herself twice more before the woman stirred. “Is it dinnertime yet?”

  Trevor detected a faint accent under the English. “Es it dinna-­toime yet?”

  “Dinner was an hour ago. You ate pasta and green beans.”

  “Oh, right.” The woman looked disappointed. “Could I have a cuppa?”

  She’d pronounced it hrroight. Trevor finally placed the accent as Afrikaans.

  He knew what he was going to find when the woman turned around.

  “These nice folks are here to visit you.” The nurse ignored Nandi’s request. “Have fun, kiddies.”

  Trevor was glad when the nurse left. There had been no real care or concern in her face or voice. Just a woman doing a job for a paycheck. These residents deserved better.

  “Mrs. Whitcomb?” Shelby asked.

  The woman slowly pulled the wheels to swivel the wheelchair toward them. She appeared tired and careworn. Her dark skin contrasted with her blue patterned dress and head scarf, neither of which had been laundered recently.

  The woman looked up at her. “I haven’t heard that name for many a year.”

  Trevor gestured for Shelby to sit beside Nandi. She did. “Mrs. Mkhize, then?”

  “Mkhize was my maiden name. My son thought it best to go back to using it, since my husband has been dead for so many years. My married name was Whitcomb.”

  Lark reached forward as though to touch Nandi’s cheek. “You’re black.”

  The woman’s brows shot to her hairline. “Am I, then? I had no idea.”

  Lark refused to blush or back down. “But Max is white.”

  Shelby flapped her hands at Lark to shush her. “Would it be all right if we talked with you a bit about your son?”

  The old woman harrumphed. “Stuck me in this old folks’ home these past twenty years. Never once came to visit. What is it you want to know? I’ll tell you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Trevor said. “I understand he hasn’t visited, but do you follow him in the news, by any chance? I’m hoping you can shed some insight into him as a person.”

  A faded curiosity lit her eyes. “Why are you asking about him?”

  “I talked to him just recently,” Trevor said. “He’s involved with a group of radicals calling themselves the Philosophy of Bedlam.”

  “Bedlam, like the insane asylum. That’s rich, considering where I am. Why would Max be involved with those terrorists? Destroying precious works of art. Who does that?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re trying to figure out, ma’am,” he said.

  Nandi gestured around herself. “The world can be a horrible, dangerous place. This patch of nothing is no protection. I keep track of the rest of the world, though it’s forgotten about me.”

  Lark made a soft sound of distress.

  “Anyway, the Max I raised wouldn’t be involved in anything like that. His reputation was always so important to him. Seems he’s still that way, because he comes across as some sort of philanthropist in the news. Even though he’s not one.”

  “Why do you say that?” Shelby tipped her head to one side.

  “Oh, he gives money to charities, all right,” Nandi said. “But I’ve done the research. The donations are always to tax-­relief organizations. Tax free, do you understand? Or he gets public recognition for it. Max is all about Max. He’s been a bit of a disappointment.”

  Lark sat down in the grass and crossed her legs. “So your husband died during apartheid protests? Just you and your son got on that ship?”

  “We’re very sorry for your loss,” Shelby said hastily.

  “Was that rude? I didn’t mean to be rude. But like you said, that was twenty years ago, right? But I’m still sorry.”

  Nandi peered down at Lark. “I see you’ve also done your research, young lady.”

  Lark grinned. “I like knowing things. You’re interesting.”

  Nandi harrumphed. “You might have noticed I’m an old woman.”

  Lark twinkled up at her. “But your mind is sharp as a tack, lady.”

  Nandi banged her hand against the wheelchair’s arm. “You got that right, missy. I just pretend not to know what’s going on so those idiots who run this place will leave me alone.”

  Trevor smiled. “You’re very convincing.”

  “And you’re black,” Lark said again.

  The old woman slanted a sour look down at her. “You’re very observant.”

  “No, but that means Max is mixed race.”

  “Colored, they were called in South Africa. Accepted by neither race.”

  “But white enough to pass.” Lark was like a dog with a bone.

  Trevor just shook his head. “Ms. Mkhize, are you familiar with Max’s public rhetoric about black uprisings during apartheid?”

  The woman laughed, a sudden braying as though she hadn’t laughed in a very long time. “Call me Nandi. And if you are obliquely trying to tell me my son resents black South Africans for the death of his beloved white father, you needn’t bother. He made his opinion known when he sentenced me to this place. He didn’t hold back, believe me.”

  “Does Max hate art? Can you think of any reason he would want to destroy paintings?” he asked. They needed to find a link between Max and the Bedlamites. Trevor forced himself to have patience. This was a conversation, not an interrogation.

  Nandi shook her head. “Our home was always full of paintings, carvings, tapestries. Even a pair of Syrian daggers. We had an extensive collection.”

  “Your father-­in-­law was a barrister, as I understand it?” Shelby said. “Here in London?”

  “One of the best in the country,” Nandi said, puffing out her chest. “One of the most expensive, too. Until the war.”

  “He knew Winston Churchill personally,” Lark said, resting her chin on a hand propped against her leg. “Did they work together?”

  “Side by side. He was one of Churchill’s advisers in the lead-­up to the start of World War Two. Churchill trusted him implicitly, until the rumors started.”

  “Rumors?” Lark’s eyes went wide.

  Nandi frowned, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Ugly rumors. Some refugees from the Axis countries brought or smuggled in coins, pieces of artwork, gold and silver. Anything valuable the Nazis hadn’t already confiscated. Hitler was fanatical about his art collection, and the Nazis stole ruthlessly from Jewish families and others. There were rumors that some Englishmen were seizing these valuabl
es and hoarding them. There were a lot of rumors at the time, because ­people were afraid, and they didn’t know what was going to happen. There were even rumors that some Englishmen were sending their assets out of the country, in fear of the same thing happening when Germany invaded Great Britain. But of course that never happened.”

  “Was there ever any proof anyone sent their assets elsewhere?” Trevor felt a tenuous hope. It was a spark that might go nowhere, but so far it was the best they had.

  “A lot of museums sent their collections to other parts of Great Britain. The Ministry of Health evacuated valuables and ­people, mainly children and government employees, from London and the coastal towns that might be invaded. But no, no proof those valuables were sent out of Great Britain, though they must have done. A lot of Englishmen who were afraid of Germany’s invasion sent their families elsewhere, including to South Africa.”

  “Did your father-­in-­law go to South Africa?” Trevor asked. Hadn’t Lark said something about that yesterday?

  “Eventually. First he sent his wife and son, Nicholas, to Cape Town. He came later.”

  “Could he have smuggled his art collection there?”

  “I think it’s very possible, young man. While as far as I know there’s no proof of that ever happening, my mother-­in-­law was quite wealthy. I visited Nicholas’s home in Cape Town several times while we were courting. And, of course, after she passed on, Nicholas inherited everything, including the collection.”

  “How did you and Nicholas meet?” Lark appeared fascinated.

  Nandi smiled. “Now that’s a story, young lady. He was a doctor, doing his medical residency in Sharpeville, where I lived. I had joined the thousands and thousands of ­people protesting the discriminatory laws of the time. The police beat a number of us before opening fire. I ended up in hospital with a broken arm and a concussion. Nicholas treated me, and we fell in love. As you can imagine, a mixed-­race ­couple was not well received in Sharpeville, or anywhere else in South Africa, for that matter. We married in secret and moved to Cape Town.”

  “What about apartheid?” Shelby asked.

  “Our marriage was prohibited, of course. Sometimes when visitors came to the house, I pretended to be a domestic.”

  Shelby’s brows snapped down. “That’s awful!”

  Nandi frowned. “That’s the way it was under apartheid. And it ultimately led to Nicholas’s death.”

  “What happened?” three voices asked in chorus.

  “When Nicholas’s parents found out about us, they first pressured him to leave me. When he refused, they had me arrested, and finally chose to disown him rather than accept me as a daughter-­in-­law. We lived in a black neighborhood because Nicholas refused to have me pretend to be a servant. Even though as a doctor he treated both black and white patients, there was a lot of resentment toward both of us. Him for representing white South Africa, even though he was vocally anti-­apartheid. And me because I married outside my race. Things were always tense.

  “Then someone discovered who Nicholas’s father was. How he’d contributed to the repression of blacks. I’m sorry to say that he was one of the proponents for the Population Registration Act of 1950.”

  Trevor’s lip curled. “That abomination was the foundation of apartheid. It all built from that Act.”

  “Yes,” Nandi said. “On the night Nicholas died, we had gone out to dinner. A mob grew outside the restaurant. I never did know what started it all. Nicholas tried to calm things down, but they were too worked up. Too angry, throwing their anger somewhere, anywhere. Nicholas was beaten to death. I didn’t die, but my spine was damaged, leaving me in this.” She gestured to the wheelchair.

  The three of them were silent. Trevor grieved for the woman whose only crime was to love another human being.

  Lark leaned back on her elbows. “What an amazing and tragic story. Do you think I could interview you another day for an article? I’m with Cerberus.”

  Nandi chuckled. “Isn’t that what this has been? Very well, young lady. You are the most colorful young thing I’ve ever seen.”

  She gave a modest smile. “I’m just authentically me.”

  Trevor cut in fast, before Lark could say anything outrageous. “So after that, you and Max came to London to live with Nicholas’s brother?”

  “Coventry, but yes. We packed our belongings and snuck out in the middle of the night. Caught a cargo ship heading here and made a deal with the captain to sail with them. A lot of our possessions never made it to England. Thieves and pirates, that lot.” She banged the arm of her wheelchair in disgust.

  “What went missing?” Trevor asked quickly.

  Nandi’s brows raised in surprise. “Why, a great deal of our collection, now that you mention it. A lot of art history, lost in the space of weeks.”

  A smile spread across Trevor’s face. “So it’s likely your collection started in London pre-­war, moved to Cape Town, and only some of it made it back to London. Was there a ship’s manifest, or did you have a record of your belongings? Your collection?”

  “There might have been. Honestly, I was in shock. Distraught. My husband had just been murdered in front of me, and I was forced to leave the only country I’d ever known to come to some damp, dismal land to live with a total stranger.”

  They stood in silence.

  “That blows.” Lark cleared her throat. “Uh, what was Max like as a teenager?”

  Nandi snorted. “He was an angry child. Always in a temper, always blaming. He went from one addiction to another. He was fifteen when his father was killed, so I made allowances. Nicholas’s brother and I put him in rehab variously for alcohol and drugs. All those records are sealed, obviously. The world thinks he’s always been some shining ideal. I’m the only one who knows the truth.”

  Trevor hesitated to ask the obvious question. If Max’s reputation was so important to him, why had he hidden his mother away in a sub-­standard facility and pretended she was dead? If Lark could find Nandi Mkhize, so could others, if they thought to look. He feared the answer would be that the woman lived in squalor because Max’s reputation meant everything to him, and having a black mother seemed intolerable to him.

  Instead, he asked, “Can you think of any reason why Max might be funding this group of terrorists? They call themselves anarchists, but they’re nothing more than a pack of criminals.”

  Nandi shook her head. “I can’t think of a thing.”

  “But you can’t remember if Max hated any sort of art?” he asked.

  “I suppose he could have. I don’t really remember.”

  Shelby stood and offered her hand. “Thank you for your time, Nandi.”

  “Visit any time. Things get fairly boring around here.”

  They were quiet until they were in the car and on their way back to London.

  “Well, we know there’s no love lost between Max and his mother.” Shelby shook the tension out of her wrists.

  “He’s an asshat.” Lark accelerated as she merged onto the A2. “Other than knowing Max’s family history, did we find anything that will help you?”

  “Actually, we very well might have,” Trevor said. “It’s possible there’s a connection between the Bedlamites and Max’s parents’ art collection. If, as I suspect, Max is searching for something, and he’s using the Bedlamites to target art museums, he might be looking for some of his family’s lost art.”

  “And then destroying it? That makes no sense.”

  “No, but it’s the best theory we have at the moment. If a ship’s manifest exists, it would be very helpful to find it.” He cast a hopeful look at Lark.

  “If it exists, I’ll find the shit out of it,” she promised.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “LET’S HEAD BACK to your place, Lark, and do some computer digging.”

  Lark’s face brightened. “Yes! Hackin
g. I mean, of course I wouldn’t do anything illegal like that. Why would you suggest such a thing?” She started humming happily.

  “Trevor, do you think I should call the State Department? I do work for them, after all.”

  He thought about it. “You would be safe inside the embassy. That’s the positive. The negative is they almost assuredly have suspended your access and flagged your accounts. They’d be stupid not to. You’re a potential national security threat.”

  She sighed. “They could provide legal counsel, if nothing else.”

  “It’s your choice, of course. My suggestion would be to hold that in your back pocket for now.”

  “All right.”

  He experienced a rush of relief. He had the oddest feeling that if he let her out of his sight even for a moment, he would lose her. He wanted to build on the tenuous thread of trust budding between them.

  Back at the flat, Lark tapped away at her keyboard, muttering under her breath. Trevor flipped through channels on the telly and felt like a useless lump. None of his SAS training would help here. He was an expert in explosives and biochemical weapons, not computers.

  “Why don’t you whip us up a gourmet meal?” Shelby suggested. “I can tell you’re bored.”

  “Or you can do my homework,” Lark chipped in. “It’s on cybersecurity laws. Policies. Privacy. Boring as shit, but it’s a required class.”

  Trevor got to his feet. “Cooking it is, then.”

  Over a dinner of seared chicken with mushrooms, peppers, and broccoli on a bed of pasta, Lark grilled Trevor.

  “So, Hunky Guy. How do you and Shelby know each other?”

  “I thought we agreed on Trevor, Hadley.”

  Lark very nearly growled. Trevor found himself impressed. The sprite had a ferocious side.

  “Just answer the question.”

  Trevor chuckled. “Right, then. We worked together in Azakistan about ten months ago. Shelby was the State Department liaison for the Secret Ser­vice when President Cooper visited al-­Zadr Air Force Base.”

  “And fell in love?” Lark batted her eyelashes.

  Shelby choked on a piece of chicken. She coughed to clear her throat.