I prepared myself as we got closer, working on my story and happy that I had worn such a classy outfit. I imagined a huge, dark-paneled building, fronted by banana trees. I couldn’t have been more wrong. We turned off the main road into a long, ceremonial drive, lined with palm trees on one side and what Akida said were flame trees on the other.
“One of the jewels of our country” he said. “Twenty-two acres, completely secure.”
He wasn’t kidding. The white wall rose for almost two stories and seemed to go on forever. I could just glimpse an American flag and a few modern, cream-colored buildings peeking above the concrete. As we got nearer, two armed guards at the entrance moved out from under their shaded post.
“Is it okay just to drive up?” I said. The van had suicide bomber written all over it. “I could wave my scarf out the window or something.”
Roger started to laugh.
“They are expecting us. I will, however, stop a respectful distance from the entrance, just to be safe.” Akida slowed down and the van choked. We waited while he started it again. “The grounds include ten thousand indigenous plants,” Akida said, pumping the gas, “including shrubs which encourage meditation.”
“Really?” Roger said, looking at me.
“That is what the press release promises,” Akida said. “I myself have never been inside. I hope that your visit will be calm and productive.”
“Even meditative,” Roger said. I elbowed him.
The van did a quick jiggle, then stopped. I slid off the bench, landing a splinter in an inconvenient place.
“Are you sure you don’t want Akida to take me to the jail?” Roger yelped.
“Are you on an Interpol list or something? Just come in with me.”
Akida told us to text him when we were done, then headed back down the asphalt, the van blending into the sandy landscape until it disappeared. I straightened my hair and skirt, looked down at Roger’s sandals, sighed, then approached the guards. They checked our passports. We passed through a metal detector and into the massive atrium and, as Akida had predicted, were “pleasantly surprised by the brightness of the interior.”
We were met by a short American, as preppy as a faded deck shoe and half as charming.
“Miss Redondo, Mr. Claymore. I’m Brent Winbourne, the Under Under Secretary. How can we can help?”
I had seen more helpful faces inside a subway information booth. I explained the situation and emphasized that my client Jack Anderson needed his diabetes medication. Jack didn’t have diabetes yet, but I’m sure he would, eventually. “I’m sure no one wants a dead senior on their hands.”
“Please follow me.”
I turned and caught Roger checking me out. It seemed like five years since that hotel room in Atlantic City, but his eyes could still undo me. I imagined him kissing my back and ran into a pole.
The minion ushered us into the ambassador’s modern, minimalist office—no indoor palms, no vertical blinds, no wild animal heads on the wall. So much for Mogambo. I had hoped to snap a couple of good examples of a rhino mounting for Uncle Leon. Sometimes it’s hard to shop for a taxidermist. I explained my dismay to Roger.
“After the Siteez treaty, they could hardly have that stuff up,” Roger said.
“After the what?”
“The 1975 Endangered Species treaty.”
“My treaty knowledge is pretty much limited to Versailles. Wait, how do you spell that?” But the ambassador came in before he could answer.
“Claymore. Overdressed as always.”
I turned to see a man who could have been Dick Cheney’s younger brother: the thinning pate, the needle nose, the smarmy smile, and a dress shirt so white it was positively Antarctic.
“Harrison Belk at your service.” He held out a palm the size of a cutlet. It even had the slightly damp feel of raw pork.
“Your Highness,” I said. Roger snorted.
“Please call me Harrison. How are you, Roger? You should have told me you were coming. We could have put you up in the residence.”
“Wait a minute. You two know each other?” I said. What the hell?
“We had something of a rivalry at Stanford, didn’t we? Please have a seat. I’ve inquired about the Andersons. First, let me say that they are fine.”
“He means still alive,” Roger said.
The ambassador shot him a nasty look. “They are being held temporarily at the Remand Prison on Maendolo Street. It is a pleasanter place than our alternate facility.”
“Less disgusting.”
“Pleasanter, as I said, than Ukonga, where they may be moved at any time. Sadly, there’s a limit to what we can do when the military is involved.”
“You can’t be serious. These are two eighty-year-old tourists who accidentally took a picture.”
“If we sweep in and rescue every American they arrest, it sounds as if we’re not taking the military seriously. It’s a sensitive diplomatic issue.”
“Well, it’s going to be a major diplomatic incident if Jack doesn’t get his insulin.”
“Miss Redondo, please don’t overreact. I’ve spoken to the lieutenant privately and I’m sure together we can sort this out. It’s just that the consulate can’t be officially involved.”
“I don’t understand. Isn’t that what you’re here for?”
“Not in these kinds of cases.”
Roger squeezed my hand and stared at Ambassador Belk. “There are other avenues, I’m assuming?”
“There are always other avenues in Tanzania. If you go to the facility and speak to Lieutenant Panza, he might have some suggestions.”
“Bribes,” Roger said to me.
“I would be very surprised if someone with Miss Redondo’s extensive travel background really requires an interpreter, Claymore.”
“Everyone needs an interpreter for diplomatic doublespeak, Belk. Isn’t that the point? Come on, Cyd, I told you we should have gone straight to the jail.”
“Miss Redondo, I regret the embassy can’t be more helpful, but if there is anything else you need, anything at all, during your stay, please don’t hesitate to contact me day or night.” He kissed my hand too long and gave me his card. In for a penny, I thought.
“Actually, Harrison, there is something else. I’m trying to locate a Robert Revere Barsky. He’s a vet, originally from Brooklyn. His birth date is 9/21/53. His mother’s been killed. If you could help me track him down, I’d be very grateful. Here’s his last known address in Dar es Salaam.” The ambassador and Roger shook their heads.
“What?” I said. “That’s not something you do, either?” I could feel our vacation disappearing. Come on, was nine days and eight nights too much to ask? God, it was already down to eight days and seven nights and we’d lost our Zanzibar bungalow.
“No, of course. This is completely within my purview. If you’ll leave those details and your local contact information, I’ll make sure someone gets back to you. And may I just say on a personal note, it is rare that such an exotic specimen enters our domain. Africa pales in comparison.”
Roger rolled his eyes. “Good-bye, Belk. I thought you’d be Senator Belk by now. Wasn’t that the plan?”
“Plans change, don’t they? Please give Alicia my best, by the way.” Belk put his hand too low on my back and moved us toward the door.
It was barely closed when Roger swore. “What a dick.”
“Roger.”
I texted Akida as we headed down the stairs. “I’m so glad I’m traveling with someone who enjoys alienating the people who can help us.”
“He was never going to help us.”
“And who’s Alicia, anyway?”
“Someone we went to college with.”
Before I could ask any more, a cloud of dust exploded from the gate and Akida skidded to a stop. After we climbed inside, we passe
d under the flame trees and headed into town, hitting continental-sized potholes with regularity. Between jolts, I worried about my next move. I needed local intel. I asked Akida about the best way to handle the jail negotiation. Even in a bribe, you don’t want to be ripped off. After all, it was coming out of my emergency money. He said it all depended on the greed of the person taking the bribe, but for this I should not pay more than seven hundred-fifty thousand.
“Dollars?” Holy crap.
“Tanzanian shillings.”
I whipped out my thumbnail currency converter—three hundred U.S. dollars. I breathed again. “Will you come in with me, Akida?” He hesitated. “Please? I promise to teach you the new Hilton log-in system.” He finally nodded. It was just my luck, to be in a foreign country surrounded by hesitant men. As we neared the jail I started to sweat through my chiffon. I had bailed my cousins out more than once, but this was different. I opened my Swahili guide and started cramming. Roger was staring out the back window at a town car behind us. I thought about the town car in our parking lot.
“Akida? In your country, is there any special significance to stabbing a parrot?”
“Oh, yes. Very bad. Heavy curse, worse than death.”
Chapter Fifteen
Great. “I don’t believe in curses,” I said.
Then I remembered Mrs. Barsky and the Andersons and crossed myself twice for good measure as we stopped in front of the medieval door of the prison. Let’s just say the flat building, vaguely whitewashed and sagging in spots, lacked tourist charm. Two uniformed soldiers stood outside, staring at my legs with absolutely no expression. Suddenly I felt underdressed. They moved to open the door, four feet thick and groaning under its own weight as it swung out.
We went in. Urine was the top note of the Remand Prison bouquet, with touches of sweat, sour milk, mildew, and burned coffee. Barb Anderson had spent her entire life in a cloud of Glade Air Freshener and 409. I hoped she was unconscious. We approached the barred windows. I greeted the officials in Swahili, as a courtesy. I was just getting some pleasantries ready, when a uniformed Asian man with a pockmarked face and a nasty scar down one cheek came forward and held out an unnaturally small, manicured hand.
“Miss Redondo?”
“Ndiyo.”
He frowned. “I am Lieutenant Panza. The ambassador informed me of your arrival. Welcome to Tanzania,” he said, in English.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. This is Mr. Claymore and Mr. Nyondo,” I said, again in Swahili.
“You are here to inquire about the Americans?”
“Yes we are. Would it be possible for us to see them?” I said, stumbling over the grammar.
“I’m afraid that is impossible.” He glared at me. “No visitors.”
Akida pulled me aside. “Far be it for me to advise you, Cyd Redondo, but when a Tanzanian has taken the trouble to learn English, they find it insulting when you speak to them in Swahili. I fear you will not get far with this approach.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” I whispered.
“I was trying to be polite.”
I shook my head at him and approached the counter. “I apologize for my inadequate Swahili, Lieutenant. Your English, on the other hand, is impeccable.”
“We are not savages here, whatever Americans think.”
“Americans have great respect for the citizens of Tanzania. And for your authority. I appreciate that I may not be able to visit the prisoners. But would their attorney be allowed a conference?”
“Of course. As I said, we are a civilized nation.”
“Wonderful. This is their attorney, Mr. Claymore.” Roger stiffened beside me. I hoped the lieutenant couldn’t see the sandals from his vantage point.
“Five minutes.” The lieutenant gestured to Roger, who gave me a furious look.
I looked at the peeling Tanzania’s Most Wanted posters on the wall until Roger and Lieutenant Panza were out of sight. One of the fugitives had a sad ponytail and Mrs. Barsky’s nose. I missed her.
“How do we work this?” I whispered to Akida. I usually bribed people with services. Was there a secret handshake? Did you leave it in a paper bag? Could you ask for a receipt? “How do we know how much?”
“The money is usually exchanged while you are signing the release papers. I will watch for the sign. Do not hate the police, Miss Redondo. They are not well paid; they are just trying to feed their families.” We heard screams. Finally, Roger came back.
“Are they all right?”
“A little shaken. And fragrant. But not hurt. They seem to have made some friends. And they’re thrilled you’re here. Helen also said you were marriage material.”
“How would she know?” I snapped.
Roger grinned and said we were to come back in two hours. He wanted to buy a SIM card and some clothes, and Akida offered to help. Would I be interested in spending some time in the Kariakoo market? You bet I would. It was time for our medication. I handed Roger one of my malaria pills, hailed a daladala, and told them I’d meet them back there at three.
***
The moment the Toyota screeched to a stop beside a stall of waving blankets bright enough to see from space, I was in my element. First I bought a huge woven bag in turquoise, yellow, and green. I figured with my handbag and this, I could do some damage. The market had everything, from fruits big as mantle ornaments to jewelry stacked like onions in bins. Suddenly, everything in America seem faded.
Then I saw a wall of tortoiseshell. I had coveted the tortoiseshell hairbrush set my grandmother kept on her vanity my whole life, but it had gone to Aunt Helen, so I snatched up a few pieces. I bought enough bracelets to go up to both elbows, a bag full of scarves, and fifteen presents for less than I’d pay for a cut and blow dry at the Hairlarious Salon. Then, I set out to score some tanzanite.
My jeweler friend Ronnie had shown me how to spot the real thing. I picked my mark: a small stall squeezed in between a smoky grill and a stand of bottle cap earrings. The seller was short, with a barrel torso and a thick neck that didn’t seem to match his pinched, suspicious face. His eyes were black as an Americano.
As I hoped, he had spotted my polka dots and my Balenciaga. I wanted him to peg me as a typical tourist. I arrived at the stall. We appraised each other.
He held out a stone. “Tanzanite. It is our national gem. Very rare. It is the most beautiful gem in the world because it holds three colors rather than one.” In the hazy gray sunshine, the gems looked almost white, but I could see tiny bursts of potential in their reflection. I looked professionally bored. It was important never to show interest in the beginning, or they’d just jack the price up.
I asked him if he had anything more special? Extra special?
He reached for a carved, locked box. The smell of his desire to rip me off was even stronger than his sweat, which was laced with patchouli. He opened the box to reveal two rings. To the naked eye, one ring held up to Ronnie’s criteria. Beside it was a flashier, but inferior piece. That’s the one he offered, smiling.
“Very special price for such a lovely lady.” He turned and said “Watch this” in Swahili to his friends.
“Watch what?” I replied, also in Swahili.
He jumped, then bowed. “You speak our language, Madam?”
“I try,” I said with my most gracious smile, then pulled out my travel-size jeweler’s loupe and a guide to precious metals and gems. I had the Swahili version, for emphasis.
“May I see?”
He hesitated, then handed me the inferior gem.
“Ni bei gani? How much?” A few people had gathered to watch. I guess hearing Swahili with a Brooklyn accent was tantamount to a Broadway show here.
“Five hundred U.S. dollars,” he said.
“Really,” I said. “For iolite?”
His face fell and a couple of the men who stood behind
me laughed. I shrugged. “I’m only interested in real jewels, in something rare.”
“Rare.” He nodded. I waited for him to hold out the real ring. Instead he reached for another box, one with three locks. “You are a woman who knows the value of things.” He winked. In case it was a cultural thing, I winked back. He winked again. I winked back. He gestured me closer, looked around and opened the box just enough for me to see. There was an ivory necklace with dozens of tiny elephants. Even the wrinkles of their skin were visible; the work was incredible. I remembered hearing something about not buying ivory, but it was too late for this tusk, so I decided to ignore it.
“How much?”
He whispered an amount I couldn’t afford, but the thing was calling to me like a beached Siren. I shook my head and reached for the real Tanzanite ring. He lowered the ivory price, as I knew he would.
“Too much,” I said.
He lowered it again and I focused on the ring. He was a pro, I’ll give him that. He made me wait. But finally, he offered to throw in the ring with the necklace and I nodded, though I was screaming inside at this, the pinnacle of my bargain-hunting life.
I put both items into the secret compartment of my bag. I felt eyes on the back of my neck, then heard a clicking sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw someone who looked familiar. I had seen that suit and sandy hair before. But the man who was photographing me had his camera up and I couldn’t get a good look at him. I tried to follow him through the crowd, but I lost sight of him at a bushmeat stand. I looked at my watch. I was late for jail.
Chapter Sixteen
Lieutenant Panza stood behind the counter, while Akida cowered by the door. There was no sign of Roger. I clutched my sunglass case full of three hundred emergency dollars and moved forward.
“The situation has changed.” Panza said. “In preparing the prisoners’ belongings for return, we found several pieces of illegal ivory. It is a very serious offense.”
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