by Nell Brien
Cat smiled. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Swahili.”
Everywhere else in Nairobi, English was spoken. In the State Law Office, a government department, she had assumed this would also be the case. She took her Day-Timer from her bag, printed Stephen’s name in block capitals, tore out the page and pushed it across the desk. “Stephen N’toya.”
The guard glanced at the page, pushed it back to her with another torrent of words.
Cat put a finger on the printed word. “Stephen N’toya,” she said again, speaking slowly, careful to keep her smile in place.
The guard stared at her. He got to his feet and came around the desk. Standing too close, he loomed over her. Six foot four, she thought, two hundred and seventy-five pounds easy, solid muscle. Could play tackle for the Rams. And smelled as if he just had. She stepped back. He followed, pushing his face into hers and speaking as slowly as she had, and a lot more ominously. He did not smile. Her heart was tripping over itself. Only the thought of the policemen Stephen was supposed to be finding, the knowledge that Joel died in Tanzania, the cover-up of that, kept her from turning and walking out. She stared up into the man’s yellow-tinged dark eyes.
“Are you sick? Your eyes look terrible and your breath smells worse. I think you should see a doctor.”
He blinked and straightened.
Cat raised her eyebrows. “I knew you could speak English,” she said pleasantly. “You really shouldn’t keep it to yourself like that.” She looked around. “Well, thanks for your help.”
She headed for the directory of names by the side of the elevator. The guard came after her, grabbed her arm. Cat pulled free.
“Now, wait a minute—”
Then, without knowing where they had come from, she was surrounded by armed soldiers in combat fatigues and the camouflage baseball hats that seemed part of the uniform of modern armies. Their heavy black boots clattered on the tile floor of the lobby.
“Memsahib.” The officer in charge blocked her way. “Your name, please.”
“Cat Stanton. I’m an American—”
“Your passport, please.”
Cat rummaged in her bag, handed over her passport. The officer studied it, several times looking from her photograph to her face.
“You must leave this office.”
“I’m here to see a friend. Stephen N’toya. He works here.”
“No Stephen N’toya.”
“You must be mistaken. He works here.”
“Memsahib, you have been informed there is no one of that name here. If you refuse to leave, you will be placed under arrest.”
“What for? I have legitimate business—”
“You are disturbing the peace of this government office.”
“That’s ridiculous. All I’ve done is ask to see Stephen N’toya. He’s an attorney. He works here.”
The officer barked an order. Her arms were grabbed. Cat stood very still. They could throw her in jail and no one would even know she was there. The hands grasping her were not gentle. Fingers dug deliberately into her flesh. She restrained a grimace of pain, refusing to let them know what she felt.
“Well, I guess you hold all the cards,” she said. “So, if you’ll just give me back my passport, I’ll be on my way.”
The officer motioned to his men to release her. Cat held out her hand for her passport. The officer gestured toward the door. She walked to the exit, a soldier on either side, another marching behind her. In the crowded vestibule, the men of affairs continued about their business, eyes carefully averted. A couple of the women slid sympathetic glances her way. But no one stopped. The officer held open the door. Cat put out her hand for her passport. Without moving, he held her eyes. With an effort, she kept her own steady. Then he handed the passport to her, and she walked through the door into the sun. Her legs felt weak.
She had a feeling she had just been very lucky. Her name had been known. Someone with a long arm was making sure she would not find Stephen N’toya. Or his policemen.
Cat glanced over her shoulder. Her follower was still there, thirty feet back, sauntering along. She forced herself not to hurry, to pace herself in the heat, careful not to trip on the broken sidewalk.
She had shown Stephen’s business card to her self-appointed guardian, the friendly doorman outside her hotel, mentally cursing Stephen for giving only his name in the center of the card, a telephone number in the right-hand lower corner. The doorman had taken out a map of Nairobi and shown her the general area served by that number. Residences, he’d said. Very nice. Very safe. Then he’d called a teksi for her and given the driver instructions in Swahili.
The cabbie had dropped her off at a corner. In each direction, mature, broad-leaved trees lined pockmarked streets. As she paid him, a car had stopped a few yards behind in the shade of a tree. Normally she wouldn’t have noticed, but after the scare at the State Law Office she found herself checking her surroundings.
A burly young man climbed out of the car, locked it, lifted the trunk lid and leaned inside as if searching for something. She’d watched her cab drive away, not quite sure what to do next. She had a ridiculous picture of herself standing at the intersection, yelling Stephen’s name, waiting for him to shout a response. Or knocking on doors, trying to explain what she wanted in a language no one understood.
People began eyeing her with curiosity as they passed—a white woman far from the tourist centers of Nairobi. She glanced at the half-seen figure still buried in the trunk of the car, then started to walk, choosing a street at random. The young man slammed the lid of his trunk, looked nonchalantly—too nonchalantly?—in each direction and started after her.
The sun was blinding, and she was glad of sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat. It was well after the noon hour, most people were sensibly inside, out of the heat, so her tail was easy to spot. She turned right, onto a street much like the one she had left, and glanced behind her. He had picked up his pace to keep her in sight.
In spite of her fear, she found the streetscape interesting. Small houses, close to the street and to each other. Well-kept front gardens the size of pocket handkerchiefs. An old neighborhood, modestly prosperous, probably built by the British in colonial days for minor civil servants, clerks, shopkeepers, and taken over since independence by their African counterparts.
The houses gave way to a line of small stores, older by several generations and more solid than the cheesy minimalls now appearing on every other street corner in Los Angeles. Cat averted her eyes from a chipped white enamel shelf fronting a small shop, the dried puddles of brownish blood that had drained from lumps of raw, unrefrigerated meat, the green flies buzzing happily as they fed on sun-warmed flesh. She ducked into the next dark doorway, waited to see what her follower on the other side of the street would do. He slowed his steps, turning his head, obviously searching for her, and she retreated deeper into the store.
Swags of fabric decorated the walls, bolts of cloth stood upright, crowding the linoleum-covered floor.
“Jambo, memsahib.” The turbaned Indian shopkeeper, appearing from the dark recesses of the shop, was not quite successful in hiding his surprise at his unlikely customer. “You are looking for a nice piece of material for a dress. We have the best, memsahib. Look no further.” He started to unroll a bolt. “Genuine polyester, memsahib, top quality.” With a flourish, he displayed a length of dazzling blue, green and purple fabric, rippling it gently to show off the play of colors.
“It’s very lovely. No, I was wondering if perhaps you know a friend of mine, Stephen N’toya.” Looking confused, the storekeeper stared at her. Cat felt her face begin to color, and she stumbled on. “He lives in this neighborhood.”
“Stephen N’toya? He said I was knowing him?”
“No, he just lives around here, and I wondered if perhaps you did know him.” Oh, God, she thought.
The man kept his smile. “I deal with ladies, you see, memsahib. Husbands rarely.” His head wobbled in a strange side-to-si
de motion. “But I will ask all the ladies when they come in. Stephen N’toya. Yes, I will ask.” Expertly, he rerolled the fabric. His smile was losing its brilliance, and Cat thanked him and turned to go.
From the sanctuary of the dark doorway, she searched the street in both directions. To her relief, her follower was nowhere in sight. She wanted to laugh at her fears. Poor guy was probably an ordinary young man on his way to see his girl. Her encounter with the military had made her jumpy, suspicious of everyone. She stepped out into the sunlight.
A few minutes later, she picked him up again, sauntering along on the other side of the street, pacing her, sometimes slower, occasionally faster, never more than ten yards behind. Her heart pounded. Sweat dampened her skin, ran stickily down her chest into her bra, but in spite of the heat, she felt suddenly cold. As long as she stayed where people were, she told herself, she would be all right. But in the heat of the day, few people were about. Well, even so, what could he do? she asked herself. Snatch her off the street? Sure, a small voice answered. He could do that. Easy.
She started to look for a cab, but the streets were empty of traffic. Taking refuge now as much as seeking information, she entered the more likely stores she passed—the newspaper and ice cream and sundries shops, with stale air smelling of chocolate and sugar. The wooden-floored groceries with open bins of coffee beans, crushed wheat, dried roots she couldn’t imagine a use for. The drowsy storekeepers were invariably Indian, speaking the same singsong English as the desk clerks at the hotel. After a Coke, a few words about Nairobi—yes, very interesting, and Kenya, certainly, very beautiful, many animals—she asked if perhaps Stephen N’toya was known to them. Heads wobbled from side to side. An exchange similar to that with the fabric man ensued. “Excuse me, memsahib. Stephen N’toya? Sorry, memsahib.”
Around four, she exited a shop and almost ran over the man from the car. A young tough with skin as dark as Tom’s, thick neck, one eyebrow scarred. He looked like a fighter, in the ring or the street, impossible to tell.
She broke into a half run, praying for a teksi. He was bolder now, no longer making any attempt to disguise his presence.
Her flight had taken her to a treeless market area. On the broken sidewalks, carts displayed their goods, plastic bowls, wooden pegs, dingy vegetables. But at least people were about now, mostly heavy-bodied women, gossiping, balancing woven baskets on their heads, shopping for the evening meal. Children ran in and out of the crowd, paying no attention to the calls of their mothers.
Cat began to have a glimmer of understanding of what it might feel like to be black in a white neighborhood. Hers was the only white face, and she felt every eye sliding over her while refusing to make contact. The man behind her was close now, obviously fearing to lose her among the women.
Panicky, she entered into a small grocery shop. Even without air-conditioning it was mercifully cool after the heat outside. Her legs were shaky from tension and anxiety, from the hours of pounding the streets. And she had to pee. The endless cans of Coke she had consumed as an excuse to linger and ask questions were making their presence known.
Over the heads of the women waiting to be served, the shopkeeper looked at her expectantly. Cat pointed to the old refrigerator case, then opened its door, extracted yet another Coke and took her place in line to pay.
At the counter, she counted out the money for the soda, asked the same questions it seemed of the same shopkeeper with the same result. “No, memsahib. Stephen N’toya? Very sorry, memsahib. This is a friend you have lost, perhaps?”
“I guess so. I wonder if you could do me a great favor?” Cat said. “Could you call a cab for me? I have to get back to my hotel and I don’t see any cabs on the street.” She pushed a few pound notes across the counter, too tired to care how many. “I’d be very grateful.” She wouldn’t dare ask to use the john. It would likely turn out to be Eastern style, a hole in the floor with a depression either side for the feet. She couldn’t cope with that.
The shopkeeper palmed the notes and smiled at her. “You are in good fortune to choose this poor shop, memsahib. My brother-in-law has a car, do you know. He would be most pleased to do this small service.” He called a name, and a skinny young boy, large horn-rims almost obscuring his narrow face, appeared from behind a beaded curtain. The shopkeeper seemed to grow two inches in height, his chest swelling. “My son,” he said, obviously waiting for her comment.
Cat smiled. “Congratulations. A very brainy boy, one can see. A credit to you.” She glanced toward the door.
The man nodded, satisfied. The child stared at her while his father spoke to him in Hindi, then he disappeared behind the curtain again.
“You wait, memsahib. Not long at all. In no time. Very efficient.”
“Thank you.”
“A pleasure to be of service, memsahib.” He raised his hands, then clasped them in front of his little round belly. “Just the cost of the petrol, you understand.” He named a figure three times more than the cabdriver had received earlier. “We are poor people, you see.”
Cat nodded. “Of course.”
She went to the door, looked out. Her shadow lingered on the sidewalk across the street.
She withdrew, but he had started to cross toward the shop, his stride purposeful.
Cat glanced at the shopkeeper, chatting now to the crowd of customers in front of the counter. A small, frail man, out of condition. No help to be had there. The rest were women.
She couldn’t wait for the young thug to make the next move. She had to do something.
She moved casually toward the back of the shop, waited until the shopkeeper was distracted and slipped behind the beaded curtain. Heart pounding, she paused, listening for the sound of protest, but no one had noticed. Several doors faced her. Then on the other side of the bead curtain, a loud male voice started to ask questions in Swahili, and she heard the hurried nervous answer of the shopkeeper. She opened the door that seemed the most likely to lead toward the outside rather than the living quarters, and pulled it closed behind her.
After the shop, the darkness was impenetrable, the room filled with unfamiliar smells. It seemed to be a storeroom. As silently as she could, she groped her way toward the back wall. A tower of boxes swayed as she bumped them. She steadied them, fearful she would bring not only the boxes down on her head, but also the man looking for her.
She stopped to listen. The male voices still sparred, one demanding entry, the other denying it. Or so she hoped.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw a faint line of daylight. The bottom of a door. Her eyes fixed upon it as if on the Holy Grail, she inched forward, her hands outstretched in front of her.
Then the door was flung open. A bulky figure blocked the sudden dazzle of sunlight. Cat reached into the bag slung over her shoulder, glad she had kept the gun she’d stolen from the Land Rover.
“My dear young lady,” a voice boomed. “I thought I’d find you here.” Brian Ward, Trackers, Ltd., stepped into the storeroom.
Her hand curled around the butt of the automatic. “In the storeroom of an Indian grocery?” With an effort, she kept her voice steady. She could hardly hear herself speak over the thunder in her ears—the sound of her racing blood. “Why would you think that, Mr. Ward?” She slipped her finger through the trigger guard.
“I saw you enter in the front, of course. Seemed a strange sort of shop for a gel like you to be frequenting. What? What?” He barked his stupid laugh. “So I followed you. But the Indian wallah out there said you were not about. I knew he was lying—they all do, you know. But you hadn’t come out the front door, so I nipped behind, into the alley. All these places are built alike, know them like the back of my hand. Now then. Something’s got you spooked. Eh? Eh?”
Cat removed her hand from inside the shoulder bag, dropping it to her side, allowing him to see the weapon.
“Do you shop in this neighborhood often, Mr. Ward?” She felt like Alice down the rabbit hole, involved in a conversati
on with the Mad Hatter.
“As a matter of fact, my tailor has his place of business a few doors away. Good man. Trained in Saville Row, so he says. Lying of course, but he’s not bad for all that.” He glanced at the gun in her hand. “Saw the johnny following you, thought it might have something to do with the two Australian chaps that bought it. You were there, of course, with Campbell. Strange old business, eh? Coming on the heels of your brother’s death? What? What?”
Her head was reeling. Who the hell was he? The bumbling colonial act was too broad brush to be genuine.
“Come on,” Ward urged, “my car’s down the alley. This is not a neighborhood for tourists. As soon as it gets dark, they’ll pinch the clothes off your back. And you won’t want to use that cannon in a crowded street, my dear. The police don’t take kindly to that sort of thing at all. Not at all, I can assure you.”
She looked at the gun in her hand. “Yes, this could take a man’s head off. Thank you, but I’m not going back to my hotel.”
“Well, where do you want to go? I’ll drop you—”
He was moving toward her, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him. She backed away, fumbling with the door behind her.
“No, thank you.”
She opened the door. She dared not take her eyes from Ward, still advancing.
“Ah, memsahib. I was looking for you.” The little Indian shopkeeper stepped into the room. Then his voice rose in alarm. “What is this? Who is this? Sir, this is my storeroom. Nothing valuable here, sir. Nothing.” He waved at the stacked crates. “Just Tusker, you see.”
“Is my cab here?” Cat asked.
“Yes. My brother-in-law. Yes.”
“Thanks.” Cat backed up.
“Miss Stanton! What’s the matter? No need to be frightened of me, m’dear. I think you need a friend—”
“Thank you, Mr. Ward. I have a friend.” She kept her hand on the weapon she slipped back in her bag. “I’ll see you at the hotel, perhaps.”