by Nell Brien
She followed the little shopkeeper through the beaded curtain, into the crowded shop, Brian Ward, still talking, close behind them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her shadow trying to fold his large frame into a small space behind the old upright refrigerator case.
Outside, an elderly gray Honda stood at the curb, a turbaned man holding open the back door. She got in, gave him the name of the hotel. As they left, Cat looked out the back window. The young thug was on the street. Behind him, Brian Ward stood in the doorway. Then the car eased around a corner, and both men were lost from sight.
Thirty-One
Cat leaned back in the car, allowing her heartbeat to return to normal. The scent of patchouli wafting from the front seat was cloying and powerful, catching in the back of her throat, but the narrow-shouldered, turbaned figure behind the wheel was her knight in shining armor, at least for the moment.
Brian Ward was right. She needed a friend. She was scared and alone, and in these circumstances a Beretta lacked a certain human warmth. In all of Nairobi, there wasn’t one person she could turn to. Her eyes opened. She sat up.
Not quite.
“Excuse me.” Braving the patchouli, she leaned forward to tap the owner of the Honda on the shoulder. “I’ve changed my mind about the hotel. Could you take me to Saint Francis Xavier Church, instead? Do you know it?”
“Yes, memsahib. I know this church.” He shook his head doubtfully, clucked his tongue. “Much farther than the hotel, you see.”
“Of course, I’ll pay for the additional petrol.” She felt a flutter of amusement. Her knight’s armor had a few rusty spots.
He was no Arthurian knight, she discovered. Under that small, humble exterior beat the heart of a kamikaze. Hunched over the wheel, he leaned on the horn for the entire journey across the city, changed lanes without warning, turned corners as suddenly and finally stood on his brakes triumphantly in front of Father Gaston’s church.
Exhausted, Cat counted out the new figure they had agreed upon, thought about Brian Ward and her grim-looking follower possibly still hanging around his brother-in-law’s store and added a generous tip. Her rescuer jumped out, opened the door for her, hands pressed together as he salaamed his thanks.
Cat paused under the lych-gate. The churchyard was empty, roses nodding peacefully along the fence. Music floating from an open-air bar across the road was muted, a background to the twittering of birds wheeling from tree to tree as they settled.
The church door opened and Father Gaston, dressed in a black cassock, a wilted bunch of flowers in one hand, came out, starting toward the long building where they’d had tea last time she’d been here.
Cat opened the gate. “Father Gaston.”
He stopped, astonishment clear upon his face. “Miss Stanton.” He looked over her shoulder, then back at her. “What are you doing here at this hour? Are you alone?” The sky was beginning to show streaks of crimson. So close to the equator, there would be little twilight. Evening was close.
“I need a cup of tea, I think.” Tears of relief misted her eyes. She smiled. Her lips were trembling and she pressed them together before he noticed. “I was wondering if you had a few minutes.”
“My dear! Of course. Come, I’ll call my houseman.”
He waited until she reached him, then turned toward the house. The stems of the flowers in his hand were green with slime from being too long in dirty water and gave off a powerful stench of decay.
“Was your journey into the bush successful? Did you get the site you wanted for the hotel?”
“Yes, I did, I think. A place called Maasai Springs. Very lovely. Have you heard of it?”
“I wouldn’t know about the bush country. I’m very much an urban priest, I’m afraid. But good, good. I am glad you found what you wanted. Joel talked to me so much about the plans he had, what he hoped to accomplish. Fine young man. Very fine.”
When they reached the veranda, Father Gaston looked at the dead flowers he carried. “Excuse me, mademoiselle. I will order tea and at the same time rid myself of this unpleasant little burden. We have a small altar society, but I’m afraid some of these duties are overlooked.”
Cat sat at the table where they’d had tea before she left Nairobi and drank in the peace, the scent of the roses, feeling calm returning to her. Outside the surrounding fence, lights came on in the bar, twinkled eerily behind the statues of winged angels guarding the graves. Father Gaston was gone a long time, and she hoped he wasn’t planning anything more than just a cup of tea.
He appeared finally along the darkening veranda. “Now, my dear Cat. Come.” He opened a door, turned on a light in a book-lined study carpeted in beige sisal. Behind the desk directly across the room, drab brownish chintz framed a long window. A couple of battered old armchairs with a table between them were illuminated by large standing lamps that looked as if they had stood in exactly that place for generations of priests. Clearly an intellectual’s retreat and well used.
“Sit, please.”
Books were piled on the floor by one of the armchairs and Cat took the other. When she was settled, he sat back in what was obviously his favorite spot. They took a few minutes to talk about the room, about the comfort of books when far from the company of one’s own kind, the difficulty of keeping them from being eaten by termites in a hot climate. About the problems he’d had obtaining reading material in the Belgian Congo and the many other places he’d served in Africa.
A knock at the door brought Father Gaston to his feet. He took a tray from a tall thin shadowy figure outside. Cat thought it was the same man she’d seen before, weeding in the churchyard. The priest busied himself for a moment with the tea, handed her a cup, then took his own and resumed his seat.
“Now, my dear. I think you have come for more than tea. Is this so?”
“Yes.” She was grateful to him for giving her an opening. “I had some frightening experiences today. I don’t know what they mean. I remembered what you said about being a friend and just came over here.”
She poured out the events of the day, the soldiers at the judicial building, the young man who’d followed her, the sudden appearance of Brian Ward in the storeroom.
“Who is he, Brian Ward? Do you know him, Father?” The word slipped easily off her tongue. She never used that word to her own father. She and Joel never called him anything at all. Not Father, or Daddy, or Pops, as Jess referred to her own adored father. Nothing. “He knew about the Australians who were killed. How could he have known that?”
“Australians? What Australians?” Father Gaston looked startled.
“Their names were Bobby Watson and Peter Stone. They were from Adelaide. I don’t really know who killed them. Campbell or someone else. Reitholder, maybe.”
The priest confirmed her suspicion she wasn’t making too much sense. “Cat, I think it would be clearer if you start from the beginning.”
“While we were out there in the bush, we came across a lot of murdered elephants.” With anyone else, she would not have used that word, but the sympathy on Father Gaston’s face told her that he would understand exactly how she felt. “Dan Campbell decided we had to go after the poachers. He said he wanted to protect an elephant called Ahmed, a national treasure because he is so old and large. But I think he wanted to go after the poachers because he’s in the same business.”
“But Ahmed is well known, Cat,” Father Gaston said. “He really is under the protection of the president of the country. Even I know of him.”
“Yes, all right, but I still think Campbell is a poacher. He wanted to eliminate his competition. Why else would he go after poachers when he had a safari client with him? It was a real risk.”
Father Gaston shook his head sadly. “Who knows what motivates such men as these?”
She told him about the Maasai village and the beating of Reitholder and what Reitholder had said about Joel. The priest got to his feet, went to his desk, rooted around in a drawer. “Go on, my dear. I am listening.
This is a terrible story, too much for you to carry around alone.” He produced a pack of Gauloise and held them up. “Do you mind?”
Cat shook her head.
“I shouldn’t, I know,” the priest said. “It’s a bad habit. Ruining my lungs.” He lit up, settled himself back in his chair. “These Australians. Who exactly were they?”
“I don’t know. Just Australians. Hunters. Funnily enough, I’d met them in the hotel in Nairobi before I left. It turned out they were working with this man Reitholder, killing elephants.” The enormity of what had happened in the last few weeks seemed suddenly too much for her. She put a hand to her eyes. Snatches of overhead conversations come flooding back, bits of dialogue that had stopped when Campbell and Tom noticed her approach. “I think Campbell has a lot of ivory already hidden somewhere, but Campbell and Tom M’Bala are going after some more that is being sent down to the coast by some general. I don’t know who he is. The authorities have to be informed. But who? After what happened today, who can I tell? Where can I go?”
Father Gaston leaned across the table, put a comforting hand over hers. She noticed the nicotine-stained fingers. He was so human and warm. And a priest. She found herself saying, “I saw a strange place just above Maasai Springs.” She told him about the camp, the training manuals in Chinese and Swahili. “I think it was a terrorist camp.”
“Terrorists? Surely not. Not here in Kenya.”
She restrained her impatience. He’d lived all over Africa. How had he managed to remain so naive? “Why not? Joel had certainly seen this place before he was killed. He sent sketches to me.”
“My dear! That sounds very dangerous.”
“Father Gaston, I didn’t really come to Kenya for a hotel site—I came to find out about Joel’s death. And I found out that he was killed in Tanzania. His body was brought back to Kenya. I think they were using his safari to scout smuggling routes. I know there was a cover-up. I know about this terrorist camp, and the poachers are probably the same people. They kill for the ivory and sell it to finance their activities. What I need to do now is get this information to the right people. The police must have investigated—a foreigner can’t be killed without an investigation. I have to talk to them and find out what they know. Stephen N’toya is the only one who can help me do that, but I can’t find him. He doesn’t answer his telephone.”
“My dear, I don’t think you should do anything more about this. You are dabbling in dangerous affairs. Powerful men are involved in ivory smuggling, it goes higher than you would believe. It is well known in Nairobi. Even I’ve heard the rumors.”
She looked down at the forgotten cup in her hand. The tea was cold, unappetizing. She returned it to the saucer.
“I know Brian Ward,” Father Gaston said. “Strange man. I’ll make some inquiries, if you wish.”
“I’d rather you made some inquiries about Stephen N’toya,” she said. “Do you know him?”
“No, the name is not familiar. But I will ask around, my dear. People give information to priests they wouldn’t give to others. But you must be careful. Don’t talk to anyone else.”
“You be careful, too, Father Gaston,” Cat said. “If it’s dangerous for me, it could be dangerous for you, as well. I don’t believe that Joel’s death was an accident.”
Father Gaston smiled reassuringly. “Who would harm an old priest?”
Cat looked at him. Her idea of an old priest was Barry Fitzgerald in the vintage movies she loved so much on video. Not this handsome, silver-maned man sitting across from her.
“Who knows you came here today?” he asked.
“No one. Oh, Mr. Gupta, the man who brought me. No one else. If you would try to find out where I can reach Stephen N’toya, I’d be grateful. I’ll write his name down for you.” She picked up her bag, took out the Beretta, put it in her lap so that she could more easily find her Day-Timer. She printed Stephen’s name and looked up to hand it to the priest. His eyes were on the Beretta. Embarrassed, she shoved the gun back into her bag. “I stole it from one of the Land Rovers,” she said.
“Do you carry it with you all the time?”
“I’m never without it now.”
“Do you know how to use it?”
“Yes.”
“And would you?”
Part of her mind disengaged from the moment. She was with Joel in Zuma Canyon, and their father, looking down at the blood spreading across his chest. She looked at Father Gaston.
“Yes,” she said. “If I had to.”
“Well, that is good. If you are threatened, you must defend yourself.” He went to the telephone on the desk and dialed a number. “I am calling a teksi. You look exhausted. I think you should go straight back to your hotel and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, go and see something of Nairobi. Forget all this. Buy some gifts for your friends, see the City Market. I will call you when I have some word. But if you need me, come here immediately. Do not hesitate.”
He opened the door. They stepped onto the veranda. After the smoke-laden fug of his study, she filled her lungs with sweet-smelling air. She threw her bag over her shoulder, feeling the comfortable weight of the Beretta. “Thank you.”
They strolled down toward the lych-gate. The teksi was waiting. Father Gaston opened the door. “A shared burden is always easier to carry, Cat. Remember that.”
She felt as if an enormous hole had opened up in her chest and all the pain and anxiety of the last few weeks had poured out and she could breathe again. Who would have believed, she thought, that talking to a Catholic priest she didn’t really know could be such a catharsis?
When she got back to the hotel, she called Paul Neville in Washington, D.C., on the chance he might have returned to the United States. She listened to his voice repeating the familiar message— “Paul Neville. On assignment. If it’s urgent, call the bureau. They usually know how to contact me.”
She felt nothing. No love or excitement. Not even reassurance.
The following morning, she awoke just as color was staining the eastern sky, the hour that Thomas would rap on the canvas wall of her tent and call, “Habari ya asubuhi, Miss Cat. Kahawa.”
After a long, hot shower, she wrapped herself in Joel’s robe, fresh from the laundry, ordered strong coffee and warm croissants from room service and made her calls to the United States. The Spring Street job was under control. Doug was riding Armstrong, the structural engineer. Mave had nothing to add to what she had already reported about the rest of the work in the office. But just to be in contact restored Cat’s spirits. She put off her call to John Rifken to tell him she’d found a site. She’d have to talk to him about Campbell, and she wasn’t sure she could do that.
Stephen N’toya’s phone remained unanswered. Impatiently, Cat hung up, then called Mave again in Los Angeles.
“I want you to search everything on the computer, Joel’s files, his address book, his Christmas-card list, the notes he made before he left for Kenya, see if you can find Stephen N’toya’s address and telephone number. Call me back.”
For an hour, she tried to concentrate on some ideas for Maasai Springs—an earthen structure would save precious timber. Fiber bags pumped full of earth amended with a small amount of cement and some barbed wire, then laid in place. A cement pump could be used, or if Bluebonnet Development wanted to provide jobs for the local people, the bags could be filled by hand. In the modern world it was still experimental, but rammed earth construction was a new take on an ancient idea—and ideal for this site. She checked her watch every five minutes. When the phone rang, she grabbed it.
“Cat, I found an address and telephone number,” Mave said. “Got a pen?”
Cat felt a surge of triumph. “I knew it had to be somewhere. Shoot.”
“Sheria House, Harampe Avenue.” Slowly Mave read the address and Cat’s heart sank. Mave was repeating the address of the building from which she had already been expelled.
“What about a phone number?” she asked without much hope.
Her spirits lifted slightly. The number was unfamiliar. Thanking Mave, she hung up and redialed. The number had been disconnected.
The rest of the morning she played with ideas for the site, working until the walls of the room seemed to be closing in on her, and she had to have a breath of fresh air. Before leaving the hotel, she hovered in the doorway, searched the streets. Her friendly doorman was off duty, and the unfamiliar man in his place did not question her strange behavior.
She walked purposefully toward Patel Brothers, the surveyors Joel had lined up, weaving through the crowds, keeping a wary eye on her surroundings. She saw nothing suspicious. No young thug. As far as she could see, no one was tailing her.
Patel Brothers agreed to make a Land Office search, fly new aerials of the site and have a report delivered to the hotel. Satisfied, Cat wrote a retainer check, the rest to be paid upon delivery of the report within three days.
“Three days. Oh, yes, most certain. Three days.” Mr. Patel the Elder bowed her out of his office. Then as she was leaving, he murmured, “At the outside, memsahib, five days.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or fight, and finally took the line of least resistance. Africa wins again, Campbell would have said.
Sometime, she would have to be in contact with Campbell Safaris about the work they were contracted to do—liaison with tribal authority and government agencies. Poachers or not, they were well connected to high places in the government, another reason Rifken insisted on using them. But right now she was too raw, literally as well as figuratively. She still hurt from that last bruising encounter with Campbell. Later, she would contact Tom, tell him what she required, let him pass the message on to Campbell.
After lunch in the hotel coffee shop—the only place she felt really safe was in the hotel—she crawled back into bed and sank instantly into dreamless sleep.
When she awoke at four, she dialed Stephen N’toya, without success. She was no longer even disappointed.
Father Gaston did not call.
The rest of the afternoon stretched ahead of her. She showered again, dressed in gray linen trousers and jacket, then ventured out to buy gifts to take home, as Father Gaston had suggested. She looked up the City Market in the guidebook. From the pictures it looked well lighted, crowded. Safe.