Black Mischief (39 page)

Eton toughened him up. He learned to distrust his emotions. He was pleased to learn that his favourite character in history was an Italian. Nicolo Machiavelli taught him that, more often than not, it pays to be something of a bastard. Calculate honestly and cut the sentimental crap. To be hard usually meant a satisfactory profit. So a career of eliminating the unwanted, doing the dirty work for the ultra rich suited him perfectly. ‘Don't get involved'. That was his number one guideline.

Now this African Mister Big was rousing an uncharacteristic anger in him. That was one side of the problem. The other side had a greater potential for disaster and, this time, it was all his own fault. He had been too clever. Get to see his victims, use his visit to make his plan for the first strike. Smart move and the result was top-class. Anyone who watched the television saw that.

But, in spite of himself, he had got to like the people he was planning to send to glory. The McCalls had treated him with kindness. Normally such treatment was accepted but had no influence on his plans. He had dealt with many so-called nice people and moved on without a backward glance. He had spent time in his hotel room working on this problem. He had to understand it before he could root out its cause.

The conclusion he reached did not surprise him. But why Lydia Smith? He had heard some of her story and sympathised with her for the tough times she had endured. But she was not a part of the McCall tribe. Rubai had described her as an optional victim. He had steered clear of any involvement with women. Now this one had caught him unawares. He had enjoyed her company. He wasted time thinking about her. It was easy to rationalise that there was no future in such a relationship, even if she were interested. And there was not much chance of that. He was a midget Italian with a voice like an old-fashioned colonial bwana.

No, he would be able to cope. He was already beginning to squeeze her out of his consciousness. A small dose of body battering and he would be almost there, system clear and ready for action. He went through his routine of very hard physical exercise to the point where perspiration was dripping onto the thick pile of the carpet and followed it with a long soak in a hot bath.

The end of the job was close. That night he dined well and fell asleep with the best book ever written in his hand. He had read
Catcher in the Rye
at least a dozen times. He admired Holden Caufield for his free spirit and envied him that he had been lucky enough to have attended a boarding school within easy reach of his New York home.

He spent most of the next day checking and rechecking every detail of his plans. He shifted the desk close to the window. The light was better there and it gave him the chance to look down on life going on in the world below. He found the constant noise of the traffic comforting. It suggested energy and purpose. He was too far back to see the lines of cars, matatus, coaches and trucks easing their way along the dual carriageway in the warm morning sun. The red earth paths that crisscrossed the parklands opposite were alive with black shapes. Downtown Nairobi was on the move. He smiled. When he had accepted the job, he had inexplicably overlooked the people problem. A white man among thousands of black brothers and sisters would not make it easy to hide himself in a crowd.

He was excited, confident and the attack of broodiness was far behind him. The ice was back. The artist was ready to execute. At midnight he would leave the hotel through the back entrance, turn left and a hundred metres down the road slide behind the wheel of the black BMW waiting for him. It was time to travel north to make his final preparations for the climax of the exercise.

* * *

Not far away, in the suburb of Langata, two lawyer brothers were reading the national papers.
The Nation
and
The Standard
each carried almost identical headlines. ‘Dead Man Rises From The Ashes' declared
The Nation
.

‘So this is Rebecca's father?'

‘Yep. Barnie, I wish I knew half of what is going on here.'

‘You mean about the fire? How are the local cops getting on with finding the people behind that?'

‘I'm not sure, but the Naivasha police have got some top-class officers. Yes, I know about the reputation about our men in blue. Inspector Caroline and her new sergeant, Hosea Kabari, would be an asset in any city force in the States.'

‘Paul, I could get them a start in our precinct.'

‘Our need is …'

‘Okay, okay, only kidding.'

‘Did you notice the name Maria Kabari in the report? She's Hosea's wife. Not much about her in the story, but ever heard of Maria Miller?'

‘Our Maria? You know, I'd forgotten her married name. She never contacts us. I thought she lived in Western District.'

‘Our Maria is quite a woman. Barnie, there's no doubt she has, well, healing gifts.'

‘Faith healer? I remember, when we were kids, she was a dreamy sort of girl, sang weird songs. So it's Naivasha now. Three girls, isn't it?'

‘They're all coming down next week. Family reunion.'

‘Paul, who's this coming up the driveway? Carrying a briefcase. Not another lawyer? No. Can't be. He's not wearing a suit.'

Paul rose to meet his guest. ‘Not a lawyer. Much cleverer than that.'

Jimmy Burgon, tall, with the long, slim legs of a middle-distance runner was smiling. Barnie noticed the expensive, fashionable clothes, especially the leather jacket which must have been tailor-made. Whatever this kid does for a living, there must be big profits.

‘Paul, another set of pictures for you. A couple of puzzlers that may or may not be useful. That's your department.'

Paul explained to his brother. ‘Barnie, technology has come to the Kenya legal system. Those last three words are in quotation marks, of course. Strictly speaking, what Jimmy and I do is not by the book, but it works. Electronic recording cameras, Jimmy makes them. See that pepper tree just there? What is it, ten metres away? See the camera on that low branch on the left?'

‘Can't say that I do.'

‘I'll show you later. What happens is that one of Jimmy's boys places one or maybe more in a place where it will take pictures.'

‘I think I get it. A Mister Bad Guy appears in glowing colours in a place where he shouldn't be.'

‘Robbery, corruption, wife cheating …'

‘Do the courts allow these to be used in a case?'

‘Sometimes. But, let's see the ones you've brought, Jimmy. What we do is look at my set and see what turns up.'

As Jimmy took out his folders of prints, Paul went on. ‘No flash, no click and the lens swivels towards body heat. If we catch someone we're after on camera, we know we're on track. It gives us confidence.'

‘Paul, here's the batch we took at the Rubai farm just outside the city, the one he thinks nobody knows about. You'll see that a lot of them are of Mister Big's heavies. But take a look at these.'

‘Barnie, notice the quality of the prints. Superb clarity.

Wow! That's Alex McCall. Must be the night when he was taken from the hospital. Did you hear about that?'

Before his brother could answer, Paul was yelping his surprise.

‘Recognise her? It's our dear sister and Lydia on their rescue mission. Fantastic stuff, James.'

‘Ah, this one is foxing me. Never seen this guy before. Doesn't look too happy.'

Barnie leaned forward and picked the print up for a closer look. ‘I know this face. I saw it somewhere and recently as well.'

‘You sure? You've only been back in the country a couple …'

‘Yep. Got it and wasn't in Nairobi, not even in Kenya. Rebecca's concert. Name of Fred Ross. That's it. Fred Ross, from New York, or so he said. Unusual voice.'

‘But what could he be doing over here?'

‘At the Rubai place at two am. I must have missed something.'

‘I think I could help out on this, if he's telling the truth about coming from New York.'

* * *

‘Paul, this is what I've got. I think you'll be interested. Bob Hawkins said that, once he sorted out the name, it was a piece of cake.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Fred Ross, better known as Alfredo Rossi, has form. A particularly nasty hit man, he does a lot of work outside the US. The description fits. Apparently the voice is a giveaway. Interpol know about him but can't nail him for anything.'

Paul put his hand to his forehead, deep in thought. He was rapidly confirming in his mind a terrifying implication. He shared his thinking.

‘This Fred Ross dropped in on the McCalls, claiming to be some kind of scientist. They welcome him. He stays the night and before he leaves he wangles a tour ‘round the farm. Stephen Kamau tells Alex that the young man who showed Ross around reported that the American bwana had been very interested in everything, even took notes. A couple of days later, well, you know about the fire. There were several fires, in fact, all connected to the farm's power points.'

Barnie took up the story with what he saw as a problem with the timing.

‘But we saw him in Rebecca's concert, even before the fire. How come?'

‘Easy. Delayed action. Fire bursts out and he's thousands of miles away, making sure that he is seen. Great alibi. Three days later his face is captured on Jimmy's camera, visiting Abel Rubai's farm.'

‘And this one, taken half an hour before …'

Paul was horrified but not surprised by what he saw. ‘Barnie, there's worse to come, and soon.'

‘What's going on?'

‘Rubai and Ross, Rossi, whatever. Do you remember a few months back Rubai's eldest son, Julius, killed on Muthaiga golf course?'

‘Shot by his own gun. Read about in The Globe, tragic accident stuff.'

‘That's not how Papa saw it. There was bad blood between Julius and Tom McCall. Trust me, the McCalls are in big danger. Rubai has tried twice already, using his local boys. They botched up so in comes a Yankee pro.'

‘He's not going to hang about, Paul.'

‘Fancy a trip up-country?'

‘Like this minute? Bring it on. I hope the kids will understand about missing the trip into the park.'

‘Don't worry. Miriam will take them. I'll phone ahead. Miriam!'

* * *

‘That's the story, all of it.'

Paul and Barnie, sitting on the veranda wall at Londiani, looked around at the assembled gathering of family and friends. The silence was deep and solemn. There were as many takes on what they had just heard as there were people in the room. The only face that Barnie saw that seemed relaxed about the story was his own sister. He and she had barely had time for a hug and an exchange of greetings before the meeting got under way. Now she was sitting between Hosea and Inspector Caroline, studying the expressions of those close to her. She was a comforting sight.

First spoken reactions to the news focused on past events, specifically the fire and its aftermath. That was bad news that they could get their minds around.

‘You mean that bastard Rubai was behind all this? Paying for some foreigner to come over here to murder our people?' Laurie Buckle was not finished. ‘Paul, I know he's a slippery customer, but surely you can nail him for this!'

Tom was standing behind the long sofa, reaching down to Rebecca who was holding the arm of her mother. Angela, in turn, pressed her face, wet with tears, to her husband's cheek that was tense with the memory of his ordeal by fire. Tom asked Paul for confirmation of a technical point.

‘And this could have been set up days before it went off?'

‘Yes, it could, Tom.'

‘And nobody noticed?'

‘Tom, this man is very good at his work and he will rot in hell when the time comes. Our job is to make that time sooner rather than later.'

Maria raised her hand, wanting to speak. ‘My heart is not made of stone, but I must say a hard thing. This town will grieve for many months to come. For some it will be a lifetime. Nothing can change the past, but the burden is big enough. We have the chance to change the future.'

‘Can Abel Rubai hate us so much?'

‘Maura, a crazy man can lose contact with reality.'

‘But he is not crazy, Alex. He is so drunk with power, he knows that he can do what he likes and nobody in this country, nobody, will do a thing about it.'

Paul stood up from his place on the veranda wall and leaned forward aggressively. His eyes revealed the anger that was rising in him. ‘Now it is my turn to say a hard thing. Maura, we can do something about it. Abel Rubai is many things. He is ruthless; he is angry; and, yes, he is heartbroken. But he's made a mistake and given us the chance to stop him in his tracks. A chance but not much of one. There is so much that we don't know. Caroline, you and Hosea are the experts. What's the best way of using what we've got?'

‘Two quick points. All right, Inspector?'

‘Go ahead, Hosea.'

‘This house is the target and Rossi is in a hurry. This is the best evidence we have.' He paused. ‘We could be sitting on a bomb, at this very moment. I'm scared and I would be a lot less scared if we moved over to ‘Rusinga', like now!'

Two hours later there was a plan.

* * *

At ten o'clock on the following evening, Abel Rubai's mobile rang. He was in his screen room and the door was ajar. A mild shock made him shudder. At last!

‘Rubai here.'

Mister Big was in a state of high excitement. For the hour he had been alone in his sacred room, he had been unable to focus on any of the information flashing up on his screens. Nor had he noticed that the door behind him was ajar.

Reuben had noticed on the three times he passed the forbidden room on his way to another part of the house. Through the open door he saw the green light coming from the screens, that and the electronic hum of machinery at work. This happened on the first two occasions that he passed. He assumed that his father had slipped out for some reason and left the equipment on.