Authors: Jeff Buick
A ceiling fan turned slowly, moving little to no air. Flies buzzed about and the strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee clung
to the silence that enveloped the room. The officer working the desk occasionally turned a page and the sound carried through
the dead air. Someone shuffled their feet on the gritty tile floor and all eyes turned.
Kubala sat on the wooden bench without moving. Two hours and counting. And three of the other six people in the room had arrived
before him. How much longer? And when they finally called him in, what would they say? He had already filed the missing person
report, so they knew why he was here. But did they care? He doubted it.
A short man in a crisply pressed uniform made his way to the gate that separated the visitors from the working portion of
the police station. He glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand.
“Kubala Kantu?”
“Yes,” Kubala said, standing. “I am Kubala.”
“Come.”
He held open the gate and Kubala passed through, catching a quick glimpse of the rest of the people still waiting. The look
was the same:
Why are you being called out of order?
It’s our turn.
No one said a word. He followed the short man down a long hall, past numerous painted wooden doors, all of them shut. They
reached the first open door and he pointed into the room. Kubala entered. Inside were two uniformed police officers, standing
and talking. Both were armed with pistols. They turned to face him as he entered.
“Sit, please, Mr. Kantu,” one of the men said. The short officer closed the door behind Kubala.
“Would you like something to drink?” the other officer asked.
“Water, please.” Kubala eased himself into one of the hard-back chairs.
The cop departed through the door Kubala had come in and was back in thirty seconds with an unopened bottle of spring water.
He handed it across. The water was cold and the outside of the bottle was sweating.
Both officers sat opposite him at the table and the one who had gone for the water opened a light gray file folder that rested
on the scarred wooden surface. He perused the contents for a minute, then closed the file and leaned forward.
“You filed a most interesting missing-person report,” he said. His words came out slightly nasal, probably a result of numerous
broken noses from years spent in the boxing ring. “Mike Anderson is a friend of yours.”
“We work for the same charitable organization.”
“Save Them,” the officer said, the name fresh in his mind from reading the file. “What is it?”
“We work with the park rangers in Samburu to protect the elephants.”
“Worthy cause,” the other man said. His voice had an accent. English. “So that is why you are filing the report? Because you
know this Mike Anderson from work?”
“Yes. I don’t think he knows anyone else in Kenya, so if I wasn’t to make the report, I’m not sure who would.”
“And he’s been missing for eleven days’since July twenty-first?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” The officer opened the file and flipped through a couple of pages. “What did Mr. Anderson do for the charity?”
“He brought money into Kenya from the United States. US dollars from fundraising events.”
The policeman raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about this money?”
“That it was his job to bring it into Africa. I don’t know what he did with it once it arrived.”
“You never saw the money?” the man asked, surprised.
“The only money I saw was what I received every month for my wages. But I did see the results of what happened when the money
made it to Samburu. Part of it was used to expand the protection for the elephants, and the rest was used to improve the villages
near the game preserve. We built a hospital and a school with the money.”
“Did Mr. Anderson carry cash with him?”
“No. Not that I am aware.”
Miss Leona was right, he thought as they grilled him. They wanted the money. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise him if the man he
was speaking to was the one who had orchestrated the kidnapping. The man who knew exactly where Mike Anderson was being held,
and had the power to release him.
“We’ll be in touch if we need anything further,” the policeman said, rising. “Please leave your contact numbers in Nairobi
and Samburu with my associate.” The interview had taken over an hour and they had not touched on where Mike Anderson could
be or what might have happened to him. Not once.
Kubala rose from his chair as well. “I didn’t catch your name, sir,” he said to the officer who had asked most of the questions.
“That’s because I never told you.” The man walked to the door, then stopped and turned. “I’m Inspector Rack-isha.” He smiled,
the white of his teeth in contrast to his black skin. “Now you know.”
Kubala followed the police inspector out of the small room. By the time he reached the hallway, the policeman had disappeared
through one of the many doors on either side. Kubala made sure the inspector’s aide had his contact information, then left
the station and stood on the street corner, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin. It felt good. He needed to find a phone
that could call overseas and inform Leona Hewitt of his meeting with the inspector—a meeting that had convinced him that someone
in the police department had Mike Anderson and was holding him in hopes of a large payday. He hurried down the street, unaware
of the dark Mercedes with tinted windows passing him in the traffic.
Bawata Rackisha sat in the backseat of the Mercedes and gave Kubala a perfunctory glance as his driver drove past him on the
busy street. The man had been honest and to the point. That was good. What was even better was that they now had a conduit
to the money. He wanted to check with Anderson and see if Kubala Kantu was as reliable and honest as he appeared.
The American Embassy slid past on the right side of the road. For Mike Anderson it was so close, yet so far away. They passed
the National Archives and turned onto Latema Road for six blocks, then onto Ngariama. Both streets were a collection of three-
and four-story buildings in varying stages of disrepair. His driver pulled up in front of a disheveled stone building with
no number. Rackisha walked slowly across the sidewalk, looking both ways to see if anyone was watching. There were only a
handful of people on the street and none looked his way. The less they saw, the healthier for them. The door opened as he
reached it. Inside was a serious-looking cop in plainclothes, an Uzi submachine gun slung over his shoulder.
Rackisha made his way to Anderson’s cell and the jailer twisted the key in the lock. The door groaned as it swung open. The
stench of feces and urine hit the inspector immediately. He almost gagged, but entered the room anyway. Inside it was dark,
but he could make out a figure crouched in the corner.
“We may be making progress in getting you out of here,” the inspector said.
“Good. The sooner the better. I’m getting tired of eating bugs.” Anderson’s voice was still strong. He didn’t rise to greet
his visitor.
“Do you know a man named Kubala?”
“Yes.”
“What is his full name?”
Mike dragged himself up off the cold stone floor and walked stiffly over to Rackisha. “I’m reluctant to say. I don’t want
to get him in any trouble.”
“Loyal to your friends. That’s a good trait in a person. But I already know this man’s last name and how to contact him. He
came into the police station today and filed a missing person report on you. I want to make sure he’s legitimate.”
Mike pondered the request. There was no upside to refusing to answer, but probably a huge downside. “Kantu. Kubala Kantu.
He works for the same charity that I’m with.”
Rackisha nodded. “So he said. I think maybe this man can help us. What do you think?”
“I’ve told you, no one can access the money in the bank. That includes Kubala.”
Rackisha’s face contorted with anger. “This is getting very frustrating. I’m almost ready to end our arrangement.”
Reading what the inspector was saying was simple. Without a reasonable ransom, Mike Anderson was a dead man. Killed and dumped
in a shallow grave somewhere outside the city. Not difficult to do. Easy, in fact.
“Maybe there is something Kubala can do for us,” Mike said, scratching at a spot on his arm were a mite had burrowed under
his skin. “But I need to speak with him.”
“Impossible.”
Mike shook his head. “Then I can’t help you get any money.”
Rackisha studied the American. He was in total disarray, filthy with a thick growth of dirty facial hair. Yet his eyes still
burned with life. The man’s spirit wasn’t broken. Not even close.
“What good will it do for you to meet with your friend?”
“There may be a stash of money outside the bank, but I need Kubala to go for it.”
“My men and I can retrieve it,” Rackisha said.
“No, Kubala is necessary. I need him.”
Rackisha hesitated for a moment, then said, “How much money?”
“Seventy-five thousand US dollars.”
Again, the hesitation. “You are sure of this?”
“As sure as I can be. I’m in here and the money’s out there. If it’s where I left it, then it’s all yours.”
Rackisha edged closer to the American. “Perhaps I should persuade you to tell me where it is.”
“Much simpler to have Kubala get it for you,” Anderson said, trying to keep the tone in his voice from showing any fear.
“All right, I’ll arrange for a meeting. But if you try anything stupid, I’ll kill both of you.”
Anderson nodded. “Okay, now we’re talking. My schedule’s pretty open these days. I’m ready anytime you are.”
The request to visit the Washington police station came at ten on Tuesday morning in the form of a plainclothes cop at Leona’s
office door. She powered down her computer and switched off her light, then joined the young detective by the elevator. They
rode down together in silence. In fact, they didn’t speak until they were at the precinct and he asked her to follow him.
They both entered a well-lit cor- ner office where two men and one woman were sitting and talking in low voices. The room
went silent when she entered, then the man behind the desk stood and introduced himself.
“Detective George Harvey.” He extended his hand. Harvey was DC Homicide, and had been DC Homicide for twenty-three years.
The job had taken two wives, but not his hair. At forty-seven, he still sported thick dark hair that was the envy of the department.
Even the young guys in their twenties were envious. His face was taking on some age—character wrinkles he called them, and
the creases were getting deeper and more pronounced every year. A goatee, graying slightly, added a few years to his look.
“This is Marion Jeffries and Hank Trost. Hank and I are both local; Marion is from Salt Lake City.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Leona sat in the offered chair after shaking hands.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why you are here,” Harvey said.
“It crossed my mind. I don’t think I have any unpaid parking tickets,” she said, then spoke directly to Marion Jeffries.
“Salt Lake City. This has to do with Senator Claire Buxton.”
“Yes. You called the Salt Lake police and asked some very interesting questions about the Senator’s accident. We’d like to
know why you did that.” Jeffries pushed a few errant strands of short dark hair off her forehead. At five-nine she was tall,
and kept her figure slim and her weight down to a respectable one thirty-six. Her eyes were dark brown, to the point where
delineating the iris from the pupil was almost impossible. She was forty-two, a mother of three teenage kids, and didn’t believe
in wasting time.
“I don’t remember leaving my name,” Leona said coolly.
“We like to know who’s calling,” Jeffries replied. “For times like this.”
“Perhaps you can tell me why you’re so interested in me—in why I was asking questions about the accident.”
“We’d prefer to hear your side of things first, Ms. Hewitt.”
Leona glanced about the room. All three cops were staring at her and she could feel the temperature dropping. No sense antagonizing
them. “I’m with a local bank and recently had a file dropped on my desk. It was to okay a change in accounting practice for
one of our largest clients. If the deal gets a green light, a handful of people stand to make a lot of money, very quickly.
While I was collecting information on the company, one of their senior executives disappeared while on a cruise ship.”
“Was that the fellow who fell overboard on
Brilliance of
the Seas
?” Jeffries asked.
Leona nodded. “Yes. Reginald Morgan. He was the CEO of Coal-Balt, the company in question. And I had heard from some reliable
sources that Mr. Morgan was not in favor of the income trust conversion. That made the timing of his death kind of suspect.”
“How does Claire Buxton figure into this?” Jeffries asked.
“She was drafting a new bill that would require coal-burning power plants to clean up their acts. The impact on Coal-Balt,
if her bill was passed and became law, would be huge. They would have to upgrade almost all their equipment within a very
short period of time. If Senator Buxton’s bill passed through the Senate and Congress, Coal-Balt was poised to be in dire
straits financially. Whether or not I approved the conversion depended on the status of her bill.”
“So, much better for the company if her bill were to never make it to the Senate,” Jeffries said quietly.
“Absolutely.”
“Who stands to gain most from the conversion?” she asked.
“There are a lot of pension funds and large American corporations, a few multinationals and a handful of individual people.”
“Who are the people?”
“Reginald Morgan and Derek Swanson are the two most obvious. CEO and president of the company, respectively. They were the
largest private shareholders.
“I don’t think we have to worry about Reginald Morgan,” George Harvey said. “What about Swanson?”
Leona shrugged. “I don’t know the man. Never met him.”
“How much money does he stand to make if you okay the deal?” Harvey asked.
“I’m not sure, but my best guess would be around forty million dollars. Could be more, but I doubt it would be any less.”
Hank Trost let out a low whistle. “That goes to motive.”
“Certainly does,” Marion Jeffries said. She directed her question to Leona. “So that’s why you called Salt Lake asking about
Senator Buxton’s accident?”
Leona nodded. “It was too coincidental. Nine days separating the deaths of two people, both connected to Coal-Balt.”
Marion Jeffries tapped her pen against one of her knuckles. “Your insight has been invaluable. I’m sure we wouldn’t have picked
up the connection. It was too remote.”
“The only reason I noticed it was because they were both on my radar screen right at that moment. Dumb luck is all.” She asked
the Salt Lake detective, “Did you find something suspicious in your investigation?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, Ms. Hewitt. It’s an ongoing investigation and we can’t disclose our findings.”
“I understand.”
“Can I ask you a question concerning the bank?”
“That depends on the question,” Leona said. “We have confidentiality agreements with our clients.”
“Of course,” Jeffries agreed. “Did you approve the conversion?”
Leona pondered her answer for a few seconds. Perhaps quid pro quo could come into play. “That’s a difficult question to answer,
Detective. Actually, the answer depends on your answer to my previous question.”
“Really.”
“Yes. I tied my decision to the results of your investigation.”
“So if we found clues that could point to some sort of tampering, then you wouldn’t approve the deal. Something like that?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, we’ll be releasing our results in about a week, maybe two. We need time to work with what we found.”
“Interesting,” Leona said. Jeffries’s choice of words was purposeful and very clear.
“One thing,” the Salt Lake detective said. “You should be careful for the next little while.”
“Why is that?”
“Every person who has appeared to be a threat to CoalBalt is dead. If you nix the deal, you immediately fall into that category.”
The color washed from Leona’s face. “I never thought of that.”
“It might be nothing,” Jeffries said, “but I’d be careful just the same.”
George Harvey cut in. “If you need anything, if you see anyone or anything suspicious, Ms. Hewitt, let us know.” He handed
her his business card.
“Sure, I’ll do that.”
The interview lasted another twenty minutes, and when Leona finally left the corner office, she was in shock. Marion Jeffries
had done everything but tell her outright that Senator Claire Buxton had been murdered. The Salt Lake City police had found
something that led them in that direction. Jeffries had used that exact word: found. She was giving what she could without
breaching the confidentiality aspect of the investigation. Reginald Morgan on the cruise ship. Claire Buxton while driving
her car. Both murdered.
Was she next?