Authors: Jeff Buick
The street was cordoned off for seven hours while a police forensic unit worked the scene in and around the restaurant. There
was little left of the main floor, and the kitchen was completely destroyed. Two charred bodies were found in the rubble,
so badly burned that DNA identification was necessary. No one doubted that they were the remains of Boozy and Eric, and the
corpses were sent to the morgue for autopsy and identification. It was six-thirty Saturday evening before the street was cleared
of debris and opened to pedestrian traffic. The yellow tape remained in place and no vehicles were allowed.
Leona spent part of her day at the hospital for a perfunctory checkup and the remainder at home, nursing a few bruises, sore
lungs and a feeling of incredible vulnerability. Her worry was equally divided between her own safety and what was happening
in Nairobi. There had been no news from Kubala and that was not good. There wasn’t a fifteen-minute stretch went by without
Mike Anderson’s situation running helter-skelter through her mind. She knew the city and how dangerous it was on the surface.
She could only guess at what kind of hellhole he was in.
It was eight in the evening before George Harvey was finished at the scene and the morgue and back in his office. Leona and
Tyler met with him and Hank Trost in Harvey’s office at the main police precinct at twenty minutes after the hour. The mood
was somber, and they spent the first half hour going back over what happened prior to the explosion, and immediately afterward
in the stairwell. Trost made notes as they talked.
“What caused the explosion?” Leona asked after Harvey had wrapped up their eyewitness statements.
The DC cop shook his head. “The gas line to the stove severed, gas escaped and ignited. That part is pretty simple. The tough
part is trying to determine why the line failed. The explosion damaged it to the extent where we can’t tell. The CSI techs
removed whatever shreds of evidence they could find and are working on it in the lab, but so far they have no proof that the
line was tampered with prior to the blast.”
Tyler looked puzzled. “Why would it be?”
“Checking things like that is a routine part of the investigation,” Harvey said to the cook. Then he added, “Tyler, I’d like
to have a few words with Ms. Hewitt. In private, if you don’t mind.” The tone of his voice indicated that he didn’t care whether
Tyler minded or not.
“Sure,” he said, rising.
Leona let her gaze run across the pictures on the wall behind George Harvey’s desk. People pictures, every one of them. Mostly
of cops, in uniform, posing for the camera. Smiling, no guns in sight—none of the dirty and dangerous side of being on the
force. She focused on one of the photos. A young George Harvey was standing beside an older man, whose facial features were
similar to Harvey’s now. His father.
When the door closed, Leona said, “Your dad must be proud of you.”
Harvey saw where she was looking, took a quick glance at the picture and nodded. “Yeah, he’s retired now. But I think he’s
pleased I went into law enforcement. Justified what he’d done with his life.”
“What do you mean?”
“Being a cop is a lot of things—dangerous, unrewarding, disturbing. You get to see the negative side of society on a daily
basis. It wears on you. I think my dad wondered why he did it—why he devoted his life to it. When I joined the force it somehow
made him feel that the time he spent as a cop was worthwhile.” He shrugged. “That’s what I think, but I’m no psychologist,
just a cop.”
Leona nodded, thoughtful. “Interesting concept.” There were a few seconds of silence, then she looked away from the picture
and back to him. “You think the timing of the explosion is suspect.” It was a statement, not a question.
He didn’t respond with a yes or no, but his eyes told the story. “You and Tyler were sitting at a table in the restaurant
talking and drinking coffee, but neither of you smelled gas before the man who was killed in the blast opened the door to
the kitchen? Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Are the doors airtight?”
Leona shook her head. “I doubt it. They open and close hundreds of times every day. If they were that tight, they wouldn’t
swing shut easily.”
“That was our line of reasoning as well. That and the fact that this happened at the precise moment you and Tyler headed into
the kitchen. The odds of you not noticing a heavy concentration of leaking gas and the timing of the explosion are next to
impossible. I think you’re lucky to be alive. And with what’s going on at the bank, it certainly makes one wonder. But so
far we don’t have any definitive proof that the explosion was rigged.”
He paused for a minute to flip through a file on his desk, then continued, “There are two details about Claire Bux-ton’s death
that point toward foul play. Even in this room, off the record, I’m still not going to say that we’re convinced she was murdered.
But what I will tell you is that I’m heading back down to West Virginia to collect a DNA sample from Derek Swanson.”
“You have blood spatters at the crash scene that don’t belong to the victims,” Leona said after a five-second gap. “You think
Swanson was there.”
“Can’t confirm that. But I will say that we’re going to be looking at where Mr. Swanson was at the time the senator was killed
in the crash.”
Leona nodded. She didn’t speak for a minute, then said, “This may sound crass, but I’d like to ask you a question about the
insurance on my restaurant.”
“I don’t know much about that,” Harvey said. He turned to Hank Trost. “How about you?”
Trost shrugged. “Not really. What’s the question?”
“Will it affect my coverage if they find out someone blew up the restaurant in an attempt to kill me?”
Trost looked at Harvey. “Good question. I’m not sure.”
“Very good question. I think you’re probably best to offer them the least you can until you know for sure. I mean,
we
don’t know. Nobody knows right now. Until we do, it’s an accident.”
“Thanks. I was thinking about asking for an officer to watch my house, but that’s probably not a good idea. If the insurance
people found out, they might disallow the claim. If it’s not covered, I’m ruined. I don’t have a million or million-five to
fix up the place.”
“Best if you don’t make a formal request for protection, then,” Harvey said. “I don’t think we could justify it at this point
anyway.”
“Okay.”
George Harvey stood up. Hank Trost and Leona followed suit. “Be careful. Watch everything that’s going on around you. And if
you feel threatened, call immediately.” He handed her his card.
Leona left the precinct and turned her phone on as she walked back to her car. It showed five missed calls, each caller unknown.
Someone was trying to contact her. She found out less than five minutes later when the phone rang. It was Kubala.
“What’s going on? Have you been trying to call?” she asked the moment she recognized his voice.
“Yes, but you weren’t answering. I have the money,” he said excitedly. “I’m on my way to meet with the men who are holding
Mr. Mike. I wanted you to know.”
“Kubala, be careful,” she said. It was a trite thing to say, but conveyed her feelings, her anxiety.
“Yes, of course. I think they will let him go. Mr. Mike thought of a good way to give them the money.”
“How?”
“I will give them twenty thousand dollars now, and the remainder when Mr. Mike is on an airplane or in the American Embassy.”
“Excellent idea.” She reached her car and leaned on the passenger-side door. “When do you think Mike will be out of Kenya?”
“I would have to guess.”
“That’s fine.”
“Twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight at the most.”
“Oh, Kubala, that’s good news. Keep me posted on how things are going.”
She snapped the phone shut when the dial tone kicked in and sucked in a couple of deep breaths. Mike might get out alive.
She had consciously kept herself from dwelling on his predicament for a very good reason. Until this phone call had come through,
she didn’t think he would live. She knew Kenya, knew the corruption and violence. She knew the value of life, and that value
was very low. Her world and Kubala’s were so different. Vastly different.
Yet someone was trying to narrow that gap. Whatever value society placed on her life, there was one person who thought it
was considerably less. Nothing, in fact. They had tried to kill her. Of that she was certain. To Derek Swanson, or his flunky,
she was expendable. A thing that was in their way. Something to be removed, like a burr from inside a sock. And in trying
to kill her, they had taken a young girl’s father. A woman’s husband. A family’s son. She tried to disassociate herself from
blame, but it wouldn’t happen. Boozy and Eric had died in the explosion because of her. If she had okayed the conversion without
any conditions, they would be alive. Two men dead, a direct result of her decision not to give Derek Swanson what he wanted.
She shook her head in disbelief as she fished the car keys from her purse and thumbed the fob. The car lights blinked and
she reached for the door handle.
She stopped, frozen.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. No one knew what her decision was except the men in the boardroom. And Bill Cawder. Swanson
had an inside man. She closed her eyes and pictured him, standing inside her door at the office, smiling. What had he said
to her?
I thought you said it was a
go
. She had answered that it wasn’t; then he had asked if it was fixable. Christ, why hadn’t she seen what was happening right
then? The questions. And the results of those questions. Derek Swanson had been fed information that ended up with two more
people being killed during an attempt on her life.
She opened her phone and thumbed through it until she found a number. Then she dialed it and waited. Anthony Halladay answered.
“It’s Leona Hewitt,” she said.
“Yes, Leona. What can I do for you?”
“I need to see you. Immediately.”
Sunday morning at the open market on Mfangano Street was a busy time—a sampling of every region of Kenya thrown into a finite
number of city blocks. Maasai villagers, in from the great plains of the Maasai Mara, sat elbow to elbow with locals from
the city, displaying their wares on rickety tables. Small children ran through the throngs of shoppers packed into the narrow
streets. Pickpockets worked the crowd, searching out targets by instinct more than sight. No one with any common sense dressed
well or wore jewelry in the tight confines of the marketplace. A menagerie of odors drifted in the stale morning air; sweet
cabbage, pungent spices. It was business as normal for Nairobi’s working class.
Two men pushed through the crowd, the thieves and beggars melting into the crowd as they approached. Police. Even without
their uniforms, the men were like red flags to the unsavory. Something about the swagger in their step, the ruthlessness and
arrogance in their eyes, told of power. Something bordering on evil.
Bawata Rackisha and his flunky slowed as they neared a booth selling cabbages, rice and potatoes. Sitting next to the vendor
was Kubala Kantu. Rackisha’s aide stopped fifteen feet from the booth and stood with his back to a wall, his hand perched
near his unseen handgun. Rackisha waved off the owner of the stall and waited until he was behind the ripped curtain that
gave the man and his family a modicum of privacy. When the vendor was out of sight, the police inspector leaned over the baskets
of food.
“I don’t like meeting here,” he hissed. His face was twisted with anger. “And I don’t like being told what to do.”
Kubala’s bowels were ready to let loose, but he maintained an easy posture and kept his voice level. “This is a safe place.”
“For whom?” the inspector asked. His eyes were glittering with contempt.
“For everyone, of course.” Kubala adjusted his stance and continued, “I have twenty thousand American dollars with me. I will
release the other fifty-five when Mr. Anderson is on a plane out of Kenya.”
Rackisha ground his teeth and leaned closer to the Maa-sai. “I could grab you right now and take you somewhere very private
and convince you to tell me,” he whispered. “Don’t play games with me, Kubala Kantu, or I will kill you in a very ugly and
very painful way.”
Kubala wanted to run from the booth. Run and never look back. He simply shrugged. “No offense, Inspector, but I have taken
certain precautions to protect myself. I do not know where the remainder of the money is hidden.”
“How is that possible?”
“I have a friend who hid the money. Then he left Nairobi. He has a cell phone with him and is waiting for my call. I have
his phone number, a password, and a certain time when I must call him. If I am incorrect with any of these three things, he
will not release the location of the money.”
“I could easily torture you and get the information.”
“You do not have enough time. I have to make the call soon,” Kubala said. He picked up a cabbage and pulled off an overripe
leaf. It calmed him to have something in his hands. “The moment Mr. Anderson is on a plane, I will phone this man.”
“That may be impossible. There may not be a flight.”
Kubala reached inside his shirt pocket and slipped out a solitary piece of paper. He handed it to Rackisha. “This is a printout
of all the flights departing Nairobi Airport today. Six of them are international. Any one of the six is fine. I highlighted
them for you.”
Rackisha glanced at the page, then back to Kubala. “You have twenty thousand on you right now?”
“Yes.”
“And fifty-five thousand later.”
“That is correct. Seventy-five thousand US dollars.”
“That doesn’t seem like very much,” Rackisha complained. “I think the American is worth far more than that.”
“The only way to get more money is to contact his government.”
A woman stopped at the booth to sample the produce, but one look from the inspector and she left. Rackisha rubbed his hand
across the stubble on his chin. “I am not happy about this.” When Kubala didn’t respond, he said, “All right. Twenty thousand
dollars now, fifty-five at the airport.”
“That is fine.”
“Where is the twenty thousand?”
“You are leaning on it. The money is under the cabbages.”
Rackisha rolled away a few of the vegetables and extracted a brown paper bag. He glanced inside, then folded the top flap
back over. He held up the paper with the plane schedules on it and scanned the highlighted entries. Two morning flights, four
later in the day. He needed time to get Anderson cleaned up—it would have to be a night flight. “Nine-fourteen to Paris,”
he said, dropping the paper on the ground. “I’ll have the American at the airport. You make the call.”
Kubala nodded. “This is not a problem.”
Rackisha’s voice was filled with contempt. “It will be a very big problem if you don’t have the money.” He turned and walked
back through the crowd. In seconds he and his associate were gone, swallowed by the sheer number of people.
Kubala didn’t move. He was too scared to try his legs. Everything he had told the police inspector was a load of bullshit.
There was no other person to call. The bulk of the money was ten feet from him, stashed in a bin full of white maize meal
called
ugali
. He had come within one command from Rackisha from being tortured to death. Only the worthless cop’s greed had kept Kubala
alive. He knew that. He also knew that Rackisha was not to be trusted until his American friend was safely on the plane. And
then, with the money in hand, Rackisha would be at his most dangerous. The path to freeing Mike Anderson was still a hazy
one, with much treachery and deceit. Timing was going to be the key to whether Mike Anderson and he lived or died. And that
timing had to be perfect.
Kubala finally stood, tentatively at first, testing his strength in increments before putting his full weight on his legs.
He was shaking so badly he almost fell. Many difficult situations had arisen over the years, but nothing like this. He scanned
the crowd to see if Rackisha had someone watching, then scooped the money from under the
ugali
and tucked it back inside his loose-fitting shirt. He paid the owner of the stall twenty American dollars and left, walking
in the opposite direction from Rackisha. A chance meeting at this point would be a death sentence.
He had important things to do, and little time. And two lives depended on how well he took care of the details.