Authors: Jeff Buick
Nairobi was a hole.
At least, that was Mike Anderson’s take on the place. He hated the heat, the garbage and the poverty. But even more, he hated
the shifty eyes, the untrusting nature of the people and the violence. Random violence with sickening results. He often operated
in the wrong part of town, where mutilated bodies were dumped in the gutter and the police never came. Eventually the corpses
disappeared. Weird how that happened.
The first stop after arriving was the bank. He deposited the bank draft, slipped the bank manager five thousand and took two
hundred and sixty in cash in a worn leather briefcase. His bodyguards, Tuato and Momba, watched the street as he left the bank
and slid in the backseat of the car. Since his third trip to Kenya he had been using the two men to escort him about Nairobi.
Once he was on the outskirts of the city, Kubala took over. But inside the madness of the Kenyan capitol, he relied on them
to keep him alive. White guys with money didn’t last long on the streets by themselves. Anderson was resilient and street
smart, but the odds were totally in the locals’ favor.
“Nikala’s place first,” he said as the two large men piled in the front seat of the older-model Mercedes. He sat in the back,
quietly splitting the money into two uneven piles. He stuffed the smaller pile, eighty thousand dollars in total, in a slit
under the driver’s seat. It fit tight against the bottom of the springs and padding. He glanced at the two men in the front,
but both were concentrating on the street and neither had seen him hide the money. He replaced the remainder of the one hundred
and eighty thousand in the briefcase and set it on the worn leather beside him.
The streetscape changed as they left the somewhat upscale banking district and burrowed deeper into the sprawling legion of
decrepit apartment buildings and shanties. The cracked streets were littered with garbage and stray dogs prowled about searching
for scraps. In a city where people scavenged for food, there was little left over for the animals. They were skinny with unkempt
coats. None were neutered or spayed. Anderson had this strange tape that replayed in his head, where Bob Barker showed up
and gave the people a piece of his mind for not having their pets fixed. Then they shot him.
He blinked a few times to wipe out the bizarre images. Where the hell had that come from? He refocused on the briefcase and
his thoughts turned to Leona. She placed such faith in him—absolute trust. The one thing he could never get from his wife.
How did
that
happen? Maybe it all had to do with the commodity. Leona was about money. His wife was about emotion. No, not true. His wife
hadn’t trusted him with money either. Maybe Leona was a trusting person and his wife was a bitch. Ex-wife, he reminded himself.
The car slowed and stopped in front of a mellow pink four-story building. A line of bullet holes scarred the wall facing the
street and a heavy iron gate barred the front door against the uninvited. Tuato stayed at the wheel while Momba knocked on
the gate. A face appeared and a few words were spoken. The gate opened and Mike Anderson hustled from the car into the darkness
of a long, low hallway. The stench of rotting garbage was heavy in the air. He followed the man up a rickety staircase to
a small second-floor landing that led to another hall. The carpet was worn through to the wooden floor, and their steps echoed
in the narrow space. Halfway down the hall, the man pointed to an open door and Anderson entered.
He’d been there twice in the past and knew the room and the man. Nikala Shambu was a giant of a man, well over six feet and
almost as wide. His eyes were a jaundiced yellow against his jet-black skin. He smiled a lot, but it was all window dressing;
there was no warmth in the gesture. Anderson walked across the bare floor and sat in a chair a few feet from the gang leader.
Six other men, all visibly armed with handguns, stood about. They weren’t smiling.
“My favorite American,” Nikala said, the grin spreading across his face. His eyes dropped to the leather briefcase. “I see
you’ve been busy raising money for your elephants.”
“I don’t raise the money, Nikala,” Anderson said. “I just bring it to Africa. The messenger, so to speak.”
“I like your message. It speaks to me of money.” He laughed at his play on words. “What have you got today?”
“One-eighty,” Anderson said. “We had a very good fundraiser.”
“Yes, I would say you did.” Nikala raised an eyebrow. He took the money as Anderson handed it across. The bills looked funny
in his huge hands, too small to be real. He thumbed through a couple of bundles, then set them on the table in front of him.
“Very well done, Mr. Anderson. I like it when you visit.”
“Question,” Anderson said.
“Yes?” Nikala steepled his fingers and leaned back in the chair.
“Why don’t you fix this place up? It’s a dump. I give you enough money to buy a palace, yet you live here.”
Nikala leaned forward, his face darkening. “This is Kenya, Mr. Anderson, not the United States. This house is quite nice by
our standards.” He locked eyes with his visitor. “Are you trying to insult me?”
Anderson shook his head. “Nope. I was wondering, is all. I’d buy a big house and new furniture. Guess we’re different.”
Absolute quiet settled over the room as Nikala stared at him. Then the big man burst out laughing. “We’re not so different.
This is where I meet you—where you give me money. I have a house. A very nice house. I don’t want you to know where it is.”
Anderson nodded. “I thought so.” He stood up, taking the briefcase with him. “I’ve got to go. See you in a few months.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Nikala didn’t stand or offer his hand.
Anderson retraced his steps through the tenement and found Tuato and Momba waiting at the curbside. This was a part of the
job he did for Leona and her foundation that he found repulsive. Paying off thugs to keep other thugs from killing him, Kubala,
the villagers, the elephants and anyone else they thought should die. What a fucked-up country. Actually, the whole continent
was fucked up. Some parts more than others. He slid into the car and gave Tuato the second address. One more stop, to deliver
the other eighty thousand dollars, then off to the village. To Kubala and the elephants. The rewarding part of the job.
The car blended in with the congestion on the narrow street and moved with the flow. Ten minutes into the drive, Tuato said
something to Momba and the second man turned and looked behind them. He blurted something out and a gun appeared in his hand.
Anderson glanced behind the car and sucked in a deep breath. A car was right on their rear bumper, and four men were visible
inside, each one with the barrel of an automatic weapon pointing up from their laps. Pulling alongside them was a similar
vehicle, also with four men, all armed. One of the men in the front passenger seat waved at them to pull over. He flashed
a badge and a gun.
“What’s going on?” Anderson asked. “Who are these guys?”
“Don’t know.” Momba handled the gun like it was a hot potato. It was obvious he didn’t know whether to drop it or start shooting.
“Maybe they are police. Maybe not.”
“I think they are police,” Tuato said. “All their guns are the same. Robbers would have different guns.”
“Stop the car,” Anderson said.
“If they are robbers, they will kill us,” Momba said. He was perspiring now, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“If they’re police and we shoot at them, we’re all dead men for sure,” Anderson said. “Stop the car.”
Tuato pulled over to the curb and shifted into first gear. He left the car running and the clutch in. But at this point, the
chances of them outrunning the other men or the bullets from their guns were zero. They sat quietly as all eight men from
the other two cars surrounded their vehicle. The one who had been waving the badge approached the driver’s door and spoke
to Tuato in a foreign dialect. They talked for a minute, maybe two, then Tuato turned to Anderson.
“They are police. They want to speak with you.”
The policeman stood back from the car a few feet. “Mr. Anderson, if you could please get out of the car.” His English was
accented, but fluent.
Anderson slowly left the relative safety of the backseat and stood on the uneven pavement. Faces peeked out of windows on
the upper floors of the buildings that lined the street, but no one stood about at street level to watch. That was an invitation
to catch a stray bullet when the shooting started.
“What can I do for you?” Anderson assessed the situation with a trained eye. None of the men wore uniforms, but Tuato was
right about the guns. The other thing that struck him were the men’s shoes—all light combat boots, like the ones SWAT members
wore. This was definitely not some ragtag outfit of robbers. They were police, elite police, but why did they want him?
“You are Michael Anderson?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Can I see your passport please?”
Anderson handed over his passport and entry visa. The policeman gave it a quick glance and slipped both papers in his pocket.
“Mr. Anderson, I have some questions for you. I’ll need you to accompany us to the police station.”
“I’m not comfortable with that,” Anderson said. “Nor am I comfortable with you having my passport.”
The man moved closer, to within a couple of feet. “It doesn’t matter what you are comfortable with. You are coming with us.
If you resist, my men will kill your bodyguards. If you continue to resist, they will kill you. The choice is yours. You have
five seconds to make a decision.”
Anderson didn’t hesitate. “I’m feeling much more comfortable now that you explained things. Let’s go.”
“So you have a sense of humor. That will benefit you.”
“It’s the one thing my ex-wife didn’t get in the settlement.”
“In the car. After you give me whatever gun you are carrying.”
Anderson pulled the Smith & Wesson from under his loose-fitting shirt and handed it over. He waved off Tuato and Momba and
slid into the backseat. Two men immediately flanked him. Both were armed and kept their guns aimed at him.
Carpe diem was dead. Any chance of escape was gone.
“Contact the FBI and the Mexican authorities,” Captain Antonio Belgravio said. “Immediately. Advise them we have a missing
person.”
“Yes, sir,” the junior officer in the crisp white uniform said. He spun on his heel and left the captain’s cabin, heading
back toward the bridge.
The captain, an elegant Italian man in his early sixties with olive skin and thick black hair, turned to Amelia Morgan. “The
crew has searched the entire ship, Mrs. Morgan. Every deck, all the public areas including the spa, the swimming pools, the
gift shops—everywhere. There is no sign of your husband.”
Amelia Morgan nodded and looked down at her hands, her mouth set in a grim line. “This is totally out of character for Reginald,”
she said. “Is there any chance he may have fallen overboard?”
The captain gave his shoulders a long and uncommitted shrug. “The railings are high enough that it would be very difficult
to fall, unless the sea was very rough or the person at the railing wished to go over.”
“My husband did not commit suicide,” Amelia said. “He’s healthy and we have a wonderful life.”
“Yes, of course.”
Belgravio glanced at his watch. “It’s after five. We will be docking in Cozumel in less than an hour. I must check on things.”
“Can I return to my cabin?” Amelia asked.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. No one will be allowed in the cabin until the Mexican authorities have completed their
investigation. And the FBI, if they are able to arrive in Cozumel quickly enough. Although, I don’t think that will happen.”
“What
is
the procedure, Captain?”
“At this point, since we are in international waters, maritime law prevails. That means jurisdiction rests with the man or
woman in charge of the ship.”
“That would be you.”
“Yes. When we dock in Cozumel, things change. The Mexican police will come aboard. We will give them access to whatever parts
of the ship they need, including your room, which was quarantined the moment we suspected your husband may be missing.”
“In case I killed him,” Amelia said.
Belgravio ignored the remark. “The Mexican police will determine whether they think foul play was involved. If that is the
case, they have the jurisdiction to keep the ship docked until their investigation is complete. If they determine your husband’s
disappearance to be an accident, we will sail on time for Miami. The FBI will come aboard at that time.”
“A man is missing, captain.” Amelia’s eyes flashed a strange mix of anger and sorrow. “And that man is my husband, whom I
love dearly. I would think some kind of action might be a good thing right now. Like searching for him.”
The captain raised an eyebrow. “We have done so, Mrs. Morgan. Quite extensively.”
“Not on the ship. In the ocean.”
He shook his head. “You didn’t notice Mr. Morgan was missing until the middle of the night. If he did fall overboard, it may
have happened two or three hours before that. It takes at least an hour to turn the ship around and begin to retrace our route.
Then an additional two to three hours to return to the possible spot where your husband entered the water. If he fell overboard,
and that is still in question, the search area would be massive. Impossible, in fact. It would make looking for the proverbial
needle in the haystack very easy.”
She nodded, slowly as his words sunk in. If Reginald had gone overboard, he was dead. “You said my cabin is off-limits.”
“Yes.” He rose from the chair and motioned to a younger man waiting by the door. “We have another cabin prepared for you.
Julio will escort you.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Belgravio watched her leave, then busied himself with the necessary paperwork documenting Reginald Morgan’s disappearance.
It took the better part of an hour before he finished. He walked to the bridge as the ship sidled up to the dock. Three Mexican
police cars were at the end of the pier and seven officers were already through the security checkpoint and waiting for the
gangplank. Belgravio left the bridge and went to meet them. After the introductions, he and Enrico Valdez, the officer in
charge, walked side by side to Morgan’s stateroom. The rest of Valdez’s team split up, each accompanied by a ship’s officer
to guide them in their investigation.
“Is there any chance Mr. Morgan may still be onboard?” Valdez asked. He was soft-spoken, midfifties with dark Mestizo skin
and intelligent eyes.
“None. Unless he’s sequestered in a cabin, which is highly unlikely. My crew is well versed in this type of exercise. We block
the ship off into sections and position ourselves so there is no possible way for the missing person to move about without
our knowledge. Roving crew members check everything from lifeboats to between each row of seats in the theater.”
“Any sign of foul play?”
“No. We look for blood. Especially by the ship’s railings, in case someone
did
go overboard and hit the railing on the way down.”
“And . . .”
“We found nothing,” Belgravio said as they arrived at Reginald and Amelia Morgan’s cabin. The staff member watching the door
allowed them access. “This is the room our missing person was staying in.”
“Very nice.” Valdez walked about, taking in the luxurious trappings that money could buy. A Steinway baby grand piano sat
near the sliding doors to the oversize deck. He looked about the deck, then returned to the suite and went through every room
carefully. “How old is Mr. Morgan?”
“He is in his seventies,” the captain responded.
“Maybe he dipped into the Viagra. Found another cabin for the night.”
Belgravio shook his head. “I’ve spoken with the staff members on this deck. The Morgans were very affectionate to each other
and extremely polite to the staff. This is not the kind of man who does something like that. Especially at his age.”
Valdez nodded toward the balcony. “The railings are high. Is it possible for a man to fall over?”
“It is possible,” Belgravio answered, “but unlikely.”
“If they were assisted?”
“It would be much easier.”
“Did your staff find any indication of a struggle?”
“No,” Belgravio said. “There is no evidence he was murdered.”
“That’s good for you. Makes it easier to release the ship.”
“Yes, it does. But I would never conceal or cover up evidence of a murder in order to stay on schedule.”
Valdez was silent, looking about the room. Finally, he said, “We have a few hours to look about while you’re in port. If we
don’t find anything suspicious, you will be allowed to leave.”
Belgravio nodded. “As you say, you have time to conduct a detailed search. My staff will be at your disposal.”
“That would be appreciated.”
Valdez joined up with one of his men outside the cabin and they headed off in search of their other team members. Belgravio
returned to the bridge and watched the steady stream of passengers as they disembarked and walked the length of the pier to
where Mexicans loaded with souvenirs stood waiting. Beyond that was the town of Cozumel, with a picturesque central square
and streets lined with shops and boutiques.
But there was at least one passenger who wouldn’t be shopping today.