Authors: Jeff Buick
The air was absolutely still, no hint of a breeze. Sweat dripped off Kubala Kantu’s forehead onto his cheeks, but he made
no move to wipe his brow. He sat quietly, under the intense African sun and the watchful eyes of six heavily armed men. None
of them smiled. And every one of them was staring directly at him.
A door opened and a middle-aged man swaggered across the dusty courtyard to where Kubala was perched on a small stool. He
carried an automatic rifle and a revolver was stuck in his belt. As he approached, Kubala could see the line of a jagged scar
that ran from the man’s right eye to his jawline. It had been stitched up, but very poorly. The scars from the suture formed
a crisscross pattern over the gash. His eyes were yellow and piercing. He reached Kubala and poked him with the business end
of the rifle.
“You can see Mr. Shambu now.” He leaned forward, closing the distance between them. His breath reeked of rotting teeth and
bad gums. “If you make any sort of movement that I do not like, I will kill you. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” Kubala said.
“Keep your hands where I can see them. At all times. Do not put your hands in your pockets.”
Kubala nodded that he understood. They had already subjected him to a strip search, but there was nothing to be gained by
reminding Nikala Shambu’s bodyguard that he could not possibly have a weapon. He walked toward the door, then through it and
out of the sun into an air-conditioned room. From the outside, the building was simply another shanty on one of Nairobi’s
many side streets. But inside, it was anything but a dump. The walls were brightly painted and the floor was inlaid tile covered
with thick Persian carpets. Heavy leather furniture and modern glass end tables were arranged in two separate groupings. Smoke
hung in the air, but through the haze, Kubala could see three men sitting on one of the couches. He approached them and stood
a few feet back, unmoving and quiet.
“What do you want?” Nikala Shambu asked, picking his teeth. A half-eaten plate of food sat on the coffee table in front of
him. Smoke trailed from a thick cigar he held between his fingers.
“I am Kubala Kantu,” he said, his voice even and with cadence. “I work with an American organization called Save Them, keeping
elephants safe from poachers in the Sam-buru district.”
“I know who you are,” Shambu said. “I asked what you wanted.”
Kubala cleared his throat. “A man who works for this organization has disappeared. I was wondering if you might know where
he is. His name is Mike Anderson.”
Nikala shifted slightly on the couch and picked up a revolver that was sitting next to him. “It bothers me that you would
come looking for this man.” He caressed the gun, almost a loving touch. He paused, then continued when Kubala didn’t respond.
“Why do you care about him?”
“He works for Save Them. I also work for this organization. When Mr. Mike didn’t show up in Samburu, I phoned the woman in
New York who runs the charity. She asked that I speak with you, to see if you had heard anything about what might have happened
to him.”
“Why would I know anything?” Shambu leaned forward, his eyes dark.
Kubala knew his life was in the man’s hands. Any mistake at this point would be fatal. “Mr. Mike told me that he had set up
safe passage for the money from the United States. In order to do that, he needed to have the most powerful man in Nairobi
working with him. He told me you were that man.” Shambu relaxed into the couch. “You keep a lot of information in that head
of yours, Kubala Kantu. Information that could be dangerous to your health.”
“I have known of this since you and Mr. Mike first struck your deal. I have never said a word to anyone. There’s no reason
to start now.”
“I see.” Shambu reached out and picked up a date from the plate of fruit on the table. “So you want to know what happened
to Mike Anderson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The police have him. They picked him up after he and I met. That was a little over a week ago.”
Kubala looked at the floor, trying to piece together why the police would have taken the American. “I don’t understand. Mr.
Mike was in Kenya legally. What would the police want with him?”
Shambu smiled. “Come now, it can’t be that difficult.”
“Money.”
“Of course. But what is troubling is how quiet the police are being. I was able to find out where they were keeping him, but
that is all I know. Other than they think he is the key to a large amount of money.”
“That is impossible. Mr. Mike doesn’t control the money. Ms. Leona, the woman in America, set things up so that once the money
is in the bank, it can only be released to the local bank in Samburu. And that requires three signatures. It is very difficult
to get the money. She did that so no one could steal it.”
Shambu nodded. “Mike Anderson told me this some time ago. He said that the only time he could access money was when he first
deposited it. After that, he wasn’t authorized.”
“Yes. Ms. Leona arranged that so he could take money to pay you.”
Nikala Shambu chewed on the date and spit out the pit. “It troubles me that you know so much.”
Kubala was terrified, but simply shrugged. “As I said, sir, I’ve known since you first began dealing with Mr. Mike. I’ve never
said a word to anyone.”
Shambu pondered that thought, the gun in his hand. Finally, he said, “Mike Anderson is in a basement cell in the old jail
on Ngariama Street. Do you know this building?”
“Yes, but it’s no longer a police station. Not for many years.”
“Not an official one.” Shambu waved at the door. “You have the information you came for. Leave. And do not say one word of
my involvement, or you and every person you know are dead. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Very clearly. This will not be a problem.”
“Good.”
Kubala returned to the afternoon heat and walked back to the main road and his Jeep. He slipped in behind the wheel and dug
in his pocket for the keys. He was shaking so badly that it took him three tries to insert the key into the ignition. The
traffic was thick and he concentrated on driving as best he could. But foremost in his mind was what had just happened. He
was now known to Nikala Shambu, and if there were ever any doubt if he had said something Shambu considered confidential,
his life was over.
But even more troubling was Mike Anderson’s predicament. The Nairobi police had grabbed him and thrown him in jail. But not
a regular jail. One that had been decommissioned a long time ago. And that meant the American was being held unofficially.
Without charges. And in Nairobi, that was serious. They wanted money—that was the easy part. The not-so-easy part was how
to contact these people. How to tell them that Mike Anderson did not have access to the money sent over from the United States.
And then, how to get him out of the jail.
First things first. He had to call Leona Hewitt and deliver the news.
The Salt Lake City police would release no further information than what was in the newspapers. That came as no surprise to
Leona—she wasn’t family, and her request for additional details on Senator Buxton’s crash was a long shot that went nowhere.
She thanked the officer, hung up the phone, walked to her window and stared out at the gray sky and the drab buildings across
the street from the bank.
What to do?
Her two o’clock meeting with Anthony Halladay was fast approaching, and now she was unsure of herself. Of her decision. She
had already indicated to the CEO that there would be no problems. But now, with Claire Buxton’s death, she was rethinking
things. The phone rang and she turned away from the dreary day and checked her call display. It was Jacquie Cole, her friend
who worked in the legal department at the U. S. Department of the Interior. Leona had placed a call to the lawyer first thing
in the morning, asking about the status of Claire Buxton’s bill now that the senator was dead.
“Hi, Jacquie,” she said. “What have you got for me?”
“Tough to tell right now. But it looks like Buxton’s bill will go on a back burner for a while. At least until a new representative
to the Senate is elected. The general feeling is that no one wants to push ahead with what is a controversial issue.”
“Controversial? How is getting these companies to clean up their acts controversial?”
“The lobbyists are all over this, Leona,” Jacquie said. “Jack Dunn is already in front of a camera, expressing deep regrets
at losing such a great stateswoman with one breath, and attacking the bill with the next. This initiative was Buxton’s and
hers alone. She was the driving force behind it. Without her, it could well die on the vine. Everything depends on who replaces
her. Will they be an advocate of her stance and the work she’s put into this, or will they have their own agenda? No one knows.
And it’s going to be some time before a new senator moves into her office.”
“So it’s going to die,” Leona said.
“No guarantees, but that would be my best guess right now.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Leona set the phone back in its cradle and leaned against her desk. What were the chances? First Reginald Morgan disappears,
then Claire Buxton dies in a car crash. Both were opponents of the income trust conversion in one form or another. And both
dead. Who stood to gain? Derek Swanson was the logical choice. He was the largest shareholder outside Reginald and Amelia
Morgan. Amelia probably controlled the shares now that the CEO was dead, but her influence on the company would be far less
than her husband’s. That left Swanson. Alone in first place.
She glanced down at her desk. Her cell phone was moving across the surface, silently vibrating. She picked it up and looked
to see who was calling. Unknown number. She thought for a moment, then answered.
“Miss Leona,” a voice said through the static. It was Kubala.
“Hello, Kubala.” She sucked in a nervous breath. “Did you find Mike?”
“I know where he is,” he answered. “The police have taken him.”
Leona stood beside her desk, listening as Kubala detailed his trip to see Nikala Shambu. The prison, closed years ago—the
captors, police working outside their official boundaries. None of it good news. Mike Anderson was in serious trouble. She
had always suspected this day may arrive, but had chosen to think of it as conjecture more than fact. Now it was fact.
“Is there anything else you can do?” she asked when he finished talking.
“This is very dangerous, Miss Leona. Nikala Shambu is a ruthless man who would think nothing of killing me and my entire family.
And the police who are holding Mr. Mike will not be happy if I knock on their door. I don’t see how I can be of any help.”
“What if you went to the regular police station and filed a report. A missing person’s report. Tell them that you expected
Mike to show up over a week ago, but you haven’t seen him. The report will probably get to the people who are holding him.
They may come looking for you.”
“And that’s a good thing? These men are kidnappers and murderers, Miss Leona.”
“They want money, Kubala. You could promise them money if they released Mike.”
“Where do I get the money? The cash Mr. Mike brought with him is already in the bank and they’re not going to release it without
the proper signatures.”
“Can we get the right people to sign something that will allow the bank to release the money?”
“That means I have to travel to Samburu, meet with them, have them sign documents, get the money from the local bank and bring
it back to Nairobi. This will take two weeks, maybe a month.”
“Why so long?” Leona asked, shocked. “You can travel back to Samburu in a day.”
“Yes, but getting everyone together takes a few days. And then the bank has to bring in the money.”
“The bank doesn’t have enough money?”
“No. They keep very little money on deposit. And almost no foreign currency. We are always waiting for the money, even after
all the documents are signed.”
“I never knew this,” Leona said.
“That is one of the reasons Mr. Mike stayed in Kenya after he had deposited the money in Nairobi—to be sure we could access
it.”
“I see. So what can we do? We have to help him.”
“Can you send more money?” Kubala asked.
“No. That doesn’t work. The money needs to be brought in by courier. That’s why Mike always traveled to Nairobi with negotiable
bearer bonds.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I wonder if sending someone from the American Embassy to speak with the police holding him would be a good idea,” Leona said.
“I would think that might get Mr. Mike killed.”
“It probably would. The kidnappers would know they’d been uncovered.”
Silence filled the line for a few seconds, then Kubala said, “I could try filing the report.”
“Only if you think it’s safe to do so, Kubala. I do not want you to risk your life. Is that understood?”
“Yes. I’ll be careful. If I think it’s too dangerous, I won’t go to the police station.”
“Okay. Can you keep me informed? Let me know what’s happening?”
“I’ll try, but finding a telephone I can call you on is difficult. Most phones don’t allow long-distance calls. Not overseas,
anyway.”
“You’re resourceful. You can do this, Kubala.”
“I’ll do my best, Miss Leona. I should go now.”
“Call me the moment you get news.”
“Immediately.”
Leona snapped her cell phone closed and dropped into her chair. She stared blankly about her office, her mind a mess of conflicting
thoughts. Mike Anderson’s life in jeopardy. The possibility that Derek Swanson was murdering people to keep the income trust
conversion on track. Crazy times, crazy thoughts. But one was very real. Mike Anderson was in serious trouble. And there was
little she could do to help him. Jumping on a plane to Nairobi was foolish. She would be equally ineffective once there, perhaps
even more so. At least while she was in the US, she could access money and wire it to an account in a country that wasn’t
as convoluted and corrupt as Kenya. If Kubala could initiate contact with the kidnappers.
The alarm on her computer beeped. Quarter to two. Fifteen minutes. She closed her eyes and thought about Senator Claire Buxton
and Reginald Morgan. Both involved with Coal-Balt. And both dead. There was something else, some other place in the reports
that she had seen a notation of a death. Where was it? Who was it? Leona opened her eyes and dug into the pile of reports.
It took her five minutes to find it.
Four years ago a business agent with one of the unions had been stirring up a lot of resentment against the company. He had
disappeared. But six weeks later he showed up—when the rope someone used to tie his ankles to a heavy weight came loose and
his corpse floated to the top of a lake a few miles from the mine site. No one had ever been arrested for the man’s murder.
Leona fixated on the single paragraph describing the incident. This one was definitely a murder. And right at the time when
the union rep was making waves for Coal-Balt. Coincidence again knocking at the door?
She checked her watch, then closed the folder. Time to present her report to Anthony Halladay. She stood on shaky legs and
picked up the file from her desk. For a moment, she stood, unmoving, her eyes focused on the thick document. What was happening?
The edges of her well-ordered life were fraying—like an ill-kept book. Chaos was creeping into her world. Somehow, this wasn’t
how she had envisioned success.