Authors: Jeff Buick
The sound came to him like snippets of a dream, fading in and fading out, never quite real. It had a certain cadence, a rhythm
of slow African drumbeats. Like the ones that floated around the campfire when he visited Kubala’s tribe in Samburu. He blinked
and saw nothing but blackness. The sound continued, creeping through the murky darkness with a regular beat.
Footsteps.
Mike Anderson wiped a dirty hand across his face and licked his cracked lips. Someone was coming. He had seen no one for many
days. Three, if he had counted the number of meals correctly. Three days with just a plate coming in under the door. Three
more horrible days of cold and dank, no sun, no communication. He was beginning to lose hope. He suspected that Kubala had
not been able to secure the money, that time was running out.
A key slid in the lock and there was a scraping sound. The door swung in and a light cut through the dark. It was like looking
directly into the sun and he shielded his eyes. A voice resonated off the slick stone walls. A voice he knew. Bawata Rackisha,
Inspector Rackisha.
“You’re not looking very well, Mr. Anderson.” Rack-isha’s voice was soft, almost like a lullaby. “You need to shave again.”
“There’s a certain lack of facilities,” he answered. His own voice sounded strange. It was the first time he had heard it
in days.
“I had a phone call from your friend today,” the inspector continued.
“And . . .”
“He’s doing well. He called to tell us he had found the money. Now he needs to wait until it’s dark to get it.”
“That
is
good news,” Anderson said. His throat hurt, every word excruciatingly painful.
“I’m thinking that this little venture is coming to a close. One way or the other.”
Anderson fully understood what he meant. “Kubala will get the money. This will end well.” He could see the man’s features
now, reflected in the yellow glow from the small electric torch. His eyes had lost their whiteness—they appeared jaundiced,
sick almost. “Kubala has never failed me.”
“There’s always a first time. We have to be ready for that possibility.”
“What are you saying, Inspector? That you’re going to kill me? That’s not difficult to figure out.”
Rackisha leaned over, his face close to Anderson’s. “How can I let you go? You know who I am.”
“And dead men don’t talk.”
Rackisha didn’t move for a few seconds, then leaned back slightly. “That is correct. Not a word.”
Anderson leaned toward the Kenyan policeman. “Why would I tell anyone? What would that accomplish? Once I’m out of here, I’m
at the airport and back to the United States. Nobody in the US could give a shit what happened here. No one. Not one fucking
person. Even if I did tell someone, they would just blow it off. Like it never happened. So, to me, it never happened.”
“Kubala still has to find the money.”
Anderson nodded. He could feel his will, his strength, returning. “He’ll find it. And you’ll get it.”
Rackisha straightened. “Well, we will see. He told me he is going to try and get it tonight. If he does, I’ll have to decide
what to do.”
“You will not get that money if you kill me,” Anderson said. He surprised himself with the determination in his voice.
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s the truth.”
“You’re very brave, for being in such a place. A place that you may never leave.”
“I’ve been through a marriage and a divorce. I can take this.”
Rackisha’s hand snaked out and the barrel of his gun caught Anderson on the side of the head. It made a dull thud, so soft
it was almost inaudible. The impact threw Anderson sideways too quickly for him to react and he smashed the other side of
his face on the floor. He lay on the cold stone, unmoving.
“Do not mock me, Mr. Anderson. Or I will kill you right here, right now.”
“My apologies,” Anderson said softly. One of his teeth was embedded in his cheek but he did nothing to dislodge it.
“Pray your friend can get the money.”
Rackisha left the room and the darkness returned. It was getting harder with every day. His mind was coming apart, sane thinking
beginning to elude him. Visions appeared when he closed his eyes. Strange moving pictures of wildebeests being brought down
by lions. Of deranged and angry chimpanzees in trees, throwing fruit at him. Somewhere in the madness was reason, maybe a
moment from his life that some clinical psychologist could decipher. Or maybe he was going crazy.
His wife floated across the room, her eyes inviting, her mouth soft. God, he loved her. Even with the hell she put him through,
he couldn’t shake the feelings. It was in his nature, something he couldn’t kick. Like an addiction. Her image slowly dissipated
and Leona’s face found its way through the fog. She was smiling and her eyes were windows to a soft soul. She was so kind,
so giving. The foundation was proof of that. It gave so much to the villagers who lived around Samburu, yet she asked for
nothing in return.
Save Them was dead. He knew it, and by now, Leona knew it. Rackisha would never let the flow of money arrive in Nairobi without
him getting his share of the pie. And there could be no justifying any additional payments to warlords, gangsters or corrupt
police. Nonprofit foundations had expenses, but there was a limit. He felt like he’d let her down. That he’d gotten complacent
in a very dangerous country.
And now he faced the consequences. Alone, in a tiny, wet cell, held by a rogue cop and an inch from death. Everything, whether
he lived or died, now rested with Kubala.
Leona rolled over and buried her head in the pillow. The last thing she felt like doing was dragging herself out of bed, getting
dressed and heading for the restaurant to work on the menu with Tyler. Friday night had taken its toll. She had arrived home
at one-thirty, still shaking from the close call with the SUV and worried about Kubala and Mike Anderson. Even with two glasses
of wine, sleep hadn’t come until after four. She lifted her head slightly and focused on the alarm clock. Nine-thirty. Time
to get up.
She switched on the coffee machine and showered while the coffee was brewing, towel drying her hair into a maze of ringlets.
The aroma from the coffee was inviting, but it tasted bitter. She gulped back a cup, the caffeine clearing her head, then
backed her Saab from the garage and drove through the quiet Saturday-morning streets to Georgetown. She parked underground
and walked the short distance, arriving at twenty minutes after ten. Tyler was sitting at one of the tables in the center
of the restaurant, drinking coffee and reading the
Washington Post
.
“You’re here early,” she said, rubbing the top of his head as she walked by him, heading for the bar to grab a Diet Coke.
“Trying to wake up.” He lifted the coffee cup an inch or two.
“Is it working?”
“No.”
She poured the soda into a glass and added a slice of lime. When she returned to the table, she couldn’t help but laugh at
the dozy look on Tyler’s face. “Not a morning person, are you?”
“Hardly. Hate the fucking things.” He took a sip of coffee. “Look who’s talking.”
“I live for the day when I can sleep in,” she said. “Nothing to force me out of a nice warm bed.”
“You’re a vice president with a bank,” Tyler said. “That’s not an overly rough life.”
“It’s not everything it’s cracked up to be.” She ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head, the ringlets all falling
into some sort of disjointed order. “I wanted to talk with you about something.”
“What’s that?” He cupped his coffee in his hands.
“Things have been going very well here. I couldn’t be happier with how we’re doing financially, but even more importantly,
we’re serving some of the best food in Washington and the word is spreading. We’re building a clientele that will keep coming
back. I think we’re here to stay.”
“That’s good.”
“Very good. And most of the success is because of your work in the kitchen.”
“Not just me.” Tyler held up an index finger. “The whole team.”
“You manage the kitchen. When I say you, I mean everything that happens behind those doors.” She paused for a second, then
said, “I want to bring you on as a partner, Tyler.”
He didn’t move or speak as he let the words sink in. Finally, he swallowed and said, “How would that work?”
“Simple. We draw up some papers that give you thirty percent of the restaurant for a very reasonable price. Then, because
you own a percentage, you’re eligible for the profits on that thirty percent. But rather than taking cash, you put it back
into the mix to cover the cost of the initial purchase.”
He let it sink in for a few seconds, then said, “So I pay no money up front, and nothing comes off my paychecks. I pay back
the money for the percentage I now own from the profits off that percentage. Is that it?”
“That’s it. There’s a few other details, but that sums it up.”
He didn’t speak for a minute. When he did his voice was muted. “You’re giving me thirty percent of the restaurant.”
She wanted to object, to tell him he’d earned it. That the success they were experiencing would never have happened without
him. She didn’t bother—just nodded.
“Holy shit,” Tyler said. “Man, this meeting was worth coming in early.”
“Then it’s a deal?”
He stuck out his hand. “Absolutely.”
She smiled and shook his hand. “You deserve this.”
“Thanks.”
Both their heads turned as the front door opened and two young men walked in. Tyler glanced at his watch. “Boozy, Eric, fifteen
minutes early. I’m impressed.”
“I need coffee,” Eric said, heading straight for the half-full pot of medium roast. Boozy nodded good morning and pushed open
the doors to the kitchen. The unmistakable odor of natural gas filled the room seconds after the door swung inward.
“Gas,” Eric yelled, and started into the kitchen.
“No.” Leona was out of her chair and racing toward the kitchen immediately. “Get out,” she yelled. “Eric, Boozy, get out of
here.” She spun to face Tyler, who was directly behind her. “Where is the gas line?”
“It comes in on the upper level. There’s a shutoff up on the roof.”
“Upstairs?” Leona asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. They had to run the line from next door and the city wouldn’t approve it at ground level. Remember?”
“Yes. Yes. I do. I remember the hassle.” She started through the door into the kitchen. “Eric, Boozy, move it. Out the front
door.” She continued into the kitchen area, Tyler immediately behind her.
“Don’t turn on any lights,” Tyler yelled as they ran into the stairwell that led to the roof. “The spark could cause the gas
to blow.”
Darvin watched from the driver’s seat of the rental, parked across the street. He could clearly see Leona Hewitt seated at
a table, talking with one of her employees. They were both intent on the conversation, neither looking around nor distracted.
That was good. Focus on one thing that was happening, miss all the others. Like the incredibly high concentration of gas building
in the kitchen. Two men reached the front door of the restaurant and entered. Kitchen staff, in early to prep for the day.
It was showtime. His finger tightened on the remote control as one of the men pushed open the kitchen door. As he entered,
Darvin’s finger rested on the button.
The tape he had placed on the kitchen doors must have been completely airtight, because the second the door cracked open, everyone
reacted. He could see the panic in the room.
They could smell the gas. The man who had pushed open the door started into the kitchen, then stopped and backed off. Leona
and the man she was talking with jumped from their seats and ran into the kitchen. The two kitchen staff moved hesitantly
for the front door. They kept looking back and Darvin knew exactly what they were thinking.
There must be something we can do to help
. He smiled and started the car.
“She’s a dirty one, Mother” he said, wiping at the saliva dripping down on his chin. “And now she’s gone. One less who can
hurt Darvin.”
He pulled out onto the street and when he was a hundred feet down the street he pushed the button. The front of the restaurant
was gone in a matter of two seconds. The blast surge pushed out from the kitchen and obliterated the dining area, the hostess
station and the bank of windows fronting onto M Street. Glass and wood showered the passing cars and the fireball that blew
out from the building ignited two vehicles parked directly out front. Seconds later the gas tank in one of the cars ignited
and it exploded, sending a second wave of glass and metal flying across the road. A delivery van swerved to avoid the blast
and hit a parked car, sending it up on two wheels and careening into the storefront opposite the restaurant. It smashed through
the window and came to rest on its side inside the store. The force of the explosion triggered car alarms and in scant seconds
the street was transformed into a battle zone.
Darvin watched the carnage in his rearview mirror, then accelerated and turned the corner. He drove at the posted speed limit
into the city center, melding with the other Saturday morning traffic. He hummed a favorite tune, “Fields of Gold,” until he
reached a quiet area where he could pull off the road and park tight against a leafy hedge. He backed up so there were only
a couple of feet between the rear bumper and the hedge and hit the button to open the trunk. He slipped out, ducked in behind
the car and quickly unscrewed the license plate, replacing it with the one that was registered to the car. He wiped any fingerprints
off the stolen one and dropped it in a trash bin next to the hedge, taking the time to cover it with garbage. He reentered
the Washington traffic and drove toward the car rental return.
“Another dirty one is dead, Mother,” he said, spittle forming at the sides of his mouth. “Dirty ones should all die. That’s
what they should do. Just die.” His eyes grew cold, his mouth turned down and when he spoke again there was venom in his voice.
“You should have died much before you did. I should have killed you before you murdered my father. I should have picked up
the shovel and done it. Whacked you with it. But I didn’t know . . . I didn’t think you’d actually kill him.”
He drove with the traffic, another driver alone in his car, lips moving, singing with the music or talking on a cell phone.