Rare Earth (11 page)

M
arc returned to the Lodestone HQ and struggled to focus on all the paper work generated by his newfound success—updated lists of approved suppliers, procurement documents, payment schedules, and delivery modules. Finally at midafternoon he phoned the French refugee camp. The new camp director was mildly irritated over being drawn from a crisis meeting, but remained polite just the same. Marc was, after all, slated to deliver them crucial supplies and do so under the UN budget. The director told Marc to wait, then walked the satellite phone across the compound. The silence was filled by an electric crackling, the signal passing from Marc's sweaty palm up to an unseen satellite, then back to the verge of a smoldering volcano.

Then he heard her voice. “Hello?”

“Kitra, it's me.”

“Marc?”

“You left, and—”

“Wait a moment.”

He could picture her footsteps, passing by beds where children whimpered. A door creaked and slammed shut. Then, “Why are you calling me like this?”

“I missed saying good-bye.”

“Oh, Marc.”

“Did I do something to upset you?”

“No, Marc. You were . . . just right.”

He could no longer remain in his seat. He sprang from the chair and moved catlike about the office, pacing out his territory. “Why didn't you say something, Kitra?”

“I am complicated.” Each word was a struggle for her to form. “My life is complicated. You should not . . . It isn't wise . . .”

“Kitra, I haven't needed anyone for so long, I thought it was never going to happen again. Now . . .”

He wondered if she would shoot him down, hang up on him and extinguish his hopes, his heart. But she came back with a small, “Yes? Now . . . ?”

“I just wish you'd give us a chance.”

“This isn't supposed to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“That's not much of a reason.”

“I need to focus on one thing right now. You understand?”

“No, Kitra, I don't. I am here for you and for Serge. The two do not negate each other.”

“You are here to do a job.”

“That's right. And you are part of it. Soon enough the job will be over. And I want us to begin.” He had no idea whether he was making any sense at all. But the words had to be spoken. Marc didn't have a choice in the matter.

“I have to go. The director is waving for his phone.” She hesitated, then added, “I'll try and call you later. If I can. If I—”

The line went dead.

Marc entered the mess hall to find Dirk, the giant who had assaulted Kitra, standing at the lunch counter. The satellite phone Marc carried in his hand suddenly felt wrong, as though he had no business bringing this connection to someone who had just given him a tiny measure of hope into this man's presence.

“Marc, hey, I was just coming up to see you.” Karl Rigby, the colonel's aide, pitched his voice so it would carry. “Grab a place. I'll be right with you.”

The other men who had returned from in-country with Dirk gave Marc the blank stare of combatants taking aim. But no one made a move toward him or spoke a single word. Even so, Marc felt the laser targets on his back throughout ordering his meal and finding a table.

If Karl noticed the hostility, he gave no sign. Instead, he settled onto the bench beside Marc and spread out a map on the table. “The colonel called in a couple of favors before he left with the next in-country contingent. Our tame techies did some checking. There is no geological formation that connects the dots.”

All the villages Marc had heard about from the elders were marked with bright red points. The map was far newer than the one the elders had given Marc. The lost villages were scattered like blemishes around the border of Lake Victoria. Marc pointed to the northern shoreline and said, “This is where Serge was taken. About twenty-five klicks from the French camp. Maybe six from the Red Cross camp's main gates.”

“That doesn't make any sense at all.” Rigby planted his elbows on the table and frowned over the map. “I thought, you know, they were after gold or oil or diamonds.”

“So did I.”

“The hunt for minerals fuels more than half of Africa's civil wars. But the techies tell me nobody could go in and scrape up a little dirt and learn anything.”

“The elders were definite,” Marc confirmed. “The yellow men scrape up surface samples and disappear.”

“Yellow men,” Rigby repeated.

“Small and precise and totally silent,” Marc said.

“There was this thing last year,” Rigby spoke to the map on the table. “The largest company in Korea leased one third of all the arable land in Mauritius. They were going to set up the world's largest factory farm, ship the produce back home. They were set to evacuate almost half the population living outside the capital city. But two church groups operating in the region took legal action and had it stopped.”

“I've been through this with the colonel,” Marc said. “Factory farming requires huge stretches of land. Why take one village and leave the ones to either side in place? Plus . . .”

Ribgy's attention was drawn up from the map by Marc's hesitation. The colonel's aide held him with a steady gaze.

Marc nodded slowly. Either he trusted these men totally or it was all a waste of time. “My superiors in Washington would have no interest in land grabs for factory farms. It wouldn't register on their radar.”

“You're sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“You ready to tell us who they are?”

Marc took a breath. “I'm ready to ask them for permission. Yes.”

Ribgy did not actually smile. It was more a tightening of his features, a rearranging of the tension, a silent approval. “Well, all right.”

“So what . . .” Marc stopped because his satellite phone started buzzing. He swiveled around, shielding himself and the woman whose voice he hoped to hear. “This is Marc.”

A rich African voice boomed, “Frederick Uhuru, Mr. Royce. I've just arrived in Nairobi. We need to meet. Now. Immediately.”

He turned back and gestured for a pen and paper. Rigby slipped both from his shirt pocket. Marc said, “Give me the address, sir.”

“The New Stanley Hotel. Every taxi driver in Nairobi will know its location.”

“I'm on my way.”

“Your company will thank you for hurrying. Uhuru out.”

Marc cut the connection, and sat there, cradling the phone with both hands. Thinking hard.

Rigby asked, “What is it?”

An idea gradually took form. “Do you have a camera with a telephoto lens?”

“There's one up in the office, sure. We use it to document hostile terrain from the air.”

“Could you maybe shoot a photo for me without being seen?”

“Don't see why not.”

“If you're caught, it could mean serious trouble.”

“No problem.” Rigby's smile was tight. “Be like setting up a sniper shot, only without the cordite.”

When Marc entered the hotel's main courtyard, Frederick Uhuru rose from a table beneath the patio's canopy. The UN official was in an expansive mood. “By Nairobi standards, Mr. Royce, you are almost on time.”

“Sorry it took so long.” Marc settled into the chair, then spoke to a waiter in starched whites hovering at his elbow. “Just coffee, thanks.”

“Oh, bring the man something to eat. The food here really is quite good. You can't be so full as to decline an excellent meal.” Uhuru spoke to the waiter in Swahili, then turned back. “You have some documents for me to see?”

“Yes, sir.” Marc had borrowed a briefcase from the compound, a cheap plastic Samsonite. He spun the dials and pulled out the new procurement agreements from beneath the satellite phone.

Uhuru settled a pair of ridiculously small reading glasses on his nose. His massive hands flipped through the pages with a fluid ease. He did not look up until the waiter returned and deposited a steaming plate in front of Marc. “Lake trout, caught just this morning,” the large man said. “The fish of Lake Victoria are said to be the sweetest in the world. Tell me what you think.”

Marc tasted a meal he did not want, and had to agree, “It's fabulous.”

Uhuru beamed as though the compliment was meant for him personally. He spent a few more minutes on the pages, then tossed them on the table. “You have performed well, Mr. Royce. But I do not see a notation for your own recompense.”

“I receive my salary from Lodestone.”

“Come, come, Mr. Royce. You are being taken on as a fixer. A fixer always receives a personal contribution from every transaction. I am not doing business with Lodestone. I am doing business with
you
.” Uhuru fished a cellphone from his pocket and set it on top of the documents. “Call your directors in Washington and see if I am not right in this matter.”

“I'll do that,” Marc promised. “Soon as—”

His words were cut off by the sight of a tall man emerging from behind the patio's furthest pillar. He wore a dark suit, tailored to fit his very broad shoulders and narrow waist. He was obsidian black, with a bald head that gleamed in the sunlight. But what caught Marc's attention was how the lower half of his right ear was missing. The man's eyes, hidden behind wraparound shades, swept over the gathering, ever restless, a professional doing his job. Then he vanished back behind the pillar. Facing outward, toward a potential incoming threat.

“Yes, Mr. Royce? You were saying?”

Marc forced his attention back to Uhuru. “I'd prefer to call them from my office.”

“Most unwise. You must assume everything you say indoors is heard by a multitude of others. Which is why I always carry two phones. An official one for all the conversations that need to be heard by the unseen listeners. And another that I change every week.” Uhuru beamed proudly at his own acumen. “And also why we are seated on the patio of this fine establishment. Do you know this place, Mr. Royce?”

“My first visit.”

“The New Stanley Hotel was once the epicenter of safari high life. The Thorn Tree Café received its name from a tree that has been cut down, just like so much of the former colonial culture. I hope you understand what pleasure it gives me to sit here and regale you with such facts.”

“You are Kenyan?”

“I am African, Mr. Royce. And I am happy to inform you that this is our time, and our land. You are most fortunate to be seated here at this juncture.”

Marc supplied the response the man was clearly expecting. “And even more fortunate to have you as my sponsor.”

Uhuru beamed. “You are indeed a fast learner. And here is one final tidbit for you to carry with you back to your office. Are you listening, Mr. Royce?”

“Sure thing.”

Every vestige of Uhuru's good humor vanished, replaced by a brooding menace. “Do not waste your hours on the mutterings of old men inside a shantytown church. Their time is gone. Ours has arrived. Yours and mine. But only if you have the good sense to remember whose side you are on. Africa does not offer second chances, Mr. Royce. Only shallow graves await those who refuse to listen to the wisdom of their betters.”

M
arc and Karl Rigby returned to the Lodestone compound to find Boyd Crowder waiting for them. Soon as Marc detailed the meeting with Uhuru and described what he had in mind, the colonel insisted upon joining him.

As Marc printed out the best of Rigby's photographs, shot from a shadowed corner of the Stanley Hotel's courtyard, he recalled the African guard's restless scanning of the perimeter. Marc was certain the man could sense a sniper taking aim.

Rigby drove them in one of the armored Tahoes. As promised, Charles awaited them at the turnoff into Kibera. As they entered the slum, the colonel grew increasingly grim. “I've been on duty here for almost three years and never had a reason to make this journey.”

Rigby said worriedly, “No amount of armor will guarantee our security, Colonel. Maybe we should return to the highway and request backup.”

“We are among friends.” Crowder glanced at Marc. “Isn't that correct, Royce?”

“Long as we're gone by sundown.”

Crowder gave Marc a tight smile. “That was good thinking, having Rigby shoot the man's picture.”

“It may be nothing.”

“Eliminating possibilities is still further along than I've gotten. And Uhuru definitely warned you off.”

“He couldn't have made it clearer with a gun in his hand.”

Ahead of them, Charles parked his decrepit Mercedes in the square. Marc directed Rigby to pull up behind him. As they emerged from the vehicle, Marc told him, “You need to stay with the car.”

“That's a negative.”

“Trust for trust, that's what the colonel told me,” Marc replied. “We need these people to treat us as allies.”

“Stand down, soldier,” Crowder said, but his tone was a gentle growl.

Rigby glowered but remained behind the wheel. Marc led Boyd Crowder to where Charles stood in the alley's entryway. When Marc introduced them, Crowder said, “I owe you an apology, Reverend Matinde. One of my men assaulted you and your female companion. That is totally unacceptable. On behalf of my entire squad, I apologize.”

Charles nodded nervously. “Thank you, Colonel.”

Marc asked, “Are the elders willing to see us?”

“They'll see you. I didn't say anything about the colonel coming with us.”

Crowder offered, “I can stay out here.”

“No. This meeting is vital,” Marc said, then to Charles, “There is a chance that I won't be around later. The elders need to know this man and hear that I trust him. Face-to-face.”

In response, Charles turned and led them into the church. He motioned for them to stand at the back, then hurried up the front aisle.

Crowder studied the elders gathered on the church's dais. “That man in the center, he's Luo?”

“A chief,” Marc confirmed. “And relative of the camp's leader.”

“The guys to either side look like they're Kikuyu.”

“They are.”

“The Kikuyu and the Luo are sworn enemies.”

“I know.” Marc gave him a swift summary of what he had experienced thus far. By the time he finished talking, Crowder was watching the group in front intently.

“Miracle,” the colonel repeated.

“That was their word, not mine,” Marc replied.

Crowder shook his head. “A lot of people in power are going to see this as a serious threat.”

Marc was about to ask the colonel what he meant when Charles called back, “The elders will speak with you now.”

The elders shook hands in the African manner, limp and soft, the gesture of warriors trained to show no strength or aggression. Marc set his briefcase on the chair, shifted the satellite phone, and took out the envelope holding the photographs taken by Rigby. They first passed the UN administrator's picture from hand to hand. The image showed Frederick Uhuru at his most unflattering, a predatory gleam in his eye as he ordered Marc to keep away from this place and these people.

Finally the elder handed it back and said through Charles, “This one we do not know.”

“None of you have seen him?”

They were definite. “The man whose name changed from village to village was another.”

He passed over the second photograph, of the man with the mutilated ear. “What about this one?”

This time, the response was instantaneous. Every one of them reacted the same way. Their nostrils flared, and one finger tapped the face in the photo. Over and over. Passed to the next man, who tapped it again. Staining the face with their anger and their sweat.

“He is the one who came and threatened,” Charles confirmed.

Crowder's face tightened in a warrior's grin, all anticipation and hunger. “I'll show this around, see what I can dig up.”

“Quietly,” Marc warned.

“Off the grid,” Crowder assured him. “I've got my career and my men to think of.”

Charles softly translated everything they said. Marc turned back to the elders and said, “I came to Kenya thinking Boyd Crowder was the enemy. I assumed he was behind Serge's disappearance. Now I am certain I was wrong. I trust him. I think you should do the same.”

The men's gazes flickered back and forth between them. The silence lengthened. Marc waited them out. Beside him, Crowder might as well have turned to stone.

Finally the Luo said in English, “We would speak to you, Marc Royce. Alone.”

Crowder said, “I'll be in the car.”

When the officer started down the aisle, Oyango spoke with Charles. The pastor's eyes widened. Charles glanced at Marc, then rose from his chair and followed Crowder from the church.

When the church was empty, Oyango motioned to the Kikuyu beside him. The elder's accent was very strong, but his English was precise. “The missing man.”

“Serge Korban.”

“And his sister.”

“Kitra.”

The Kikuyu elder nodded. “What do you know of these two?”

“I . . . Serge was a medic.” Marc corrected himself. “Is a medic. He and Kitra are Israeli. Their mother is French. They were both born in Tel Aviv.”

The elders all shared a somber frown, as though they found something distasteful in what he said. The Kikuyu's voice was surprisingly light. He repeated, “What do you
know
?”

“I-I'm sorry. I don't . . .”

“Why are they in Kenya? Have you asked this question of them?”

Marc looked from one face to the next.

The Luo chief spoke then. “Sometimes we see what we want. Not what is.”

“It is the warrior's first lesson,” the Kikuyu agreed. “To find the lion hiding in the grass.”

Oyango flicked his fingers in front of Marc's face. “To survive, a hunter must detect the slightest motion.”

“The flicker of color that does not belong,” the Kikuyu confirmed. “This is the difference between life and death.”

“I'm sorry,” Marc said, “but I—”

His satellite phone rang.

Marc pulled the bulky apparatus from his briefcase. He hesitated, his mind buzzing louder than the phone. “I must take this.”

The elders nodded. Marc wanted to rise. He disliked having all the eyes on him as he spoke with Kitra. Their questions were framed in their dark gazes. He punched the button and remained where he was. “This is Royce.”

“Oh, Marc.” Kitra's voice was as terrified as it was soft. “They are
here
.”