Delicate Chaos (11 page)

23

For over a week they told him nothing, gave him no reason for throwing him in a squalid jail cell and locking the door.

Meals were sporadic, and when they did arrive they were almost inedible. And Mike Anderson prided himself that he could eat
almost anything, including a few of the larger bugs that wandered in under the door. At least when he ate them he knew what
he was getting. There were no windows in the tiny cell, and he had lost track of time. It could have just as easily been noon
as midnight when the door finally opened and a solitary man, dressed in paramilitary clothes, entered. He stared at Anderson
for a full minute, his jet-black skin blending into the darkness, the whites of his eyes floating in the dim light. The man
motioned for Anderson to get up and follow him.

There were four other men in the hallway leading from the cell, all armed with automatic weapons. Anderson shuffled behind
the first man, his bare feet sloshing in the cold puddles of water on the uneven stone floor. They had taken his shoes and
socks before shutting him away from the outside world. The cell was cold and damp and Anderson could feel the first stages
of hypothermia setting in. They reached a narrow staircase, well illuminated from above. As they climbed the wooden risers,
the sun came into view through a barred window. The warmth felt good and he squinted against the first light over twenty-five
watts in a few days.

“Sit there.” The man in the uniform pointed to a wooden chair on one side of a table.

A second chair sat on the other side, and both were identical. Anderson was tempted to sit on the other side of the table
just to see the response, but didn’t. He had no idea what level of trouble he was in and aggravating the police was never
a good idea, let alone in Nairobi. He sat and waited. The man who had led him to the room picked up a file from a cabinet
on the far side of the room, then sat in the other chair so they were facing each other. The other four armed men filtered
to the edges of the room and leaned against walls. A solitary fan moved the stale air about a bit, but did little to cut through
the humidity or the heat. Anderson didn’t mind the warmth; it felt good.

The guard perused the file for a minute, his eyes narrowing at times, his brow furrowing as he read the contents. “What are
you doing in Kenya, Mr. Anderson?” he asked. His voice was soft, but conveyed authority.

“I work for a nonprofit organization.” Mike resisted the temptation to tell the man he was an idiot if he didn’t know that
already. “We raise money in the United States and use it to protect the elephants from poachers in a region near Samburu.
The government has approved our work.”

“Ah, yes. I see this now. You are doing good work in our country.” There was a touch of English accent to the voice.

“We’re trying to help.”

“Help comes in many forms, Mr. Anderson. When it comes in the form of money, that is good.” He paused, but when Anderson didn’t
respond, he continued. “It’s the amount of money, and to whom it’s being given, that we have a problem with.”

Anderson wondered who the
we
was. From where he was sitting, it could be a handful of thugs who were using their positions inside the police force to extract
bribe money, or it could legitimately be the government. He had no definitive proof, but he strongly suspected option A over
B.

“The money is spent very carefully,” Mike said. “It has to be. We’re accountable to our donors in the US.”

“I see.” The man referred to a different written page inside the file.

“May I ask a question?” Mike asked.

The man’s eyes looked up from the page without any other part of him moving. “That depends on the question, Mr. Anderson.”

“Why am I in jail? Am I under arrest?”

The officer leaned back in the chair and thoughtfully scratched the day-old growth on his chin. “That’s two questions. Which
one would you like an answer to?”

“Why am I in jail?”

“You brought a large sum of money into the country a few days ago. And when you left the bank, you took a considerable sum
in cash.”

They had someone inside the bank. An informant. There was no other way they could know. “Yes. I took two hundred and sixty
thousand American dollars with me.” There was no sense in lying; the police would know the amounts.

“In Kenya, that is a small fortune.” The man cocked his head slightly and smiled. His teeth were shocking white against his
black skin. “You’re lucky to be alive, Mr. Anderson. Most people with that much money in their pockets wouldn’t last long on
the streets.”

“I have friends in Kenya, sir,” Mike said. “Friends who protect me from thieves and murderers.”

“Is Nikala Shambu one of those friends?”

Telling a lie now would be the next closest thing to suicide. “Yes.”

“And you were visiting him when we arrested you?”

Anderson nodded. “So I
am
under arrest. What is the charge?”

His interviewer laughed, a hearty chortle that echoed about the spartan room. “No charge yet. We are simply holding you until
we determine if you have done anything illegal.”

“Have you figured that out yet? Whether I’ve done anything bad?”

Again, the laugh. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve done many bad things, Mr. Anderson. It’s all a matter of perspective.”

“Perspective?” Anderson asked, impressed with the man’s command of the English language, but totally unimpressed by their
judicial system.

“Yes, of course. Perspective. From yours, you are simply paying people to ensure your safety, and that of your villagers and
the elephants that live inside the tract of land our government has allowed you to police. From ours, you are giving money
to a very dangerous man. A man who may use that money to oppose the authorities.”

“That would be bad,” Anderson said, nodding. “He told me the money was for a new house he was building.”

“You can see the problem with perspective, Mr. Anderson. Everyone has one, but only one counts.”

“Yours.”

“Yes. Mine. Ours, if you wish.” The man stared into the American’s eyes. “So that brings us to our problem.”

“Which is?”

“What to do with you. If we charge you with assisting antigovernment forces, you will never get out of that cell. Except to
face a firing squad.”

Anderson swallowed heavily. “I don’t think I like that option.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think, Mr. Anderson.” Any civility in his tone was gone. “It matters what I think.”

“I understand.”

Silence settled over the room for a full two minutes. To Anderson, it felt like a week. A week with his balls in a vise. The
room was hot now that his body temperature had returned to normal. He was sweating, and felt the droplets trickling down the
sides of his ribcage. He avoided his interrogator’s eyes, focusing on a loose floorboard instead.

“There may be a second option.”

Mike didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His mouth was too dry.

“There is still a considerable amount of money in the bank.” The man’s voice was upbeat again. “And you know what they say.
Money talks.”

Anderson wet his lips, his tongue felt the size of a football. “It’s not my money.”

“But you may have some influence over how it is spent. For your good, I hope you have this influence.”

Mike weighed his answer carefully. Agreeing would only guarantee his death if he couldn’t get his hands on the money. Disagreeing
could have disastrous results on the spot.

“The money is controlled by a woman in the United States. I have her confidence. She trusts me. There is a possibility I could
have some,
influence
, as you put it. I would have to speak with her directly.”

Silence cut through the room like a barracuda in cool water. Finally the man said, “I am not so sure that will work. I’ll
have to think about it.” He looked at the other guards. “Take Mr. Anderson back to his cell.”

Anderson stood and bowed his head respectfully toward the other man. He wanted to leap across the table and snap the bastard’s
neck, but that would only serve to get him killed. No upside to that. At least he had a chance to get himself out of this
mess. Probably not a great one, but right now he’d take whatever he could get.

24

It was early for the phone to ring. Too early. Nothing good ever came from phone calls in the middle of the night. Leona glanced
at the clock beside her bed as she picked up the receiver. Four-eighteen on Sunday morning.

“Hello?” She tried to sound awake, but sleep resonated through her voice.

“Miss Leona.” The voice was commingled with heavy static, but recognizable as Kubala Kantu.

“Kubala?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Is everything all right, Kubala?” she asked, waking up quickly now.

“Mr. Mike didn’t show up at the village, Miss Leona.”

“He’s not there? You haven’t seen him?”

“No. You said he would be arriving again sometime last week, but no one has seen him.”

“Where are you?”

“Nairobi. I drove to the hotel where he usually stays, but he wasn’t there.”

“Did he check in?”

“Yes. Friday afternoon, nine days ago. But he left the next morning and the desk clerk said he never came back.”

Leona rubbed her eyes and thought for a moment. “Have you checked with the police?”

There was a pause. “That might not be a good idea.”

“Why?”

“You know my country, Miss Leona. If I speak with the police, they will be interested in why Mr. Mike is in Kenya.”

“Yes, of course.” She flipped on the light next to the bed and ran her hands through her hair. “Is there any other way of
finding out what happened to him? He has two men who drive him around Nairobi. Maybe you could talk to them.”

“I know these men. I’ve met them. Momba and Tuato. I’ve tried to find them, but have had no luck.”

“Is there anyone else?”

“I could talk with the man he delivers the money to, but I don’t know who that is.”

Leona racked her brain. It was early and her thought processes were barely working. “It was something like Nike. Nike Shamba.”

“Nikala Shambu?” Kubala asked.

“Yes, that’s it. That’s the name.” When there was no response, Leona said, “Do you know this man?”

“Yes. He is very bad. Very dangerous. The most violent man in Nairobi.”

“Could you ask him about Mike?”

“It would be very dangerous. This man, he is powerful, and ruthless. I have heard many stories of how he kills people who
get in his way.”

“Don’t go near him if you think it will put you in danger,” Leona said. “I’ll think of some other way. Mike is an American
citizen. Maybe the American embassy can find out what happened.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. If no one on the street is talking, there will be no information.”

“I’ll contact the embassy, Kubala. You do what you can to find him.”

“Yes, of course, Miss Leona.”

“Be careful.”

“This is Nairobi. I am always careful when I’m in the city.”

“Call me back in a day or two at the most. Or when you get some information.” She thought for a second, then added, “Can you
leave me a phone number where I can reach you? In case I find out something through the embassy.”

“My friend has a phone. The one I am calling from.” He recited the country code, then the number. “Ask for me when you call.
If I’m not here, they will get the message that you called to me. I will call you back.”

“Good. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Yes. Have a nice day.”

Leona hung up, Kubala’s final words echoing about her head.
Have a nice day
. It was merely a colloquialism, but it stuck with her. How was that possible? Mike Anderson had disappeared, swallowed up
by the mass of deceit and corruption that was the Kenyan capitol. She had worried about this happening from the first time
Mike left the United States with money destined for Kubala and his village. Was he being held captive? Or dead? There was
no way of knowing. Either was possible. Probable, in fact.

Leona slid out of bed, no longer tired. Her mind was alive with possible scenarios, all playing out like movies on the big
screen. So vivid, so real, so brutal. The chances of Mike taking a detour before he visited the village and handed over the
money were zero. After, maybe. But he didn’t care for Kenyan beer, and would have nothing to do with the women because of
the high rate of AIDS and HIV. Mike took his job seriously and had always found some way to deliver the money. Something was
wrong. But what? Standing in her town house in Washington DC, a world removed from the violence of Nairobi, she had no idea.
It was Sunday, but there had to be some way of contacting the American embassy. And with the time difference, now was probably
the best time. She had a quick shower and put on a rare pot of coffee, calling the international operator and getting the
embassy’s number while the dark roast Colombian blend brewed. She dialed the number and waited.

A voice answered and she said, “My name is Leona Hewitt. I’m calling from Washington, DC. A business associate of mine has
gone missing and I need your help.”

Kubala replaced the cracked handset in its cradle. Nikala Shambu. He knew Mike Anderson was paying off someone in Nairobi
to ensure his safety and keep the conduit for the money open. He suspected it might be Nikala Shambu. He hoped not. The man
was a monster. A legend that had evolved from a trail of mutilated bodies, murdered families, and young women violated to the
point of suicide. If Shambu had his hooks into the American, he wouldn’t be letting go. But it made no sense that Shambu would
kidnap or kill the American. Shambu was collecting money on a regular basis from Miss Leona’s foundation. He wouldn’t kill
the messenger of good tidings.

Which meant something else had happened to Mike Anderson. And even if Shambu weren’t involved, he would probably know who
was. Kubala shuddered. If he wanted to find out, he would have to approach the most feared man in Nairobi. His life would
be in the man’s hands. If Shambu decided to kill him for poking around, asking questions, he would die. If Shambu’s decision
was to humor him and tell what he knew, then the chances were good he would live. And find out where Mike Anderson was.

Or his body.

Kubala looked around his friend’s tiny house, the paint peeling from the walls and the floor a jumble of old tiles and pieces
of wood. Poverty. They all lived with it, every day. Parents worked sixteen-hour days under horrible conditions, and their
children still went hungry. Violence was everywhere. Clean water and food difficult to attain.

But Leona Hewitt had taken an interest in the elephants of Kenya, and its people. She sent money and expertise that improved
lives. She was making a difference to so many families that would have little, or nothing, without her. And Mike Anderson
was the man who brought the money into the country. A dangerous job at any time, yet almost suicidal in Kenya. He risked his
life . . . for them.

Kubala’s hand was shaking as he realized he had made a decision. A life-or-death decision. He couldn’t leave Mike Anderson
alone in a time of need. He was going to see Nikala Shambu.