White Bone (10 page)

T
he car carrying Knox and Bishoppe arrived at a strip mall, the central occupant of which was a 24-hour department store. The sidewalk out front was littered with cigarette packs and candy wrappers. Groups of young men in shorts and T-shirts loitered. Customers came and went in the relative darkness of the dirt parking lot.

Knox entered with Bishoppe, moving through a grocery section at the front of the store, followed by cosmetics and a pharmacy, hand tools, office supplies and paper products. Down a set of steps into clothes and kitchenware. The shelves were mostly vacant, their ragged contents haphazardly presented. Several dozen Kenyans wandered the aisles, from mothers with strollers to well-dressed businessmen.

Bishoppe navigated with ease, making it clear to Knox that this wasn’t the boy’s first visit. They pushed through a swinging door into an unboxing-and-storage area, dodged a few dollies and stacks of flattened cardboard, and entered the third door in a string of four.

“Yeah? Hang on, I said I’d do it!” a young kid said angrily, not bothering to turn around. Cigarette smoke wafted between his head and the computer screen.

“It’s me,” Bishoppe said.

The hacker looked over his shoulder. His youth shocked Knox. He was lighter-skinned than most Kenyans; he might have had some Arabic blood, or Mediterranean. He was not pleased to see someone like Knox.

“What the fuck?”

“Twenty thousand to answer a few questions,” Bishoppe explained. “Just the questions. No problems.”

“Get out! You are in trouble now, kid!”

Knox pulled out the money.

“Fuck off. Keep your twenty thousand.”

“There’s a life at stake,” Knox said. He could do this his way, but he wanted to show Bishoppe some respect. Bishoppe would get pulverized if Knox took over the way he wanted to. His adrenaline was itching for release.

“A white life. What do I care?”

“Chinese.”

That interested the guy. Or scared him. Knox tested his theory. “You don’t want to be connected to a Chinese getting killed.”

“I am not connected to nothing.”

“You already are. You just don’t know it yet. That’s why you need me as much as I need you.”

“I said, fuck off.”

“I heard you, and I’m still here.”

The hacker looked him up and down. More frightened than before.

“Okay.”

“You . . . visited . . . someone online. You identified her as a woman. You told the boy something about the Ministry.”

The hacker boiled. Said nothing.

“You know what I’m talking about?”

The boy nodded.

“How did you know it was a woman?”

He turned back around. For a moment Knox thought he’d blown him off. But he was typing; the screen before him jumped through hoops for several long seconds, and then he read from what looked like a lengthy file. “Sarova Stanley. Room six-two-four, registered to a Grace Chu.”

According to Vinay Kamat, the boy couldn’t possibly know that. Knox wasn’t about to say anything, though.

“You doubt me.”

“No.”

“She is something.”

“Yes.”

“The work is beautiful. Impossible. Highly . . . suffocated.”

“Sophisticated. Yes.”

“I have never seen such a thing. Not our own government, even. I am telling you, a thing of beauty.”

“How many times?”

“You’re asking what, exactly?”

“How many times were you with her online?”

“I was never with her. I watched her. I am Peeping Tom.” He smiled. “But not pervert. Only joking! I worked hard to get inside her.” Knox didn’t appreciate the sexual overtones; hacker speak, he figured. Still, he wanted to smack the boy. “Kryptonite, I’m telling you. No way I could do nothing.”

Knox took a chance. “You worked the metadata. You got in front of her and waited.”

“Shit, man! Who are you?” The guy’s eyes were bloodshot.

“Tell me what you found.”

“If I am to guess? She sailed through the firewall and into the Ministry. I have no proof. First time was most probably a probe. I was lucky to see her that time, because the next, she was in. She was offline only maybe one hour and one half. The same work for me? Twelve hours. Twenty, maybe. I admire this woman.”

“How many times?”

“After this first time, two more.” The hacker sounded tentative now, worried he was in too deep.

“Was she detected?”

“No. The English say, ‘A knife through butter.’ Like that. She is this smooth, this Grace Chu.”

“Did she know you were there? Is that possible?”

“Fuck you. I’m good, mister.”

“Yes, but we both know she is better.”

No comeback.

“Which ministry?”

The guy smiled self-confidently. “Take off,” he said to Bishoppe. Bishoppe left without a word.

“How much did you offer?”

“He told you: twenty thousand to you.”

“You just got your twenty thousand, mister. Two hundred U.S. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Someone with his pretty face intact. Someone with no broken bones and his equipment in one piece. An additional twenty thousand. No more discussion of money, and if I suspect you’re holding out on me, I’m not going to ask again. Just so you know who
you’re
talking to.”

The hacker and Knox could see one another in the reflection off the glass of the monitor and Knox liked what he saw. The guy looked away, suggesting the terms were accepted.

“I think it is the Ministry of Public Works. I cannot prove this.”

“Seriously?” It slipped out. Knox had expected something sexier. “Public Works.”

The boy spun around on the wooden stool. “I believe so.”

“Did you determine a department? A particular office?”

“No. Public Works. I am guessing.”

“Do you have a way to know when she’s online? An alarm? A signal? Can you tell me who else, where else, she hacked? Raided. Whatever.”

“No. Most people, yes, I can tell you all this. I can show you video calls or online order for escort. What I like about Grace Chu, she gave me none of that. She made me work.”

Knox didn’t understand this techie world at all. Thankfully, Grace had come to it late. In her heart of hearts she believed she was still in Army Intelligence. She viewed accountants, of which she was one, as boring people and wanted nothing to do with that lifestyle.

“If you know her name, you accessed her hotel account.” The words bubbled up, unbidden. He didn’t like this punk referring to Grace by name. “So you’ve hacked the hotel’s accounts. Many of the hotels, I’m thinking.”

The punk didn’t contradict him.

“You can show me her charges. Room service. The dates of her stays.”

“I can tell you if she bought tampons in the gift shop.”

“Shut your face.” Knox took a step forward. The kid reeled back. “Her accounts. Now.”

The guy could type at superhuman speed; Knox waited less than five minutes.

“Print it out,” Knox ordered. He kept his voice intentionally calm. “Now. I’m going to ask you again. Do you have ways of knowing when she comes online again?”

The punk didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“I’m going to give you a local number. You will text it, if that happens. If you so much as think she might be online, I’m going to hear about it.”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Same thing if anyone attempts to hack the Ministry of Public Works.”

“I can do that.”

“If I have questions, I will reach you through the boy, Bishoppe. You’re to consider him me. Do you understand? You get rough with him, you get rough with me. You ignore him, you ignore me. Clear?”

“Yes.”

“The people who taught her that? They work for me. Do you understand? I’m telling you that within the hour, they will know you. Your digital fingerprint, or whatever you geeks call it. They will know your equipment. They will know your way. You run, I will find you.”

“You tell them I will work for them.” The kid didn’t seem the least bit intimidated; his initial wave of panic had worn off.

Knox collected the printout and stepped toward the door, hearing Bishoppe’s sandals hurry away from the other side. He’d been listening in.

“You know, I might have recommended you if you weren’t holding back on me,” Knox said. “But you are.” As feeble as it felt, it was worth a try.

As Knox pulled open the door, the guy called out. “I have messages. The kind they print out and slide under the door.” His finger traced the screen. “Reservation confirmed for Kibera tour. Who the fuck wants to tour Kibera?!” He added as an aside, “People pay for that? Then someone named Radcliffe confirmed a meeting at the Jockey Pub.”

He scrolled down, by which point Knox was reading over his shoulder, heart pounding. He could see Grace reading these words in his mind’s eye, could hear her internal reactions. He knew her too well, he realized. She was on his brain. “Hotel transportation arranged . . . so on and so on . . .”

“Print it, please.”

“Here’s one: ‘The guest for whom you left a package is not registered with the hotel, nor has a reservation on file. We regret to inform you that it is strictly against hotel policy—’”

The boy’s reading was slow. Knox took over. “‘—to hold items or luggage for third parties. Please see the concierge or the hotel manager for the return of your property. Regrettably, any such item will be destroyed after twenty-four hours of the issuance of this notice as per our security standards.’”

It was signed by the hotel assistant manager, Clare Umford.

F
rom the moment the sun had dimmed on the first day, Grace had worked feverishly to stay alive. Relying upon her military survival techniques and the Maasai lore provided by Olé, she sought first to keep the insects off and the animals away.

“They are attracted to our human smell,” he’d said. “Fear causes us to sweat. Running causes us to sweat. From the moment we panic, we are telling the animals where we are and how desperate we are. Mosquitoes can smell humans as far away as fifty meters. They are attracted to carbon dioxide. Some people give off much more of this than others. Maasai wear very little clothing, because clothing holds scent. The animals are put off by the dung and urine of other animals—it is how many of them declare territory. In the bush, Maasai cover ourselves with dung to disguise our human smell.”

“Perfume,” Grace had mused.

“If you will. Yes. Just that.”

Now, despite her reluctance, she stripped. As she shed her clothing,
she recognized an opportunity. She could use her clothes to stage evidence of her death. If Leebo or others returned in an attempt to confirm her death, she would leave them what they wanted. It was something she hadn’t considered previously, and it filled her with purpose.

Working fast, Grace tore and shredded her clothes, laying them across the ground, dragging pieces into the bushes. In doing so, she told a story. Animals were certain to investigate, perhaps even fight over the remnants. She used sticks to break up the crusted sand, making what might pass for a freshly contested battleground between animals and a desperate woman.

Let them use their imagination,
she thought.

Shivering from chill, embarrassment and the fear that accompanied her nakedness, she went the final step and removed her underwear, straining to rip them apart. Arms crossed, tears threatening, she stood in place for several minutes, unable to move. Then, finally, she trudged over to the waiting piles of dung.

The moment came, the moment when she had to dig through the crust of each for the moist, grassy manure within. It was cold, sloppy and horrible-smelling, and it took a good bit of courage to smear it over her limbs. Bugs buzzed around her head. She smeared the foul paste under her arms, over her legs and between her buttocks, onto her neck, chest and belly.

When it came time to spread the horrible stuff onto her face she was crying, her stomach heaving.

But as she rubbed it into her skin, she felt something change. She was aboriginal. Old. Maasai. Olé’s teachings came flooding back. Edible plants and grasses. Tools. Weapons. Poisons. Water sources. Navigation.

She kept her high hiking boots on. No amount of risk was going to make her go barefoot. She packed the dung onto and over the
boots. She finger-combed dung through her hair. Feeling light-headed, she broke a thin branch from a prickly bush and snapped off enough of the thorns to hold it. Three feet in length, it gave her a dangerous whip with which to defend herself.

The trick with the bugs was to move, and keep moving. She considered the best vantage point from which to watch for her abductor’s return. She pushed away despair, invited anger.

This spot of torn clothes was her “kill zone.” From here, she would establish a pattern as she searched for the abandoned vehicle, working outward in a spiral. If out there, it would be several kilometers away; it would tell its own fiction. She could search while keeping the kill zone as a center point. She had a plan, a mission.

When her killer returned, she would attack him, wound him and leave him to the elements. Quid pro quo. She set this as a priority. Aware that the mental and emotional toll would be her biggest challenge, she braced for the unexpected, told herself to take failure as motivation, setbacks as lessons.

Start small,
she thought. Stay alive one more hour. Keep to the plan at hand. Walk. Bigger ambitions would have to wait.