Delicate Chaos (17 page)

35

The meeting was set for Wednesday at one in the afternoon in a coffee shop on Biashara Street, three blocks from the center
of the City Market. Kubala was to come alone and unarmed. Mike Anderson would be waiting.

Kubala sat on a bench overlooking St. Paul’s Chapel and Central Park, and checked his watch. Fifteen minutes until the meeting.
He was nervous. Scared, actually. The Nairobi police were not people you wanted to spend time with. They were corrupt, dangerous,
and since they
were
the law, they operated with impunity. Almost everyone in Nairobi had a story about the police. None of them were pleasant.
Kubala stood and stretched, then headed away from the riverbank and into the congested and violent streets. A group of thugs
taunted him as he passed, but he refused to make eye contact and they left him alone. Committing suicide in the Kenyan capital
would be so easy—just insult a gang member by staring at him.

He turned the last corner and walked halfway down Bi-ashara Street to where a Mercedes sat outside the small café. Two men
in street clothes lounged against the car, but Kubala instantly sensed they were police. The condescending look in their eyes
and their stiff body language simply confirmed it. He avoided making prolonged eye contact with them and pulled open the battered
door to the café.

Inside it was dark and smelled of grease and smoke. There were six tables, but only one was occupied. Mike Anderson and Bawata
Rackisha were seated on the wobbly wooden chairs. Both had water bottles in front of them. Anderson was freshly shaven and
looked clean and alert. His eyes were energized pools of brown and Kubala knew the reason. His American friend was experiencing
freedom for the first time in almost two weeks. Kubala knew the feeling from personal experience. A very bad personal experience
with the Kenyan army.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Kantu,” Inspector Rackisha said as Kubala approached the table.

“Not a problem, Inspector.” He focused on Mike Anderson. “It’s good to see you again, my friend.”

“And you, Kubala,” Anderson replied.

Kubala sat and a moment later a man appeared from the kitchen area with a fresh bottle of water. He set it in front of the
newcomer and disappeared into the back room. Kubala unscrewed the top and took a short drink, glancing about the café as he
set the bottle back on the table. There were three other men inside the room, standing back in the shadows, almost hidden
from view. It was hard to discern their facial features, but not difficult to see the bulges in their suit jackets under their
left arms.

“Could I have a minute with Kubala in private?” Anderson asked.

The inspector shrugged his shoulders. “That’s fine. Keep in mind what we discussed.”

“Of course.”

“You look well treated,” Kubala said when Rackisha was out of earshot.

“Looks can be deceiving. I have been treated very poorly. I need to get out of the cell where they’re holding me, and I may
be down to my last few days to do so. The window of time where I am useful to them is shrinking very quickly.”

“What do you need me to do?” Kubala asked, leaning closer.

“They want money. But the funds I’ve already deposited are untouchable. It would take too long and involve too many people
in order to access the money.”

“What can we do?”

“I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“When I first arrived in Nairobi, I kept two hundred and sixty thousand dollars in cash. I gave one hundred and eighty of
that to Nikala Shambu. That leaves eighty thousand dollars.”

“Where is it?” Kubala asked.

Mike Anderson stared into Kubala’s eyes. “This could get very dangerous.”

Kubala smiled. “This is already very dangerous. There is no guarantee they will let either one of us live.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You need help. Without it, you will not survive. I am your knight in white armor.”

“Shining armor, Kubala. Knight in shining armor. And yes, you are, my friend.”

“I thought it was white.”

“Your horse is white. White horse, shining armor.”

“Yes, that’s it. Very good. You know this saying very well.”

“English as a first language has its benefits.” Anderson glanced over at the police inspector, then continued. “The money
is tucked up under the driver’s seat of Tuato’s car. It’s the one he and Momba always use to drive me around Nairobi. Once
you find the car, the easiest way to get at the money is from the backseat.”

“Where does Tuato live?”

“Kariokor, on the north side of the river. On Jairo Owino Street.”

“I know this place. Should I bring the money to the inspector when I have recovered it?”

“No. Absolutely not. Once you give him the money, there’s no upside to him letting me go. When you have the money, you come
back and talk with the inspector. Tell him you’ll give him twenty thousand up front and fifty-five once I’m free and at the
airport with a ticket in my hand, or inside the American Embassy. Either one is fine.”

“You said eighty thousand. That’s only seventy-five.”

“Five for you. Something for you to live on while hiding out. You’ll need to stay out of sight for a few months until things
calm down. These guys will eventually forget about you.”

“Thank you,” Kubala said. “Do you need me to buy your plane ticket?”

Anderson shook his head. “No. Just get me out of here with my passport. I have an account at First Kenyan Bank with a couple
of thousand dollars in it in case something like this happened.”

“All right. I’ll try.”

“I need you to do this, Kubala. There is no one else.”

“There is Tuato and Momba.”

“I trust Tuato to keep me safe while I’m paying him, Kubala. But I don’t trust him to make a good decision if he finds out
about the money. Eighty thousand dollars is a lot of money. I think he would keep it and let me rot in jail. He can’t know
what you’re doing. The same thing with Momba.”

“Yes, I agree.” Kubala took a long drink of water, his eyes focused on Anderson’s. “But you trust me with eighty thousand
dollars.”

“Completely. There is no doubt in my mind that if it’s possible, you’ll get me out of here.”

“Your trust is a great compliment, Mr. Mike. I’ll do my best.”

“I know, my friend.”

Kubala stood up. Inspector Rackisha returned to the table.

“Do you have everything worked out?” he asked.

Anderson nodded. “You will have your money soon.”

Rackisha grinned, but more warmth would emanate from an open fridge door than from his smile. “That’s good news. For everyone.”

Kubala left the café immediately. There was nothing else to say. He retraced his steps to the park, then cut back through
a series of alleyways and narrow warrens, watching for any sign he was being followed. Nothing. When he was sure he was in
the clear, he returned to his Land Rover. It was an older model, covered in mud, with a smashed front bumper and many dents,
and fit nicely into Nairobi’s traffic. He knew the area of town where Tuato lived and steered toward the neighborhood. It
was a rough part of town, as were most, and surviving long enough to find the car and grab the money was going to be a challenge.

He had one stop to make: to call Leona Hewitt and tell her what was happening, that he had met with Mike Anderson and that
he was alive. Not all that well, but alive. And that they had a plan to free him that didn’t require trying to pry money back
out of the Kenyan bank.

He allowed himself the hint of a smile. Mike Anderson trusted him with eighty thousand dollars. What made him happy, proud
even, was that he had earned that trust. It was an incredible feeling to know that Mike Anderson, a man he liked and respected,
had placed his life in his hands. That trust was not misplaced. He would do everything possible to save Mike Anderson, just
as Mike and Leona Hewitt had done everything they could to save the elephants and villagers in Samburu.

What worried Kubala was the question of whether his best would be good enough.

36

The doorbell rang at 9:18 on Wednesday morning. Derek Swanson was expecting his landscaper and didn’t bother checking to see
who had rung the bell before answering the door. He got quite a shock.

On his doorstep were two people; a man and a woman. They didn’t have to show any credentials for Swanson to realize he was
looking at two cops. As it was, they both had their creds out and flashed them in his direction. The man spoke first.

“Derek Swanson?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Detective George Harvey, Washington DC Police.

This is Marion Jeffries. We’d like to ask you a couple of questions. Do you have a few minutes?”

Swanson looked at the outstretched badge. “Washington. You’re a ways from home.”

“Can we come in?”

“A few minutes, but that’s it,” he said, glancing at Jef-fries’s badge and motioning for them to enter. “I have a meeting
at ten.”

“That should work fine,” Harvey said, walking through the foyer into the great room. “Nice place.”

“Thank you.” Swanson pointed to the couches. “Would you like to sit?”

The two cops sat on a couch and Swanson settled into one of the wingback chairs. There was a brief silence while George Harvey
slipped his notebook from his pocket and silently perused one of the pages.

“You are the president of Coal-Balt, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly does your company do, Mr. Swanson?”

“We mine coal seams here in West Virginia and ship the coal to our power plant where it’s burned to produce electricity. Then
we sell that electricity to various companies that distribute it to business and residential customers.”

“And Reginald Morgan was the Chief Executive Officer of Coal-Balt.”

“Yes. He was the CEO.”

“I would imagine you knew Mr. Morgan quite well.”

“We interacted almost daily for a number of years. We discussed issues relevant to running the company. I saw him at the office
mostly, but we attended functions together as well. Golf tournaments, fundraising dinners, that sort of thing.”

“It must have been quite a shock when he disappeared from the cruise ship.”

“Yes. It was unbelievable. It still is.”

“Have you assumed his duties at the office?”

“Our job descriptions always overlapped, so it was only natural for me to take on the additional workload.”

“Was Mr. Morgan well liked?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question,” Swanson said, scratching his chin.

“Do you know anyone who would want Mr. Morgan dead?”

Swanson cracked a small smile and slowly shook his head. “Well, there’s no misunderstanding that question.” He shifted slightly
in the chair. “Reggie was a fine man. He spent a lot of his life, and his money, giving back to the community. He was philanthropic
on many levels. He was honest in his business life and believed a good deal was one where both parties felt they had been
treated fairly. When you uphold those sort of principles in your business and family life, you don’t make people mad. So,
to answer your question, no, I didn’t know anyone who would want him dead.” Swanson looked back and forth between the two
cops. “I thought Reggie’s death was an accident.”

“Yes, that’s the official result of the investigation by both the Mexican police and the FBI,” said Marion Jeffries, speaking
for the first time.

“You don’t believe it?” Swanson asked her.

“It seems strange that a man, an elderly man at that, would fall over a railing on a perfectly calm evening. He was hardly
at the age where foolish drunken acts result in accidents like this one.”

“No, hardly. I can’t see Reggie climbing on the railing.”

“So it makes you wonder.” Jeffries pursed her lips, then said, “I understand Coal-Balt was in the midst of a financial restructuring.”

“Not really a restructuring,” Swanson answered. “We were converting to an income trust.”

“Were you and Mr. Morgan on the same page about this business move?”

Swanson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We had different opinions on some of the details, but ultimately we both wanted the
same thing.”

“And that was . . .”

“A financially solid company. By converting to an income trust we would substantially raise the value of our common shares,
and that would inflate the company’s book value.”

“I’m just a dumb cop when it comes to that sort of stuff,”

Harvey said. “What does that mean?”

“The higher your common shares are pegged on the stock exchange, the more financial clout the company has.

It would allow us to pay out our investors and have additional money left over to upgrade our facilities, strengthen our pension
plan, and possibly even expand.”

“That’s pretty simple,” Harvey said.

“It’s not rocket science.”

“And this conversion—it’s finished? In the bag, so to speak?” Marion Jeffries said.

He shook his head. “Not yet. But it should be in about a week or so.”

“What effect will that have on you personally?” Jeffries asked.

“My net worth would increase due to the rise in the share values.”

“Considerably?”

“Considerably.”

“What could derail it?”

“You mean keep the conversion from happening?” he asked, and she nodded. “Lack of regulatory approval from the stock exchange,
but that’s already done. That’s the big one. There’s a handful of smaller things that might have an effect, but nothing that
could unilaterally kill the proposal.”

“Things like proposed legislation requiring coal-burning power plants to upgrade their equipment?”

Swanson’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes, that could have an effect. It wouldn’t be enough to cause the deal to falter or fail.”

A brief silence settled on the room, and Swanson used his right forefinger to pull back his shirtsleeve and look at his watch.

“I’m out of time,” he announced, rising from the chair.

“Thank you for inviting us in,” George Harvey said.

They walked to the door and left with a simple good-bye. Neither party told the other to have a nice day. Derek Swanson closed
the door and stood in the foyer, unmoving. What had just happened was not good. Not good at all. The woman, Marion Jeffries,
was from Utah. The printing on her badge was small, but readable. Salt Lake City. Homicide.

He cursed Darvin under his breath. The stupid little bastard had blown this thing wide open. There was no reason for him to
kill Claire Buxton. But he had. And now they had to deal with the repercussions. Including police from Washington DC and Utah
showing up at his door. He was halfway to the garage when another thought hit him. There was no reason for a police detective
from DC to be at his door. New York, because of the tie in to the stock exchange. Florida, as that was where the cruise ship
docked. West Virginia, for obvious reasons. But Washington DC? The only tie that Coal-Balt had to the nation’s capitol was
the bank. DC Trust.

Leona Hewitt.

His legs almost gave out on him as the full impact hit him. The only possible way those two cops arrived together on his doorstep
was if Leona Hewitt had pieced this together and called them. She was the common link. And Darvin, that demented little prick, was
going after her. If he managed to find her and kill her, the police would be back. And they would have a warrant.

Swanson reached the great room and picked up the cordless telephone. Then he slowly set it down. What if they were monitoring
his phone line? The same thing with his cell and his office number. He’d have to call Darvin from a pay phone. And then, he’d
better be damn sure no one was watching him. He ran his hands through his hair. They were shaking almost uncontrollably.

His life was unraveling. And quickly.