Black Mischief Page 22

  He was convinced that the McCalls and their crowd would not hang on to the Kibera tart. They would be awfully nice to her, but common sense would win out. They would rationalise their decision in the logical European way. And had the stupid girl heard anything of his unguarded conversation a few nights before? He would make a show of asking a few questions, but by nightfall, she would be gone. And, probably, dear old Alex, too.

  Ten minutes later he was shut in his screen room, holding in check a massive rage. Oh, yes, Abel knew how anger was a blight on clear processes of thought.

  ‘Uchome, what went wrong this time? And what do you mean, “they lost him”?’

  ‘Boss, I checked every half hour. Six o’clock he was there. Half an hour later, gone. They heard nothing, saw nothing.’

  ‘They were drunk!’

  ‘No, no. They are country boys, superstitious. They swear it was magic, the spirits at work. They had been edgy up at the Naivasha place. They had seen a big black dog. He could have been noisy. They shut that one up with a Masai spear straight through the belly.’

  ‘Black dog?’

  ‘It had turned into an evil genie. It was after them. They ran off into the bush.’

  Abel groaned. The next thing Patrick Uchome heard in his coming down the line was a low cackle of laughter. Abel was in danger of a rare defeat. Incompetent fools had let him down. The irony was not lost on him that it was another McCall who had slipped out of his grasp. The McCalls, the curse of his life.

  Wearily he asked the question whose answer he already knew.

  ‘And where’s McCall right now?’

  Uchome pulled the phone from his ear and squinted at it with a very puzzled look on his face. He’d better be right on this answer.

  ‘I’m making inquiries, Boss,’ he lied.

  ‘Good. I’m glad to hear that you haven’t made plans to take off for the bush yourself. You know that I am going to be the winner here.’

  ‘Of course, Boss.’

  ‘Then wait for me at the farmhouse. I’ve got a few arrangements to make in town first.’

  ‘I’m already there.’

  ‘Any sign of black dogs?’

  Just after his driver had pulled out onto the road and turned left for the city, an askari leaned his bicycle against the wall of the Pink Palace. He was delivering a letter to Mrs Sally Rubai, marked ‘Personal’. It had been sent from a house just around the corner.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  nd then there were six. The Land Cruiser made one stop on its journey north. ‘Kisumu Cottage’ was the city home of Paul and Miriam Miller. It was set in its own grounds on a leafy street in the suburb of Langata. Miriam was out on the driveway packing the Pajero with bags and musical instruments and about to bus her two boys to Kenton School. Joshua and Jonathan loved seeing their aunt and uncle from Kericho district, so there was noise and enthusiastic high-fives of greeting.

  Attracted by the hubbub outside, Paul came to the door. At the sight of his unexpected guests, his eyes opened wide and his face lit up in an incredulous smile.

  ‘How?’ He held his arms out wide, inviting an explanation.

  ‘Later.’ His sister, in bossy mood, turned him around and ushered him back inside with a firm push. ‘We need to talk!’

  The story came out in broken pieces from six sides. He locked away every word of every speaker in his lawyer’s memory bank. When it was finished, Paul turned to his sister.

  ‘Right again. We do need to talk. Right now Mister Big Ego will be working on his backlash. Do you think it’s possible for a black man to become incandescent? Who was it who said something about big battalions back up in Rusinga, about two years ago?’

  Hosea recognised a danger. ‘He’ll know that we’re all very excited just now. This could be a weak point for us. Relax too long and he’ll nail us.’

  Alex agreed. ‘Bertie’s got a saying, “Get your retaliation in first”.’

  Lydia, sensibly realistic in her eyes, took up the point.

  ‘I don’t know what that big word means, but the best way out is still the same as yesterday.’

  Maura, a patient listener so far would not let this idea pass. She replied with a compassionate but firm reprimand. ‘Lydia, no, no and no. You’re ours. You saved my husband’s life.’

  ‘This man is crazy and I do not want more danger for you.’

  ‘My turn for a saying.’ Maria, still full of energy but with an edge of impatience in her voice, went on. ‘“Be as innocent as doves but as wise as serpents”. Time to let the old serpent out of the box and do a bit of spitting of our own.’

  ‘Oh, oh. I’ve seen this before. Out with it, Maria. I’m only your dim-witted little brother, but I know when you’ve got some scheme on.’

  ‘Well, do you think this could work? We round up Uchome and his boys and put them before the courts. Murder, kidnapping, there must be a long list.’

  ‘First, we don’t do the rounding up. That’s a police job.’

  ‘Hosea is a policeman. Inspector Caroline, she was there, don’t forget.’

  ‘Okay.’ Paul leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. After a few moments’ thought he had an answer. ‘Yes, could be done. We’d be up against some smart lawyers.

  ‘We could get lucky, but it would take time. What about this for a starter? I’ve got friends working on The Nation, all good Serena people. We feed them a story, for their front page. Give them an angle. What about “Another miracle escape”?

  ‘Would they include names, one name in particular?’

  ‘Not yet, Tom. Innuendo, hints, mystery with scope for pointing the invisible finger. Most readers would work it out. Mister Big would certainly know. “Crazy”. I think you’ve hit on the right word, Lydia. He’s crazy for control. Julius was spoilt but not more than his father. He loves hurting people, sometimes just for the hell of it. And, my friends, we are his number one target of the moment. Don’t go anywhere without a phone.’

  * * *

  On the long leg of the journey up and over the Escarpment, Lydia was glad that hardly any words were spoken. Only she and Tom remained fully awake. He was tired himself and concentrated hard on taking his passengers home safely. She was in new territory and fascinated by so much that she saw. She fell in love with the blood-red colour of the earth in the high verges where the engineers had cut their road through low hills. When she looked out from the highest point she gasped at the vast patchwork of fields and woodlands spread out into the hazy distance. Black ribbed Longonot and the flat, blue plate of the lake came on her in quick succession. For the first time in her life she had an inkling of the vastness of her country. Surely it would be no easy job, even for a rich and powerful man to find one small woman in all these hidden places.

  ‘Lydia, how would you like to spend two weeks in New York?’

  Lost in her own landscape, she misunderstood Tom’s words.

  ‘You mean go to the cinema or something?’

  ‘Rebecca and I are going over. She has a lovely voice …’

  She laughed. ‘Everyone in the country knows that.’

  ‘She’s going to sing with Toni Wajiru again, to raise money for the hospital.’

  ‘Do you think they would let me work in a hospital? I could earn money to pay for my journey.’

  ‘Yes, well …’

  ‘But I know for sure that you must have a passport.’

  ‘Lydia, half an hour and we’ll be home. Have a think about it.’

  And she did think about it for at least thirty seconds. Such a journey would be impossible for her. She would explain to Tom when he was with Rebecca again. She had more pressing matters to come to terms with.

  So far that morning the new things in her life had been objects, mountains, plains, the gardens of fertile shambas lining the sides of the A104 and heavy with crops. From now on, these objects would be peopled mostly with strangers. What would they think of her? Everyone in Londiani was familiar with her, but she had heard the
plans for the day ahead. Two gatherings were to take place and it was clear to her that these were places to be, times to enjoy, in the eyes of everyone else, at least. How could she explain to the family that was being so kind to her that she saw them as ordeals where she would struggle to maintain her composure.

  ‘And, Lydia, what work do you do down in the city?’

  ‘It must be really exciting to be down in Nairobi. So many things going on.’

  Perhaps they knew about her life. Perhaps it might be best to be completely open, even to the point of brazenness. ‘You might call me a lady of the night, but I can assure you that my clients are men of the highest class.’

  She was sitting alone out on the veranda when Maura and Rebecca came to take her down to the flower fields.

  ‘I think you’ll enjoy the walk. Shade all the way and the air off the lake is so fresh.’ Maura enjoyed showing off her home to newcomers. ‘Yes, and a bit of news. If you decide to go with Rebecca and Tom on Sunday, Mary Coulson would like you to stay in her lovely home in Gilgil until you leave. I’ll be with you. Think about it.’

  ‘But why are you doing all this for me? I am not a good person.’

  ‘Yes, that’s why you risked everything when you didn’t have to and saved Alex’s life.’

  ‘Madam, I must tell you a terrible thing about myself.

  When Maria and I went to that farmhouse, I was carrying a very sharp knife in the pocket of my coat. I was ready to use it. I know the way. My uncle, Mama’s brother … I saw it happen.’

  After a stunned silence while her companions took in the implications of what they had just heard, Rebecca was the first to recover her composure. Neither Lydia nor Maura understood that Rebecca’s tears were set off by a memory of the lowest point in her life when she sat on the balcony of her room in the Flamingo Hotel in mid-town New York contemplating the possibility of taking her own life. Her actual words of reply distracted Maura and Lydia with its bizarre quaintness.

  ‘A sharp knife. That could be useful tomorrow. You know, if we do manage to catch any fish up in the mountains.’

  More silence until the call of duty prompted Maura. ‘Come on, ladies. Don’t want to be late. Special occasion, you know.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  bel, a strange thing has happened.’ ‘Now what could that be?’

  Abel had called back in the house to pick up some papers. He was between meetings and was anxious to be on his way to the farm where Uchome was waiting for him. He was finding it hard to hide his indifference to this latest of Sally’s little difficulties.

  ‘I have received a letter.’

  ‘We receive many letters.’

  ‘But not like this one.’

  Abel had learned that, when his wife had one of her problems, it was quickest for him to hear her out, offer a solution and move on.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Only a few minutes after you left this morning, Isaiah, one of the day askaris down at the lodge …’

  ‘I know Isaiah. I see him every day.’ He regretted his interruption. It would only delay his departure.

  Sally was well aware that her husband often found her problems a nuisance. He would soon change his mind.

  ‘Isaiah said he had found this letter on the floor just outside his office, “like it had dropped from the sky”.’

  ‘Written by some angel and sent to me, air mail!’

  ‘It was addressed to me. Let me read it. It is not long.’

  Abel nodded irritably.

  ‘Madam, the skies above Africa are heavy with the stench of death. We are afraid and desperate. Even our own beloved country is infected with this poison. We send our blessings to your family. We need a strong man to lead us out of this dark valley. Your husband is such a man. It is not easy to speak to this busy leader who already carries many burdens. We beg you to seek his help for our people.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘No address? No name? Sally, this is plain rubbish sent by a crackpot or a coward, probably both.’

  ‘So you cannot help?’

  ‘I shall be out for most of the day. I promise I will think about. We’ll talk later. Sally, I have someone in the car waiting for me.’

  * * *

  Abel had been assured that no one was better at the business. But, when Angelo Rossi was dropped off at his office in town an hour before, he wondered if his American associate had misunderstood his request. He was soon convinced that his money was not being wasted. Rossi was younger than Abel had expected and he said so. The reply was sharp.

  ‘Mister Rubai, this is a young man’s work. You learn early, make your pile and then retreat to some pretty part of the world.’

  ‘I see.’ Hearing Rossi speak brought him his second surprise. Rossi was a small man, neat and muscular with stereotype Italian looks, olive skin, dark eyes and shiny, black hair swept back from his forehead. But the accent was good quality, cut-glass English. This man had style and presence. Abel had seen such men in the gentlemen’s clubs in England, the product of the best of the country’s public schools.

  ‘So now it’s the accent. Simple. My father was a self-made man. For his firstborn he wanted what he saw as something better than the Bronx school where he and his brothers learned a lot of lessons about survival on the streets of a hard city. He asked a big man in Chase Manhattan for advice. He sent me to Eton. You’ve heard of this place, I know. You had a boy there. Well, I met a lot of clever people in that place, learned a lot about a lot. The downside was that, when I went back home, I was late coming to those street lessons. But I’m a quick learner, as you will soon discover. Also, my family said that I talked funny. My mother liked that. Made me sound special, she said. So, I thought that I would run with that. I think it works. Of course, I can toyn on da Brooklyn, if I need that stuff.’

  Abel was impressed, and excited. This one was different, definitely a professional.

  Not much was said on the ride out to the farm. Rossi spent his time taking in the one amazing sight after another he saw by just looking out at the people and the places they passed on the way. It was his first time in Africa. He understood that his line of work was not often called on out there. The locals had the market covered.

  Abel was happy to let his fellow traveller enjoy his exotic adventure. He was troubled and annoyed with himself for being so. He could not shut out of his mind the absurd letter that Sally had read to him. Who was behind this nonsense and why had they sent it, and sent it to Sally? He recalled a similar message, plea, that he received, delivered to him at home by Sonya Mboya and Maura McCall. Did they think that they could use Sally in some way to undermine him?

  The unpalatable truth was that they were succeeding. He loved Sally and he was desperate to retain her good opinion of him. It was a silly weakness but a real one.

  He was afraid that these little invasions would begin to sow a seed of doubt in her mind. But he was too far in now and the only way through was to keep wading on. This was one reason, the main one, why this ruthless, efficient fixer was sitting next to him on their way to his private lair outside the city. He had brought him to solve his problem with the McCalls, but he could throw in the tart. He was paying enough. One extra should cause no dramas.

  It was a meeting for three. This time the guards, six of them, were posted outside. Abel was curious to see how Patrick Uchome reacted to the new man on the Rubai enforcement team. Uchome had overseen two failures in the last twenty-four hours. He had suspected for a few weeks that the boss was up to something and it was his bad luck that this muscular midget had arrived at this worst of times. So there was a handshake but no smiles. Uchome was wary and it showed in the attempt at relaxed swagger in his body movements.

  Rossi was genuinely at ease and keen to get down to work. When he turned down the offer of a drink, ‘No, Mister Rubai, we celebrate after the job is done,’ Uchome turned towards his boss with his eyebrows raised on a scowling face. What was go
ing on here? This guy is English with looks like that? But he had no time to work out the puzzle.

  ‘Mister Rubai, now that we are face to face, I want to know precisely what you want of me. Who, where, when and what. Forget about the why.’

  This time Rubai was as puzzled as Uchome, but, while his Kenya man suspected that this newcomer was too fast with his tongue, Abel was, once more, delighted. New York had come to Nairobi.

  ‘Mister Rossi …’

  ‘Alfredo.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ For a few moments Abel was stumbling about setting out his wishes. He remembered how uncertainty had undermined him once before. He had failed to allow Uchome to finish the McCall kid months before. The picture on his desk of Sally smiling at Julius taken on his last day at his English school served its purpose again. It cleared his mind and focused his thoughts. At once he became more fluent.

  ‘Alfredo, I’m not quite sure how far you …’

  ‘Mister Rubai,’

  ‘Abel, please.’

  ‘Mister Rubai, anything, anything you want me do will be my pleasure.’

  Abel hesitated, took a deep breath and opened up.

  ‘Alfredo, for many years I have been a man who has kept his important business close to my … heart. Uchome here knows this. That is why he is going to leave the room now to check on things outside. I’ll call you in later.’

  Patrick Uchome was on his feet and out of the room quickly, and glad to be going. Being privy to the boss’s deepest secrets could be interpreted as a kind of delayed death warrant.

  ‘Hate is a big word,’ Abel continued.

  ‘Excuse me, Mister Rubai, but are you sure you want to go through with this? No more philosophy, please. We’re wasting time here.’

  ‘McCall, they are a family who have been a curse on my life.’

  ‘How many people and do you want to get rid of them all? You will appreciate that numbers will dictate methods.’