The Freedom Broker, page 21
Peter staggered forward, his pace slowing with every step. His face was mottled, eyes glazed. White froth leaked from his mouth. Seconds later, he collapsed on the hardwood floor.
Rif scrambled forward to help him, quickly feeling for a pulse. He couldn’t find one. Thea joined him on the ground, preparing to start CPR.
A faint but familiar whiff of almonds drifted into his sinuses. He placed a hand on Thea’s shoulder. “It’s too late. He’s gone.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Thea stared at Peter Kennedy, wishing she could will him back to life, but his bulging, inert eyes left no hope. Minutes ago, he’d waved to her from across the room, his normally gregarious self. Now he was dead. Cyanide, by the look and smell of it.
Sirens sounded in the distance. The partygoers hovered around them in a scattered circle, muttering to each other. The room’s festive, relaxed mood had turned sour. Now a corpse marred the gleaming marble floor.
Rif offered Thea a hand up. She accepted, her knees wobbly.
General Jemwa strode toward them. “Ms. Paris, my guards are sealing the entrances to the hotel until we determine what happened here. The local authorities are on their way.”
Whoever had murdered Peter could easily have slipped something into his drink and had plenty of time to leave the party. Even if the killer was still here, finding any evidence would take time.
The general announced in his booming voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, please move to the far side of the room, and the waiters will continue to serve you. Nobody may go until the authorities arrive and release you.”
From the expressions on the guests’ faces, Thea surmised that the last thing they wanted to do was remain in a room with a dead body, but no one disobeyed the giant’s orders. After all, he was Prime Minister Kimweri’s head of security.
“Can your men collect any photos or video footage from tonight?” she asked. It was doubtful they’d catch the killer in the act, but it would be worth seeing if anyone had hovered near Peter at the bar. “I’d also like to interview your bartenders.”
“Whatever you need.” The general seemed genuinely distressed by Peter’s demise.
Thea and Rif stood together near the CFO’s body, waiting for the forensics team and medical examiner to arrive.
Rif’s hand brushed the stubble on his cheek. “I wasn’t a big fan of Kennedy, but he didn’t deserve this.”
“I feel so bad. His ex-wife, his kids. They’re going to be devastated.”
“This whole deal is cursed. So many people involved have died—and then there’s Christos’s kidnapping. It was the right decision to come here. It’s all connected.”
“I’d look closely at the Chinese. They have the most to gain if Paris Industries folds at the bargaining table. And you need to know . . .”
Nikos walked up and touched her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Far from it, but we’ll get through this somehow.” Her eyelids felt heavy, tired.
Ahmed joined their group. “I spoke to the prime minister. He’s offered to delay the negotiations for a day or two, his way of showing respect for our loss.”
Peter’s extensive knowledge of the figures would be sorely missed, but Ahmed Khali was a genius at the negotiating table. Whoever was behind Peter’s murder wanted this delay, so Thea hoped Ahmed wouldn’t give it to them. They’d had enough setbacks. Ahmed needed ballast at that bargaining table.
“Are you still willing to move forward?” she asked.
“Absolutely.” Ahmed touched his temple, as if warding off a headache.
“Perhaps it would help if we had both brother and sister at the Paris table, a show of family solidarity,” Nikos said.
“I’ll let the prime minister know that we’ll be ready to start first thing. Nikos, come over and meet him.” Ahmed and Nikos headed toward the leader of Kanzi.
Rif’s glare made her uncomfortable.
“What?” she asked.
“You really think this is a good idea? Christos would be apoplectic if he knew that Nikos was anywhere near this deal.”
“I’m tired of being reactive, and it’s not as if Nikos and I will do the actual negotiating. That’s Ahmed’s job. It’s more about showing how the Paris family stands behind the company. And we need to draw out the kidnapper.”
“He might be closer than you realize,” Rif said.
“What does that—”
Two people were making their way across the room. As they closed the distance, she recognized Gabrielle Farrah and Maximillian Heros. Was it too much to hope that they had information that could help?
Chapter Forty-Seven
Gabrielle stubbed out a cigarette and strode over to where Thea stood beside her bodyguard, Rifat Asker. Damn good thing she had extra protection. Dead bodies were piling up, and with the recent plane crash, it seemed likely that Ms. Paris was a target as well.
Over the last couple of days, she and Hakan Asker had been sharing facts about the Christos Paris abduction. Gabrielle had the HRFC analysts running the Latin quotes he’d given her through their filters, looking for any similar messages in other kidnaps. She wasn’t hopeful on that score, as this case was clearly an anomaly.
“Dare I ask?” She nodded toward the dead body.
“Peter Kennedy, CFO of Paris Industries and one of the lead negotiators for the Kanzi deal. Looks like he was poisoned. From the scent of almonds, my guess is cyanide,” Thea said.
“I’ll make sure my team takes a look once the forensics are in.” She could coordinate with the State Department, help them deal with the American businessman’s death.
“I am sorry for your loss,” Max said. “Will the negotiations be canceled?”
“Our COO Ahmed Khali will handle things, but it won’t be the same without Peter.”
Gabrielle admired this young woman. Her father had been kidnapped, her stepmother blown up, her plane sabotaged, and now the lead negotiator of Paris Industries was dead, poisoned—yet she soldiered on. “May I have a moment of your time?”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Over here, please.” Gabrielle headed to a far corner of the room. Thea, Rif, and Max followed.
“Have you learned something about my father?”
“Hakan told you it wasn’t Christos that ISIS was holding captive in Syria?”
“Yes, he did.”
“More and more I’m thinking Ares could be behind this kidnapping. The arms dealer has such a strong presence in Kanzi, and there’s talk among the local militia that he’s involved. Max and I are exploring that angle. The HRFC team is scanning multiple communications channels, searching for chatter about your father’s abduction. Criminals can’t seem to keep their mouths shut—or, in this case, perhaps, their fingers still.”
“I hope they find something.”
Gabrielle’s phone rang. “I need to get this. I’ll catch up with you.”
She turned on her heel, phone to her ear, leaving Max with Thea and Rif.
Max cleared his throat. “Ms. Paris, we have not found anything on your father’s yacht that points to the kidnapper. Just a small amount of Christos’s blood on the helipad. But the Hellenic police are still processing the Aphrodite for trace evidence.”
“I appreciate the update.”
Max checked his watch. “I have secured special permission to work the case here in Kanzi, and I am meeting my contact from the nearby Interpol office in Harare. I would be pleased to help coordinate the flow of information.”
“We’ll take any help you’re willing to give.”
“Has the kidnapper made any demands?” he asked.
She looked across the room at Peter’s body, still shaken that he’d been murdered. Questions swirled in her mind. Had the CFO been involved in the kidnapping? Had he been a corporate spy? Or was he another innocent victim?
“This isn’t a good time, Mr. Heros. Perhaps we can talk later. I hope you understand. I’d like to notify Peter’s family of his death and assist the police when they arrive.”
“Of course, I apologize. Please know that I am at your disposal if you need anything at all.” Max shook her and Rif’s hands and headed for the crowd of partygoers on the other side of the room.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Back in her hotel room after talking to the police and contacting Peter Kennedy’s family, Thea wanted nothing more than to sink into the pillow-top bed and close her eyes for twenty-four hours. But she had a meeting with Ahmed Khali and the Paris Industries lawyers at 5:00 a.m. the next day to go over the speech she was to give and discuss any last-minute issues. But as she was removing her heels, she spied some yellowed papers resting on the bed, similar to the pages she’d found in her computer bag: more pages from Nikos’s journal.
Before reading them, she carefully searched the suite, room by room. Empty. Whoever had been there was long gone. She called the front desk and asked if anyone had accessed her room. Only the maid, as far as they knew. But someone other than a maid had definitely been there.
Chances were it was Nikos. He’d been there in Greece and now here in Kanzi. Besides Rif and Hakan, who was a world away, who else would have access to the notes or want her to read them? The thought left her unsettled and sad. After all these years, her brother was ready to share the truth, but he couldn’t just sit down and tell her? Traumatized by the memories, he might not be able to verbalize the horror of what had happened. Or he could be worried about rejection, stigma, disgrace. Well, she would stand by him, no matter what. His story could have been hers.
She double-checked the chain on the door, then sank back onto the mattress. It comforted her that Rif was in the adjoining room if she needed him.
Curiosity overrode her fatigue, and she started reading.
LAND MINE LINE
We played Oba’s favorite game called Land Mine Line every week. We all got scores each week for how well we did shooting targets, completing chores, or performing combat drills. Oba hid one land mine in the field beside the camp, and the six boys who got the lowest scores had to hold hands and walk in a line across the field, trying not to step on the mine. If anyone let go, the whole game started over again.
Some weeks, everyone got across okay. Other times, a boy would be like a rocket shooting into the sky, all blood and body parts everywhere. Oba and Kofi would laugh and say the dead boy would have made a bad soldier if he couldn’t even find a mine. My scores were always high. I worked really hard because I was too scared to play the game.
If any of the boys refused to walk across the field, me and Blado had to stand with our rifles pointed at them and make them do it. If they didn’t play, we would have to shoot them, so I showed them I meant business, even though I felt bad inside.
The AK-47 was my new best friend, and I held it tight, my skinny arms getting stronger every day. The sun burned the back of my head, even though it was still morning. The rains were long gone, and now it was just plain old hot.
Blado shoved two bright pills he called candies into my hand and waited until I put them into my mouth. He jammed the barrel of his rifle into my gut. “You Mzungu, but I the boss.”
I was tired of being called White Boy, but that was my name now. Blado said it looked like someone had erased my color, making me invisible. That’s how I felt. Invisible. No one had rescued me, and after sixty-five days, I had given up counting. Papa wasn’t coming.
I tucked the pills into the side of my mouth until I could spit them out. Whatever they were, I didn’t want them. I’d seen what happened the last time Blado made the boys take them. They’d danced around, shooting their guns into the air like maniacs, screaming for blood.
After everyone took the pills, we marched in single file toward the field. I went to the back of the line, spit the pills into my hand, and stuffed them into my pocket. I ran to catch up to the others.
Red dirt covered my old boots and olive uniform. Just the thought of seeing Oba made me sweat—he’d been away the last week raiding villages to get new recruits, and it’d been quiet in the camp. That was about to end. The devil had returned to hell.
We stood at attention. We’d seen what happened to those who didn’t, including that poor little kid Nobo.
“God has spoken to me.” Oba raised a fist into the air. “You are the chosen ones, the soldiers who must eliminate the unbelievers.” He paced up and down the line, inspecting our uniforms and studying our faces. My chest tightened. The pills made the other boys’ fingers dance along their weapons, while their knees twitched. I copied what they did to fit in.
“Prepare yourselves for the holy war.” Oba had told us lots of stories about the power of God and how important it was to defend his Christian beliefs. It seemed different than what they talked about at the Greek Orthodox church my family went to on Sundays, even though some things were the same.
Oba held a razor blade in his hand. One by one he sliced one temple on each boy, and then Kofi rubbed white powder into the cut. “You will now become men.” I couldn’t think of a way to avoid this poison, whatever it was. Waiting my turn, I didn’t have to fake the wildness that was on the other boy’s faces. My heart pounded against my ribs.
Blood from the cuts dripped down the boys’ faces and mixed with their sweat. Oba moved down the line. My turn. A burning feeling hit me as the razor blade sliced my skin.
“I hear you’re a good shooter,” Oba said.
I stared straight ahead, scared to say anything. With Oba, there was no right answer.
“I heard you’re very good.”
I nodded and looked straight ahead. Every day, the guards took us to the garbage dump to practice shooting. I hit the bull’s-eye most times.
“Keep practicing, and you can join my hunting team.” Oba moved to the next boy.
Blood from my cut dripped onto my arm. Kofi rubbed the white powder in. I hated the skinny man. The General might have been a bully, but I’d been safe with him. These men were like rabid animals.
The powder didn’t seem to work. Nothing happened. But then, all of a sudden, I felt hot. I saw things better, my brain spun faster, and my muscles flexed. Kofi’s laugh sounded louder, echoing inside my head. The powder was magic. It made me feel like a god.
“Bring out the prisoners,” Oba told Kofi.
Two dirty men with leg chains shuffled in front of the low stone wall at the end of the field. They had been so badly beaten, they barely looked human. One man wore all black with a white collar, and the other wore a uniform with the red, black, and green Kanzi flag stitched on the shoulder. My chest puffed out, and my muscles flexed.
“We need to punish our enemies.” Oba stood at the end of the line, commanding us, his troops.
My mind raced. These men, what had they done to deserve being killed?
“Right shoulder arms . . . Present arms.”
Obediently I swung my AK-47 into the firing position, jamming the butt of the rifle into my shoulder. It would be just like shooting targets, but now the targets were men. But wait. How could I think that way? Was it the magic powder? Had being here in this crazy camp stripped me of everything Papa had taught me about being good and honorable?
But I had to obey, or I would be forced to play the land mine game, or worse.
My breath was shallow. I lined up the sight.
“Ready . . . aim . . . fire!”
Our rifles exploded. The prisoners screamed and danced like jumpy monkeys as the bullets hit them. I pressed my trigger, the rifle banging my shoulder again and again. A smoky smell filled the air. Red dots covered the men’s bodies. The bullets kept flying even after the men fell down.
I had fired above the targets. I just couldn’t make myself fire into human flesh.
“Halt.” Oba walked over to where the prisoners lay on the ground. The man dressed in uniform was still moving. Oba took the dagger from his belt and stuck the blade into the man’s chest. The twitching stopped.
“Drag the prisoners to the fire pit and burn them,” he ordered.
The boys hefted the dead bodies and marched off with them. My feet felt like concrete blocks.
“Mzungu.” Oba’s voice made me freeze. “Come here.”
My throat felt tight. I made myself put one foot in front of the other. I held my breath. Did Oba know that I hadn’t shot the men?
CRACK SHOT
I was starting to forget home. Papa’s lessons, Thea’s smile, my friends—all were becoming blurry in my dreams. I lived and breathed war. Oba had us practice ambushing, sniper-crawling, shooting—lots of crazy combat stuff.
Oba was very hard on me, kicking me and hitting me in the stomach with his rifle. He knew I’d chickened out at the firing line. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could turn into a Greek god like Zeus or Apollo so I could save myself. I’d given up on anyone rescuing me. The jungle was too thick. No one could see us from the sky or land. If I wanted to leave, I’d have to find my own way out.
I was cleaning my gun when something smacked into my shoulder. Ouch! I looked down. Blado had thrown a rock at me. “Come on, Mzungu, you lazy idiot. Oba wants us.”
I wanted to punch him, but it was too dangerous. Big Blado was the leader of our troop, and we had to do what he said. I stood, picked up my rifle, and followed him. He headed to the garbage area where we practiced shooting. I pinched my nose. The stink was horrible. I tripped over an empty Coke can.
Blado pushed my chest with both his hands. “What kind of soldier are you when you can’t even walk straight?”
I wanted to push back but stopped myself. “I’m better at shooting than walking.”
He made a fist, winding up for a punch. Footsteps sounded. Blado dropped his hand. “Jambo, sir.”
Oba and Kofi walked toward us. Kofi carried a paper target in his hands. “Time for shooting drills.”
Kofi hung the target on a tree about sixty feet away. Oba pointed to me. “You’re first. And there’s a prize. Whoever shoots better will lead the troops.”
