Delicate Chaos (21 page)

44

The moment before the blast, everything in the restaurant was normal, save for the smell of natural gas. The second Darvin
pushed the button, everything changed.

The trigger mechanism inside the light switch housing was simple. A tiny servo rotated the nonconductive material a fraction
of an inch and the exposed wire slipped down and touched the one still connected to the post. The filament in the light above
the prep station glowed, igniting the accelerant Darvin had injected into the bulb. The glass shattered and thin tongues of
flames shot into the air. The high concentration of natural gas exploded, sending a shock wave equal to a tsunami through
the kitchen. It blew the room apart, the fireball completely enveloping the entire kitchen in less than a second. The blast
flattened the wall that separated the kitchen from the dining room and the front windows shattered into thousands of deadly
glass shards, spraying across the street a split second before a wall of fire erupted from the mouth of the restaurant.

Leona and Tyler were halfway up the back stairwell, the one the staff used to run food and drinks from the main floor to the
upper tables, when the gas ignited. The wall between the kitchen and the stairwell was part of the original structure of the
building and solidly constructed of cinder blocks, mortar and rebar. It bowed under the pressure, but somehow held, keeping
the fatal wall of fire and death inches away. Both Tyler and Leona were thrown sideways into the opposite wall and Leona slipped
and fell backward down the stairs, landing on top of her chef. He grabbed the railing with his right hand and wrapped his
left arm around her torso, pulling her into him, keeping her from tumbling down the steep stairs. A few seconds later the
heat and noise dissipated and the sound of car alarms took over. Thick smoke clogged the stairwell and Tyler pulled Leona
up.

“Let’s go. To the roof. We need to get out of the smoke.”

“What happened?” she asked, dazed.

“Gas explosion.” He wrenched on her arm. “C’mon. Hurry, let’s go. We’ve got to get out of here.”

Within seconds the smoke was too thick to see through. Tyler felt his way up the stairs, Leona behind him. His lungs were
bursting from a lack of oxygen, his senses dull. His feet were heavy on the concrete, like it was sticky, and moving upward
was more difficult with every riser. He felt Leona going limp behind him and he doubled his efforts. His fingers grabbed the
railing like talons, snaking about the wood that was their lifeline. Lose it and they would lose this battle.

Leona was starting to panic, her claustrophobia kicking in as the smoke engulfed them. But she was unable to act on the overwhelming
fear, to lash out and try to break free. Her body wasn’t responding. The horror of being trapped alive in the smoke-filled
space was only in her mind. Her systems were starting to shut down—her breathing, her mind going blank. She couldn’t fight
it. She was finished.

Tyler pulled her up the last few stairs, her head and body scraping on the rough cement. Finally, his hand hit something solid
ahead of them. The door to the roof. He pushed on the handle and it swung open. Tyler dragged Leona semiconscious through
the door at the top of the stairs into the fresh air. Black smoke poured out of the stairwell. Tyler pulled her to safety
and checked that she was conscious.

“I’ve got to check on Boozy and Eric,” Tyler said, once he was sure she was coherent and breathing. “You okay by yourself
for a minute?” She managed a small nod and he ran to the north end of the building and jumped onto the fire escape. A second
later he was gone.

Leona could barely breathe, even in the fresh air, and she realized they had both come within seconds of succumbing to the
smoke in the enclosed stairwell. She couldn’t stop coughing and her eyes burned when she tried to open them. She lay on the
ground, thoughts flooding through the confusion of sounds and smells.

What had just happened?

Her restaurant was destroyed. Tyler was okay, but what about the rest of her kitchen staff? Were they dead? How could they
have survived the explosion that almost crushed Tyler and her in the stairwell. If that wall hadn’t held . . .

Two, maybe three minutes passed and the sirens pierced the morning air, growing louder by the second. Here, she thought. They’re
coming here. How strange. Sirens had never come to her before, always somewhere else. There was a scraping sound on the far
side of the roof and she opened her eyes as Tyler appeared at the top of the fire escape. He jogged over to where she was
struggling to sit up. His eyes were red and teary. She knew immediately that it wasn’t solely from the smoke or the fire.

“Let’s get you down to street level. There’s some fire in the restaurant. Not much. I think the explosion sucked most of the
air out and the fire never really caught.”

“What about Boozy and Eric?” she asked.

He shook his head, then pulled her upright and hoisted most of her weight onto his shoulders and off her feet. When they reached
the fire escape, she steadied herself against the edge of the building, her strength and balance returning. Tyler went first
on the stairs, below her, in case she slipped. She followed, hand over hand, feeling each rung with her feet, careful not
to fall. The last of the fire trucks, police and EMS were pulling up as they touched the ground. Hoses snaked from the trucks,
barricades were quickly erected at each end of the street, and medical crews attended to the wounded. An EMS woman checked
Leona, then went on to other, more seriously injured people. A uniformed policeman took their names and when he learned they
were both in the restaurant when the explosion occurred, asked them to wait across the street. Tyler sat beside Leona on the
curb and they watched the hub of activity in the burnt-out shell that twenty minutes ago had been one of Washington’s most
popular restaurants.

“There’s no way they survived,” Tyler said quietly. Tears pooled, then drifted down his face, smearing the soot and dirt.
“Boozy was twenty-three, for Christ’s sake. Best guy I ever knew. And Eric had a wife and a kid—little girl about two years
old.”

Leona fought back the tears. She’d seen Eric’s girl a few times, when his wife dropped in on him while he was working. Now
the child would grow up without a father. Amid the chaos on the street, she envisioned how different her life would have been
if her father had not been around. No one driving her to succeed. No one to tell her that her best wasn’t good enough. No
one pushing her to her limits.

Was it that bad? Would she really have wanted a life without her father’s influence? His relentless rejection of everything
she accomplished in life was simply his way of saying he loved her. That he knew what she was capable of, and that she should
go for it. No halfway measures. Commit to what she was doing or go home. He had given her a strength of character that none
of life’s lessons had come close to matching. His love, his caring, although bordering on fanatical, was real. It was tangible.
Something that Eric’s little girl would never have.

Leona buried her face in her hands and cried. The explosion, the two young men dying in such a horrific manner, a little girl
growing up without her father—it was too much. She felt Tyler’s arm around her shoulder and leaned against him. They sat motionless
on the curb as a tide of activity whirled about them. A new vehicle caught her attention as the police pulled back the roadblocks
and let it proceed onto the street. It was a cube van with CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION in block letters on the side. Two men
exited the truck after it was parked. They stood on the sidewalk, talking to the police, who occasionally pointed at the burnt-out
building.

CSI was here to determine the cause of the explosion. That was easy to figure. But it raised a very good question. What
had
caused the blast? Buildings didn’t just explode every day. It was the exception, not the norm. And the timing. The smell of
gas, then she and Tyler leaving the main dining area and running through the kitchen to the back staircase. Five seconds earlier
and they would have been in the kitchen, not the stairwell. They would have joined Boozy and Eric in body bags.

Scant seconds. The difference between life and death.

What were the chances? What were the odds, that four days after she sat in a police precinct talking to detectives from DC
and Utah about two suspicious deaths, her restaurant would be obliterated by a fireball? Very slim. Next to nonexistent, in
fact.

The pieces were falling into place. Reginald Morgan opposed the conversion to an income trust and disappeared from a cruise
ship. Senator Claire Buxton drafted a proposed bill that would require Coal-Balt to substantially upgrade their facilities,
thus placing the conversion on shaky ground. And Claire Buxton died in a suspicious car crash. Now her, the banker with ties
to the coal and utility company, decides that the trust conversion is shaky, and refuses to give the okay until Buxton’s death
is determined accidental. And her restaurant blows up.

This was no coincidence. Someone had tried to kill her. The more she thought about it, the surer she was. Derek Swanson was
trying to remove her from the equation. And he had almost succeeded.

Would he try again?

She was shaking, her already frayed nerves pushed too far. What could she do? The police probably couldn’t protect her. The
only person she knew who was capable of that was in Kenya. And Mike Anderson was in enough trouble himself. If she were right,
and Swanson or someone in his hire was trying to kill her, there would be no help there.

She was alone. Alone, and facing a killer.

45

Night drifted over the Kenyan capital, danger growing as the light of day diminished. Darkness drew the thieves and muggers
out from their shanties, like venom sucked from a festering snakebite. Streets that were marginally safe under the harsh sun
were transformed into nests of vile shadows. Gangs of young men, unemployed, broke and angry, wandered the narrow roads and
alleyways looking for marks. The air was thick with the pungent smells of cooked meat and sewage. Nighttime Nairobi—dark and
dangerous.

Kubala waited until six hours after sunset before driving to Tuato’s apartment. He parked the Land Rover a few blocks south
on the main road and walked the rest of the way. His dark-colored clothes were ragged and dirty, his curly hair unkempt. He
shuffled slowly along the cracked sidewalk, dragging one leg slightly with each step. To everyone he passed, he was a homeless
cripple. A man of no consequence, and no money. They left him alone.

He limped past the front of Tuato’s building at two in the morning. Lights burned in a solitary window on the second floor.
The remainder of the building was dark. But darkness was no guarantee the people inside were sleeping. It was hot and air-conditioning
was a luxury this part of Nairobi did not have. Sleep was difficult and electricity was expensive. Many times people sat in
their apartments with the lights off, watching, listening. Taking anything for granted—that because the lights were off the
inhabitants were sleeping—was folly. Fatal even.

A full block to the north was an access to the alley and Kubala turned in. Total blackness enveloped him. He shuffled ahead,
the stench of rotting garbage harsh on his nostrils. A sound to his left startled him and he glanced over. Outlined in a tiny
swatch of pale moonlight were a boy and a girl, neither more than fifteen, having sex. The boy turned and glared, his body
still moving. Kubala looked away and hastened his pace. He reached the corner and headed back south toward where Tuato parked
the car.

Every sense, every nerve went into overdrive as he approached the small alcove off the alley. He shortened his steps and passed
the opening at a crawl. The car was there, pulled tight against the building. He stopped a few feet farther along and pressed
his back to the rough cement wall. He was sweating and his shirt stuck to his skin. His hands were trembling, his heart racing,
the blood pumping through his body like surges of water from a well. After five minutes he walked back the other way. Nothing
happened. No movement, no opening and closing of doors or windows. Nothing to indicate Tuato was still awake. Kubala moved
into the alcove and sat against the wall, barely visible in the darkness. He remained motionless for half an hour, searching
the black windows for movement. If anyone were watching from above, they would have come down by now to find out what he was
doing. He took a few deep breaths. It was time.

He figured the time to be almost three in the morning. Other than a few mangy dogs and two homeless people passing by in the
alley, there was no activity. Sounds filtered through the thick night air; babies crying, men yelling at women, men yelling
at other men, empty liquor bottles smashing on the cement. But no gunshots. It was a quiet night.

Kubala shifted onto his belly and crawled to the car. He tried the driver’s side front door handle. It was locked. Then the
back. Also locked. He dragged himself around the car to the passenger’s side. It was close to the building. Too close to open
the door and slide in. He tried the rear door handle and it opened to his touch. He pulled it out until the metal touched
the stone wall, then slid his hand in and felt for the window crank. He rolled the window down an inch at a time, turning
the handle slowly to keep it from squeaking. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and dripped down his face. He ignored the
distraction, and when the window was fully down he hoisted himself up and squeezed between the car and the wall. It was too
tight. He didn’t have enough room to arch his body and slide in through the window. Kubala stood motionless, jammed between
the car and the building, thinking. Maybe if he tried coming in from the roof.

He slid out of the narrow gap and climbed on the trunk of the car, staying on the rear quarter panel where the metal was rounded
and wouldn’t buckle under his weight. If it did cave in, and the dent popped back out after he removed his weight, there would
be a noise. And in the quiet of the night, any sound would be amplified. He bellied his way onto the roof of the car, trying
to keep his weight evenly distributed and not create a dent. Then he spun ninety degrees so he was perpendicular to the side
of the car, grabbed the top of the window housing and jackknifed his body through the opening. He went in headfirst with no
hands to break his momentum, landing on his back in the rear seat. His spine hit something hard and there was a sharp crack.
He swore under his breath and pulled his feet in through the window. Underneath him was a thin walking stick that had snapped
under his body weight. He rolled off the seat onto the floor and lay facedown without moving.

Seconds later a door opened and there was the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel. Then silence. Kubala stayed facedown
on the floor of the car, barely breathing. Seconds ticked by with no sound. Above him someone pulled on the door handle. Once,
then twice. The locking mechanism held and the handle clicked but didn’t open. Kubala, on his belly, had no idea if the person
trying the door was now staring in the window. Or if his dark clothes and black skin would keep him invisible in the darkness.
Again, the seconds moved by, inexorably slow, time frozen. Then the back door to the building opened and a voice cut through
the silence.

“What’s up, man?”

“Nothin’, maybe. Don’t know. Thought I heard something.”

More footsteps on the gravel. “You see anything?”

“Nah, nothin’.”

“Smoke?”

“Sure.”

The acrid smell of cigarette smoke trickled into the car, catching in Kubala’s nose and throat. The men continued talking,
and Kubala was sure that one of the voices was Tu-ato. He had no idea who the other man was, nor did he care. He just wanted
them to leave, to return to the house. The interior of the car was stifling hot and breathing was becoming more difficult
with each minute. He let his mind drift, back to Samburu where his wife and young son were waiting for him. Where the vast
Maasai Mara met the forests and the sky was clear of the choking smoke that hung over Nairobi. Where fifteen-year-old boys
and girls spent their leisure time playing soccer on dusty fields, not having sex in dirty back alleys. He made himself a
promise, that if he got out of this alive, he would stay out of Nairobi, away from the madness that was consuming the city.

The voices continued, Tuato talking about some woman he had met at a club the week before, the other man laughing at the story
of drink and uninhibited sex. It was forty minutes from the time Tuato had walked through the door before both men returned
to the house. Kubala waited another fifteen minutes, his head up off the floor so he could breathe, then slid his hand under
the front seat. The underside was a jagged metal frame covered with cloth, and Kubala was careful not to cut himself on any
of the sharp edges. The gap between the floor and the bottom of the seat was too narrow to give him any line of sight, and
he felt blindly for a slice or tear in the cloth. He found one and slid his hand in, holding his breath.

The money was still in place, tucked up in the springs that gave the seat support. He fished it out, one bundle at a time
until he was sure he had all of it. The enclosed space where he lay was too dark to count the money, and he double-checked
the hiding spot, then tucked the cash inside his shirt and carefully unlocked the door. He pulled slowly on the handle, holding
the armrest to keep the door tight to the car. When he had the handle all the way down, he released pressure on the armrest
and the door silently swung open. He slipped from the car onto the gravel, pushed the door closed, but not shut, and crept
quietly across the small courtyard to the alley. His feet made a slight crunching sound, but he was treading lightly and it
was barely loud enough for him to hear. He turned the corner into the alley and started walking.

He had the money, but getting Mike Anderson to safety was not going to be easy.