The Summoner: (27 page)

“We might not have a few days. I think Fangwa saw us.”

Her face drained of color.

“I looked back and saw him at his bedroom window. Looking out behind the curtains. I don’t know if he could tell who we were, but it’s a possibility. We don’t want to be faced with another Lucky situation, or worse.”

“We must move as soon as possible, then. Today. I believe I can get a warrant by late afternoon. It’ll be difficult, but there’s someone I can go to. It’s my last card. If this doesn’t work, there will be no more favors.”

“I think it’s the right play.”

“We can’t fail, Grey. What we saw tonight…” her voice started to shake. “I don’t know how or why, but that
creature
either killed my father or knows who did.”

He held her until she calmed. She disengaged and leaned back on her elbows.

“What about his diplomatic immunity?” Grey asked.

“That’s a problem,” she said, and then her lips formed a thin line. “But there are benefits to having a failing legal system. And it might even help—hopefully Fangwa will think he’s secure behind that cloak.”

He nodded, too fatigued to process much more.

“Come,” she said, stroking his hair. “We need to rest for a few hours.” The sky had begun heralding the dawn with its first soft glow, casting the garden in a sublime light through the window, innocent to the depravities they’d just witnessed. Her eyes gleamed hungrily at Grey. “Tomorrow has already arrived.”

• • •

Hours later, Nya dropped Grey off at his apartment and watched him approach his building. She fought to push thoughts of him out of her mind; she had too much to accomplish today to be acting like a giddy schoolgirl.

She was fiercely attracted to him. But more than superficial characteristics, she admired his respect and concern for those around him, for her struggling countrymen. She’d seen it herself, and it shone in his eyes. And his was not hands-off bourgeoisie beneficence, nor well-intentioned but naïve outrage. No, he had lived, and through suffering he had become that rarest of breed: a truly universal citizen. And
that
was the kind of man she could love.

But she had work to do, and she had no intention of being distracted from her mission to find her father’s killer. Not even for Grey.

It was eight-thirty in the morning. Just enough time for one last stop before she went to see Chengetai, a high-ranking member of Zanu-PF. Chengetai had grown up in the neighboring village to her father, and used to be her father’s best friend, until a rift two years ago. Her father, in his typical reticent manner, never told her what happened, though she suspected political differences. But she knew they harbored affection for each other. He would help her get her warrant, in honor of her father. And he had the power to do so.

She stood on the corner of Nelson Mandela and Second, once again basking in the comforting presence of her father’s church. She had started going to confession every day; she’d taken to visiting in the evening, as her father had. She didn’t even really know why. Partly, she suspected, it allowed her to feel close to her father one last time.

And partly, she knew, her soul reached out for succor.

Today would be tumultuous. If she found any evidence that linked Fangwa to her father’s murder, or found out from Fangwa who killed him, then she would do what she had to do. What she’d sworn to do. What her father deserved.

She was going to kill the
N’anga
.

She choked up, thinking of the years lost with her father, of her own future she might lose if things did not go well today. She thought of Grey, and then she steeled herself and walked inside.

• • •

She sat on one of the pews and wrapped herself in the solitude of the sanctuary. Father Cowden arrived ten minutes later, just before nine. His eyebrows arched when he saw her. She offered a guilty smile, apologized for the inconvenience, and asked if he would mind taking her confession. At her request, he led her to his office first. For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she needed to talk to him.

“You’re quite somber today,” he said. “I trust nothing is wrong?”

She took a long time to answer. “This… personal mission… of mine. It’s drawing to a close. I might have to do things today that could,” she looked down at her hands, “imperil my soul. I’d like to confess again. “

Father Cowden rose and began to pace. He stopped behind his chair, underneath the grandfather clock. “Nya,” he said, his voice soft and concerned. “As your spiritual advisor, I feel duty bound to offer my advice.”

“Of course.”

“You should realize confession does not cover future acts.”

She turned her head to the side. “If what I must do today becomes my last act of willful sin, then I’ll accept my judgment. I believe He will judge fairly.”

“Last act? Child, what is this about?”

“Nothing you can say will change my mind.” She wrung her hands. “I want to thank you for being there for me. And I want to thank you for being there for my father.”

“Whatever this is—whatever you feel you must do—you do not. God is forgiveness, Nya. It is for Him to judge, not you. It is for Him to punish.”

She remained silent.

“Remember that God is always with you. I sense faith growing again inside you—and for that, at least, I’m grateful. I implore you to embrace your faith as your father embraced his.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That is all I can ask. Let us meditate and pray.”

She liked this part of her visit. Before confession started, she would bow her head, and Father Cowden would remain silent. The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock became her sedative, a focal point that allowed her to drift into a brief and restorative peace that eluded her outside of this room.

Soon Father Cowden began to speak, droning on with lengthy prayers that relaxed her mind as potently as an expert masseuse would her body. She entered a welcome hiatus from reality, brought back only by his gentle imperative to follow him to the confessional. And then she bared her soul. Despite her troubled faith, she inexplicably felt purged, cleansed, lightened.

She drifted to the soothing cadence of Father Cowden’s prayer, let it slowly wash away her anger, her guilt, her regret. Cathartic pleasure relaxed her face. She could never even remember the words; she just knew that, on some hidden spiritual plane, they touched her soul.

There was one thought she had to almost physically push away before she could linger over this last moment of peace. It left grudgingly, this thought. It was an image that had haunted her for months, both her waking hours and her sleep, even though she had once convinced herself it wasn’t possible.

She squeezed her eyes shut and willed it to go away—this terrifying vision of Dr. Fangwa hovering over her beloved father, grinning as he placed a knife to his throat.

42

A
fter Nya dropped him off, Grey showered, ate a light breakfast, and took a jog to sedate his body and clear his mind. The rest of the morning he busied himself with mindless tasks to pass the time—he cleaned and wrapped his injuries, half-heartedly straightened the apartment, stretched after his run. He started to shave and then set the razor down. That required too much attention to detail.

He sat cross-legged on the floor and read the first line of the two faxes again:
“Have you found it yet?
“

What was Fangwa after in Harare? Did whoever had written the letter know about Fangwa’s gruesome side activities? Was this some kind of high-level conspiracy?

Nya had to come through with the warrant. Fangwa would prove difficult, but once the authorities searched that house of horrors the Doctor’s bargaining power would melt away like a summer love on the first day of school.

The second part of the letter troubled Grey even more. “
Do not forget what is at stake.
“ And the cryptic, almost ominous, reply: “
Rest assured I will never forget.
“

What did the Juju ceremonies have to do with the two faxes? Everything? Nothing? Had Fangwa enthralled someone in the government? The letter from the official didn’t have the tone of someone under a spell. Perhaps the faxes had nothing at all to do with Fangwa’s nefarious activities. Yet that, also, seemed unlikely. It was all too coincidental not to be connected.

None of it fit together, not under any scenario he could devise in his mind. And the murder of Nya’s father? How could that possibly fit into the puzzle? Was Nya herself unknowingly involved? Fangwa did have an unnatural interest in her. Grey had chalked that up to perversion, but now he wasn’t so sure.

He began to pace; he didn’t like these unanswered questions, and he didn’t like waiting. Nya needed some time to work out that warrant.

Might Nigel have information regarding any of this? The thought excited and then frustrated him. Grey didn’t have that kind of money. Would the Embassy step up? Possibly, if the evidence led to Addison. He’d have to negotiate with Nigel, and that didn’t sound like a winning prospect. Still, it trumped sitting around.

• • •

“
Yassus
,” Nigel muttered as Grey entered his business lounge, the bodyguard on his heels. “You and your associates are determined to keep me in business. Don’t tell me you wish to attend another ceremony. I would think by now you’d have an invitation.”

Grey shot him a puzzled glance, and Nigel smirked. “Before I tell you what I need,” Grey said, “there might be a problem. I don’t have the kind of funds we discussed last time.”

“Then indeed we have a problem. One of the very few things I don’t do in this world is conduct business for free. Why don’t you tell me what you’re after, and perhaps we can negotiate a price.”

“I need information on Dr. Olatunji Fangwa.”

“You like to consort with the dangerous ones, don’t you?”

“What do you know about him?”

“I know he could make a corpse uncomfortable.”

“Is he the
N’anga
?”

Nigel’s expression didn’t change. “Even if I had it, you couldn’t afford that information.”

Grey weighed his options, and decided he could come back if needed. Maybe this had been a bad idea after all. He might as well see what turned up after they arrested Fangwa. He just hated waiting around.

He stood. “I suppose I’m not in need of your services right now.”

Nigel held a palm out. “Tsk, tsk. No need to rush off. Just because you can’t afford the high-ticket items doesn’t mean we can’t do business.”

“I don’t think there’s anything else you know that would interest me.”

Nigel’s lips formed a crafty smile. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Grey’s face tightened. “I’m listening.”

“I believe you’re investigating the disappearance of Mr. William Addison?”

Grey didn’t bother asking him how he knew.

“I know a thing or two about Mr. Addison,” Nigel said.

Grey returned to his chair, his face calm. Too calm. “Why didn’t you mention this before.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“So why now?”

“I don’t have any other business planned for today. I might as well earn my lunch money.”

Grey placed his hands on the front of Nigel’s desk and leaned towards him. Nigel’s hands fluttered and produced a black handgun. Nigel cradled the gun in his lap.

Grey leaned back, rested his elbows on the chair and steepled his fingers. “I hope for your sake you don’t know anything that might have helped Addison.”

“You have two choices, Mr. Grey,” Nigel said softly. “You can leave, or offer to pay me for information.”

“You’re a miserable human being.”

Nigel yawned.

“What do you know?”

“Probably nothing that would have helped you earlier, if that lets you sleep at night.” He grinned. “Then again, one never knows.”

“How much.”

“One thousand U.S. dollars.”

If the information proved valuable, he might be able to talk Harris into having the Embassy reimburse him. If not, then he could cover that himself. He didn’t really have a choice at this point. If Nigel knew something that might help him find Addison…

“Fine.”

Nigel made a motion to the bodyguard, and Grey heard the patter of retreating footsteps. “My information is for the ears of customers alone. But you’re on camera. I realize you’re unarmed, but my sources tell me you’re quite competent in certain situations. Trust me when I say you don’t want to cause trouble here.”

Grey didn’t respond, and Nigel folded both hands over his gun. “Mr. Addison has ties with the CIA.”

Grey’s eyebrows lifted; this was indeed news. Did Harris know? He doubted it. The Ambassador? Probably. The CIA and the embassies often worked hand-in-hand, and it was common knowledge that numerous high-level diplomats served as liaisons or even agents. Was it possible the Agency had something to do with his disappearance?

“That’s it?”

“I gather the news took you by surprise.”

“Maybe, but what relevance does it have? You could tell me his father was a Nobel Prize winner, and that would certainly surprise me, but it wouldn’t help my investigation. Is there anything else?”

“Have you just remembered that secret stash of funds? It will be the same price as the first.”

Grey said, his voice taut, “This better be helpful.”

‘You’re aware of the MDC? The opposition party?”

“Of course.”

“William Addison was the CIA’s link to the MDC. He was acquainted with certain high-ranking members. One of them was Jeremiah Mashumba.”

Grey remembered Nya telling him her father was MDC, but Jeremiah Mashumba had known William Addison? He didn’t know the import, but the information gave him a queasy feeling.

“What did Addison do for them? Did it relate to his disappearance?”

“I can check into it. Would you like to place an order?”

He could check into that himself. “There’s nothing else you know about Addison or Nya’s father relevant to my investigation?”

“You’ve bled me dry, I’m afraid.”

“If I need you to look further I’ll get back to you.”

“Three days, Mr. Grey.”