The Summoner: (9 page)

Her call came just before noon, and he told her what had happened. Her decision was swift. He was to meet her at the Meikles in an hour.

• • •

Nya was waiting for Grey as he approached the entrance to the hotel. “That was a despicable act.”

“I’d have to agree. Nothing happened to you last night?”

She shook her head.

“Then I guess we know who the message was meant for.”

“Yes,” she said, with a set mouth and folded arms. She put up a good front, but Grey could see tendrils of fear snaking through the creases of her armor.

She seethed. “These things are not done in Zimbabwe.”

“Tell that to the monkey.”

She turned towards the door. “Come. We’ll see what the Professor has to say.”

They went to the front desk and asked the concierge to ring Viktor. His face twisted quizzically. “Are you by chance Ms. Nya Mashumba and Mr. Dominic Grey?”

Nya gave a curt nod. “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all, madam. But the Professor left early this morning on urgent business.” The concierge produced an envelope, which he handed to Nya. “He told me to give this to you if you called.”

She took the envelope and stepped outside. Grey waited while she opened the envelope and read from a single sheet of stationery, then handed it to Grey.

On the piece of paper was a name and an address, and below that a single handwritten line.

‘This man can help with information. Will return soon. Viktor.’

• • •

“Nigel Drake,” Grey said. “Any idea who this is?”

“No. But I know the street.”

Nya drove deep into the low-density northern suburbs. As they went through Alexandra Park, Mount Pleasant, and then Borrowdale, they passed an unending number of beautiful homes, each with sizeable plots of land covered with tropical foliage.

The northern suburbs of Harare were as attractive a collection of neighborhoods as Grey had ever seen. The only flaws were the unfortunate security measures: high hedges and walls, most topped with cemented-in broken glass, surrounded virtually every property.

Still, the beauty of the landscape and the homes outshone the safety precautions. Towering forests of bamboo and jacaranda and banana trees shaded the streets, curtains of hibiscus and purple bougainvillea turned the contiguous walls into block-sized Impressionist paintings. Dazzling flame trees dotted the neighborhoods like living infernos stilled and trapped in time by nature’s Medusa. Cacti and palms of all shapes and sizes, paw-paw and msasa and granadilla and ladyslipper—Grey could only gawk.

Yet an aura of gradual decomposition pervaded even this portion of the city. Upon closer inspection, many of the houses were softly crumbling, the grass a bit too high. The pallor of colonial decay waited just behind the gates, in a proud umbra of graceful decline. Zimbabwe’s woes had taken their toll even on the privileged.

Or, he thought with a frown as they drove further north, at least most of them. Some family fortunes eclipsed even the direst of political circumstance, their vast holdings secreted away in London or some offshore banking stronghold. And then there were those who thrive in the sort of chaotic environment offered by Zimbabwe. The oversized swimming pools of these gladiators sparkled, their lawns lay perfectly shorn, their brand-new imported vehicles, unattainable in Zimbabwe to all but the most privileged, preened in circular driveways.

Grey soon realized that Nigel Drake fell into one of these two categories. As they reached the end of the Northern suburbs, where the walls of the enclosed estates brushed against the looming bushveld, they entered a neighborhood called Greystone Park, and found the address Viktor had given them.

A winding driveway led to an iron gate set into a wall too high to see over. Nya leaned out and pressed a button beneath an intercom. The gate slid sideways and Nya flashed her identification. The guards grinned at each other and waved them through.

They cruised down a long driveway fringed with Shona stonework. They passed two in-ground pools, a Jacuzzi, tennis courts, domestic quarters larger than most houses, and a spacious lawn swaying with elephant ear palms and pampas grass. At the end of the lawn sprawled a gigantic Dutch Cape Colonial.

Grey whistled. “This guy could feed half of Zimbabwe by himself.”

Nya led the way to the door and pushed the brass doorbell. Moments later a black-suited white man opened the door, unremarkable except for his stony gaze and the handgun holstered in plain view by his side. The man led them, expressionless, into the house.

Grey caught a glimpse of the three-speared end of a tattoo snaking out of the man’s right sleeve, recognizing it from one of the briefings on paramilitary groups in the region. He touched Nya’s arm and slowed just enough to whisper out of earshot.

“He’s a mercenary,” Grey said. “Ex-military.”

“Chopper,” she whispered back, with a scowl.

Grey recalled the briefing. After Ian Smith and the Rhodesian army were defeated in the Zimbabwean War of Independence, the new government enacted a surprising policy of tolerance. A fair number of whites occupied government positions, and even the infamous land redistribution of white-owned farms was not truly racially motivated. The President had failed in his promises to compensate the politically powerful and volatile veterans of the War of Independence, and used the convenient pretext of patriotic land redistribution to appease them.

But one group of whites was still
persona non grata
in Zimbabwe. During the war, select regiments of Ian Smith’s Rhodesian army traveled around the country as scouts, using increasingly cruel and inventive methods to inspire such fear in the native population that they would lose all interest in rebellion. The revolutionaries called them Choppers, for literal reasons.

The man led them through a series of spacious rooms and brick archways to a set of double doors. He pressed an intercom button, a buzzer sounded, and the man pushed the doors open.

He ushered Grey and Nya into an oak-paneled lounge filled with leather couches and the gaping mouths and eternally defiant horns of preserved game. The room smelled of Scotch and cracked leather. An assortment of hunting rifles hung above a teak bar slung along the wall to Grey’s left. Amidst the animal heads he spotted a map of Rhodesia and a portrait of Stanley. A large bay window on the far wall showcased a garden fading into undulating hills.

A roguishly handsome white man, middle-aged and spry, rose behind a desk to Grey’s right. He offered a wide smile, ran one hand through curls of brown hair that brushed the open collar of a dress shirt, and set down a half-empty cocktail glass with the other. He remained behind the desk.

“Bloody nice view, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage. I assume you know who I am, or you wouldn’t be here, but I confess I can’t recall ever having met either of you.”

His voice possessed a touch of arrogance and a Boer clip, mellowed by the buttering of luxury. Grey thought him the sort of man who wouldn’t hesitate to step on the backs of others to fund his lifestyle. He disliked him immediately.

The man motioned to two chairs in front of the desk, and they all sat. Nya said, “I’m Nya Mashumba, and this is Dominic Grey. We were told you can help with information.”

Nigel put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “I’m a purveyor of goods and services, including information. You’re both aware, I’m sure, of the thriving black market that exists in Zimbabwe, cultivated in large part by the colossally stupid decisions made by our esteemed leader, and nurtured by the resultant vacuum in obtainable commodities. I obtain things for people. All things.”

“I see,” Nya said. “Are you also aware that I work for the Foreign Ministry?”

His mouth curled outward. “Why do you think my men let you in? Government officials are my best customers. Come now. You know as well as I that Zimbabwe would crumble without a black market. The common Zimbabwean can no longer afford bread and milk at the shop—these families
must
look elsewhere. I’m a businessman, making the best I can of an unfortunate economic situation. Many of the services I provide are of grave importance, even essential to survival, and otherwise unavailable.”

“And of course you hand them out to the poor as judiciously as to the rich.”

He spread his hands. “A bloke’s got to make a living.”

There was a prolonged silence. Grey wondered whether or not Nya was feigning her ignorance. If she was, she was a good actress.

“I find your existence despicable,” she said finally. “But we’re in need of a service. One which I have my doubts you’ll be able to provide.”

“You’d be amazed at what I have to offer. Everything, Ms. Mashumba, is for sale in this world. Everything. And in Zimbabwe, I know how to find it. So what will it be? Forex? Slim drugs? Weapons? Passports? Fuel? And I’ll have to ask how you found me.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“I disagree.”

“As you said, everything’s for sale. And the definition of everything includes the discrete conduct of our transaction.”

Nigel looked her over, as if waiting for her expression to change. “Clever as well as beautiful,” he said to Grey. “I commend your choice of companion.”

“She makes her own choices.”

“Right. Ya, of course.” He looked down at an expensive looking smartphone. “Just as you chose a career in diplomatic security, and were assigned to a superior officer with, shall we say, questionable ethics.”

Grey smiled. “Congratulations on learning how to use the Internet.”

“Just a demonstration of my ability to provide what you seek.”

Grey faked a cough to get a better glimpse of the room. The bodyguard still stood by the door, and Grey had no doubt Nigel had easy access to a weapon behind his desk. Nigel’s shirt covered his arms, but Grey was sure that even if Nigel wasn’t an ex-Chopper, he knew how to take care of himself.

“We’re looking,” Nya said, “for a man known as
N’anga
. Do you know him?”

Nigel was quiet for a long moment. “Ya, I know this one.”

“Well? Can you find him?”

He stroked his chin. “This is a dangerous man. A man not to be trifled with. Were I to procure information concerning his whereabouts, it would be costly. And I hope I need not mention that the source of your information can never be revealed.”

“How costly?” Nya asked.

He contemplated the question, then rose. “I’ll need a moment.”

Nigel left the room, and the bodyguard stood by the door. Nya and Grey waited with the steady tick of a clock behind the desk. Grey didn’t think they were in immediate danger, but he didn’t like the cruel light in the bodyguard’s eyes as he watched them.

Fifteen minutes later Nigel returned. “I’m afraid the residence of this man is beyond even my considerable resources. Perhaps, given time, circumstances will change.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Nya said, disappointment creeping into her voice. “Is there anyone else who might be able to help us?”

“If I can’t help you, my dear, rest assured no one can. There is, however, a rumor concerning a ceremony. The type of ceremony that, since you’re asking about this man, I’m quite sure you’re familiar with.”

Nya gripped her chair, harder than Grey thought the information warranted. “You know the location of a ceremony? Where is it?”

“Ah, fair Nya, rumors are information also, and as much a part of my business as their more concrete cousins. There will be a price.”

“How do we know your information is solid?” Grey asked.

His face hardened. “I never guess when it comes to business. There’s to be a ceremony, and it’s rumored the man you seek will attend. Whether or not that rumor comes to fruition is another matter, and not my concern.”

“The price?” Nya said.

“Five thousand American dollars, cash. Delivered within three days. As to non-payment for my services—let’s just say there are rumors concerning that as well.”

“Five thousand dollars for a rumor?” Nya said.

“You have my offer.”

“Five hundred.”

“I’m afraid I don’t negotiate.”

She glared at him. “Then I must accept your terms.”

Grey whistled silently. He’d bet his Japanese art collection that Nya’s budget didn’t include five grand for a rumor. Nigel scribbled on a slip of paper and slid it across the desk. Nya picked it up.

“Three days, Ms. Mashumba. You can deliver payment to the guardhouse out front.”

“You’ll have your money.”

The bodyguard led them out. When they reached the car Grey said, “That’s some expense account.”

“Certain people are very concerned about this man. Do you have a better idea to help find your countryman?”

“So when’s the ceremony?”

She turned the key in the ignition and shifted into gear. She cast a final, baleful stare at Nigel’s compound as she answered.

“Tonight.”

13

“I
t’s at dusk, an hour outside Harare,” Nya said. “A place called Epworth.”

“A town?”

“Epworth’s a region known for its balancing rocks. We’re looking for one formation in particular. Leopard’s Castle. I know where it is.”

“Balancing rocks?”

“You’ll see.”

• • •

Viktor never called, and Nya and Grey left Harare well before dusk. Thick black clouds hung like an inverted abyss above the city, the smoky glass of the Reserve Bank a mysterious sapphire sentinel.

A prolonged stop at a roadblock made Nya clench the wheel in frustration. She pulled out of line and sped to the front, stopping when four uniformed men leveled rifles at her car. One approached, and Nya held her badge against the glass. The policeman stumbled to back away, waving at the others to let them through.

“Being a government agent here has its benefits,” Grey said.

Nya didn’t reply.

“Relax,” he said. “We don’t need to be right on time. It’s probably better not to be. We can slip in from the back, and won’t have to worry about uncomfortable questions.”

“I suppose you’re right. I-” she broke off and concentrated on the road.