“And then I can leave?”
“Of course.”
“Then let’s get to it.”
Nabil tugged a black hood from his pants pocket. “We’ll take a trip first.”
During his long wait, Paul had begun to believe that things were going too easily for him. Though he was still sore from his rough abduction, once he’d arrived in that bare room, no one had laid a finger on him. They had talked tough and hadn’t offered him anything to eat or drink, but other than his hunger he was feeling fine.
Nabil walked him hooded through corridors, down a narrow staircase, and outside into the backseat of a car. An unknown voice asked him to lie on his side. He did so. They drove for a long time, taking many turns, and Paul believed they were turning back on themselves in order to confuse his sense of direction. If so, they were successful. Before they finally stopped, they drove up a steep incline noisy with gravel they later crunched over as Nabil walked him into a building.
When the hood was removed, Paul stood facing three men in a long, wood-paneled room that seemed built solely to hold the long dining table that filled it. Two small, barred windows looked out on darkness and the bases of palm trees; this room was half in the earth. Two of them he recognized from the kidnapping; they smoked in the corner, and the one who had earlier helped Nabil with the interrogation even gave him a nod of recognition. The third one, a heavy man, wore a business suit. His name, Paul knew, was Daniel Kwambai.
Sam was the one with the long Kenyan background, not Paul, and so before leaving Switzerland Paul had browsed the Kenya files for background. Daniel Kwambai, the one Kenyan in the room, was a former National Security Intelligence Service officer who, after a falling-out with the Kibaki administration, was suspected to have allied himself with the Somali jihadis just over the border. The reason was simple: money. He was a gambling addict with expensive tastes that he couldn’t give up even after washing out of political life. Here, then, was the evidence. Whatever good that did him.
Kwambai held out a hand. “Mr. Fisher, thank you for coming.”
Unsure, Paul took it, and Kwambai’s shake was so brief that he got the feeling the man was afraid to hold his hand too long. Then he noticed that the computer briefcase wasn’t anywhere in the room; there was only a crystal ashtray on the far end of the table, which the kidnappers used. Paul said, “Well, I didn’t have much choice. Can we get this over with?”
“First, some questions,” said Kwambai. He waved at a chair. “Please.”
Paul sat at the head of the table. Behind him, Nabil had withdrawn to the door; the kidnappers remained in their corner, smoking. Daniel Kwambai sat a couple chairs down and wove his fingers together, as if in prayer. He said, “We would like to know some more about Mr. Matheson, the man you know as Wallis. You see, we discovered that he was working for the Central Intelligence Agency. He wanted to purchase something from us, and we think that by this transaction he was going to try and destroy us.”
“By giving you two million euros?”
“Yes, it seems unbelievable. But there it is. Nabil here fears trackers.”
Paul shook his head. “It’s my bank’s computer, and it hasn’t been out of my sight.”
“Except when you left it in your room and went to the hotel bar.”
“Well, yes. Except for then.”
Kwambai smiled sadly. “Nabil puts his faith in trackers and things he can hold in his hands. I put my faith in the ephemeral. Data, information. No, I don’t think there’s a tracker on your computer. I think the act of transferring the money is part of the plan.”
Uncomfortably, Paul realized that Daniel Kwambai was nearly there. As Sam had explained it, the virtual euros sent to their account were flagged, leaving traces in each account they touched. As Aslim Taslam moved the money among accounts, it left a trail. Tracking it to a final account was unimportant, because within that data flag was a time bomb, a virus that would in two weeks clear the entire contents of that final account, then backtrack, emptying whatever accounts it had passed through. The more accounts it moved through, the more damage it caused.
In the Geneva airport, Sam had said, “I know, I don’t understand it either, but it works. Langley tested it out last month on some shell accounts-wiped the fuckers out.”
Now, on the outskirts of Nairobi, Paul said, “I wouldn’t call myself an expert in these matters-I’ve only been at the bank two months-but I don’t see how that could be done. If the money moves through enough accounts, tracking it becomes impossible.” He shook his head convincingly, because that part was the truth-even having Sam explain it to him had made it no easier to understand. “I don’t think it could be done.”
Kwambai considered that. He rapped his knuckles on the table before standing up. “Yes, I don’t see it either. But something else has ruined our transaction. Which is a shame.”
“Is it?”
“For you, yes.”
The man’s tone was all too final. “What about the transfer? I just need Mr. Wallis’s-Matheson’s-fingerprint.”
Behind him, Nabil moved, and Paul heard a thump on the tabletop. A hand. A roughly chopped hand, the severed end black with old, stiff blood. Paul’s stomach went bad again.
“As you see,” said Kwambai, “we were prepared to do the transfer. But there’s one problem. Your computer. It’s not in your hotel room.”
That cut through his sickness. He stared at the politician, mouth dry. “It has to be.”
“Your suitcase, yes, full of clothes-you hadn’t even unpacked. But no magical computer.”
Despite the old fear slipping up through his guts, Paul went through possibilities. Benjamin had taken it. He had either secured it because he didn’t think it would be needed, or he had stolen it for his own reasons.
The hotel staff-but what use would they have for it?
Or Daniel Kwambai was lying. They had the case somewhere and were sweating him. That, or…
Or they had found the case, then checked it for one of Nabil’s trackers. And found one. Sam had sworn that there would be none, because they were too easy to detect. But… Lorenzo and Said. Perhaps this was some act of posthumous revenge. Perhaps Sam had cared about life after all.
“I don’t believe you,” Paul said, because it was the only role left to him. He heard the door behind him open and glanced back full of nerves. Nabil was leaving; the hand was gone. “Where’s he going?”
“I’m going, too,” said Kwambai. “It hurts me, it really does. Know that.” He spoke with the fluid false compassion of a politician.
“Wait!” Paul said as Kwambai began to walk away. The kidnappers, still in their corner, looked up at his outburst. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Kwambai paused in mid-step. “You know what’s going on.”
“But, why?”
“Because we all do the best we can do, and this is the best thing for us to do.”
The undertow pulled at his feet; the fear in his intestines felt like concrete. Everything seemed to be slowing down, even his desperate reply: “But you don’t understand! I don’t work for the bank. I never did! I work with Sam. I’m CIA, too!”
Kwambai tilted his head and licked his lips, interested. “Sam said you were, but we weren’t sure we believed him.”
“Sam said what?” Paul blurted, confused. What was going on?
“Thank you for clearing it up,” said Kwambai.
“And?”
Kwambai’s hand settled on his shoulder. It was heavy and damp. He patted a few times. “And I must go.”
“But the money’s real,” Paul told him. “It’s real. And I know the codes.”
“But there’s no computer. The codes are useless.”
“Someone has it. As soon as you find it, I can use the codes.”
Kwambai stepped back, frowning. He wasn’t a man used to doubt. “But who has the computer?”