“You were shot,” Dawson said.
Kobby searched his mind. “I remember the mission, boss-going to get the Chinese guys, but what happened after that is completely blank.”
“It’s okay,” Dawson said reassuringly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Were you all right, sir?” Kobby asked him, turning his baby face to look at him.
“Fortunately, yes.”
“What about the guy…”
“Dead,” Dawson said. “One of the soldiers took him down.”
Kobby reflected on that for a moment. “So, apart from what happened to me, the mission was completed successfully?”
“Yes,” Dawson said. “Well, except that you were injured. You and I were standing too close to the raid, and that’s my fault.”
“Oh no, sir…” He trailed off, appearing saddened that Dawson felt that way.
Dawson stood up. “You should rest, Kobby. I will come back to see you tomorrow.”
Christine was still in the waiting area and texting a friend when Dawson emerged. “How is he?” she asked, standing up.
“He’s holding up well,” Dawson said. “He’s a good man. Come on, let’s go home. I’m tired.”
It was now dusk, and the street outside KATH was lit with roadside vendors cooking up goat or chicken kebab, or waakye, or banku and okro stew. Dawson and Christine walked side by side. He was despondent and wished he could start the day over.
“You came by cab?” he asked Christine.
“No,” she said airily. “I came in the four-by-four.”
“What four-by-four?” Dawson asked, looking at her in puzzlement.
“Over there,” she said, pointing to a huge black Toyota Land Cruiser gleaming under the streetlamps.
Dawson laughed. “You’re funny.”
“Don’t believe me?” she asked, taking keys out of her purse. The Cruiser’s lights flashed twice, as if winking at them.
Dawson stopped in amazement. “Wait a minute. Whose vehicle is that?”
“It’s mine,” she said simply. “Come along.”
Eyes wide, Dawson opened the passenger front door and got into the seat next to his wife. Not more than a few weeks old, the SUV’s tan leather was still fragrant. When she turned on the ignition, the dashboard lit up with blue and amber lights, and the TV/GPS screen welcomed them aboard.
“Oh, my God,” Dawson whispered.
“Nice, huh?” Christine said, smiling blissfully.
“Yes,” he replied, “but if you’ve stolen it, you know I’m going to have to arrest you, right?”
She laughed as she pulled her seat belt across her chest. “Okay, I’ll tell the truth. It actually belongs to Uncle Joe. When I told him I was going down to see you, he said he was expecting company, so he couldn’t take me, but he said I could borrow it.”
“Wow,” Dawson said, somewhat awed as she pulled out into traffic. Who would have thought coming to Kumasi would have his wife driving the vehicle of choice for ministers of Parliament?
“I think I’d like to get one of these,” Christine said. “I feel so powerful in it.”
“Feeling powerful isn’t enough,” Dawson said dryly. “You have to be rich too.”
She giggled and gave the monster some gas.
“Er, Christine, take it easy,” Dawson said nervously. “You’re not used to driving anything this big.”
“Okay, okay,” she said happily.
A little taste of luxury, Dawson thought ruefully. That’s all it takes to spark the craving for more.
“What’s on your agenda tomorrow?” she asked him.
“I have to write a full report of the incident to present it to the commander on Monday morning.”
“I’m assuming none of that will be fun,” Christine said, gunning the SUV and overtaking several vehicles.
“No, it won’t,” Dawson said, fumbling for the grab handle near his window. Christine’s driving in a small sedan was ferocious. In an SUV, it was positively terrifying.
Even so, Kumasi’s crawling evening traffic eventually got the better of Christine. As they sat trapped in a sea of vehicles, Dawson put his head back and closed his eyes for a moment as his mind roamed over the day’s events. He wondered who had tipped off Chuck Granger and Wei Liu that the police and military forces were about to stage a raid on his camp. The best person to ask was Wei himself. He tried calling Mr. Huang to ask if he could translate for Dawson while he questioned Liu, but Huang didn’t pick up. Dawson suspected that after the awkward questions he had asked Mr. Huang at his store, the poor man would never answer another call from Dawson.
He looked at Christine. “Do you know any Chinese? I need a translator.”
“No, I don’t,” she said, swerving around a stalled taxi.
“Thought so. I was just checking.”
“What do you need a Chinese interpreter for?” she asked.
“I’m going to interview Wei Liu.”
“Right now? We’re not going home?”
“Not yet,” Dawson said. “Take the next right. Mr. Liu is going to understand and speak English tonight whether he likes it or not.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
A little past eight, Christine and Dawson pulled up at Wei’s house. Power to most of Kwadaso Estates was out, and the streets were very dark. The monotonous chorus of generators up and down the block was now the soundscape of practically every Ghanaian town and city.
At the sound of the horn, David, Wei’s watchman, came out to peer at the visitors by the reflected light of the SUV head lamps. Once he’d recognized Dawson from his first visit, he opened up the gate and Christine drove in.
The lights in Wei’s house looked bright, a testament to the power of the generator droning from somewhere in the back. Wei’s pickup was parked in along one wall, but what caught Dawson’s attention was the black Kia SUV positioned close to the front door. It looked like Lian’s vehicle, and Dawson wondered if she was here-or perhaps Wei had simply borrowed the Kia.
“I’ll wait here,” Christine said, whipping out her phone to call her mother.
Dawson was glad she was in a secure area with David in attendance.
Wei opened the door to Dawson’s knock and was clearly surprised.
“Nǐ hǎo, Mr. Liu,” Dawson said, not quite sure if the greeting was right for late evening.
“Nǐ hǎo,” Wei replied uncertainly.
“May I come in?” Dawson asked, with a gesture that he hoped conveyed his meaning.
Wei hesitated, and then opened the door wider and stepped aside to let his visitor into the air-conditioned sitting room, which smelled heavily of cigarettes. Looking around, Dawson felt like this was a downsized version of Lian’s home, with the same kind of taste. The outsize sofa and matching chairs were made with shiny golden imitation leather and bold, strikingly colored wood. The center table was chrome and black lacquer. The wall-mounted HDTV, sixty inches at least, was playing a Chinese video featuring a beautiful but anguished young singer who, Dawson assumed, had lost her lover. In Dawson’s estimation, some of the furniture was new. Reaping some of his dead brother’s money, he thought, and then checked himself. He was making a prejudicial judgment.
Resting on one of the side tables next to an ashtray piled high with butts was Wei’s laptop. Lying around were two kinds of TV remotes, three different brands of mobile phones, a Samsung tablet, and an iPad. Evidently, Wei loved gadgets and electronic devices.
“I need to talk to you,” Dawson said. “No Mr. Huang today.”
“Mr. Huang?” Wei said, with a perplexed frown.
“Did you go to the mine today?”
“Eh?”
“The mine-did you work there today?”
Wei shook his head. “Not understand.”
Dawson was tired of the charade. He grasped Wei’s shirt with both hands and pulled him so close that the Chinese man’s soft belly bumped up against Dawson’s taut one. Wei’s eyes widened and his cigarette breath came harshly.