“Good,” Chase muttered. He used the screwdriver from his pocketknife to pry the microphone loose from the wood, then yanked it to break the wire and crawled out from under the desk. “Byagwa would also like to know what’s going on,” he said, dropping the microphone onto the middle of the attorney’s green blotter. “And what’s in it for him.”
“The dirty bastard,” Frank said, glaring at the button on the green.
“Ah, well,” Chase said. “Who among us is above such little tricks? Now, Frank, we can get down to it.”
So they did. Chase settled himself in the chair behind the desk, and Frank took a white envelope from his pocket and dropped it disdainfully next to the microphone. Meantime, Otera started to change from his chauffeur’s uniform to the uniform on the chair, transmogrifying himself into a captain in the Ugandan Army.
Inside the envelope, Chase found the confirmation from the Zurich bank. Thirty thousand dollars had been deposited by Balim into his new account there. “Earnest money,” he had described it to Balim, when insisting on some cash payment in advance. To protect Balim, the deposit had been made in such a way that he could order it withdrawn and redeposited into his own account at any time within thirty days. Balim had accepted this concept of “protection” because he had assumed he would be alive in thirty days.
“Good,” Chase said, stowing the confirmation away. Then he brought from his inner jacket pocket a large manila envelope. Pushing the microphone to one side, he emptied papers from this envelope onto the desk, saying, “Let’s see what we have here. Identification for Mr. Otera. You’re Captain Isaac Gelaya now,” Chase told the man, who was across the room putting on his military trousers. “I gave you your own first name, in case anyone calls to you.”
“Thank you.”
Otera seemed very muted for some reason. Was it funk? Chase frowned from Otera to Frank, wanting to point out that a misstep now by Otera could destroy the whole operation.
Frank read the unspoken concern and shook his head. “Don’t worry about Isaac. He’s very deceptive. He looks like a mild-mannered fella, but inside he’s a killer.”
Otera smiled a mild-mannered grateful smile, and zipped his fly.
Not completely convinced, Chase returned to the papers on the desk. “Here’s the authorization for today’s truck. And this is for the ones on Friday.”
Frank said, “It’s definitely Friday?” Behind him Otera, knotting his brown uniform necktie, became very still.
“Definitely Friday,” Chase said.
Otera came forward, tie knotted a bit unevenly, legs awkwardly rigid. “Let’s get it over with.”
“Straighten your tie,” Frank told him, as Chase handed him the documents.
Otera stood silently, nodding and fussing with his tie, as Chase explained what each piece of paper was for. But when Chase started to tell him how to get to Jinja Barracks, the man interrupted, saying, “I know Jinja.”
Chase looked at him, the rigid face, the office-worker appearance, the wound-up-spring determination. A Ugandan, he suddenly realized. Refugee. A fled civil servant. Much became clear, including why Chase had been feeling such hostility from the man. “Then you know the Barracks are within walking distance,” he said.
“Of course. Frank, here are the keys to the car.”
Taking them, Frank said to Otera, “We’ll see you from the window when you drive by.”
“Yes.”
“And you know where we’ll meet.”
“Of course.”
Frank and Otera shook hands. Chase, seated at the desk, watched with a small smile as Otera left, then watched Frank go over to the windows, pull the curtain back a bit, and gaze out at the street. Talking to his back, Chase said, “Your life is in that man’s hands, you know, Frank.”
Frank didn’t look around. “Better than in yours,” he said.
30
By the time they reached the plantation, Lew and Amarda weren’t speaking. She had wanted to stop at that availably empty house, but he had refused, and when she’d asked why, he’d had to tell her it was finished between them. And because it was so difficult to say such a thing, he’d had to build up a head of steam and then practically yell it at her. “There’s no future in it, that’s all! It’s pointless and it’s making trouble and it has to stop!”
“What sort of trouble? What are you talking about?”
“Just trouble.” He could feel himself being sullen, and he blamed Amarda for making him be that way. “I don’t want to lose Ellen, that’s all.”
“Over me?”
“Over anything.”
“I’m not worth such a risk.”
“If you say so,” he’d said, knowing he was ungracious, but unable to carry the burden any longer.
And that had been the end of the conversation. For the rest of the drive, Lew had felt rude but virtuous—not an unpleasant feeling.
At the house, a stony-faced Amarda led him into a small, overly furnished, stuffily hot room where her grandmother, today in a light-green silk sari, sat reading from a book with a blue-velvet cover and gilded pages. The old woman lifted her head, the reading lamp with its dark glass shade reflecting from her round spectacle lenses, and gestured for Lew to sit in an elaborately carved armchair facing her. “I’ll get tea,” Amarda said.
The old woman closed her book but kept her finger in it to mark her place, and remained silent until Amarda had gone out and shut the door. Then her first words weren’t encouraging. “I have no idea, Mr. Brady, why your friend Mr. Balim has seen fit to send you to me.”
Neither did Lew, if it came to that. “Well, Mama Jhosi,” he said, speaking softly and leaning forward as though to protect her from storms and abrasions, “Mr. Balim seemed to think there was some sort of problem.”
“It is not a problem,” she said. “I have changed my mind, that is the only thing. As for the money, Mr. Balim knows I shall return it from our next harvests.”
There was a faint flowerlike scent of perfume in the stuffy warm air. Lew said, “I’m not here to talk about money, Mama Jhosi.”
“Of course not.” She made a small perhaps unconscious movement with the book in her lap, suggesting her desire to return to it.
Lew’s hands felt too large, too cumbersome. Not knowing what else to do with them, he gripped his knees as he leaned toward her. “Please,” he said, “would you tell me why you’ve changed your mind?”
“My grandson,” she said.
“Pandit.” Lew smiled in remembered pleasure. He’d seen the boy twice and had enjoyed their conversations both times. “A very nice boy.”
“At school now. But the home is also a school.”
“Of course.”
“I do not expect,” she said, her eyes small and unreadable behind the reflecting lenses, “that Pandit will have a very easy life.”
“It’s starting well, at least.”
“You mean material comfort.”
“That, too,” Lew acknowledged. “But what I mostly meant was the home he has here, and the people around him. You, and Amarda.”
As though on cue, Amarda entered with a tray bearing tea things, and for the next few minutes the ritual of an English tea interrupted the conversation. Amarda was silent, unsmiling, rigid. Was the old lady aware of the tension emanating from her granddaughter, and would she have any idea of its cause?
When they were all furnished with tea and little cakes, the grandmother said, “Amarda, I was explaining to Mr. Brady why I have changed my mind about Mr. Balim’s so thoughtful proposition.”
Amarda sipped tea, expressionless, not looking at Lew. “Does Mr. Brady understand, do you think, Mama?”