Jon studied the room. What could it open? He felt along the walls for any hidden panel or recession. He walked back through the apartment, then, checking in each of the dimly lit rooms again before returning to the study. Time was running out. It was probably here, in this same room, he sensed. He looked at his watch: five minutes now before he needed to leave. He knelt beside the cardboard boxes, which were flush with the wall, and pulled them away. Behind the one in the corner was a small square of plywood. Jon lifted it, saw where a section of the wall was indented. A wall safe.
He returned to the keypad and began to type—what letters would his brother have chosen, letters no one else would think of? Reflexively, he stopped and listened: voices, coming up the alley behind the apartment. He ducked down, below the desk.
Teenage boys, it seemed, talking in Swahili, stopping behind the apartment. Then silence. Jon counted the seconds. Twelve, thirteen … They began walking again, their voices becoming less distinct.
Jon went back to the keypad. Tried “Marianna.” The street where they had grown up. Too obvious. Then he remembered another code word they had used as a fallback: “Gymnopedies.” One of their mother’s favorite pieces of music.
He heard a click. Again, a simple remote control radio signal, triggering a lock. He knelt and pulled the knob on the wall safe. The door opened.
As he reached inside, Jon heard voices again. Outside, maybe a block over. Concentrate. Figure this out. Get out of here. The safe was full of junk: wires, Styrofoam “peanuts,” pens, paper clasps, candy wrappers. And then, at the back, a letter-sized envelope. That was it. It must be.
He looked quickly at what was inside, then replaced the sheet of wood and the boxes in front of it. He shoved the envelope inside the waistband of his pants and checked the time. He was due back in less than five minutes—although Sam probably wouldn’t mind if he was late. Jon had another breadcrumb now, another message from his brother.
As soon as he pulled the door closed and stepped out onto the sidewalk, though, he heard footsteps—from an indeterminate direction at first, and then clearly behind him, a sound of rubber on grit, coming from the alley. Then another set. There were two of them, one taking shorter steps, the other longer, a little awkwardly. Jon strode toward the streetlight, crossing from the sidewalk into the road. The footsteps shifted, too, coming faster. The city was several blocks away. He could see its lights and hear the traffic and voices from the streets. But it was the end of a dark tunnel. If he ran, it would happen sooner, probably. Jon quickened his pace, tuned to their sounds; the others did, too. Two sets of footsteps, left, right, left, right, gaining on him.
Jon looked back quickly and saw two young men in dark clothing, the heavier one wearing white athletic shoes. Blurs in the shadows. Shifting again. Jon broke into a run toward the city lights, his heart pounding, gaining a momentary lead through the element of surprise. But the men were right there, their feet scuffing urgently on the pavement.
The smaller one shouted something, in a tone that was surprising, in Kiswahili. “Habari za jioni.”
The man was saying “good evening,” asking him how he was doing.
Jon Mallory made a half turn, and that was all they needed. He ducked a moment too late. A fist slammed into the side of his face. He fell to the street and lay there, pretending to be hurt more than he was. He smelled their soiled clothes as they leaned over him.
The bigger man displayed a gun. “Give us your money,” he said, in halting English, out of breath.
Jon Mallory looked up at the men, both veiled in darkness, his head suddenly throbbing. He pulled the remaining cash from his pockets and handed it to the man. Then he yanked out his pockets to show that there was nothing more.
The smaller man slammed a foot into his belly, and they turned and ran into the shadows. It was over.
Jon lay still, his face against the rough asphalt, listening to their sneakers as they sprinted away. He breathed heavily, waiting, a ringing in his ear against the cool pavement. Then everything began to come back—the muted sounds of traffic, voices, normal life just a few blocks away. He sat up, staring down the empty street. The side of his face felt tender; his elbow was bruised and bleeding a little. His ribcage was sore. But it was okay; they had just been street punks, after money. He felt a little disoriented. But it was all right. They hadn’t taken the envelope.
SAM SULLIVAN WAS sitting at a corner table in the lounge with two empty bottles of Tusker in front of him. It was 8:29. Soca music played in the background, and two tourist couples were dancing drunkenly beside their table.
“I thought you weren’t coming, mate.”
“I thought the same for a few minutes.”
Sam signaled the bartender for another round, then stared at Jon as he sat.
“My God. What the hell happened to you?”
“I just got mugged.”
“Oh.” He frowned at length, then tried a different expression, clearly uncertain how to respond. His eyes seemed glazed. “What did they get?”
“A few shillings.”
“That’s all?”
“I’d given all the rest to you. I think they expected more.”
“No doubt.”
The beers arrived; Sam touched the necks in a tentative toast. His ball cap was off, and Jon was surprised how little hair he had. “Well. I mean, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“Didn’t do much good, then, did it, losing the tails?”
Jon took a long drink, draining a third of the bottle. “Were you followed?”
“Yeah. Not terribly subtle, are they? Hired hands, no doubt.”
“A Renault?”
“There were two, actually. A Renault and a Fiat.”
Okay, Jon thought, the beer steadying him a little. “Who are they, do you think?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“You just said, ‘Hired hands, no doubt.’ For whom?”
“Well, I mean, I couldn’t say. In my work, I hear things sometimes, you know. That’s all. At the hotel, you hear things.”
“Okay. So what do you hear?”
“Well.” He fidgeted with his beer bottle. “That there are these gangs out there. Like armed brigades. They say there are training camps for them out in the Rift Valley now. Land that’s been purchased supposedly by private investors. Some areas you can’t travel to anymore. Just not considered safe. Those are the stories anyway.”
“Who’s hiring them?”
He drank again, wanting to change the subject, Jon could see. “Don’t know. Someone who’s bought up a lot of property. That’s speculation. You ought to take care of those cuts, mate. And anyway, I’ve got a driver coming to pick me up in about ten minutes. Better get going. It was interesting to see you again.”
He stood and shook Jon’s hand. Then his face creased as if he were recalling something unpleasant. “Can you charge the beers to your room, mate?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Your bag’s in the men’s room. Take care.”
“Likewise.”
Sam Sullivan turned and walked out. Once again, he didn’t look back.