Charles Mallory looked toward the counter and saw the young manager frowning at him, his face a question mark. The manager held up Russell Ott’s box of fresh doughnuts. Charlie just shrugged and lifted his palms, as if to say, What can you do?
But he was thinking about other things: the seven-letter message he had typed out and left with Richard Franklin. And what Ott would do next.
EIGHTEEN
JON MALLORY LAID THE contents of the envelope on the table by the television. He sipped his drink and examined them closely again, considering the roles each would play in his life over the next several days.
The envelope contained three items: a paper voucher for a Nairobi auto transport service with a date and reservation time stamped on the back—tomorrow afternoon at 1:15, the location in downtown Nairobi, on Green Street; a blank rectangular ID badge with a magnetic stripe enforcer, no other identifying characteristics; and a travel visa with his photo, allowing him entrance to the Republic of Sundiata in West Africa. The photo was from his driver’s license.
Why had his brother made him go through hoops to find this package? Was it because he wanted him to know for sure that it was him? Perhaps. Or could it be some sort of set-up? There was no way of knowing. If it was his brother, he was also warning him to be careful, Jon realized. The surveillance was more sophisticated than the man in the Renault, he was saying. The Renault was a diversion, probably, to make him careless. Or nervous. Or both. It was probably someone hired by the police, the same people who had raided Charlie’s office. Who had been told that Jon would lead them to Charles. The real threat was more sophisticated. His brother had been ambushed, he sensed, and didn’t want it to happen again.
There was also another message in these items, Jon suspected, as he continued to examine them. Something he had considered before, several times, but had set aside with the directive to Kenya: His first story had focused on projects in two East African nations. It was only when he had reported on West Africa, and the tiny nations of Sundiata and Buttata in particular, that his stories had drawn fire. Now, Mallory’s brother appeared to actually be sending him there, to Sundiata. So it had been a valid connection. The October project, “the ill wind,” would happen in West Africa, not in East Africa. Coming here, to Kenya, then, was also a diversion. But could he possibly leave without being noticed?
IN THE MORNING, Jon zipped up his bag and walked out into the hallway. He took the stairs to the ground level and found a side entrance. Walked through the alley for several blocks, emerging at an intersection where he hailed a cab for downtown. He found the address on Green Street: a narrow lane of non-descript brick office buildings. But the designated address wasn’t an auto transport service, he saw, as he passed by several minutes before 9. It was a legal services firm. Jon peered in through the glass at the dusty office space, saw four desks in the center of the room, a separate office on one side. He walked up the street and bought a cup of coffee at a vendor’s stall. Drank it standing on the corner, soaking in the morning. When he finished, Jon walked past the address once more. This time the office was lit by a fluorescent ceiling light. He looked in, saw two women through the window, one sitting on the edge of a desk, the other seated.
At the next intersection, he hired a taxi-cab to Yaya Centre—a huge, American-style shopping mall with a hundred shops and offices. He had a leisurely brunch of tea and almond croissants at the French bakery there, then sat out front on a ledge and typed some notes on his laptop. Twice, the Renault passed, its driver pretending not to notice him.
At 12:50, Jon was on his way back downtown, to Green Street, walking among the crowded lunch stalls and merchant stands, staying among people, when he felt a hard object press against the center of his back, then fingers tightening around his left arm.
He looked, simultaneously trying to pull his arm away: a bulky dark-skinned man wearing a shiny olive suit and white shirt, about Jon’s height but much stockier.
“Excuse me, sir. Just keep walking.” Deftly, then, he took the gym bag from Jon’s left shoulder and slipped it over his own left shoulder. “Keep walking. Look straight ahead, please.”
The man’s grip remained steady, becoming tighter only when Jon resisted. He stayed slightly behind, so that oncoming pedestrians would not notice he was holding Jon’s arm, guiding him forward through the crowds. Jon stole glances, saw that the man appeared to be smiling slightly—but it was a detached smile, as if he were remembering something pleasant. A device to make him seem on his own, not connected to Jon Mallory.
They came to an intersection and waited together at the curb. Traffic roared back and forth over the potholed street, spewing fumes: mini-buses, motorbikes, trucks, cars. On the other side, a group of schoolchildren waited to cross. Behind them, fruit and produce stands and a crowded marketplace.
The light changed, but several bus drivers sped brazenly through the intersection, honking horns. The men began to walk, part of the mass of pedestrians. Bicycle taxis rode through them, bells ringing. A mini-taxi inched along, trying to force the pedestrians to part around it. Four elderly women pushed together with their heads down, walking right into them. Jon felt the man tug at his arm again, pulling left. On the next block, the walking space narrowed; cars were parked at the curb; a lamppost interrupted the pedestrian flow, causing a bottleneck. Jon felt a growing panic. But he also sensed that something about the other man didn’t fit; he seemed too polished to be doing this. The sidewalk became more congested, and for a moment they stopped moving. Again, he felt the man’s fingers tightening on his arm, forcing him around people. The sun was blocked by the tall buildings here, the air cool and stagnant. He felt the fingers gripping, steering him left, creating a passing lane. Then the man loosened his grip. That was the pattern.
He tightened his fingers when they came to another stop, this time at an intersection, standing on the curb. Then the traffic passed and they moved into the street again, and the grip loosened.
Only this time, in the instant that he let go, Jon jerked his arm away and spun in a circle. As the man tried to grab him, Jon barreled back into the crowd, the way they had just come, smashed through a clutch of people and kept running. As he had expected, the man turned and for an instant hesitated. It was all he needed. Jon Mallory was gone, making his way along the sides of the buildings, pushing through the stream of people, seeing an opening and breaking to his right, into an alley. He ran clear through the dark shadows to an adjacent street, then half a block to another alley. There he stopped, to catch his breath, crouching beside a dumpster, breathing the scents of garbage and urine and fresh pastries, listening for footsteps. But nothing came—nothing he could see or hear. He had a few minutes to make the right moves now, to find a taxi and keep his appointment. My brother’s appointment.
Jon stood. Gazed down the alley the way he had come; then the other direction. Nothing. He listened closely: restaurant sounds, silverware clinking, traffic in the next block, voices. What now? He had lost his bag. But he still had his laptop and the envelope from his brother. The carry-on wasn’t important. Just clothes and toiletries. He could buy more of those. He walked deeper into the alley, still catching his breath. A series of doors, he saw, opened into shops and restaurants. Delivery entrances, some latched, some not. Pick one. Jon opened a screen door and stood for a moment in the storage area at the back of a restaurant. Boxes of vegetables, shelves of cans and jars. He passed through the kitchen, smelled basil and spices, walked by a cubby office where a woman looked up, startled, but didn’t say a word, and into the public area without acknowledging anyone. Exiting out the front onto a busy street, he saw a cab stand in the next block. There. He jogged along the sidewalk toward the intersection, staying under the storefront awnings, head down, maneuvering through people, keeping an eye on the cab stand. He checked his watch: 1:08. He could still get a cab to the address on time. If he missed this appointment, what would happen?