In the evenings when she wasn’t spending time with Joseph, Zoe wrestled with her New Yorker article. As Samantha Wu had predicted, Naomi Potter had marked up the pages with so many suggestions and annotations that Zoe saw more red ink than black. Never had she been so heavily edited, and she found the experience irritating and humbling. Naomi was particular about everything—narrative flow, logical clarity, word choice, syntax—but her greatest concern was the impression the article would leave with the reader.
“We have to finesse this,” she said in an email when she sensed Zoe’s frustration. “You’re placing your family—indeed, your father himself—at the heart of an argument that isn’t consistent with his campaign message. There’s no margin for error. We have to get this right.”
On Sunday afternoons, Zoe visited Kuyeya, sometimes alone, sometimes with Joseph. The girl recovered quickly from her second fall. There were times when she seemed to fumble things with her hands, other times when she favored her neck. But the episodes were brief and her overall disposition positive. Dr. Chulu continued to monitor her, but he was sanguine about her prognosis. Whatever orthopedics thought of the girl’s X-rays, Zoe never learned.
Six days before the trial, Zoe stayed at the office after hours, working on her examination notes for Sarge. A few minutes after six o’clock, she shut down her computer and looked at Joseph who was finishing up a report in another case.
“Sometimes I drive myself crazy,” she said with a sigh.
He put down his pen. “That’s what gives you an edge.”
Suddenly, Zoe heard her iPhone vibrate. She picked it up and froze. On the screen was a text message from an unrecognized number. “Meet me at market tomorrow. Bring protection.”
Zoe showed the message to Joseph.
He whistled. “The housekeeper.”
Zoe nodded. “She wants a way out.”
They arrived at Chiwoyu’s aisle at eight forty-five the following morning. As before, they cased the market for a sign of Dunstan Sisilu, then hovered around the shoe vendor’s stall, watching for the housekeeper’s silhouette. Zoe had a vague premonition of danger, which she attributed to nerves. The step they were about to take—offering protection to a critical witness—was unprecedented in CILA’s history. No one knew how the Nyambos would respond.
The housekeeper emerged from the sunlight just after nine o’clock, holding only her shoulder bag. She walked briskly up the aisle, keeping her head down. Zoe didn’t move until the housekeeper acknowledged her. Immediately, she saw the depth of the woman’s fear.
“Did you do as I asked?” the housekeeper asked.
“There’s an Embassy couple in Ibex Hill that needs help,” Zoe replied, struggling to steady her nerves. “We can take you there now.”
Joseph joined them. “Where is the man who brought you here?”
“In the taxi lot. He will come if I don’t return by nine thirty.”
Joseph looked at Zoe. “Stay with her. I’ll get the Land Rover.”
Zoe led the housekeeper to the end of the aisle and watched as Joseph skirted the edge of the market and disappeared. “What is your name?” she asked.
The woman blinked. “I am Anna.”
Zoe was about to ask another question when something registered in her peripheral vision. She squinted against the slanting light of the sun, searching for anything recognizable. Vendors were pushing carts of goods, shoppers were carrying bags and baskets, and children of all ages were scurrying about, laughing and chattering. Watching carefully, Zoe saw a shape duck into an aisle thirty feet away. Her sense of foreboding turned into fear.
“What does your driver look like?” Zoe asked.
Anna glanced at her. “He is big and always wears sunglasses.”
Zoe put her arm around the woman’s waist. “We have to go now,” she said, shuttling the startled housekeeper up the lane away from the taxi lot. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Dunstan Sisilu emerge from the shadow of the market, moving in their direction. “We need to run,” she urged, scanning the lane for Joseph.
Anna was spry for an older woman, but she was not fast, and Sisilu steadily gained ground. Zoe slipped her hands under Anna’s armpits and half-dragged her up the lane, her legs burning from the exertion. At last she saw the Land Rover make the turn. Joseph lurched to a stop in front of them, and Zoe piled Anna into the back seat.
“Step on it!” she shouted, jumping in. “He’s here!”
Joseph jammed the transmission into reverse and accelerated up the lane. Almost instantly, a horn blared, and he hit the brakes hard, barely avoiding a Coca-Cola delivery truck that had blocked their path. He threw the Land Rover into drive and headed toward Sisilu again. Zoe watched terror-struck as Sisilu pulled out his revolver. She pushed Anna’s head toward the floor, listening for the sound of a gunshot, but none came. Then they were past. She glanced out the back window and saw Sisilu running after them.