“Shh. Did you get it all?”
“I think—need to check.”
I use my phone to find the screen next to the door and press its buttons until it comes on, bathing the tunnel in a soft gray glow.
“What are—doing in there?” I hear Bug Eye say. “Can—get out—is there—back door?”
“One second,” I say. “I can see him on the camera.”
I go quiet as Mr. Greyhill walks into the frame and sits down at his desk. He pulls his laptop out of the drawer and then the hard drive. I hold my breath, waiting to see if he notices anything amiss, but his tired posture doesn’t change. He’s poured himself a drink, which he sets beside the computer. I can only see the back of his head. He rubs his eyes, then loosens his tie and undoes his cuff links. I see him pull his phone from his pocket and put it to his ear.
Boyboy has stopped hyperventilating. “Is there—plug—adapter to the screen—” he whispers.
I hesitate.
“Do it,” I hear Bug Eye say.
I find a place on the side of screen to insert the USB. “Did that work? Can you see?”
“Yeah,” Boyboy breathes. “Turn—audio.”
I press the volume button and hear Mr. G saying, “Yes, of course,” into his phone. He’s tapping at the computer, but his back is blocking the screen.
“Think he noticed the bunnies?” I whisper.
“No, I cleared that business up,” Boyboy says. “Smart piece of screwage, that.”
“Shh.” I lean in closer.
“Same as before,” I hear Mr. G saying in his cold, Big Man voice. “Don’t let Huan-Xi give you any trouble about tariffs. He knows better than to try and pull that . . . Right. No, I’ll be at the mine, so you’ll have to handle it. The one in Walikale Territory, near Kasisi. No, that’s the closest town, and then the mine’s still ten kilometers farther into the mountains. Satellite phones only up there.”
My skin prickles. Kasisi, my home village.
“. . . It is the tin mine. That’s where they bring it. I want to pick up the samples myself . . . I don’t trust anyone else to do it. And I have other business there too . . . Looking into that new comptoir trying to get in on the action. No, I’m not worried about him. He’s just proving to be harder to get rid of than the others . . . No, the rebels know better. They’ll stick with us. We’re reliable. No one else is going to get them the things they want at the prices we offer . . . Yeah, I tried, but this new fellow’s got himself a little posse, apparently. And something about his operations just make me think he’s . . . Never mind. No, it’s nothing . . . Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
The way he says take care of it sends a chill through me. It’s the same voice Bug Eye uses when he’s talking about what to do about someone who’s become a problem.
Mr. G goes on, “. . . Chicago certainly does not need to know . . . No, better you don’t know either. It’s just how things work out there. You’d think the militias would all be tired of fighting but . . . Sure, the offer stands, but no one seems interested in doing business that way . . . I keep telling them it would be more profitable, but . . . not in this lifetime.”
I strain to hear, trying to piece together everything Mr. G is saying.
“Yeah, we work with what we’ve got. If I need to I’ll meet with the general in Kigali before I come back to Sangui. No, that’s the part you don’t need to know about . . . No, the Rwandan general. I’m not dealing with those Congolese bastards. Army, militia, they can’t figure out which team they’re on half the time, why should I bother?”
A Rwandan general. I wonder if that’s Gicanda, the guy whose name came up in Mama’s police file.
“. . . You just keep on greasing all the proper palms. Throw in some Johnnie Walker . . . bring a case. I should take out stock options.” He makes a funny noise that it takes me a second to realize is a laugh. “Right . . . I’ll let you know soon as I’m back. Mm-hm, same to you. Good night.”
He hangs up and sets the phone down. Then he takes a drink, rattling the ice cubes in his glass. For a few seconds he doesn’t move. Then he opens his desk drawer and I see a flash of silver.
It’s the gun.
I stare, transfixed as he picks it up and turns it over in his hands.
“What’s he doing?” I hear Boyboy whisper.
“I don’t know.”
Greyhill holds the gun almost tenderly for a few more seconds, then replaces it in the drawer. His chair has been covering the computer screen, but then he leans back and it suddenly comes into view. When I see what he’s looking at, I suck in my breath.
It’s the photo of Mama and her friend.
My fist clenches, like I want to punch through the screen and snatch her away. I feel something like a growl inch up my throat.
Just then there’s a knock on the office door, startling both Greyhill and me. Mr. G hits a button on the computer and Mama vanishes. “Yes?”
The office door opens a crack. “Coming to bed soon, dear?” Mrs. Greyhill asks.