Another pressing problem troubled her. With only enough medication left to last until the next afternoon, she had to reach the pharmacy in Victoria Falls before midday so she could purchase more insulin and other supplies. Her stockpiles had blown up with the Gulfstream. With no access to medication and no outside communications, she felt naked, vulnerable.
Dressed in a colorful sarong the general had provided, she left her tent to find the others. The camp doctor had taken Peter and Brianna to the medical pavilion for a thorough checkup, as they were both showing signs of heatstroke. She explored the camp, following the row of torches lining the main thoroughfare. The beauty of the firelight was in direct contrast to the militarized setup of the place. Simple, structured, with one goal in mind: training killers.
The combination of the brisk wind and her wet hair sent a shiver across Thea’s shoulders. With the sun gone for the night, the desert was cooling down.
A massive tent at the end of the row caught her attention. It was circular, and the heavy canvas looked durable, weathered. Spartan outdoor furniture huddled under a beige awning. No doubt the general used this pavilion as his quarters.
She strode over to the opening. “Jambo, anyone here?”
Silence greeted her. She paused for a moment, then tried again. No response.
It wasn’t as if she could ring a doorbell. She pushed back the flap, peered inside, then entered the spacious tent. On the left, eight rattan chairs encircled a round table. A likely meeting spot for the general and his top lieutenants.
She moved deeper into the pavilion. The next room was a fully stocked kitchen with stainless-steel appliances supported by a generator. Off to the right was a fully outfitted office. She did a double-take. The desk, the chairs, even the lampshade—all the furniture mirrored the pieces in her father’s former study in Kanzi. Right down to the crystal ashtray on the desk and the humidor beside it. What the heck?
Creepy.
She strode over to the desk, her nose wrinkling at a familiar smell. She raised the lid on the humidor and looked inside. Sure enough, Flor de Cano Short Churchills lined the box. She remembered sitting on the deck of the Aphrodite with Papa as he smoked these cigars. She lifted one to her nose and sniffed. Alarm ricocheted through her.
“Care to join me for one?” The low rumble of the general’s voice jolted her back to the present. She almost dropped the cigar.
“Afraid they aren’t to my taste. But, interestingly, they are my father’s favorite brand.” Not to mention that the whole office was a duplicate of her father’s long-ago study.
Amusement showed on his bullish features. “A man of refined taste, your father. Perhaps you can both join me for dinner at my villa? I could educate you on the merits of the cigar’s delicate flavors. That would be a memorable meal. As Raúl Juliá used to say, a cigar is as good as the memories that you have when you smoke it.”
He had to be toying with her. But the fatigue, the pressure—they could be making her paranoid. “You must know that my father’s been kidnapped.”
The general’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened. Gut feeling? His expression lasted slightly longer than genuine surprise. But that was only her intuition talking.
“Very sorry to hear that. I’ve been here training my men. We don’t get much news.”
“My father does a lot of business in Kanzi. Any thoughts as to who might want to abduct him?”
“My guess would be the Chinese, as they are quite keen on winning those oil rights, but it could be anyone. Billionaires and their families are always targets.” He shrugged. “By the way, how’s your brother doing? I don’t know if you remember, but twenty years ago, I rescued him from a brutal warlord named Oba.”
Rescued him. Right. It required every ounce of her self-restraint not to punch him. This giant was a master manipulator, a born liar. She glanced at the books lining the shelves of his office, everything from the classics to biographies. A sophisticated sociopath, he used his brawn as well as his brains to dominate others.
“Yes, that’s right, you collected the million-dollar reward for Nikos’s return. I knew you looked familiar.”
“That money saved countless lives. We farmed land, grew crops for food. Your father became a local hero.”
In Nikos’s journal, “the General” had hated Papa because he’d bought all the crops for biofuels. Now the story had been rewritten, her father starring as the white knight?
“I was hoping to use your satellite phone,” Thea said, needing this conversation to end.
“Of course, but please hurry. The men are eager to start the festivities.” He passed her the phone. “Join us at the fire pit when you’re done.” He vanished as quickly as he’d appeared, light on his feet for such a large man.
She plunked down into the nearest chair, her mind swirling. Motive—what would be General Jemwa’s motive for taking Papa? Money . . . power . . . oil . . . revenge? The possibilities were endless.
She dialed her boss’s cell. He picked up on the first ring.
“Hakan Asker.”
“My feng shui seems to be off today.” Their code that the line wasn’t secure.