“Then you’d certainly be popular with Peter.”
“Early in the evening, I noticed a woman sipping champagne. But later she comes by my bar with a Scotch in her hand, places it down while she checks her phone. When I give the man his next Scotch, she picks up his drink and leaves hers there. This happened shortly before the man collapsed.”
“And what did this woman look like?”
The bartender eyed the hundred-dollar bill. Rif shifted it over to him and removed his hand. The old man pocketed the money.
“Chinese. Tall, in a black dress, with very long hair.”
Quan Xi-Ping.
Rif grabbed a twenty from his wallet and placed it on the bar. “Thanks for the drink, my friend.” He stood, leaving the rest of the Tusker on the counter. That was when he spotted Max Heros near the back of the restaurant, drinking Zambezi beer with a local.
He strode over to their table.
“Mind if I join you?” He pulled up a chair and sat down. “Any updates on Christos?”
Max didn’t look pleased to have the extra company, but he remained polite. “This is Epi Buganda, a member of Interpol Harare who is also responsible for Kanzi. He is helping us investigate Mr. Paris’s kidnapping.”
“Rif Asker, Quantum International Security. Also a close family friend of Christos Paris.” He shook Buganda’s hand and found it clammy and cold.
“My men are working the area, questioning locals to see if they’ve witnessed any unusual activity.” Buganda slurped his beer.
Right, because lawless behavior was so unusual in this ravaged country. Grease a few palms, and silence was king. It’d be a great place to stash Christos, but why would the kidnapper want to keep his captive so close to the negotiations? It’d be too risky. “You learn anything?”
Max leaned back in his chair. “We are investigating all inbound flights over the past few days to see if we note anything suspicious, but several airstrips boast only a windsock, so it’s hard to know who has flown in.”
“And I’m sure President Mugabe is being his usual helpful self.”
The Interpol agent’s left eye twitched. People were scared of the dictator, since those who didn’t fall into line usually disappeared.
Max glanced at his watch. “I have to get back to the hotel. Mr. Buganda, let me walk you to your car. Until later, Mr. Asker.”
He could tell the Greek came from a wealthy family, used to brushing off any unwanted lint with a quick swish of his hand. No way would Rif be so easily dismissed. The inspector had to know more than he was sharing; according to Hakan, Max Heros was trustworthy. Which probably meant he’d done some dirty work for Christos. “We should meet for drinks later. I’ll come find you.”
Max frowned. Before he could answer, Rif stood and exited the restaurant, eager to get back to Thea with the news. On Park Way, he passed a pharmacy and a few high-end art shops. The town of Victoria Falls was a study in contradictions, the affluent dabbling in luxuries while the poor struggled to put food on the table. Everyone seemed used to it. As the saying went, TIA—This Is Africa. Sad but true.
A group of men in red soccer uniforms hiked down Livingstone Way. He hesitated for a moment, catching some shade beneath an acacia tree. Although soccer—or football, as they called it—was the most popular sport here, the locals didn’t swarm the athletes. Instead, people walked away, looked down, avoided eye contact. Their fear was tangible.
Rif studied the men. Fit, with ramrod-straight shoulders. They carried equipment bags in their left hands, walking in a formation more common to a military unit than a sports team. Something wasn’t right. Rif let them pass, then trailed them at a comfortable distance.
At the end of the street, an old yellow school bus spewed a cloud of diesel into the air. A man dressed all in black stood near the open door. The familiar face left Rif cold inside. Jaramogi, from General Jemwa’s camp.
“How far now?” one of the men in the red jerseys asked.
“A ten-minute ride. Get in,” Jaramogi replied.
The athletes boarded the bus in quick succession. Rif used the bushes as cover and positioned himself on the other side of the bus. His instincts told him to find out what the hell these men were up to—especially with the negotiations going on at the nearby hotel.
He removed his backpack, slid under the bus, and used the straps to help attach his body to the underbelly of the chassis. He gripped the undercarriage with his hands. Ten minutes, Jaramogi had said. How bad could it be?
As the bus lumbered down the bumpy road, Rif regretted his decision. He closed his eyes to protect them from the dust blasting his face. His hands clung to the axle as the bus jostled back and forth. He silently cursed Zimbabwean road builders as the vehicle lurched from pothole to pothole.
Chapter Fifty-Four