Blood Ransom (16 page)

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 6:14 P.M.

KALAMBALL QUARE, KASILI

Camille’s face haunted Stephen. Memories he’d buried years ago now refused to lie dormant. He dug through the bottom drawer of his desk until he finally found the worn photo. Seventeen years had passed. He’d since married, fathered two children, and made a new life for himself. And still he’d never forgotten. He knew his wife, Anna, would never understand the hold Camille held over him, and she would be right. He’d let ghosts from the past turn him into someone he hardly knew anymore, and in the process he’d lost both Anna and his girls.

Camille stared back at him from the picture, reminding him of how beautiful she’d been. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept the snapshot. Perhaps as a reminder of what he’d lost—and of what he could never have.

He frowned. He knew what Camille would tell him right now if she was still alive. But while he’d always admired her zeal for life, she’d failed to understand one thing: sometimes standing up for what one believed in not only managed to hurt oneself, but also those one loved.

He’d escorted Camille home from work the day of the election, alongside houses with corrugated tin roofs and swept front yards. The roads were filled with potholes and bordered by dozens of kiosks
where people sold everything from dried fish to shoelaces simply to make enough to eat one meal a day.

Bogama had become a city on the brink of war whose citizens were used to hiding behind high walls topped with razor wire. Despite the concentrated military presence, he’d never trust Camille’s safety to the dozens guarding the streets. They patrolled in uniformed groups beside tanks and other signs of the upcoming election. Huge banners blew in the wind claiming victory by both sides. Stephen was afraid no one would win. Promises from their leaders were rarely fulfilled.

He’d tried to convince Camille to leave the chaos along with the thousands of others who had already fled the capital. Anyone who could was leaving. The current president had given them little choice. At eighty-four-years old, his health had deteriorated to the point where he could no longer make rational decisions, but even that hadn’t loosened his tight grip on the country. Samuel Tau had stepped up with promises to lead the country into an era of peace and development despite those who insisted the president’s son was to take the next term of power. The resulting tribal clashes had already left two hundred dead from fights in the streets between the army and the police.

Those who could afford it fled the city. Those who couldn’t leave hid in their homes, praying that God would save them and bring an end to the conflict. God chose to do neither, and Camille had ignored the warnings and insisted on staying. The children at the mission where she worked needed her, she told him. Her mother needed her. It didn’t matter that he needed her too. That he wanted to get her out and protect her.

Then what he’d feared most happened. A group of solders stopped them halfway to her house. One spun a pistol around his finger, laughing at the game of Russian roulette he played. They were drunk, loud, and focused on displaying their power. They proved it by forcing him to stand helpless as they raped and killed her in front of him.

There was nothing Stephen could have done to save her—or so
he’d convinced himself as the scenario played over and over in his mind during the months after her death and the bloody election that followed. President Tau might have managed to eventually squelch the uprisings when he took power, but even his lengthy rule couldn’t erase the mistrust Stephen had toward authority.

He’d heard the promises that this current election would take place without any of the horrors his country remembered. Natalie’s discovery had managed to shatter any illusions that this time would be different—that this time his country might escape another mass bloodshed. Natalie was too much like Camille. Too stubborn to leave. Too naïve to realize the consequences.

Stephen lit a match and watched the yellow flame eat at the corner of Camille’s picture. Its faded colors blended together before spilling black chunks of ash across his desk. He shook the match and tossed it beside the ashes. With his pointed accusations Patrick had been right about one thing: he’d spent his life pleasing both sides, while at the same time making no claims to either. He’d thought he’d be able to survive unscathed, but in the end it had cost him his career, and now his wife and children.

He blew out the flickering flame, then tossed the damaged photo into the metal trash can beneath his desk. He had one card left to play, and this time he knew what he had to do.

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 6:37 P.M.

RACHEL BOTELA’S APARTMENT, BOGAMA

Joseph had been right. Except for a few warning shots, the police hadn’t tried to stop them. But that hadn’t stopped Natalie’s heart from racing the following fifteen minutes as they’d made their way toward Rachel’s building in the cover of darkness. Now the three of them sat exhausted and dirty, needing to convince Rachel that the Ghost Soldiers weren’t a myth and that they might be the only ones who could stop them.

Natalie studied Rachel’s expression as one by one her friend flipped through the pictures on the coffee table in her apartment. These images were the only thing they had to convince Rachel to help them. The three of them had been greeted cautiously at the door. Whether this was because of their presence or simply a reflection of the tension in the city before a major election, Natalie didn’t know, but with the photos of Aina and the other villagers in front of her, Rachel’s normally warm smile had vanished completely.

Natalie shoved aside a loose strand of hair, then felt it fall across her forehead again. Twenty-four hours of running had left her needing a shower and a good night’s sleep, but sleep would have to wait. For now, they had to ensure Rachel was on their side. Showing her the photos had seemed the best place to start.

A minute later, Rachel dropped the last picture onto the small coffee table in front of her. “I’ve worked in hospitals for over four years now, and in that time I’ve seen things I’ll never forget. Accident victims, rape victims, women beaten by their husbands…But these photos tell a story I don’t want to hear. The Ghost Soldiers are supposed to be rumors, nothing more.”

“The photos prove otherwise,” Natalie told her. “They’re real, Rachel, which means the slave trade is real. That’s why we’re here. We need your help.”

“Is there anyone you recognize?” Chad asked.

“I don’t know. Most don’t have clear shots of the soldiers’ faces.” She picked up the photo Joseph had captured of the two men talking about the assassination. “This man…the man on the left is Daniel Biyoya. He’s one of the county’s senior military officers.”

Chad let out a low whistle. “What do you know about him?”

“Nothing, really. I’ve just seen his face on the news.”

“It’s a start.” Chad tapped his finger on the other man in the photo. “What about the man he’s talking to?”

“I don’t know.” Rachel shook her head and pressed her lips together. “And even if the Ghost Soldiers are real, I don’t understand what this has to do with me.”

“You have access to demographics of the country that might help us pinpoint where they are taking people. If we could compare them, look for discrepancies…”

“I’ve studied the research, and I’ve never seen anything that hints of the existence of slave camps.”

“There’s more. Someone is trying to cover up what’s happening,” Natalie continued. “When Joseph took the photos, he overheard one man assuring another that the election was set.”

“A rigged election?” Rachel stood and crossed the worn carpet, stopping beside the closed window that overlooked the city, and turned to face them. “That’s a strong accusation for such little proof.”

“What’s happened the past twenty-four hours is enough proof
for me, and if whoever wins is behind the slave trade, then it will continue.” Natalie caught Rachel’s gaze. “Patrick is high up in the government—”

Rachel’s chin shot up. “You think Patrick has something to do with this?”

Natalie held up her hand. “I’m not saying that.”

“Then what are you saying?” Rachel asked.

Chad cleared his throat. “Patrick was leading an investigation. An investigation that claims there isn’t any proof of the Ghost Soldiers or a slave trade—”

“No.” Rachel’s voice rose a notch. “You’ll never convince me Patrick is involved in some cover-up conspiracy.”

She stormed from the room, slamming the kitchen door closed behind her.

Chad drummed his fingers against his legs. “I guess that didn’t go so well.”

“She’s scared,” Natalie said. “And I think there’s more. When I brought up Patrick, she had to defend him. Like she already knew he might be involved in something.” Natalie knew Rachel had a generous heart and a deep love for her people, but that didn’t mean she was immune from avoiding the truth. “I’ll try to talk to her.”

Natalie opened the door into the small kitchen, praying she could convince Rachel to help them. Her friend stood in front of the sink, her hands resting on the edge of the counter. She looked up as Natalie entered, then pulled a bag of cornmeal from the small cupboard.

“I’m sure you all are hungry. I don’t keep a lot of food in the house, but I can make some goza and sauce. Patrick recently bought me a gas stove. It’s a lot quicker than cooking over charcoal.”

“We didn’t mean to upset you. Maybe we shouldn’t have come.”

“No.” Rachel grabbed a large pot from the cupboard. “It’s okay. I’ve always told you that you were welcome here, and I meant it. It’s just that…”

“That what, Rachel?”

Without answering Rachel turned on the tap, filled the pot with water, and set it on the stove to boil.

“You saw the faces of those people, Rachel,” Natalie began. “Many of them died on that mountain. And if we don’t find out the truth, more will die, including Joseph’s father. I don’t want that to happen, and I know you don’t either.”

“Stop!” Rachel began chopping another onion, narrowing her eyes as the strong smell made her eyes water. “Patrick never spoke to me about the Ghost Soldiers or a slave trade.”

“We just want answers, and I believe the place to start is with the demographic reports. But in the meantime they’ve put out a reward on us.”

“I can’t believe Patrick’s involved in something like this, but those photos…Has Patrick seen the photos?”

Natalie nodded.

“Then he knows the truth, and he’s still trying to cover it up.” Rachel spoke like it was a fact rather than a question.

“What else do you know?”

Rachel shrugged. “I’ve heard the stories about the Ghost Soldiers. Everyone has. People disappearing into the night and being worked as slaves in the mines. Anyone who tries to escape or is too weak to work is brutally murdered in front of their family. I never wanted to believe it. Patrick always assured me that they weren’t anything more than rumors spread by the opposition to discredit the president—”

There was a bang on the front door. Natalie jumped. Surely the police hadn’t found them. They’d been careful they weren’t followed and had even left the car a mile down the road. There was no way anyone could know they were here. Unless…

“I’m sorry.” Rachel pressed her hand against her mouth.

“Please say you didn’t call the authorities.”

Tears welled in Rachel’s eyes. “I promised Patrick I’d let them know if you showed up. When you called me to get directions, I thought…I believed Patrick.”

“And you called the police.”

“I’ll get rid of them. I promise.”

Natalie froze, still not sure if she should trust her. But what choice did she have?

“Quickly.” Rachel swept into the living room ahead of Natalie and motioned at the door at the end of the hall. “Hide in my room for now. I don’t have anywhere safe to hide you if they search the house, but I’ll try and convince them you left.”

Natalie grabbed the photos from the coffee table and followed Chad and Joseph down the short hallway and into Rachel’s bedroom. She slid onto the floor behind the double bed. Rachel was either putting her own life at risk, or setting a trap that would land them all in prison.

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 1:31 P.M. EST

NORTH BETHESDA, MARYLAND

Gabby took a sip of water and eyed the lunch Sabrina had picked up for her on the way home. She’d tried to eat, but the now cold French fries and ham sandwich sitting on the edge of her computer desk turned her stomach. She flipped her cell phone over and over between her fingers. On the drive home from the airport, she’d reviewed everyone on the list she’d interviewed. But unless someone stepped forward and claimed responsibility for the threat she’d received on her phone, narrowing down whom she’d angered enough to seek revenge wasn’t going to be easy.

She quickly scanned her social networks, Twitter, Facebook, and her blog comments, but decided to forgo any updates for the moment. No need announcing to the world where she was. Not until she knew how seriously she should take the phone threat.

Instead she scrolled through her e-mails, erasing the junk mail, marking the upcoming singles’ party at church on her calendar, and setting a reminder for next week’s dentist appointment. She stopped at a message from Natalie Sinclair.

Thought you might be interested in this. I went to a village that one of my translators claimed was attacked by a group of Ghost Soldiers.
I’m attaching several photos he took. Call me when you get home and we can talk.

—Natalie Sinclair

Gabby clicked on the attached photos. Her empty stomach roiled at the graphic images and the terror on the victims’ faces. No matter how many times she saw evidence of abuse, it always struck her afresh. She clicked through the photos again. Natalie had mentioned she was aware of the dangerous working conditions of some of the mine workers and then had brought up the Ghost Soldiers.

What if there’s more involved than just the exploitation of workers…

Gabby rubbed her temple. What had Natalie meant? Was there a connection between her research and the Ghost Soldiers? Patrick Seko’s explanation had made sense, but what if the missing villagers had nothing to do with nomadic practices and were instead victims of violent mercenaries? Like the photos suggested.

Picking up her cell phone, she punched in the fifteen digits of Natalie’s number. The phone rang a half dozen times, then switched to voice mail. She clicked open the next e-mail while waiting to leave a message.

Her heart froze.

“Drop the story. It’s not worth your life.”

Gabby clicked the phone shut and reread the message. No subject line. No sender information. Tracing the author would be impossible due to remailers who stripped e-mail messages of all electronic ties. She pressed her hands against the desk and tried to breathe, wondering what exactly it was that she’d stumbled on to.