White Bone (11 page)

K
nox was heading to the front desk to ask after the assistant manager when his phone buzzed. His mood changed instantly; he imagined Dulwich calling to say Grace had been found, alive and well. Gone to ground just as expected. That she was asking after him, wondering what had taken him so long. He viewed the screen.

He casually raised his head, still walking. Maya Vladistok, phone in hand, offered a sideways glance. A uniformed policeman, an officer, was staring at his mobile phone, head down, seemingly engrossed. Knox took the stairs and walked the lobby balcony to reach
his room. He never unpacked; lived out of his duffel. Packing amounted to collecting his toiletries, putting his Dopp kit into the duffel, and zipping it up. He was wiping down the room when a knock on the door startled him.

“Police.”

The only way out was the door—or to break a window with the desk chair and bail out from three stories up.

“Mr. Knox, you will please open the door?”

The cop knew his name. Not good. Knox checked the peephole. He recognized the sergeant from the lobby. The policeman had been waiting for him. Alone. An arrest would typically involve patrolmen, not a sergeant. Either he wanted only to speak to Knox, or Knox was about to learn firsthand about the Kenyan corruption he’d been hearing about. He moved the equivalent of a hundred dollars in cash into his right pocket.

“How can I help you, officer?” he shouted as he considered the window. He carried one hundred feet of AmSteel rope in his bag; about the thickness of a shoelace, its nearly five-thousand-pound tensile strength was more than enough to support his rappelling.

Forced to make a split-second decision, he elected not to run. He unlocked and opened the door. Took a bathroom towel and dropped it to the floor to prop the door open. Before the sergeant asked, Knox was already presenting his passport.

The sergeant was black-skinned, round-faced and forbearing in his examination.

“It’s your visa, Mr. Knox, that’s the problem,” he said.

Knox waited. Nothing about this was right. Cops didn’t chase down bad visas. Sergeants didn’t make hotel calls. Knox’s visa was standard issue. No wonder Maya had tried to warn him.

“Your visa was executed at the airport?”

Here it comes,
he thought, wondering if a hundred dollars would
be enough. “Yes. Of course. The stamp is right there. Issued upon entry, just like everyone else’s. It cost me fifty U.S. dollars, cash. The exit document’s right there. It’s all in order.”

“It’s not right, I’m afraid. You will need to leave the country.”

“What? Why?”

“This visa was issued incorrectly. You will need to apply for a tourist visa once you land. At the granting of that visa, you may return to Kenya.”

“I just got here. My visa’s good. What’s wrong with the paperwork?”

“Please collect your things. You will come with me.”

“Please check that you have the right John Knox. It’s a common enough name.”

“There is no mistake. I apologize. It’s a clerical error. You are not alone in this.”

“Obviously, there is. Look,” he said carefully, “if it’s a matter of the funds not being properly recorded, maybe this can be worked out between the two of us.” Knox took a step closer, his hand slipping into his pants pocket. “I’d just as soon handle it here as have to go across town to an office and stand in line.” He found the man’s recessed eyes off-putting.

“You will collect your belongings. There is a British Airways flight three hours from now. You will be on it.”

“Are you sure we can’t work this out?” Knox produced the wad of shillings.

“Any attempt to bribe a public official results in a mandatory six months. Are you sure that’s the way you want to go, Mr. Knox?”

“Perhaps I got the amount incorrect?”

“Second warning. There will not be a third.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to settle this at the U.S. Embassy,” Knox said. “If you wish to meet me there, you are invited to do so.”
Knox returned the man’s cold stare. “I will leave the country only if advised to do so by my embassy.”

“There is no room for negotiation, Mr. Knox. There will be no trip to your embassy.” The sergeant lumbered forward, snatched Knox’s small duffel and turned for the door. Knox smelled bitter sweat. “Your paperwork is incomplete and can only be corrected at a consulate or embassy
out of the country
. You will be coming with me whether by choice or by force.”

You and who else?
Knox wanted to say. Mixing it up with a cop, even a corrupt cop, was a bad idea. The window was the better choice, after all. “I will call my embassy. You will wait outside, please.” Knox removed his phone slowly from his pocket, so it could not be mistaken for a weapon. He showed him his phone. “To be fair, sergeant, you may wish to know that I am recording our conversation to the voicemail of my lawyer. Your badge number is 9527. No matter what you do to me or my phone, there is no undoing this recording. If you’d like to reconsider your refusing me access to my embassy—the United States Embassy—now is your chance.” He waited, expecting more of a reaction. The sergeant stared ahead stoically, almost comically unimpressed.

“Call whomever you like. You’re coming with me. Now, please.” He gripped Knox’s bag more tightly. Most of what Knox needed was zipped into the many interior pockets of his travel jacket, but if the man kept his bag there would be the discovery of the go-bag and other circumstantial evidence that might require explaining.

Maya Vladistok appeared in the doorway then, a step behind the policeman, who turned to account for her. Her eyes were frantic; her breathing revealed she’d hurried.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded.

“It’s nothing,
sweetheart
,” Knox said, trying to cover for her. “A misunderstanding about my visa.”

“I know you,” the sergeant said to Vladistok. Addressing Knox, he spoke condescendingly. “This is the attorney you called? I should have figured as much.” He spoke to Vladistok. “You’re lucky I don’t arrest you.”

“How will your captain feel about such publicity?” Vladistok said, clearly unintimidated.

The sergeant’s confidence lessened as he turned and backed up a step in order to keep both Vladistok and Knox in sight.

“Her? No,” Knox said. “The attorney I called is in England. This woman is my . . . friend. A close friend, if you understand. That’s all.”

Vladistok appeared to consider speaking for herself, but Knox gave a slight shake of the head. “I’ll catch up with you later,
sweetheart
.”

She refused the role. “What seems to be the problem, officer? You claim to know me, but I don’t know you. If you know
of
me, well, that’s different. Then you know how good I am at what I do, and that I’m very well connected. Including within the police department. Yes? Which precinct are you with? Allow me to make a call, which is within this man’s rights.”

“He’ll be coming with me. And if you attempt to interfere with my performance of duty, we both know where that gets you.”

“Sweetheart,” Knox said more deliberately, “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

The officer turned to Maya, his tone condescending. “You make any calls and it’s just going to make things harder on him.”

Maya moved past the policeman and into the hall. “Well, let’s just see, shall we?” She pulled a mobile out of her purse. “You wait here,” she said to Knox. “Don’t go anywhere just yet.”

She dialed the phone and placed it to her ear, walking out of sight. The policeman backed out of the hotel room, never taking his eyes off Knox. “Come back here!” he called nervously down the hall while his attention remained fixed on Knox.

Knox heard it before the sergeant. Wheels moving quickly behind a rattle. The sergeant never saw the baggage cart. He turned his head in its direction, but too late. The cart carried a young European boy, sitting on its empty platform, holding the sides like he was riding a sled. Two older teenage boys were pushing hard from behind. They had the thing really moving.

The thud of the collision, the
whoosh
of expelled air, the call of high young voices and the trampling of light feet as the teenagers hurried away mixed with the casual sounds of the lobby below. Then, what seemed like an eternity later, a telling thud was followed by a hush as the lobby went chillingly silent. This silence was shattered by high-pitched screams.

Knox hurried out of the room. His duffel lay on the tile by the banister. He peered over and down into the lobby. The sergeant lay in a crippled, ungainly, inhuman form, blood splatter surrounding him, a pool of it around his head like a crown.

A woman looked up and pointed.

“There! Him!”

Heads snapped up, took in Knox leaning out over the rail.

The same woman shouted,
“You!”

K
nox stepped back, mind reeling. He grabbed his duffel and headed for the fire stairs, descending two at a time.

He considered hotel security barely a step above the Boy Scouts. Their reaction time would be slow. They’d take elevators. Knox reached ground level, punched through an alarmed door to the outside. A side door, as Maya had suggested.

Keeping his head down, he turned left, away from the front entrance. He used the windows as mirrors. Walked fast, but did not run. He slipped his arms through the straps and slung the duffel on as a backpack.

He thought of Grace and what a mess he was making of this.

When a woman spoke as she passed, he nearly missed it.

“Government Lane, River Road, Koja stage.” He repeated what he’d heard in order to remember it. Glancing behind him, he saw Vladistok’s back. She did not slow, did not break stride. She had given Knox the one chance to hear her, and no more.

Already working his phone’s map, he cut between parked cars and dodged moving vehicles to cross. Reaching the opposite sidewalk, he reversed direction and paralleled Maya, now a half-block ahead. Wedged into hundreds of Kenyans, a full head taller, Knox hunched his shoulders, shrank down in order to make less of a spectacle.

As sirens neared, he briefly stepped out of the mob and tightened a shoelace. He counted an impressive five patrol cars outside the hotel. A dozen patrolmen scrambled from the vehicles. Knox turned, kept moving.

The closer he drew to the stage stop—a triangular parking lot formed by the intersection of three streets and crowded with
matatu
s—the more pedestrians crowded the space. A hardware store, a cell carrier, food stalls, clothing stores and an open-air market all competed for the attention of the thousands using the bus stop. Knox slowed, not knowing how to find the “Koja stage.”

He felt a hand take his.

“Stay with me. Say nothing. Make yourself as small as possible and be friendly. Are you capable of smiling?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Of course not. I saw it all. I’m your only witness, which is too bad for both of us.”

“I have to speak with hotel management. Not about this! I have a lead.”

“Not now. Probably not ever. Forget that for now.”

“I can’t.”

The
matatu
ride was spine-jarring. Knox sat sandwiched between two passengers, head spinning from the conflicting body odors. The driver talked to himself, into what later proved to be a Bluetooth earpiece; the woman next to Knox threw elbows as she knitted a baby’s cap; he caught Maya Vladistok smiling at him from the
seat behind. He not only liked, but trusted her. Best of all, he no longer felt at sea. He’d found a navigator.

Maya’s apartment, a modest studio with a view of a parking lot, had more books than shelf space. It contained two ladderback chairs, a small round dining table and a galley kitchen. Either she slept sitting up or there was a well-hidden Murphy bed. Knox used the toilet—the bathroom was even smaller than the kitchen—to wash up.

They sat in the two chairs, saying nothing. The sounds of a busy city penetrated the thin glass of the only window. Among the hundreds of books, he didn’t spot a single work of fiction. Law journals, biographies, African history.

“I have to get back to the hotel. She left something there. For someone. I don’t know who. But whoever it is can help me. I need the name. And whatever it is she left behind—if it hasn’t been picked up.”

“You do not want to test Kenyan justice, Mr. Knox. Justice in matters such as these is tribal, severe and swift. And though this government will be hesitant to jail or execute a foreigner, especially an American, you have come at an inauspicious time. The current government would be well served by declaring itself judicially independent and able to prosecute its own laws. The killing of a policeman is justification enough. I would imagine you would serve at least a few years.” She frowned. “The airport, trains and border crossings are out of the question. Do you have money?”

“Yes.”

“Mombasa is your best option. With the right connections and cash, you may be able to arrange stowage on an outbound ship. Ironically, John, this is how the elephant tusk is exported. And by the same people.”

“Asian Container Consolidated.”

“Or a competitor. Being white will cost you and won’t help.
Those in the Mombasa port would be more than happy to take a payment from the police for you. It will be extremely difficult to arrange passage, but I think it is not impossible.”

“Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”

“Few options, none without risk, I’m afraid.”

“There may come a time for that, but it’s not now.”

“Don’t be stupid. You cannot remain in this country. Every hour works against you. In the public eye, you have killed a policeman. You are a foreigner. The manhunt won’t stop, believe me. You are a trophy now, more valuable than the big game you came to protect.”

“You can’t harbor me. I understand.”
Every hour works against Grace, too,
he wanted to say.

“It’s not that! Don’t try to switch topics. I know a clean cop called Kanika Alkinyi. She is one of very few. She will help us.”
Us,
Knox noted privately. “The pressure will intensify to bring you in. The secret police are everywhere and always in plainclothes. They have a massive network of informers. A single tip can net a month’s wages. Add to that the CCTV here in Nairobi and your odds are nonexistent. If we hurry, and stay one step ahead, we might get you to Mombasa and out of the country. Until I reach Kanika, it’s best to stay here with me.”

“Not advisable. They’ll have video of you at the hotel. Look, I appreciate the offer. Any contacts you’re willing to share would be terrific. But as far as your direct involvement, Maya . . . No way. As you’ve said, when I’m caught—and I won’t be—they will have to choose carefully how to deal with me. We both know how they would deal with you. It’s off the table.”

To his surprise and pleasure she didn’t argue with him. Instead, she sat, staring at him contemplatively—through him.

At last she rose, reheated some rice and beans, opened a can of chicken soup. Knox ate with her.

“You saw someone, recognized someone in Kibera, just before the firefight—the guns.”

“A ranger, a man called Koigi.”

“You knew there’d be trouble. How is that?”

“You see a skunk walking around in the daytime—”

“You shoot it because it likely carries rabies,” he said.

“Koigi, he’s one of the good people. A legend. But it was the same thing as the skunk. He cannot afford to be seen in Nairobi. I cannot imagine what would be important enough to bring him here.”

“Should I care?”

“Koigi runs a group of rangers in a particularly lawless part of the country. Not a declared reserve, but it doesn’t need to be declared with Koigi looking after it. He is suspected of having killed a dozen poachers or more. And though the KGA has a shoot-to-kill policy, technically what Koigi does is homicide. The government leaves him alone for many reasons, including public approval for what he does, but in Nairobi they would have to arrest him. He gives the police no choice. For him to arrive, in daylight, into Kibera—yes, I knew there would be trouble.”

The equatorial sun set quickly. Knox tasted the soup again, looked out over the spoon as he did. “I’m not going to Mombasa. I need to get into that hotel. It’s the last place they’ll look for me.”

“You cannot help Grace Chu. Not any longer. You must think of yourself. Of Kenyan prisons. Everything changed with the fall of that policeman. If you move quickly, you might be able to stay ahead of them for twenty-four hours. No more than this.”

Knox tapped his watch. “Then I have twenty-four hours. The hotel.”

She hissed. “You are a single man, I believe.”

Knox stared at her.

“No great surprise. Tell me what it is you must do at the hotel. I will do it for you.”

“I can’t ask that.”

“I did not hear you ask.” She returned his stare. “The hotel, and then Mombasa.”

“The hotel,” Knox agreed. “First things first.”