White Bone (13 page)

T
he drive to the Nairobi suburb of Karen was short. This was a place of grand homes, of sprawling estates dating back to the colonial era. Radcliffe arrived at the door, looking like a man who’d fallen asleep on the couch and didn’t appreciate the visit.

“Come in,” he spoke gruffly.

Knox sat in a sturdy chair with zebra cushions. Radcliffe indicated the couch he occupied. “I lost my wife. Can’t seem to bring myself to use the bedroom anymore. Cowardly, I know, but a man is who he is.”

“It’s not. I’m sorry.”

“Traffic accident.” Knox had lost him; perhaps Radcliffe was still half asleep. “But it was I who got her killed. That accident was meant for me, or at the very least as a warning to me and the columns I was writing at the time. This is how they do things here, John. This is why it must be changed.”

“I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”

“I know that look. You think I’m a drunk. Don’t equate sorrow, regret and guilt with alcoholism. I’m not that bad off, believe me.”

“I should have called.”

“You should have left the country. Cop killing is frowned upon here. But you haven’t, have you? That tells me you’re either in love or so well paid it’s worth the risk. Either way, you’re a threat to yourself and to people like me who are obliged to report you.”

“I can’t leave.”

“Whatever it is you want, make it quick.”

“Achebe Nadali,” Knox said, leveling his gaze at the man. Radcliffe blinked rapidly and appeared to wake up some. If there had once been kindness in his eyes, Knox didn’t see it. “Public Works minister.”

Radcliffe returned a long, pensive look. With an effort, he forced strained humor onto his face. “You’ll find he’s gone missing. With government ministers that means either early retirement because of a kickback so enormous one can’t hide it, or misfortune that typically involves torture and a permanent loss of assets.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Your best and only bet, John, is to get the hell out of Kenya. No amount of money is worth it. Ah! It isn’t money, is it? You poor sod.”

“She hasn’t been heard from for—” Knox checked his watch, nearly overcome by what he saw. “Forty-seven hours.”
God,
he thought,
we’ve lost her.

“You must leave. Have Graham send someone else. This government is a virus. They will seek you out. It’s in the wind, man. You can’t quarantine them one at a time. You have to round them all up at once.”

The man advocated a revolution. “You’re an anarchist.”

“I’m a pragmatist.”

“You don’t hold back information when a person’s life’s at stake!”

“You don’t lecture a man from whom you want information. Sit tight. I’ll make some coffee.”

“I’ll take mine black,” Knox said.

Knox sought out a bathroom and discovered Radcliffe’s home office on the way back. Radcliffe had earned a degree in journalism from City University London. Had won the David Astor Journalism Award, another from CNN and one from the Media Council of Kenya. There were photos of a younger man with a woman Knox took to be his wife, white politicians, black tribesmen.

Coffees in hand, Knox stood, while Radcliffe perched on a stool at the counter beside him.

“How could you possibly know about Archie Nadali?”

“Grace left me a present.”

“How could she—”

“—know?” Knox interrupted. “Because that’s who she is, Radcliffe. You just come to accept it with her.”

The man wouldn’t make eye contact with Knox. “I hate women like that.”

“Not me.”

“Different generation.”

“Not really. We’re both breathing. You, barely.”

Radcliffe raised his coffee as a toast. He’d have needed a Red Bull to feel a pulse, Knox thought. Radcliffe swallowed and grimaced. He straightened his back, settled his shoulders.

“The rumor,” Radcliffe said, pushing back his disheveled hair, trying to make his point, “from one of my
helpers
,” he stressed the word, “was that Archie Nadali was acting like a man who’d come into money. These government ministers, this bloody government is all about who can grab the most the quickest, isn’t it?”

“I’ve already heard this part,” Knox said. “Let’s get past it.”

Radcliffe wasn’t to be bullied. “A minister’s salary is less than mine. Far less. But still they’re driving a Mercedes AMG, wearing Zegna and golfing the Windsor. When Archie moves up a rung, it’s my job to see who built the ladder.

“The problem, you see, is that the better one performs at one’s respective occupation, the more one’s colleagues enjoy knocking him down a peg. Hmm? After my wife, what was there to lose? I got too close to the quick in a few of my columns. Next thing I know, I’m unpublishable. My own paper fears this government. When one door opens . . . am I right? So I passed the mantle to Daniel.”

“Clock’s running,” Knox said. He thought it cruel what had happened to Radcliffe, admired him for what he’d once been. But he worried the man’s depression was unshakable. “Let’s try again: Grace coded your initials into a message about Achebe Nadali. A Public Works minister of all things. Why?”

“No need to be rude.”

“If you’re Grace, there’s every need.”

“The answer is: Daniel Samuelson. I passed the Archie Nadali lead to my colleague and friend. A fine reporter was Daniel.”
Was
, Knox noted. “My protégé. A most excellent young man who understood old-school journalism. Roll up your sleeves, yes? Screw Google. Put some shoe leather into it. A month later, he’s shot dead as a poacher in Mount Kenya National Park. He and another man, a common laborer, a Kenyan from here in Nairobi. Both killed. What’s that, you say? How does a top-notch journalist end up two hundred kilometers from home, facedown in a game reserve, shot in the back of the head by wildlife rangers employed by the same bloody government that’s been on the take here for twenty bloody years? Well, I wonder, man.”

Now red in the face, Radcliffe looked fragile and suddenly old. Knox poured him more coffee.

“A touch of the king’s water wouldn’t hurt.”

“Do any Brits actually serve themselves?” Knox fired.

“Not those of us who fled to Africa. Not if we can help it.”

Knox spiked the coffee with Scotch. Radcliffe nodded; took a swig. The man wasn’t drunk or hung over. He was sad.

“You told Grace about Daniel Samuelson?” Knox said, thinking aloud. “You told Grace that Samuelson’s investigation into Nadali got him killed.”

“It got Daniel killed and Nadali to vanish.”

“Presumably Samuelson’s investigation was aimed at uncovering Nadali’s accepting cash from Asian Container Consolidated. She’s trying to follow the money from the bad-vaccine mess. Seventy-five thousand dollars of that scam’s profit reached Minister Nadali. The two investigations intersect.”

“She might have first considered where it got poor Daniel.”

“He was shot on Mount Kenya?” Knox stood, his legs twitching. The coffee was strong.

“Doubtful. The bodies were found there. You’re wasting your time. The game agency investigated the deaths. But who do you think’s behind most of the poaching? The exports? Nothing on that scale can happen without the ministers’ blessing. They bribe a few KGA rangers over to the dark side and who’s to stop any of it?”

“Let’s stay on topic. Nadali accepts a bribe from Asian Consolidated. Daniel Samuelson goes after the story.”

“Ivory is the topic, John. It’s the poor elephants in the middle of everything.”

“Okay. I’ll play.”

“It started with charcoal, believe it or not. The Somalis controlled the charcoal export market. True story. Funded their pirating with it, among other exploits. The international community, in
a rage over the pirating, shut them down, eventually took the charcoal exports away from them. So they turned to a more lucrative export.”

“Ivory.”

“And rhino horn. You see what happens when international committees decide things? Remember this, John: there’s never been a monument to a committee.”

“Noted.” He’d felt the lecture coming. Radcliffe had too much time on his hands.

“Days before he died, Daniel paid a visit, thanking me for the lead. He let slip that he thought Archie and this money he’d been paid was tied somehow to the missing ivory.”

“What missing ivory?” Knox stressed.

“More coffee, please. Let’s skip the Scotch.” He hoisted the empty mug. Knox obliged him. “It was execution-style, you know? Single shot, back of the head. Both men, Daniel and this other chap. I showed Grace the crime scene photos. For the record, you don’t shoot poachers on their knees in the back of the head. More like a long rifle at sixty meters. But there it is, Bob’s your uncle. Got the photos from a reliable source. I promise you these were not the crime scenes shown to superiors.

“Of course, you shoot a chap in the back of the head, there’s no face. Takes longer to identify. Gives everyone more time to effect the cover-up.

“As to the ivory. It’s a mythical amount—several millions’ worth—recently disappeared from the government vaults.”

“Forgive me, sir,” Knox said, feeling increasing respect for the man. “But we’re off-topic. Nadali,” he pressed, “ACC.”

“You must listen more carefully. Money is currency. We are following the current. You said yourself Grace suspected some of the money
from the vaccine switch ended up with Archie. Daniel then connected Archie to the robbery from the vaults. At least he thought he had.”

Follow the money
, Knox thought, realizing Grace would have been hanging on Radcliffe’s every word.
In this room?
he wondered. On the couch? On the stool where Radcliffe sat?

“Every African nation has their treasure. The South Africans have their diamonds, don’t they? And gold. Others, gems. All keep ivory. It’s the same as your Fort Knox. Ah! How ironic! John Knox.” Knox had been plagued with that joke his entire life. “No need to explain national treasure to you.”

“Someone robbed Kenya’s Fort Knox?”

“Four million euros. That neighborhood. But that’s how rumors go, isn’t it? The vaults are spread around. Carefully guarded. The currency used to be supported in part by that ivory.”

It didn’t make complete sense—Grace, following this lead. Knox could understand her interest in following the money trail, but she was tasked with recovering the money from the illegal sale of the vaccine. Beyond that, why bother?

“The point being,” the man continued, “Archie takes a bribe. In short order, one hell of a lot of ivory goes missing. It is my life’s goal to bring down this government, and Daniel was no doubt perilously close to indicting at least Archie, if not others with him.”

“Grace doesn’t care about Kenyan politics,” Knox blurted. “If she’d suspected some of the seventy-five thousand dollars had gone on to fund the theft of ivory from a government vault, that should have been enough for her. End of story.”

“She said she was attempting to connect the profit from the vaccine switch to wherever it led,” Radcliffe said. “It led to the inner circle of the government and the likely theft of elephant tusk.”

“Graham Winston’s million pounds ended up funding over four millions worth of tusks,” Knox said.

“Grace’s expressed interest,” Radcliffe said, “at least to me, was getting to the source—the start of it all. That included the theft of the substitute vaccine, the cattle vaccine.” Radcliffe was waking up from the coffee. “Don’t you see, man? Whoever provided that cattle vaccine was either the source or was the closest to the source of this whole catastrophe.” Radcliffe appeared astonished to have heard himself speak these words.

“Go on.”

“There’d been a prior killing with a similar MO to Daniel’s. Also a reported poaching incident. Also done execution-style. And the timing—very significant. No one paid much attention because the man was African. Another dead black man. Not like Daniel. I had the original crime scene photos, didn’t I? And your Grace stopped in her tracks at the sight of the bloke’s tattoo. Got all hot and frothy. I printed a copy of it for her.”

Knox resented the description. He resented Radcliffe expecting him to keep up. “May I see it?”

Radcliffe climbed off the bar stool. He led Knox through the old house to a library and map room better suited to a museum. The home went back to the early twentieth century and was full of ornate woodwork, animal skins and oil paintings. Radcliffe rifled through some files and led Knox on to his study. Seemingly in his element now, he fired up a laptop computer and found the photo of a man’s black-skinned arm. Knox made out an India ink tattoo of Arabic symbols.