City of Saints & Thieves(79)

I swallow, look around, as if I could see through the canvas. “Michael and Boyboy are both here?”

“Yes, exactly. The priest was supposed to round you all up together, but apparently he missed you. You do like to run off.”

“You drugged us,” I say.

“No, not me. I have people who do that sort of thing for me—that’s the benefit of being the boss. The priest helped me. When he told me you were in Kasisi I almost didn’t believe him. My Tiny Girl? In Congo? He was supposed to make sure you all stayed put until I got here. It took him a few tries, but he managed at last. He was lucky that whore called him up and told him where you were.”

“You paid Father Fidele?”

“We have an arrangement. I give his hospital a little breathing room from the militias; he keeps me informed. I’m sure he’s very conflicted about the whole thing, but that’s between him and God.” Omoko rubs his chin. “So. Plans. They’re a little off, but salvageable. I’m thinking you’ll have to forget the whole dirt part. That was never the highlight, anyway. No one cares about those sorts of news stories; they’ve heard it all before. One more white colonial type profiting off Africa. It’ll be back-page fodder at best. Let’s go straight to money, shall we? With a twist.”

His eyes gleam. “Instead of anonymously draining Greyhill’s bank accounts, we should have a little fun. Everything gets trickier, I admit, if we add kidnapping to the plan. But since it’s already done . . .” He shrugs, like, what can you do?

“And I have to admit, I’m going to enjoy watching Roland Greyhill beg when he learns that I have his son. And it’s going to be even better to see the look on his face as he transfers a rather significant sum to my accounts to get him back.” Mr. Omoko can’t keep from grinning. “It’ll be almost as fun as step three.”

I swallow. “Mr. Omoko, we don’t have to . . .”

He leans forward, like he’s going to tell me a juicy secret. “Step three,” he continues. “Blood.”

I roll my wrists, trying to work the wires without him noticing. “Mr. Omoko, I know I’m in trouble here, but can we talk about all this? I mean, I don’t think step three is really necessary, and—”

“What’s to talk about?” Omoko says. “Step three is the best part. I know you wanted to do it yourself, but picture this: Once all the cash transfers are secured, he takes off in his helicopter with his son. Then—” Omoko holds his finger up, pausing for effect. He mimes putting a rocket launcher to his shoulder and pulling the trigger. “Bwooosh. We blow them out of the sky.” He gestures grandly. “It’ll be dramatic.”

I can’t take my eyes off Omoko’s face. Has he always sounded this crazy? Or have I just been so wrapped up in my plot that I never noticed? I have to get out of here. I keep rubbing my wrists together, trying to see if I can squeeze out one of my hands.

“Mr. Omoko,” I say, trying for my best rational voice, “Mr. Greyhill isn’t quite as bad as I thought. I’ve learned things since I’ve been here. I was wrong—he didn’t kill my mother.”

“Oh, I know.”

I stop moving. “You do? How do you know?”

Something is tickling my brain. My body is buzzing with it, some realization that is just on the edge of my understanding. I stare at Omoko.

“Because I killed her,” he says matter-of-factly.

For a moment, nothing moves. The words settle outside of me, sinking in slowly, like he’s speaking in another language.

I killed her.

He killed my mother.

Blood rushes to my head.

He murdered her. He is the man in the video.

“Tina, are you listening?” Mr. Omoko snaps in front of my face. “That fool priest killed all your brain cells,” he grumbles. He smacks me lightly on the side of my face, and I jump and gasp, my whole body suddenly zinging with adrenaline.

He looks me in the eye. “I’m telling you this because I want you to understand me. As you can now see, you do not get away from me if I don’t want you to. You do not get away if you wrong me. Especially if, like your mother, you’re some village girl, thinking she can make bargains that destroy everything I worked so hard to build.”

I realize I am not breathing. When I start, it comes in massive gulps, like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. “Are you Number Two?” I manage.

He makes a face. “I never liked that name. But yes, once I was Mr. Greyhill’s Number Two.”

“But that means . . . you’re . . .”

Omoko fixes his eyes back on me. “Yes,” he says, with an edge of impatience. “Do you get it now? I’m your father.”

I am slipping; I hear him say it, but it’s like he’s talking to some other girl while I watch. I did know it. Of course I did; that is the logical conclusion to all of this. But it’s as if something inside of me had been holding this information back, not letting me get there yet. It’s too much.

“Any other person sitting where you are would be dead by now,” he says. “I am angry with you for running off. Of course I am. But I’ve taken care of you this long, and I’m not going to kill you now. I just want you to know that I am capable of it.”

His words pull me out of my stupor. “Taken care of me?” My voice is barely a whisper. “What are you talking about?”