The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(59)
Kinshasa had lived, thankfully, but the trauma of being shot had transformed the lighthearted boy into a quiet, serious young man. Rif still sent him and his family money every month, anonymously.
His team, his superiors, and later even Thea had told him his actions had been by the book, but . . . he’d shot an eight-year-old boy, a friend. He looked at his work differently now. More cautious about getting close yet more aggressive during maneuvers. He’d do whatever it took to make sure the people he cared about were safe.
Chapter Forty
Thea couldn’t have been less excited to be flying so soon after the crash. But at least the Bell helicopter hovering over the mile-wide Victoria Falls gave her a spectacular view of the world’s largest curtain of falling water. Mist surrounded the Zambezi River in the early morning, casting a haze over the lush greenery and red earth. The cataract, called Mosi-oa-Tunya—Smoke That Thunders—deserved its place on the list of the seven natural wonders of the world. As David Livingstone eloquently recorded in his diary in 1855, there were “scenes so lovely, they must have been gazed upon by angels in flight.” But the giant sitting next to her was certainly no angel.
“My men are looking into the possibility of your father being held in Kanzi. If he’s in my country, we’ll find him,” the general said.
Hardly comforting. The Kanzi dignitary was a proven kidnapper in his own right. And his doppelg?nger office had given her shivers. For all she knew, he could be the one holding Papa captive. Still, no sense antagonizing him. “Thanks for your help and the ride.” She was sitting behind Rif, so she couldn’t read his expression. Brianna and Peter were in the second helicopter, following them.
Fatigue shrouded her shoulders. She’d had a sleepless night in her tent, tossing and turning, uncertain whether General Jemwa would come through on his promise to transport them the short distance to Victoria Falls. But the temptation of keeping his unexpected guests in limbo obviously paled next to being on hand for the negotiations about the billions of dollars in oil rights.
The Bell descended toward the Elephant Hills Hotel’s helipad. Less than a minute later, they landed on the painted white circle. Four Hummers waited to transport them to the Victoria Falls Hotel, a few kilometers away.
She exited the helicopter and hurried to the Hummers, her mind already planning ahead. First she needed to speak to Hakan; then she had to ditch Rif so she could find a pharmacy. Being out of touch had been a frustrating purgatory—not knowing if the kidnapper had called, not knowing if Hakan had had a break in the case, not knowing if Papa had been hurt, or worse.
Thea, Rif, and General Jemwa slid into the first Hummer, and they set off for the hotel. The town was in reasonably good shape, given the devastation Mugabe had wrought amassing his own wealth. Still, the guarded, fatigued faces along the street reflected the wear and tear of a long-time dictatorship.
Her phone started vibrating in her pocket. They had cellular service again. Leaning forward in her seat, she scanned the messages.
A text from Hakan: Call me ASAP. The blood on the helipad of the Aphrodite was the same type as Christos’s.
Rif stared at her. She shook her head. Not now. She’d fill him in at the hotel. And she was still waiting for her father’s phone to pick up a signal—stupid BlackBerry. Ignoring the beauty of the ferns, palms, and liana vines, she scrolled through her personal messages. One from Freddy caught her eye: Christos’s personal calendar was erased from his computer. We’re working on recovering the information. As soon as we do, I’d like you to review it. He had a phone call with someone the morning he disappeared. Maybe you can put names to the initials.
Who would have access to her father’s calendar? His assistant? Ahmed? Peter? Or maybe someone had hacked it. There had to be something incriminating on it if someone had gone to the trouble of erasing it.
A minute later, slightly delayed, her father’s phone vibrated as well. A multitude of business e-mails downloaded, as well as several heart-wrenching messages from the now-deceased Helena. A single text popped up on the screen.
Pede poena claudo.
“Punishment comes on halting foot.” Retribution may be slow, but it gets there in the end. A quote from Horace.
She shuddered. This was no conventional K&R, where the perpetrator simply wanted a ton of unmarked bills for the return of the hostage. They’d dealt with ransom cases, political ones, but this one was different. What did the kidnapper have to gain from holding Papa if he didn’t want money or concessions? Yet the Latin expert wouldn’t bother communicating with her if it was just a straight assassination. They needed to read between the lines, discover the subliminal clues to the identity of the mystery man or woman.
The Hummer’s door swung open. They’d arrived at the hotel, the majestic colonial building boasting white columns along the main entrance. Two large palms stood guard over the historical landmark, the red roof and pathway contrasting with the crisp, light walls. African five-star hospitality awaited them.
“I hope you’ll be my guests at the cocktail party hosted by Prime Minister Kimweri this evening,” said the general. “It’ll give you a chance to mingle with the respected leaders of our great nation—and your competition in the negotiations.”
“We wouldn’t miss it.” Rif hopped out of the vehicle and offered Thea a hand.