The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(75)
A loud bell sounded, signifying the end of the break. The crowd headed back into the negotiations room.
Rif stormed toward her, an intense look on his face. “I need to talk to you privately.”
An announcement over the intercom warned the delegates to reclaim their seats.
She glanced around—no one was within earshot. “I have proof about a leak in Paris Industries.”
She passed him the paper, which he quickly scanned.
“Nikos could be the culprit—he’s secretly meeting with Xi-Ping.”
“Not this again. He already told me that he knows her through his import/export business.”
“Did he mention that they’re sleeping together?”
“What?” Could that be true?
Nikos suddenly appeared beside her. “We’d better get in there.”
“We’ll talk more about this later,” she told Rif. Nikos couldn’t be the leak, could he? He’d had zero access to Paris Industries’ long months of preparations for the negotiations. Papa wouldn’t let him near the company, let alone any sensitive documents.
“Be careful.” The concern in Rif’s voice worried her; he was not the type to overreact.
She hesitated. The three of them were the only ones left standing in the hall. A final announcement sounded on the intercom. The doors would be closing soon. They had to go in.
Nikos pulled at her arm. “Come on.”
She reluctantly headed into the conference space, wondering how Rif had discovered this new information about her brother. A blast of air-conditioning hit her, and she shivered.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Rif watched the security guards close the doors on the negotiations room. He felt bad that he’d rattled Thea with the news of Nikos’s involvement with Quan Xi-Ping. Still, she needed to know that her brother couldn’t be trusted.
A sturdy bellman headed toward him with a Tumi hard case in hand. Rif was about to step aside to make room for him to pass when the bellman gave him a nod. He touched Rif’s shoulder and said, “Excuse me, sir,” slipping a folded paper into his pocket.
Rif headed for the men’s room, entered a stall, and opened the note: We have information about the man who died last night. One hundred American dollars. Come to Blue Zulu today.
He recognized the name of a restaurant in nearby Victoria Falls. The information was worth a hell of a lot more than a hundred dollars if it led to whoever had poisoned Peter Kennedy, but the price tag was a commentary on the standard of living here. That amount probably felt like a fortune, given the minuscule daily wage here.
Since Thea was embroiled in the negotiations, he’d use the time to head to town. He was also curious about where she had disappeared to yesterday while he was taking a shower—maybe he’d discover what she’d been up to.
He was tempted to jog the couple of miles, but the baking sun dissuaded him. As soon as he stepped outside, sweat immediately coated his skin, and his lips were parched. The intense heat reminded him of his time in Chad, and he flinched at the thought.
As he walked, he distracted himself by watching bungee jumpers soar off the massive Victoria Falls Bridge, bouncing like human yo-yos above the Zambezi River. In town, warthogs dined on the short grass while a congress of baboons hounded tourists for snacks. The hotels on the Zimbabwe side of the falls had foundered for years because of the civil strife under Robert Mugabe’s rule. Recently, though, tourism had surged again, and people in safari-wear kicked up the region’s famous reddish dust on their way to the mile-long falls.
Rif passed a couple of banks and the post office, headed for the Elephant’s Walk Shopping Centre. He entered the Blue Zulu restaurant, planted himself at the bar, and ordered a Tusker from the elderly bartender. He recognized the guy from the party last night—he’d been manning one of the bars.
Several customers were enjoying an early lunch in the restaurant area, but Rif sat alone on his stool. He placed a hundred-dollar bill underneath a beer mat, his hand remaining on the coaster.
The bartender opened the Tusker and placed it on the counter, assessing him with wary eyes. Rif sipped the cold beer and waited.
“I saw you trying to help the man who died last night. I asked my brother to give you the note.”
“The bellman.”
He nodded. “The police don’t want the truth, but maybe you do.”
“Let’s hear what you have. If the information’s good, the hundred’s yours.”
The bartender started wiping down the counter. “Been bartending for thirty years. I pay attention, who drinks what, who knows whom. The man who died was drinking Scotch, Glenfiddich, and he hung out at my station because I pour heavy.”
“Then you’d certainly be popular with Peter.”
“Early in the evening, I noticed a woman sipping champagne. But later she comes by my bar with a Scotch in her hand, places it down while she checks her phone. When I give the man his next Scotch, she picks up his drink and leaves hers there. This happened shortly before the man collapsed.”
“And what did this woman look like?”
The bartender eyed the hundred-dollar bill. Rif shifted it over to him and removed his hand. The old man pocketed the money.
“Chinese. Tall, in a black dress, with very long hair.”
Quan Xi-Ping.