The Freedom Broker (Thea Paris #1)(82)
“Mamadou it is. In here, please.” She pushed open a steel door.
They entered the boiler room, a noisy place filled with the sounds of soft hissing and gurgling water, with dim recessed lights stippling the ceiling. One wall had tools hanging on hooks; another was cluttered with buckets, mops, and other cleaning equipment.
The intense heat hit her like a concrete wall, but it was sanctuary for now.
She barricaded the door from inside using a workbench. “Sorry about the conditions, but until I find out what’s going on, we’ll have to enjoy the impromptu sauna.”
“The heat doesn’t bother me, my child. Everyone thinks I’m a city person, but I spent many summers on the plains tending cattle. I’m a bush boy at heart.”
“Good, because we might be stuck in here for a while.” Close-protection security meant keeping the subject, in this case the PM, tucked away in a safe location.
After the long morning, Thea needed to replenish her insulin. The blood sugar numbers on her phone weren’t good. She reached inside her bag, then remembered she’d left the cooling pouch in her jacket upstairs on her chair. Dammit to hell. “I’ll see if my colleague Rif knows what’s going on. We need to figure out who’s behind the coup.”
“I can answer that. General Ita Jemwa. My spies reported that he was under the misguided impression that I’d be replacing him as head of security once the Kanzi oil deal had been signed.”
“You’d have kept him on your staff?”
“Keep your enemies close. I didn’t think he’d try anything before the negotiations finished, but I obviously misjudged him.”
“My family has a history with the general, not a good one.” She checked her cell phone. As expected, no reception.
The prime minister shook his head. “His ambition and greed have overwhelmed his good sense.”
She respected Mamadou Kimweri’s compassion, but it struck her as a tad na?ve. Her experience in K&R had taught her that everyone was jockeying for power and money. Minerals, diamonds, oil—they brought out the worst of humanity, especially in a resource-rich continent like Africa.
She checked the handheld satphone she’d procured in town during her pharmacy run, but it needed line of sight to work. For now, no comms or support. With the chaos going on upstairs, they’d have to hole up for a while.
She searched for another egress in case they needed to leave. The only one that seemed somewhat manageable was the air-conditioning shaft. She moved a box underneath it, hopped up, and used a screwdriver from the tool wall to remove the vent cover. Good thing the prime minister was a lean man. Ten more pounds, and he wouldn’t fit inside.
Sweat ran down her back. She jumped off the box and headed to the sink, splashing her face with cold water. After this, she was tempted to move to Iceland. As if the weather outside wasn’t enough, the boiler room pushed the air temperature to a whole new level. And, unfortunately, heat only exacerbated her diabetes. A small cup sat on the counter. She filled it with water and passed it to Mamadou. “We’d better stay hydrated. I’ve no idea how long we’ll be trapped in here.”
“Thank you. Would you mind if I closed my eyes for a few minutes? It has been quite a day for this old man.”
“Absolutely. I’ll let you know if and when we need to leave. For now, this is the safest place for you.” She grabbed a thick towel from the sink area, rolled it into a makeshift pillow, and handed it to Mamadou. “Maybe this will help.”
He smiled and closed his eyes, his breathing deep and strong. She kept an eye on him for a few minutes, then dug into her briefcase to see if there was anything useful inside.
Another packet of familiar yellowed pages greeted her—along with the old music box she’d misplaced years ago, the one that played “Tie a Yellow Ribbon.” It was a sappy song, but it always reminded her of the night her brother had been abducted.
Nikos must’ve slipped them into her bag during the negotiations. She needed to sit down and discuss the past with him—he obviously wanted her to know the truth. But first she had to survive this mess. She wasn’t sure she wanted to read more. The description of his time in Oba’s camp filled her with despair. Then again, she loved her brother and wanted to understand him better.
KILL COUNT
I killed and killed and killed. Instead of counting days, I started counting bodies. I was up to forty-eight. We raided villages, stole supplies, burned the huts. Oba, Kofi, and the older boys stuck their penises inside women, made them scream. Mothers begged for their children’s lives, offering to “service” the soldiers. Oba said the women secretly liked the grinding, that it made them feel special.
The rainy season came with so many mosquitoes. I smeared mud on my body, but the bugs wanted blood even more than Oba did. I lay alone on the floor of my small hut that I’d earned as leader of the boys, but I could never fall asleep without my candies. Whenever I closed my eyes, Nobo and Brandon stared back at me. I hadn’t protected them. I was sad they’d died. And I hated Oba more every day. All he did was bully everyone.
One night, a storm passed, water dripping through the thatched roof, big fat drops smacking me on the forehead. It was a hot night, and everyone had gone to bed early. No crickets, no rats, no sounds from the other boys. I was antsy. I had a feeling something was going to happen.