The Summoner: (16 page)

They shifted. One of them mumbled something in dialect. Lucky turned to Grey. “Is there anything you would like to share with us, Mr. Grey?”

“Just that I still need the bathroom.”

Lucky rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. The thick cords of his forearms dwarfed Grey’s. “I trust you at least enjoyed the entertainments offered in my club before you decided to wander? We are first and foremost men, after all, in spite of the somber nature of our professions.”

“I don’t consider twelve-year-old girls entertainment.”

“I have girls of all ages, and all types. I am sure we could find something that suits you.”

“Is there something you wanted to talk about? If not, there’s someone I need to meet. She should be here any minute.”

“And how do you plan to meet this person?”

“By walking out of this room.”

“You might not find leaving this room to be so easy. You are not dealing with little boys this time.”

Grey leaned in towards Lucky. “I may or may not leave this room. But I can promise you that you won’t.”

Lucky’s relaxed expression vanished. “Perhaps we should test this theory.”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

They exchanged stares, the room silent except for the faint throb of music in the background.

“Whether or not we have a civilized discussion,” Lucky said, “we are going to finish this conversation.”

“Then finish it.”

“You are not welcome here any more.”

“Good to know we’re in agreement.” Grey rose to leave, but the two men behind him held him down, digging into his shoulder blades. The other men raised their guns.

“Remember this,” Lucky said, “and remember it well. If I find out anything you might have heard in this room is repeated, then I am afraid you will not walk away from our next discussion.”

“I don’t think there’s going to be much discussion in our future.”

“Do you understand me?” Lucky put one of his hands on top of Grey’s and squeezed. Grey almost gasped with pain; he’d never felt a grip so strong.

“Do you
understand
me?”

Grey balled his fist, but his metacarpals strained against the pressure. He knew what the consequences would be if he chose to strike Lucky. Himself against six armed men, in close quarters, was an impossible scenario.

But he’d be damned if he was going to tell Lucky what he wanted to hear.

“I said
, do you understand me
?”

The pain doubled Grey’s vision. He tried to jerk his hand back, but Lucky’s grip was too powerful. He heard the men laughing.

It was simply not inside him to give in. Grey was a prideful warrior who’d scrapped his way through most of his life, and he vowed long ago never to give in to his father, street thugs, or whatever other bully wanted to break his will. He’d rather have a broken hand. Broken bones healed; broken spirits didn’t.

He imagined the sickening crunch of compromised bone and ligament he knew was coming. If Lucky is smart, Grey thought, he’ll do more than break my hand.

He heard pounding, then the sound of the door behind him opening. Lucky released him and looked up. Grey turned and saw a huge shape filling the doorway.

It was Professor Radek, and Nya was behind him.

24

P
rofessor Radek swept into the room in a black raincoat, brow dark and furrowed, like a djinn released from his bottle. Nya entered behind him.

Viktor exuded the intimidating physical presence intrinsic to people of his size, but he possessed something more than that—a forceful, enigmatic magnetism surrounded him, an innate strength of will that radiated outward and dominated the room. Everyone seemed cowed by his sudden appearance.

Viktor said nothing and surveyed his surroundings. Lucky rose to his feet, his presence less commanding than Viktor’s, but still formidable. He made a few quick hand movements, and his men rearranged themselves. Two of them held Grey by the arm, and the other three stepped in front of Viktor. Viktor didn’t move.

Grey debated freeing himself from the two men that held him; he knew he could, despite his throbbing hand. However, they were still outnumbered, weapons were still drawn, and he didn’t want to endanger anyone unnecessarily. He’d let this play out a bit.

“I believe you are in the wrong room,” Lucky said evenly.

Viktor continued to survey the room as if Lucky hadn’t spoken. Nya moved next to Viktor. She gave Grey an inscrutable glance and raised her identification. “I’m Nya Mashumba, with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We have business with Mr. Grey.”

Lucky folded his arms and chuckled.

“Our business concerns you as well,” Nya said, “and it’s not a laughing matter.”

“May I ask what business of mine has brought such a lovely girl to my doorstep? Perhaps you are seeking work?”

Nya’s eyes narrowed. “The business of yours that brought us here,” she snapped, “is the kidnapping, perhaps murder, of a foreign dignitary. Not to mention numerous violations of the law I noticed in your deplorable excuse for an establishment.”

“If you were here to arrest me,” Lucky said, “there would be more men, and I would be arrested. I would not be looking at these two
murungu
and a woman. So let us find two more chairs, and you and your friend can join my discussion with Mr. Grey.”

“Perceptive. I’m not here to arrest you. My job is to oversee this man’s search for a missing United States diplomat. My ultimate employer—I think you know of who I speak—also has an interest in those who pose a potential threat to his regime, and he’s currently concerned about practitioners of a certain seditious Yoruba cult which he feels jeopardizes the authority of the ruling party in the villages. I believe everyone in this room understands the consequences of my employer’s disfavor.”

She stopped to canvas the room, resting her eyes on each and every member of Lucky’s entourage, saving her longest glare for Lucky. Lucky didn’t flinch, but his men cast uneasy glances at Nya and muttered to each other.

She’s good, Grey thought.

“The only reason you and your men are still alive,” she continued, “is because I have not yet given my report. If you’re disposed of prematurely, I fear Mr. Addison will never be found, and
that
will reflect on
me
. Tell me where he is. Upon his immediate release, and that of any others your cult might be holding, I will arrange for your deportation rather than your disappearance.”

Lucky’s men grew more agitated. Lucky tried to act unperturbed, but some of his supreme self-confidence had melted away. “You come into my club and falsely accuse me? Do you know who I am, and who I know? Do you know who is, as we speak, enjoying the pleasures of my establishment?”

“I assure you that whomever you may know, whomever you have bribed, they are not as powerful as who I know.”

“Are you sure about that, Ms. Mashumba?”
Nya smiled. “Are you?”

Lucky folded his arms. “I do not know who or what you know. But I will find out. I suggest you take your giant and your cub and leave before I change my mind. As for my discussion with Mr. Grey—it is no matter,” he said, winking at Grey. “He will remember our little chat and behave himself. If he does not, then he is not the clever man I took him for.”

Grey stood. Before he walked out, he leaned in towards Lucky. “We have unfinished business.”

“I do hope so,” Lucky murmured.

25

N
o one uttered a word on the short drive to the Meikles. When they arrived at Viktor’s suite Grey and Nya took a seat in the two great armchairs, and Professor Radek excused himself.

Grey opened and closed his hand. Nothing was broken, but he needed ice for the swelling. He grimaced and said nothing.

“What were you thinking going in there alone?” Nya said. “I told you to wait.”

“You were late.”

“I had pressing business.”

“More pressing than this?” Grey said.

“I apologize. But that’s no excuse to disobey my orders.”

“Your
orders
? I don’t work for you, Nya.”

“You do on this case. Grey-” she put her fingers to her temple and sighed—”Lucky is a very dangerous man.”

“If he’s so dangerous why didn’t you bring more men and take him in for questioning? I thought that’s why we were going?”

A spasm of frustration balled her features. “That’s why I was late.”

“I don’t get—” He cut himself off. “You couldn’t get any support, could you?”

“Lucky spoke the truth when he said he has powerful friends. I could bring him down for the disappearances, but I would need hard evidence.
Very
hard.”

“The Club isn’t hard enough?”

“We both know that’s not why we want him.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Grey muttered. “So you were bluffing back there?”

“Completely.”

“Do you think he’s the
N’anga
?”

“I doubt very strongly this man is the
N’anga
,” Viktor said, returning to the room with another chalice cupped in his hands. He offered Grey and Nya a drink.

Grey waved him off. “How can you be sure?”

“One is rarely sure about anything. But I expect our
N’anga
to be older, more arrogant even than Lucky—a man who’s become a god among his worshippers. He would never stoop so low as to manage a brothel.”

“Maybe it’s a front.”

“Possible. But doubtful.”

“Then we’re back where we started,” Grey said.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Viktor said. “Tell me what you witnessed at the ceremony. I wished to attend myself and experience it firsthand, but I had to fly to Cape Town on an urgent matter.”

A brief suspicion touched Grey, but he scoffed it away. Viktor had just been called in on this case, and the
N’anga
had been here for months. It was just that Viktor was so enigmatic, and all this talk of powerful personalities… Grey had to admit he could see Viktor standing behind one of those terrible masks, sweeping his arms across a circle of fog.

But the more likely explanation, Grey thought, was that after his urgent matter, Viktor had seen to the two empty bottles of absinthe Grey had noticed behind the door.

Viktor said little as Grey and Nya related the bizarre events from the ceremony. He pursed his lips at times, asked for clarifying details here and there, sipped his muse with crossed legs. As they finished he leaned back, his face both thoughtful and troubled.

Nya bent forward. “What do you make of it?”

“Some of it puzzles me. This sacrifice you described involving the goat, I’m familiar with. It’s a particularly cruel ritual, practiced only by the most experienced babalawos. It’s called the two hundred cuts.”

Nya shivered. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“You’re familiar with the term “scapegoat?” In traditional Juju, once a year the babalawo would perform the two hundred cuts on a goat in the village center. The villagers would gather and symbolically transfer their sins to the goat, which the babalawo would sacrifice to the Orisas to appease them for the transgressions of the villagers.”

“Sounds familiar,” Grey said.

“The similarities to Western religion end there. As we discussed, Juju has an enormous range of spells, rituals, and sacrifices designed to influence the spiritual world. Some of them deal with benign spiritual forces, but many serve to appease the malevolent ones, as they’re the ones most dangerous to humans.”

His expression turned grim. “This is where the theology of the Yoruba can lead to rather disturbing justifications for their sacrificial practices. The Yoruba believe the malevolent Orisas are appeased by acts of wickedness and evil. The more suffering involved in a ritual sacrifice, the more success it will have. Pain and blood are considered the most pleasing elements of ceremonies involving these Orisa.”

Grey tried to wrap his mind around the logic. It made a twisted sort of sense, he supposed, if one believed in it.

Grey had equal respect for the common man and woman in all cultures, and he was sure that if he lived in Nigeria he would have felt the same. Most people were just trying to get by the best they could.

Religion, however, was another matter.

“The two hundred cuts is one of the most demanding rituals in Juju. The priest expertly slices off pieces of flesh, until by the two hundredth cut the flesh has been stripped from much of the body. The sacrifice is kept conscious the entire time, and salts and oils are used on the exposed flesh to increase the pain quotient. The ceremony ends when the babalawo slits the throat of the sacrifice. The sacrifice is sent to the Orisa in the most extreme agony imaginable.”

Grey remembered the flayed remains of the goat, and his stomach churned. He pushed the memory away.

Nya’s face contorted in revulsion. “It was the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I warned you Juju has its dark side.”

Grey said, “What do you think they gave us at the end?”

“Likely palm wine laced with a hallucinogen or psychotropic. Babalawos are expert herbologists. I’m sure you’ve heard stories of zombies created by the pharmaceutical concoctions of Vodou priests? Such practices were developed ages ago by the Yoruba and Fong.”

Nya fingered her cross. “What are these babalawos capable of?”

“No one, at least outside of Yorubaland, really knows.”

Viktor swirled his drink, and Grey watched his face. But he wants to know, Grey thought.

“The ritual of the two hundred cuts, as terrible as it seems, is part of traditional Juju. The events you described after that…
Do prdele
! I wish I’d been able to accompany you.”

“Best guess?” Grey said.

“The captive was likely drugged, although that doesn’t explain the bizarre behavior once he entered the circle. And the disappearance—you’re sure he didn’t exit on the other side of the circle? If the fog was opaque as you say, how could you tell?”

“The circle was small compared to the larger circle where the
N’anga
was standing, maybe twenty feet in diameter as opposed to fifty,” Grey said. “I couldn’t see inside the smaller circle, but I could see the torches and the bodyguards on the other side, all the way around. He didn’t escape that way. I’m positive.”