The Summoner: (19 page)

“Just following a lead. Can you get me an address?”

Grey was unsure if Harris was still on the phone. Finally his voice returned. “23 Umwinsidale Road.”

“Thanks.”

“Grey. Naughton is a respected man. He’s been knighted, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want to hear that you did anything inappropriate. And don’t mention this Voodoo crap.”

“It’s Juju.”

Click.

Grey slammed the phone shut. He debated calling Harris back and asking for Naughton’s phone number, then discarded that idea. Much could be gleaned from gestures, looks, body language. He locked up, went outside, and flagged down the first taxi he saw. The driver knew Umwinsidale; it turned out to be not far from Nigel Drake’s residence.

The taxi dropped him in front of another gated compound. Inside sprawled a stately, ivy-covered mansion with a manicured lawn born for hosting tea parties. He knocked on the door and a butler answered, traditional to the point of being a cliché.

Grey showed his identification, and the butler left. He reappeared a few minutes later with a stiff bow. “Sir Naughton will see you in the parlor.”

• • •

“My daughter,” Father Cowden said, surprised. “Please, come in.”

Nya hesitated in the doorway. “I don’t mean to bother you.”

“A well-intentioned soul is never a bother. Do you wish to give confession?’”

“No, Father.” She reached for her cross. “There’s something I need to talk to someone about. A priest. I was wondering if you have a moment.”

“Of course.” He glanced back at a pendulum-clock swinging to and fro on the wall behind him. “I’ve close to an hour before I’m due in confessional.”

“I won’t be long.”

She stepped through the doorway, feeling as if she’d taken an important, though futile, step.

“Here,” he said, leading her to the same chair as before and then sitting beside her, hands pressed into the folds of robe in his lap. “How can I help?” His voice had the mesmerizing serenity of a man at peace with himself. He reminded Nya of… him.

Nya started to speak, then bowed her head and said nothing.

“You’re not a woman who reveals herself easily. Whatever it is you might have done-”

“It’s nothing like that.” She looked up. “Let me just say it. Father, I’ve lost my faith.”

“Loss of faith is a serious matter. You were right to come.”

“I didn’t know where else to go. I don’t have much time, and I don’t expect a miracle.” Her voice dropped. “I don’t expect to ever have it again. But I need to try. There’s something I must do, and I fear I might need my faith.”

“God helps those who believe in Him,” he said gently. “What is it that—no matter, for the moment. Let us focus on your walk with God. You’ve been a woman of faith for much of your life?”

“Yes.”

“And a particular incident in the recent past caused you to doubt?”

Her mouth propped open, unable to form words.

“Your father,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You came to me because I knew him.”

“And because you’re a priest.”

He grasped her hand. “I’m so very sorry.”

She trembled.

• • •

The butler led Grey into a windowless parlor defined by a claw-footed billiards table. Sir David Naughton vied with the butler for most clichéd. Smoking jacket and pipe, high forehead and angular features, British reserve and upper-class charm all converged to greet Grey with a firm handshake and a proper smile.

“How’s the Ambassador?” Naughton asked after a brief introduction. “Do give him my regards. And while you’re at it, ask him why he hasn’t returned to my game since his last thrashing.” He chortled. “Tell him I’ll be happy to provide a loan.”

“I’ll pass it on,” Grey said.

“Do, do. Can I offer you a Scotch? Cigar? Port?”

“No. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m working on a tight deadline, and you might be able to help.”

“I’ll do what I can, of course. What seems to be the trouble?”

Grey asked a blunt question, to get a blunt reaction. “How do you know Doctor Olatunji Fangwa?”

A tendril of fear wisped across Naughton’s brow—the reaction Grey was looking for. “An interesting man. You know, before my posting in Zimbabwe, I was assigned to Lagos.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Mm. Bloody awful city. Lawless and dirty. I rarely left the Embassy. Harare’s a paradise in comparison.”

Grey nodded.

“I met Fangwa briefly in Lagos—government business, you know.”

The omissions were palpable, but Grey nodded again anyway.

“When Fangwa arrived in Zimbabwe- “

“When did Fangwa come to Zimbabwe?”

“You know, I’m not too sure. Not long ago, I believe. This year. When he did, he looked me up. We had tea, discussed the political climate—he’s the Cultural Attaché, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s about the end of it,” Naughton said. “We met one other time, and that’s it.”

“This other time—would it have been Saturday before last? The 6
^th
?”

He licked his lips. “Why yes, I believe it was—how’d you know?”

“That’s why I’m here. I’m checking on the whereabouts of Doctor Fangwa on this night.”

“Is he some sort of suspect?”

“I can’t go into details. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. But if it concerns the night of the 6th, I might be able to put your suspicions to rest. I was with him most of the evening—what time frame are you concerned with?”

“Why don’t you tell me when you were with him.”

“Of course, old sport,” he clucked, with a nervous batting of his eyes. “It was most of the evening. I believe it was around seven that we started, and I left around midnight. Yes, that’s right. I’m afraid if the time frame you’re concerned with was much later than that, I can’t be of service. Is that helpful?”

“Very.” Grey grinned. “I’ve been there myself. That maid of his is a looker. When she opened the door I thought of asking to be transferred to Nigeria.”

Naughton’s eyes narrowed on Grey for a split-second, then he laughed. “I wish I’d seen her—a boy saw me in. I must call during the day next time.”

“What’s your honest opinion of Doctor Fangwa? What kind of man is he?”

“I can’t say I know him well enough to say. As I told you, perhaps “interesting” is the best description. He has a wealth of knowledge on Nigerian culture.”

An awkward silence. Grey let Naughton stew in his own bullshit. Fangwa was interesting like a three-headed guard dog was interesting. When Naughton began to shift from foot to foot, Grey said, “What did you and the Doctor discuss?”

“Mostly African politics. It’s good to exchange ideas from time to time with someone with a fresh perspective. Look—sorry to rush you off, but I’ve nothing else to add, and I have an obligation this evening to prepare for.”

“Just one last question, if you don’t mind.”

“Right.”

“Do you know William Addison?”

“William? Only socially. The Ambassador brought him to my game a few times. I hear he’s gone missing—is that what this is about?”

“Yes.”

“Quite sorry to hear it. I trust Fangwa isn’t some sort of suspect?”

“The investigation’s young.”

“The old duck’s a bit odd, but I don’t know I’d go so far as to suspect him of foul play.”

Grey didn’t respond, his stony silence more emphatic than any reply.

Naughton’s eyes slid away from Grey. “Good luck, then. I hope you turn something up.”

“Me too.”

• • •

“What do I do, Father?”

“Faith is sometimes fleeting. Often it is visceral, a mere flutter of confirmation in the back of the mind—and when it reveals itself we must grasp onto whatever part of it we can. Grasp and hold on with all of our might. You still seek Him. Is exploration not the mustard seed of faith?”

“I wish that were true.”

“Your spirit has been gravely injured. Your faith has retreated to a place that might be inaccessible to you alone. We will work to coax it out.”

She listened in silence.

“Let me ask you: do you hate God for what happened?”

She bowed her head.

“Don’t you see, child? To hate Him you have to believe in Him.”

She processed his words, logic barricaded by grief. “Even if you’re right,” she said, “is the end result not the same? To hate Him is to damn oneself.”

“God is a fair judge. He sees your true heart. He knows why you feel the way you do.”

“My father talked to Him every day. No one had more faith. He should’ve been under His protection. If He didn’t protect my Father, then who will He protect?”

“God’s ways are not man’s ways.”

“That’s a useless epigram.”

“Your grief is young. It is good to flush out the anger.”

Her eyes were pleading. “I have so much rage, Father. It consumes me.”

“I want you to know your father’s soul was prepared. He looks down on you from above. He wishes for you to forgive, and to move on, and to be with him one day. You must remember that.”

Her lip started to quiver, and she bit down on it.

He looked at the grandfather clock. “It’s time for me to go. My door is always open.”

“Thank you.”

“Remember why you came. You came seeking Him, and He is there for you to find. Your search is the kernel of faith you must cling to.”

She rose and reached for the door, then stopped. She was unable to be disingenuous with a priest. “You should know I didn’t come here seeking faith in God for my own soul.”

“Then why?”

“I came in case I need His help with what I have to do.”

30

G
rey sat on a bench in Unity Square and replayed the conversation in his mind. There had to be some connections to be made. He needed to know more about Doctor Fangwa’s past. He dialed Nya again, then closed his phone in frustration.

He had already tried the Internet; no mention of Fangwa. He could think of only one place he could go without raising too many eyebrows, and which might have what he was looking for.

He didn’t even know where the public library was, and began to ask around. Half an hour later he had walked the length of Jason Moyo Street and now stood with his back to the Zimbabwe Museum of Human Sciences, facing the tired façade of the Harare City Library.

The library slumbered in an office park of overgrown walkways and faded Stalinesque concrete-block eyesores. Grey stepped between two scraggly palms fronting the entrance, and entered a building that reminded him of a combination between a used book store and his grade school library.

Two stories of concrete housed dull aluminum bookshelves filled with a collection of grimy, plastic-covered books. He took a quick look around, then passed an empty service desk and a reading room with dingy windows and a few battered wooden tables. In an area for children three teddy bears sat in a circle, dusty and forgotten, ragged arms spread wide in a heartbreaking attempt at welcome.

In spite of the forlorn aesthetics, it still felt like a library. A brief glimpse of titles evidenced that the classics were all there and, as classics do, becoming more venerable with wear and tear. The reading room—about as drab a room as Grey had ever seen—still held knowledge, and knowledge seekers. He found the bright, earnest faces poring over the hand-me-down books to be somehow more real, more poignant, than those in more privileged houses of learning. These young readers craved knowledge in whatever form they could get it, wherever they could find it.

After a brief conversation with a clerk, Grey entered a small alcove filled with old newspapers. He flipped through them; most of the papers from the preceding year had been kept. There was no way to narrow his search other than checking the political headlines. What he wanted should have been reported, and hopefully archived.

The afternoon passed without word from Nya or Viktor. He found nothing and grew frustrated, and began to question the wisdom of spending the afternoon poring over old newspapers.

He found it ten minutes before closing time. The date was April 7, earlier that year. The headline read: “Nigerian dignitary arrives in Harare,” and the article described Doctor Fangwa’s appointment as Cultural Attaché.

Except for the date, the article was vague and useless, a foray into the specious relationship between Lagos and Harare. But the date—Grey pursed his lips with grim satisfaction. That was what he’d come for. The unsettling proof that Doctor Fangwa had arrived in Harare eight months ago,
just after stories of the N’anga began to circulate
.

Nya would be pleased, if she ever called him back. She’d have to admit—Grey’s eyes clamped onto the page. The photo underneath the article was a photo of the reception for Doctor Fangwa. The article failed to mention the location of the reception, but the person standing next to Fangwa made his mouth go dry and brought a rush of blood to his head.

Doctor Fangwa stood in an expensive foyer, clad in his usual white linen, hands folded in front of him, rictus in place. He looked unaware his picture was being taken, as did the person standing next to him—the person he was having an intimate conversation with.

Nya.

She’d made it seem like they had only met once, and the expression on her face was far too conspiratorial for the sort of brief, uncomfortable encounter to which she had alluded.

There had to be an explanation, but he feared it explained all too much—Nya’s reluctance to question Fangwa’s alibis, her jittery behavior around him. Either they were in league together, or Fangwa had gotten to her.

Was this why she insisted on shadowing Grey? To protect Fangwa? Or was it something more sinister? She’d brought him to Fangwa in the first place—did she intend to
set him up
? To deliver him into the Doctor’s clammy hands so the warning in Grey’s bed could become a reality?

He took a deep breath, trying to calm down and not jump to conclusions. But Grey was not the type of person who sugarcoated, and the evidence loomed right in front of him. The question was, what was he going to do about it?

He copied the article and replaced the newspaper, then stepped into the twilight. He started to walk, and his cell phone rang. Nya’s voice. “Can you meet me at Viktor’s?”