The Summoner: (21 page)

Grey exhaled a huge gasp of breath. He rubbed his bruised forehead and turned around to see a brown Peugeot right behind them. “Thank God you don’t have air bags.”

“I do,” Nya said, glancing in the rear-view and catching her breath. “I disengaged them. Carjackers in Harare like to crash into a car, set off the airbags and trap the owner.”

“Classy. Where’re we headed?”

“The Ministry. They won’t dare follow us there.”

They didn’t even follow them to the end of the block. As Grey watched, the brown car slowed and then made a U-turn, speeding off the way it had come.

“Either they realized where you were leading them,” Grey said, “or they have different orders. We should head to the Ministry anyway until we’re sure they’re gone.”

They drove in silence to her office, still flush with adrenaline. Grey glanced at Nya, stray hairs plastered with sweat against her face. A million questions flooded his mind, but he couldn’t get past the first one.

32

N
ya stopped at the Munhumutapa building on Samora Machel, in between Second and Third. The grey, utilitarian city block housed various ministries, including the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and the well-fortified entrance allowed Grey to breathe. Two guards approached as soon as Nya killed the engine, and retreated after she identified herself.

“Not going inside?” Grey said.

“I don’t feel like answering questions. I already have to explain the loss of my second gun in a week.”

“What’d you throw at the man holding me down?”

“A pen. People will react to almost anything thrown at their face, even for a split second, especially if it’s dark.”

“Quick thinking. It probably saved our lives.”

She fell silent for a moment, then shuddered. “We need to talk.”

“I think we do.”

“I want you to come to my house. It’s safe there, and you need help with your wounds.”

Grey felt his head. Matted blood caked the top of it, and it hurt to the touch. He did need to clean it. “There are hospitals.”

“You know that would take all night, assuming they have antibiotics this week, which is doubtful.”

She was right about that; he’d heard horror stories of the situation at the floundering hospitals, reduced to a skeletal state by the broken economy. The Embassy had a clinic, but he didn’t want to call in a doctor at this hour for a non life-threatening wound, nor did he want to have to make a report and answer questions.

Could he trust her enough to go with her? There was no doubt she’d been fighting for her life, but there was also no doubt as to what he’d seen in the photo.

“I don’t think so, Nya.”

She didn’t answer, but reached up and gently wiped the dirt and blood from his face. He stilled and watched her.

“I assure you there’s no danger. Call your Embassy and let them know where you’re going, if you wish.”

He studied her face. Her eyes told him that tonight, at least, he was in no danger from her. He let his head fall back on the head rest. “Okay. I’ll come, and we’ll talk.”

• • •

The drive through the deserted streets of Harare didn’t take long. They headed north on Robert Tangwena Avenue into Avondale West, skirting the western edge of the northern suburbs. They drove down more jacaranda-lined streets and pulled up to a high brick wall capped with broken glass. Nya stopped the car in front of an iron gate, motioned for Grey to wait, got out of the car and deftly maneuvered a massive padlock. She undid the chain wrapped around the padlock, swung the gates open and drove through. She repeated the process to close the gate.

Two Alsatians sniffed Grey before running to Nya. She greeted them with tender hugs. “My security system.”

“I haven’t seen that many dogs in Harare. Given the security concerns I thought there’d be more.”

“Zimbabweans don’t believe in keeping pets in the house. And if the dogs are kept outside and someone wants to rob you, they toss poisoned meat over the wall.”

“That doesn’t worry you?”

“I let them sleep inside.”

Nya parked by the largest jacaranda Grey had ever seen, its knotted limbs and leafy branches providing a canopy for the entire area between the gate and the front of the house. Other trees and bushes peppered the sprawling garden, but except for the bulbous cross-shape of a few giant cacti, Grey couldn’t tell them apart in the darkness.

A flagstone walkway, crumbling in a pleasant Mediterranean manner, led to the rear entrance. Nya unlocked the door, and they entered a modest-sized kitchen soothed by warm cinnamon hues. A wall-length crack in the plaster supplied more declining charm.

Nya led Grey through a dining room filled with wooden furniture and a varnished parquet floor, and then through an archway into an enormous living room.

Beige carpet, frayed on the edges, covered the living room floor. Two batik-covered sofas sat against the distant side walls, as if in afterthought; the centerpiece of the room was the inviting, cushion-strewn open space in the middle. African art enhanced the room, and candles flickering within carved metal sconces spread a soft glow. In spite of the room’s openness, Grey felt he could get lost in it.

Nya opened her hand towards the cushioned floor. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

Grey eased his battered body into a nest of cushions, and Nya returned with two steaming cups of tea, a towel, a medical bag, and a bowl of warm water.

Grey accepted the tea. “It’s just you here?”

“I have a gardener and a housekeeper. They used to live on the grounds.”

“It’s such a large house, I…” he trailed off.

“You’re wondering how I came to live here alone?” He caught half of a bitter smile as she positioned herself behind him. “Why don’t you remove your shirt? It’s soaked with blood.”

Grey complied, and heard the small intake of breath he’d expected. She’d seen the scars and tattoos.

She withdrew a washcloth from the bowl of warm water, and cleaned the blood off his shoulders and face. Grey stiffened as she moved to the back of his head. “What’s it look like back there?”

“A small army of bruises and a nasty gash. You’ll live without stitches, though it wouldn’t hurt to see a doctor. I’ll clean and disinfect it for you.”

He grunted. He’d live.

She dabbed at the wound, holding his matted hair back with her other hand. “Most people with tattoos that large wish for them to be seen,” she said.

“I’m not much for public displays of… anything.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Are you trying to distract me while you poke around my open wound?”

“Well-spotted.”

“The ones on the backs of my upper arms are two halves of a whole.”

“It’s artfully crafted. Is it tribal?”

“Look closer. Each is half of a woman wrapped in robes, holding a scale in one of her hands.”

“Oh—yes, I see now. Very clever. Justitia? The Roman goddess of justice?”

“You know your mythology.”

Nya was still dabbing at his head. “We get quite the classical education in Zimbabwe. Doesn’t she usually have a sword in one hand?”

“I modified it a little.”

“Why’d you split her in half?”

“I wanted the tattoo to represent two different principles.”

“Justice and…?”

“Balance. I believe strongly in balance, in all areas of life.”

“I like that. But whose justice? Yours? Your country’s?”

“Would you accept universal justice with a dash of Mandela, a pinch of Macbeth, and a whole lot of Dominic Grey?”

“Maybe if I knew more about the last one.”

Grey rolled and stretched his neck. “Not sure if I’m up for a philosophical discussion tonight. Try me most other nights.”

“Why not? Do you have evening plans?” She said this deadpan, with her usual just-below-haughty reserve.

He smiled. “I’ve already had my jog.”

Nya put down the washcloth and patted his head with the towel. “Keep still,” she said. “I’m going to apply antiseptic cream.” Grey gritted his teeth; it burned.

“And the larger tattoo?” she asked. “Across your back?”

“You’ve asked me more questions tonight than the entire time I’ve known you. A lot more.”

“As you said, I’m keeping you occupied.”

After a moment Grey said, “Those are Japanese symbols. They involve an art I study. Zen-zekai Jujitsu.”

Nya stopped applying the cream and began to bind the wound with gauze. “There are different styles of Jujitsu?”

“Many.”

“What kind is this one?”

“A very brutal one.”

“Which explains the scars.”

Grey didn’t answer. He didn’t want Nya to know that his scars were from the street, and from the various implements his father had used to express his parental love.

And the ones hidden within the design of the tattoos, she’d never see at all. The ugly round pockmarks from the tips of his father’s cigarettes.

She said, “Where’d you learn it?”

“Japan.”

He could sense her eyebrows rising. “You lived in Japan?”

“My father was stationed there.”

“What was it like?”

“I love Japan. It’s beautiful, and I miss parts of the culture very much. And the fresh food… I don’t think I’ll ever get over that.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“That’s too many questions.”

Nya didn’t reply, and Grey turned to face her. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, and they sat quietly for a moment. “I’ve never seen anyone fight like that.”

“You were the one that saved us.”

She seethed. “
Bastards
.”

“These are very bad men, Nya. This is all above and beyond the call of duty of a civil servant, don’t you think?”

“You’re a civil servant.”

“You know what I mean.”

She finished binding the wound, and moved to sit cross-legged facing Grey. “Not sure that I do.”

“I’m with Diplomatic Security, and I’m ex-military. I’m still not sure exactly what you do, but I’m pretty sure it’s not this. You can take care of yourself, but you’re no…” he trailed off. “You don’t have to be this involved, and we both know it.”

“And how many times in the line of duty have you searched for someone kidnapped by an African cult?”

“You’re avoiding the question. I need to know why you’re doing what you’re doing.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said, her voice guarded.

Grey covered her hand with his and searched her face. She didn’t remove his hand. “I know there’s something going on, and if it affects this investigation, I need to know about it. Both of our lives are at stake. Whatever this is, we’re in it together. And I-” he hesitated, “whatever it is, I want to help you.”

Grey started to withdraw his hand, but she kept it in place with an intertwined finger.

“I need to trust you,” he said. “Talk to me.”

She blinked and remained silent, the soft flick of her long lashes revealing and concealing her inner window.

“Nya, are you involved in this in some way? Do you need my help?”

“No! I—it’s not what you think.”

“I don’t know what I think.”

“Of course I’m not involved in any of this. I want to find the
N’anga
more than anyone.”

“That’s what I don’t understand. Why?”

She wrung her hands and bowed her head. When she raised back up, Grey met hollow eyes. “Wait.”

She rose and left the room through a doorway to Grey’s left. His hand that had covered hers remained where she had left it, still tingling from the touch of her skin.

His mind ran through the possibilities. What was she going to tell him? Oh, how he wanted to be able to trust—wanted to be able to trust
her
. But he doubted, as always. He found trust as readily available as the philosopher’s stone.

She reappeared with a newspaper. Grey started to speak, then quieted as she came and sat beside him, her shoulders brushing his as she carefully, almost reluctantly, laid the newspaper in his lap. The front page headline read: “
Doctor murdered in home
.”

He wondered how this connected to their case, and then he looked up after the first line, what he was about to say seeping away. Nya was focused straight ahead, unseeing. He read it again.

“Prominent Harare surgeon
Jeremiah Mashumba was brutally murdered last evening in his Avondale West residence.”

A few sentences later, he found what he feared he’d find: confirmation that the murdered man had been survived by his only child, Nya Mashumba.

33

N
ya hadn’t moved. Grey knew her aversion to commiseration stemmed not from lack of emotion, but from an inability to let people in. He knew it because he knew himself. He touched her arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“The date,” she said.

Grey looked down at the paper again, and paled. April 7
-
eight months ago, the same date of the incriminating photo. One day after Doctor Fangwa had arrived in Zimbabwe.

Grey took the paper in both hands.
Armed robbery… house ransacked… died of knife wounds at approximately nine o’clock…
No suspects…

“I still don’t understand the photo with Fangwa,” Grey said. “Did you know him before?”

Nya continued her catatonic stare. When she spoke only her lips moved, as if attached to a statue. “That night was the first time I laid eyes on him. He seemed interested in talking to me for some reason. I don’t know why.”

“It’s not hard to figure out.”

“What?”

“You’re attractive,” he said in a low voice.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I don’t know, though—does a man like Doctor Fangwa even have feelings like that?” She shuddered, snapping out of her trance. “He unnerved me from the start, but what was I supposed to do? I gave him clear signs I was uninterested, but it didn’t faze him. It was a state function, I had to humor polite conversation. And he was polite, it was just his manner—”

“You don’t need to explain. I’ve met the man.”

“What you don’t know, what that photo doesn’t show, is that the Minister of State was standing right behind me.”

Grey’s face opened with comprehension. “That’s why you look so conspiratorial. You were being charming because your boss was there, and you were trapped.”