The Summoner: (7 page)

“Nothing of the sort. We’re looking into a matter the Doctor might be able to assist with. I called earlier.”

“I shall see if he’s available.”

He turned and climbed a set of stairs, with a measured gait far too stiff for his age. He reappeared at the bottom a few minutes later. “He will see you.”

They followed the boy up the constricted stairwell to the third story, down a short hallway and into the second door on the right. Grey noticed two other doors on this level, and three more on the second. All closed.

The doorway led into a sitting room with white walls and a dark parquet wooden floor. Framed photographs of what Grey assumed to be Nigeria hung on the walls, along with a few pieces of tribal craftsmanship. Except for three high-backed chairs in the center, there was nothing else in the room.

In the chair facing them sat a living skeleton. Dr. Fangwa’s obsidian skin stretched across his face and over his angular forehead as if he were in a perpetual wind tunnel. Knife-edged cheekbones jutted outward, defining his face and slicing downward so sharply that they connected with the narrow thrust of his jaw, leaving two gaping holes where his cheeks should have been. As he rose to greet them, pointed limbs jabbed into the snow-white linen suit that hung off his body, straining the thin material in an awkward manner.

But there was nothing awkward about his movements. When he walked towards them, Grey had the impression he was in the presence of the most precise man he’d ever encountered. The man moved with the lapidary exactness of a stalking cat. Each step, each swing of the arm, was perfectly placed—an unsettling mix of fluidity and robotic abnormality. As he moved, each thumb rubbed against the fore and index finger of its respective hand, keeping a slow prestidigital rhythm, as if walking alone wasn’t movement enough to satisfy him.

He extended his hand as his narrow lips curled, revealing gleaming white teeth that outshone the linen. Mahogany pupils eyed Grey out of recessed sockets a few inches above Grey’s own.

Grey tried not to jerk back as the Doctor’s clammy hand slid into his. Nya took his hand next, and he held onto it much longer than he had Grey’s. “Nya Mashumba. We’ve met before.” His smooth, urbane voice pronounced the syllables with equal accuracy, and his tongue made a barely audible click-clack sound at the end of the sentence.

Grey couldn’t tell if Dr. Fangwa’s knowledge of her name surprised her. “At the Mbeki reception, I believe,” she said. “Thank you for meeting with us. Forgive the late hour.”

He folded his hands in front of him, and his fingers stopped twitching. “I was merely finishing up my… activities… for the evening.” He grinned. “How can I assist you?”

“I’ll be blunt. A man has disappeared, someone associated with the American Embassy. We’re trying to locate him.”

“His name?”

“William Addison.”

He contemplated the name as if he couldn’t place it. “Would you care to sit?”

“No thank you,” Nya said. “I’m afraid we can’t stay long.”

“Pity,” he murmured, and then clapped his hands twice in rapid succession. The same boy returned to the room and stood obsequiously in front of Doctor Fangwa, head bowed and hands clasped. Grey frowned. He didn’t like people who got off on controlling others.

“Bring tea,” Fangwa ordered. “For three.”

“Yes, Doctor,” the boy said, his voice as vacant as his gaze, and then walked away.

“We really can’t—” Nya began.

“Tsk. It’s my duty to offer.” He returned to his seat and waved at the two chairs across from him. “Indulge me.”

Nya took a seat. Grey sat facing the Doctor. So far the whole encounter felt stilted, as if Doctor Fangwa had prearranged what was going to happen.

The boy re-entered and brought around a tray with three cups of tea. After everyone took a cup he retreated again. Nya brought her tea to her lap, stirring but not tasting.

“Better,” Doctor Fangwa said, pleased. “I prefer a civilized setting.” He cradled his cup with spindly fingers. He said to Nya, “I don’t know William Addison, but I assume there’s some reason you think I might?”

“We don’t suspect you know anything about Addison. But we do think you might be able to help us with the meaning of a word. A word we heard while interrogating a witness.”

“The word?”

“
N’anga
.”

Doctor Fangwa took a long sip of his tea without changing his expression. He set the tea down and his fingers resumed their odd movements. “That is a Shona word. I assume you know the meaning of this word yourself.”

“Of course I know the Shona meaning. It means “one who summons.’” She leaned forward. “We need to know what this word means to Juju.”

“Juju,” he repeated. The word left his lips as would a lover’s name—he tasted it, caressed it, as it issued forth.

The question hung in the air. The Doctor stared into space for a long moment, as if he’d left the conversation entirely. Finally he turned to Nya. “You should try the tea. It’s quite good.”

Nya’s eyes crept to her tea. She picked it up and took the lightest of sips. Grey feigned the same; he let the liquid trickle back into the cup without imbibing. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but Nya was clearly put off by this man. As was he. If this was a cultural attaché, then Grey was the Dalai Lama.

“Tell me,” Doctor Fangwa intoned, “why you suspect I might know the significance of this word.”

“William Addison was last seen at a Yoruba religious ceremony,” Nya said. “A Juju ceremony. His girlfriend was with him, and she said the worshippers referred to the priest as
N’anga
. I don’t understand why
.
“

“You failed to answer my question. There are hundreds of Nigerians in Harare familiar with the Yoruba traditions. Why come to me?”

She hesitated. “You’re the Cultural Attaché. I thought you’d be the most reliable source of information.”

“Juju is not a recognized religion in Nigeria, nor is knowledge of Juju part of my duties as attaché.”

“Doctor Fangwa, please. Do you know or not?”

He smiled a cadaverous smile, and Grey wondered why he was toying with them. “And I need you to tell me why it is you sought me.”

Grey noticed Nya’s grip on the side of her chair tightening. “You have a… certain reputation, Doctor.”

“Oh?”
Click-clack
. “What might that be?”

“That you’re babalawo.”

Grey took a quick breath. If Nya didn’t look so nervous, he would have thought this was a joke.

Doctor Fangwa fixated on Nya, amusement flickering at his lips. “And do you believe that?”

“I have no idea. I thought you might be able to help us, but I can see you’re unwilling. As you said, there are other Nigerians in Harare. I’m sure they’ll be more forthcoming.” She set her tea down, and stood.

Doctor Fangwa’s fingers rubbed against each other on either side of the teacup. “Sit down, Nya Mashumba. I’m merely curious as to my reputation. I’ll tell you what you wish to know.”

Nya returned to her chair, and his fingers came to rest once again, interlocking in his lap. “A brief foray into Yoruba theology is necessary if I’m to explain. A
babalawo
,” he said, emphasizing the word in a manner that suggested his distance from it, “would believe in Olorun, an omnipotent being equivalent to the Western notion of God. The existence of Olorun is acknowledged, but he is not actively worshipped: he is transcendent, and doesn’t concern himself with human affairs. Juju is chiefly concerned with spiritual entities called Orisa, who take an
acute
interest in human affairs. There are many Orisa, some more powerful than others, and each with a different… disposition.”

“So the ceremony Addison attended was some type of worship service,” Grey said.

“Perhaps. I was not there.”

“But you have a good idea.”

Doctor Fangwa turned his full attention to Grey for the first time since they’d entered the room. He regarded him in silence, fingers twitching, eyes mocking, before he replied. “Even were Ms. Mashumba’s suspicions concerning me correct, Juju is a complex religion. There are many, many varieties of Juju rituals and ceremonies. Without seeing it, I could not begin to speculate on the purpose of this particular ceremony.”

“Understood, Doctor,” Nya said, frowning at Grey. “Forgive me, but I still don’t see the connection with the Shona word.”

“There is no connection. There is no summoning involved in any Juju ritual I’m aware of. The closest concept might be a spirit possession—a practice integral to Juju. But
n’anga
—this word has no place in Juju. Perhaps your witness did not hear what she thought she heard. Or perhaps this ceremony involved something else entirely.”

Or perhaps you’re lying, Grey thought.

“I see,” Nya said. “What else can you tell us that might help?”

A sinister curling of his lips caused a finger of oily unease to crawl down Grey’s spine. “What I can tell you is that a Juju ceremony is not a place for tourists.”

Grey bit back his response, and Doctor Fangwa turned to Nya again. “Do you know what a babalawo is?”

“A Juju priest.”

“Do you
really
know what a babalawo is? What a babalawo is capable of?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“It is clear that you do not. And one shouldn’t delve into realms one is wholly unfamiliar with. It can be dangerous.”

Grey searched his face, but the Doctor’s expression remained calm, detached from the insinuation of his words.

“I’m afraid we don’t have that option,” Nya said. “If something did happen to Mr. Addison at this ceremony, wouldn’t the babalawo that was there—the
N’anga
—know of it?”

“Oh yes.”

“Do you have any idea who he might be?”

“If he is called
N’anga
, isn’t it more reasonable to assume he is Shona? I hear Juju has become somewhat of a novelty in Zimbabwe. Perhaps you should ask one of his Shona followers.”

“I’m sure you know this movement is unpopular with my government, and that those who participate don’t announce their membership.”

“Then I don’t see how I can help you.”

Nya set down her tea. “Thank you for your time. If you hear anything useful, please contact me.”

“Oh, I shall.”
Click-clack
.

She stood, and Grey rose with her. She was cutting this interview short, and he was not unhappy about it. The next time he spoke with Doctor Fangwa he’d be better prepared, and they would have a different sort of conversation.

“Please return if you discover anything else of interest.” His eyes gleamed. “Perhaps we can explore together the… intricacies… of the traditional religion of my culture. You would be wise to arm yourself with knowledge.”

Grey saw her shiver as she moved to leave.

• • •

Grey turned to Nya as soon as they were in the car. “Why didn’t you tell me who he was before?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s a babalawo,” Grey said. “And you knew it.”

“He’s a politician. And I—there are only rumors,” she said. “I didn’t know for sure. We still don’t.”

“I’m sorry? You saw him. He’s neck deep in it. That whole place made my skin crawl. And that butler of his—there’s something wrong with that kid,” he muttered. “Someone needs to look into that.”

“He’s a cultural attaché, and the boy’s part of his staff.”

They left Belgravia and returned to the city center. The familiar urbanity of downtown Harare drained away some of Grey’s residual unease.

“He’s already a suspect, isn’t he?” Grey said. “That’s why you went to see him. You can’t arrest or formally question him, so you used the
N’anga
question as an excuse to get inside.”

“It wasn’t an excuse.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t need to know. Despite what you might think, he’s not a suspect.”

“How can he not be?”

“He has an alibi. A very good one.”

“You’ve already checked into it?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“Last Saturday evening he was with David Naughton, a high-ranking British diplomat. He’s well-known and above suspicion.”

“You’ve talked to Naughton?”

“Yes.”

The Land Rover stopped in front of a familiar sight: the Meikles. Grey opened the door. “Alibi or not, he knows more than he’s telling us.”

Nya gave a silent acquiescence.

10

T
he concierge informed Grey and Nya that Professor Radek requested they let themselves in. They found Viktor sitting in a finely upholstered chair in front of half-open, wrought-iron balcony doors.

Books littered an antique dining table, porcelain antiques rested primly inside a glass cabinet, beautiful paintings of the African countryside enhanced the walls. Lamps provided illumination, and the room had the smell of a well-kept chateau.

The loosened collar of Viktor’s dress shirt hung lazily about his neck. One hand, French cuff undone, rested on the open page of a hardbound book in his lap. His other clutched a glass containing a shimmering green liquid. The Professor’s body slumped in his chair, eyes red-rimmed and heavy, although as he looked up at Grey and Nya he possessed the same penetrating gaze as the night before.

Grey glanced at the balcony. Nighttime had wrapped its velvet arms around Harare, accompanied by the dim glow of streetlight and the occasional whisper of a breeze.

Viktor motioned Grey and Nya towards a couch to his left, in front of the suite’s dividing wall. Two wine glasses, a bottle of pinotage, and a tidy plate of cheese awaited on a low table in front of the couch. Viktor set his book down and gestured at the refreshments. “Please.”

Nya selected a piece of cheese, and Grey poured the wine. Viktor started as if awakening from a daydream, then shifted his capacious form into a more upright sitting position. “Forgive my indolence,” he said. “It’s been a tiring day.”

“Perhaps tomorrow is a better-” Nya began.

“Ach!” The Professor’s commanding presence returned to the room like wind filling a sail. “We’ll have nothing of the sort.”

Grey filled Viktor in on the meetings with Ms. Chakawa and Dr. Fangwa. The Professor lingered above his empty glass before shoving it aside. “I’ve acquired more information concerning this babalawo.”