22

No police cars outside my house. No cops ringing at my door. Kansaye was turning a blind eye for the moment. I was safe for now, but I knew one day or another he’d slap a charge on me. I had thrown on a pair of khaki pants and a clean shirt. Modibo had finished his sweeping and—after rummaging through Drissa’s tools—was trimming the hedge with a pair of rusty clippers. He was putting a lot of energy into his task, as evidenced by the sweat glistening on his forehead. I called for him. He came rushing over, wiping his face on his already cruddy T-shirt.

“You’ll be staying in Drissa’s room. It’s got electricity and AC. There’re some clothes in the dresser that should fit you. Have at ’em.”

“Does that mean I’m hired?”

I cooled his excitement. “Consider it a trial period.”

We negotiated his salary, and I ended up shelling out more than I should have. I always sucked at money-related stuff. Modibo was ecstatic. He thanked me over and over.

“All right, all right,” I muttered. “Just do the job right.”

I went to my office, turned on my computer, and started doing a little Internet research. Cartagena had come up several times and that was certainly no coincidence. I needed to take a closer look at them. According to the company’s site, Cartagena had a branch in the ACI-2000 district of Bamako. The company claimed to be involved in real estate, mining, and contracting not only in Mali, but also in the rest of West Africa. A Ukrainian by the name of Mike Kedzia was in charge of regional operations. I couldn’t find much on the guy, aside from a few articles on some African websites praising his generosity. In one photo he was handing over a check to a Bamako artists association. He appeared to be in his midthirties. He had jet-black hair and a heavy face. I engraved his image on my brain before shutting down the computer. I rewarded myself with a beer and offered one to the kid, who had begun tidying my things in the living room.

He politely declined. “No thank you, boss. It’s haram.”

“What a drag,” I said to myself, sighing.

He left the living room and reappeared a few minutes later with an armful of dirty clothes.

“What are you doing?” I asked with some irritation.

“I’m going to wash your clothes. They’re very dirty.”

“Not that tagelmust, kid.”

“But it’s full of blood and dirt.”

“Not the tagelmust,” I said, grabbing the piece of old cloth and tying it around my neck.

By nightfall I was ready to go. I gave Modibo a few instructions, which he jotted down with a chewed-up pen in a little notebook. I grabbed my digital camera with a medium telephoto lens and got in my car. This time the engine had no problem starting. I drove onto the dirt road. In the rearview, Modibo was giving me a huge good-bye wave beneath the streetlamp. I couldn’t help but smile. With one hand on the wheel, I entered Milo’s number in my cell phone. The Serb picked up after the third ring.

“Yeah.”

“Always friendly.”

“What do you want, Camara?”

“Your help. They tried to kill me earlier today.”

Silence. I narrowly dodged a suicidal moped rider as he cut in front of me.

“I’ll send you a pal of mine,” Milo eventually replied. “His name’s Rony. He’s a dependable guy. Lebanese.”

“Is he expensive?”

“Less than a one-way ticket to hell.”

“When is he available? This can’t wait.”

“I’ll call him now.”

He hung up. I reached the paved road and forced my way into the traffic, which was packed with soutrama vans and spluttering mopeds. I crossed the Pont du Roi Fahd and, once on the other side of the river, headed toward ACI-2000. I didn’t have to search long. The building was just behind the US Embassy. It was a small three-story building surrounded by a cinder-block wall. Above the entrance, a sign announced Cartagena Inc. Just to the side, three security guards were chatting and drinking tea. A bit farther away, the minarets of the big mosque were standing tall in the stifling night.

I parked and turned off my headlights but kept the engine running because I didn’t want to lose the AC. I settled into the seat, but it wasn’t long before the mosquitoes invaded my personal space. I really did have to get that back window fixed. As I tried to fend off the nasty creatures, I saw several people leave the building. Based on their appearance, I guessed they were office workers, secretaries, and accountants.

Just as I was losing hope, a white guy emerged from the front entrance. He was wearing dark slacks and a short-sleeved pastel-colored shirt. He was talking on his phone. Judging by his wild hand gestures, I figured he was arguing. A shiny new Mitsubishi Pajero pulled up, and the guy, still shouting, hopped in the back. Despite the distance, I recognized him. It was the Ukrainian—Mike Kedzia. The car took off. I gave the Pajero a good lead before setting out to follow it. The drive lasted only a few minutes. We had traveled a little over a mile when the vehicle stopped in front of a big villa. The driver honked, and the gate opened. It was operated by a caretaker in a brown security uniform. I slowly passed the house, discreetly peering into the courtyard. I glimpsed Kedzia getting out of the car with the phone still glued to his ear. The caretaker closed the gate.

I made a U-turn a bit farther away and parked in a dark area, with the camera propped in my lap. From where I was, I could see the comings and goings, but nothing else, as the high walls blocked most of the villa. The mosquitoes quickly smelled blood and started attacking. I wondered if I’d be in for another bout of malaria. The time passed, The bites multiplied. Then a huge Hummer pulled to the front of Kedzia’s house. Two men got out, and through my camera lens, I recognized the driver. It was the dandy. I didn’t know the second guy, who appeared to be a fair-skinned Hispanic in his fifties. He had the build of a sumo wrestler. I took several photos of the two men and the Hummer’s license plate. The men rang the bell, and the caretaker quickly let them in. I checked my camera screen. The pictures weren’t perfect, but I could make out the features of the man who was responsible for Drissa’s death.

“Nice to see you again, Rafael,” I muttered.