In the Company of Killers by Bryan Christy (ebook reader for pc and android .txt) 📕

him it is a mistake—the Moros will not do business with China. But he has other concerns . . .”

Klay studied the photograph. At the photo’s edge was a tall woman with closely shaved hair and skin the color of milk tea. She seemed uncomfortable, leaning at the edge of the photo as if to evade it. “This one?”

“Ah, that one is called Mapes, or something. The Moros would not accept an American government observer, so then we got her. She is a businesswoman.” He shrugged. “She works for the Perseus Group companies.”

A SURPRISE ENCOUNTER

Ninoy Aquino International Airport

Manila, Philippines

He was wading through Manila’s crowded airport, on his way home, when he saw him. It was only for an instant, but Klay was certain. Crew cut, protruding ears, dark eyes. Botha’s head had appeared in a gap among Filipinos. Then he was gone. Klay hurried forward. He spotted Botha again walking toward a fast food restaurant.

“Botha!”

The South African turned. He scanned the gallery and seemed not to recognize Klay. Then, suddenly, he smiled. Klay pushed through the crowd. He felt his heart pumping, his adrenaline rising. Ras Botha waited, still smiling. Klay broke from the crowd, and paused. A young boy stood beside Botha.

Botha seemed pleased at Klay’s hesitation, as if he had achieved something. “Merlin,” he said, “this is an old friend of mine, a very famous journalist from The Sovereign. Tom Klay. This is my son, Merlin.”

Botha and his son wore matching red-and-yellow rugby shirts. The boy was the spitting image of his father.

“Hello, Mr. Klay,” Merlin said with none of his father’s harsh Afrikaner accent.

“Hello,” Klay said awkwardly and shook the boy’s outstretched hand.

For a moment no one spoke.

“Are you here for the rugby, Mr. Klay?”

Botha smiled even broader, his eyes awaiting Klay’s response.

“No, Merlin. I’m here on a project.” He looked at Botha.

“Merl, pick us out a table inside and I’ll get the food.”

“Okay, Papa.”

Botha nodded toward the Jollibee counter. “Walk with me,” he said. “You look upset, my bru.” Botha stepped to the counter. “Ya, hon, I’ll have us two Yumburgers. Two chocolate milkshakes. And a halo-halo for my boy.” He turned to Klay. “And something for my big friend here. What’ll you have? How about the Aloha Yumburger? That’s a good one. And a Coke for him, too.”

She brought the drinks. Botha handed Klay the Coke. “You here for the girls? I know you’ll stay away from little boys. But the women, if that’s what you want, it’s worth your trip. I got even better ones, though. You come see me. Czechs. Russians. Thais. I don’t go in for the fish heads, myself. Like getting sucked off by a bullfrog, you know? But Russians. They got noses and real tongues.”

“I heard you like Russians,” Klay said quietly. Inches from the man who had murdered Bernard, Klay could barely contain his fury.

“What’s got your broekies in a knot?”

“You murdered my friend,” Klay hissed. “You shot me.”

“I shot you?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Hang on.” Botha accepted a tray loaded with food from the girl at the counter. “You was in the wrong place wrong time what I heard. You know, miss. Could I have his Aloha burger packed up separate to go? Thank you.” He turned to Klay. “Wasn’t me. But that oke was going to cut you was a real meat butcher. I got you the best doctor I could.”

“Say again?”

“I did what I could,” Botha said.

Klay stepped toward Botha. “Those were your people in Kenya. I know it.”

“Know? You know it? Knowledge is a very interesting thing. Thank you, sweet. Like I said, I did the best I could.” Botha handed Klay his sandwich.

Klay set the bag on the counter. Botha’s eyes lingered a moment on the bag; then he plucked napkins from a dispenser and grabbed a handful of ketchup packets.

“I see they put you up for a big award on that story,” he said. “You’ll look good in a tux. I got five tuxes. One I wore to Pablo Escobar’s wedding. You let me know when you’re ready to spend some time. We’ll share a cognac, two or three girls. Have ourselves a braai. We can do a little elephant hun—”

Klay grabbed Botha’s shirt front, driving him backwards along the counter, crushing the milkshakes into his chest. One dropped to the floor and splattered. People gasped. Merlin looked up. Klay saw the boy’s wide eyes and released Botha.

Botha laughed. “You a crazy motherfucker, Klay!”

A security guard was moving in their direction.

“You’ll find out,” Klay snarled. “I’ll see you again.”

Botha was still laughing, wiping milkshake off his shirt as Klay left the restaurant.

“Ya, okay,” Botha called after him. “You want me in prison. Okay. But remember, my bru, the cage you’re in is not always the cage you’re in.”

That night, on the long flight home, Klay closed his eyes and replayed the events following Bernard’s murder. There was a ball of sound, Bernard’s head pitched forward. Next he was lying in the back of a Land Rover on his way to Nanyuki army base, Moses the Green Guardian beside him, Goodson shouting into his phone, “From The Sovereign! A man from The Sovereign!” Then a helicopter ride. A room with pale green paint peeling off the wall and a sputtering fluorescent light. The smell of rubbing alcohol. A fat black man with jaundiced eyes and a small mustache leaning over him, sweat in the creases of his neck. The doctor rushing, barely examining him. More yelling. Bernard’s voice. No. Bernard was dead. Maybe his own voice. Then a boy on his bicycle. Crunching metal, screeching brakes. A thud in his chest. The red lights of an ambulance . . .

Klay wrenched himself upright in his seat. Cold sweat covered his forehead. His memories and dreams were becoming one nightmare, the accident in Jakarta weaving itself into his experience in Kenya.

He forced himself to focus on the details he knew to be real. After the fat doctor, he had awoken in a different room.