Night Of Knives Part 12

"I guess this is it," Jacob says, looking up at the rotting concrete stairs that lead upwards beneath the hand-painted sign HOTEL SUN CITY, then down to the hiptop computer in his hand, and the tiny Google Map of Kampala on its screen. He can't imagine why Derek would have had anything to do with this place, but according to the hiptop's GPS receiver, the Hotel Sun City is the real-world establishment that best overlaps the cloud of orange dots that correspond to Derek's twice-weekly calls to a handset located this region.

Jacob closes the hiptop's clamsh.e.l.l case and looks around. His s.h.i.+rt is already damp with sweat. The street they are on is one of the busiest in Kampala. Buzzing pedestrian traffic, aggressive sidewalk vendors, protruding metal signs, dangling vines of casually strung electrical cables, and occasional stands of bamboo scaffolding combine to make walking a careful business. The opposite side of the boulevard, across a churning river of smog-belching traffic, is occupied by Kampala's central taxi park, a gargantuan and mindnumbingly busy triangle of dirt occupied by hundreds if not thousands of matatus matatus, East Africa's ubiquitous minivan shared-taxis, and their a.s.sociated pa.s.sengers, drivers, vendors and askaris. On reflection Jacob can think of two advantages to this location: anonymity and quick getaways.

"All right," Veronica says doubtfully. "Let's take a look and get this over with."

Jacob follows her up the cracked and uneven stairs, and despite the uncertainty of their situation, as he climbs he can't help but be distracted by Veronica's trim, swaying hips. He's half-amused at himself, half-pleased that life is coming back to him; he hasn't thought about s.e.x since the Congo, but clearly he is recovering fast, and Veronica is easily the most beautiful woman he's ever spent an extended amount of time with. Not that he has any illusions anything is going to happen between them. He's a geek; Veronica is a former model who married a multimillionaire. Jacob is ruefully aware that he is way out of her league.

They ascend to a gla.s.sed-in security box manned by a woman who awards them a hostile glare.

"We want to see a room," Jacob improvises, "we might stay here tonight."

The receptionist frowns suspiciously and pa.s.ses him a key. "Number 307. Ten minutes."

They advance into the hotel's labyrinthine interior. It's much bigger than it looks on the outside, six stories tall and occupying almost the whole block. The interior arrangements are gloomy and bizarre: a half-dozen interior stairways connect only two or three stories apiece, hallways terminate at doorless walls, benches and chairs sit in dark alcoves. Water drips from leaky pipes. Except for themselves the halls are eerily empty. Jacob is reminded of Gormenghast Gormenghast.

They glance into Room 307 out of curiosity. It's barely big enough for its rickety bed. There are roaches on the filthy floor and the even filthier mattress. The mosquito net is full of holes. The shower is a nozzle set in bare concrete, the toilet has no lid, and there isn't even a light, just a bundle of torn wires protruding from a hole in the roof beside a fan that doesn't work.

"I sure hope it's cheap," Jacob says, appalled. He can't imagine any less desirable place to stay in Kampala. Even a shantytown hut would be better than this.

Veronica closes her eyes. She is breathing hard.

He looks at her. "You okay?"

"Fine," she says without opening her eyes. "I just don't like tight s.p.a.ces."

"Oh." A few seconds pa.s.s. Jacob doesn't know what to say. "Maybe you should wait outside, or -"

"I'm fine. It's no big deal." She takes a deep breath, opens her eyes, looks around again and shakes her head. "Look at this place. Why would Derek -"

"I have no idea. And not just once. A couple times a week for six months." He hesitates, then draws out his hiptop again. It doubles as a phone. "One way to find out."

"You're going to call them?" Veronica looks around nervously. "I don't know if that's such a good idea."

Jacob understands her reluctance. He doesn't particularly want to make contact with anyone here either. This rotting wreck of a hotel feels like the kind of place where people die. But if they turn back at just the implication of danger they'll never uncover the truth. He tells himself to think of this as a test, like an obstacle in a video game.

"It's just a phone call," he says, trying to convince himself as much as Veronica, and he dials.

After three rings a woman answers in a breathy voice. "h.e.l.lo?"

"h.e.l.lo," Jacob says. "Hi, um, who am I speaking to?"

"My name is Lydia."

"h.e.l.lo, Lydia. Where can I find you?"

"The Hotel Sun City, darling. Room 211. Come by any time."

Jacob blinks with surprise. "Room 211. OK. I, I guess I'll be there soon." He hangs up and looks at Veronica. "Well. That was easy."

"Too easy."

"Come on. It's broad daylight. She sounded harmless."

Veronica reluctantly acquiesces. They find their way to Room 211 after a few missteps. Jacob stops in front of it and looks back at Veronica. He is nervous now. She's right, this is too easy. She shrugs but says nothing. He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

The woman who answers the door is tall and remarkably beautiful, except for her oddly bloodshot eyes. She makes Jacob think of Iman, the model. She is heavily made up, with braided hair, in high heels, a leather miniskirt, and a form-fitting long-sleeved tiger-striped s.h.i.+rt. The room behind her is relatively clean, and empty but for a shabby bed. It smells of perfume.

"Lydia?" Jacob asks.

The woman nods. She seems surprised to see them.

"I just called."

"Yes. How did you get my number?" Her voice is low and doesn't sound Ugandan, the accent is more French.

"From Derek."

Lydia's face flickers. Then she smiles broadly. "Oh yes. A naughty man who likes very very naughty girls. Girls like me. But I'm sorry, I don't entertain couples." She frowns at Veronica. naughty girls. Girls like me. But I'm sorry, I don't entertain couples." She frowns at Veronica.

"Oh," Jacob says. Embarra.s.sed understanding floods into his mind. "Oh. Right. I'm sorry. I think there was a misunderstanding. We should be going."

"Perhaps you should. Today is very busy for me. I don't like having my time wasted."

"Sorry."

Lydia closes the door. Jacob retreats hastily, and Veronica follows. He can feel his face burning.

"I guess that explains it," he says, speaking quickly. "Maybe we shouldn't have, uh, shouldn't have pried. I mean, into his private life. I'm surprised. But I guess, you know, it was hard for him to maintain healthy relations.h.i.+ps, with his lifestyle, and I'm sure he's hardly the first guy to move to the Third World and let himself go a little, and he was in Thailand before he came here, I'm sure after a little while it's just normal."

"Normal?" Veronica asks. She sounds amused despite herself.

"Well, not actually normal, but I can see, not see, but I can imagine how after a while it would seem that way, I mean, if you live an abnormal life," he flounders. "Let's just go home, okay?"

They are at the top of the hallway that leads to the bulletproof reception desk when Veronica suddenly stops walking and says, "Wait a minute."

Jacob stops too. "What?"

"Her eyes."

"What about her eyes?"

"She wasn't hung over. Those weren't burst capillaries. Those were lesions lesions. Kaposi's sarcoma."

"Lesions?"

"AIDS," Veronica says softly. "Late-stage. She's very sick. Probably dying."

"AIDS? And - and Derek was sleeping with her?"

"That's what I'm wondering." She pauses. "Any chance he was HIV positive?"

Jacob shakes his head, astonished. "No. He had a bag of his own blood in his fridge, for transfusions, so he wouldn't get HIV if he had to go to a hospital here."

"Then he wouldn't have been having s.e.x with a prost.i.tute with Kaposi's sarcoma, would he? He would have known. She must have other lesions on her too, it wouldn't just be her eyes, that'd be very unusual."

"I wouldn't have thought Derek would ever have slept with a prost.i.tute at all." Jacob isn't sure exactly how true this is. Derek never exactly treated women respectfully, and he spent a year in Thailand, world capital of prost.i.tution, just before coming to Africa. But at least he never talked about it.

Veronica turns around. "We let her get rid of us too easy."

"My rule for couples has not changed in five minutes," Lydia says. Her voice is cool and distant, but Veronica sees wariness in her eyes.

"We'd like to ask you some questions about Derek." Veronica indicates Jacob. "He was Derek's best friend."

Lydia frowns. "He has never spoken to me of any friends."

"What did he speak to you about?"

"I think it is time for you to go."

"We're not going anywhere until you start talking."

Lydia takes a step back and begins to close the door. Jacob jumps forward and interposes himself before it closes.

"If I raise my voice my protectors will come running here in two minutes!" Lydia says sharply. "With knives and guns! They will -"

Jacob says, "Derek's dead."

Lydia stops in mid-expostulation and stares at him as if slapped.

"Haven't you heard?" Veronica asks, amazed. "It's been all over the news. Especially here. TV, newspapers, everything. He was one of the tourists kidnapped in Bwindi and taken into the Congo. So were we. We were with him."

Lydia shakes her head faintly. "I do not read the newspapers."

"But he should have called you by now, shouldn't he?" Veronica guesses. "Doesn't he call you every week?"

Lydia says nothing, but her expression is confirmation enough.

"I'm sorry," Jacob says gently. "It's true. He's gone."

After a moment she asks, desperately, "If you say you were his friend - then what was the name of the girl who gave him his tattoo?"

"Selima. In Sarajevo. She died the next day. There was a picture in his apartment."

Lydia stares at Jacob and Veronica as if they are not just messengers but avatars of death. Then she sags backwards and sits down hard on the bed. Veronica sees for the first time how frail and sickly she is, how gaunt.

Veronica enters the room. Jacob follows her and starts to close the door, but she grabs it before it shuts, it's bad enough being in this tiny room with an open door - bad, but Veronica doesn't feel in danger of a panic attack. She's too intent on what she's doing, they're so close to finding out something important, she can feel it.

"You did something for him, didn't you?" Veronica asks Lydia, in the soft voice she used with anxious patients when she was a nurse. "Not s.e.x. You were a friend. You did him favours."

Lydia doesn't answer.

"We're his friends too. We're trying to find out who was responsible for his death."

"What will I do?" Lydia asks plaintively. "What can I do?"

"Was he supporting you?"

She laughs bitterly. "What do you think? Who else would have? I am illegal, from the Congo. I have no family here. I am too weak to work, I am dying. I have no clients any more, everyone can see I am sick. Derek brought me the new medicines, but it is too late for me, they don't work for me. He paid for this room, for my food, my life, everything. Without him I have nothing. I will die alone on the rubbish heap."

"We'll take care of you," Jacob says. "Trust us."

"Trust you." She sounds like she wants to spit.

Veronica says nothing.

When Lydia eventually speaks there is an awful resignation in her voice, as if she knows these are her last words. "He kept another room here. He came twice a week. He pretended that he came for me. Sometimes he brought his computer, but it is not there now. Yesterday I looked to see if he had come. It is almost empty now. A mobile phone, some papers."

"A secret office," Jacob breathes. "No kidding. Let's go see this cell phone."

"And papers," Veronica says.

Jacob nods perfunctorily, as if paper is only an antiquated afterthought.

Chapter 17

"It's a Mango phone," Jacob reports happily, as he types on his computer and interprets the results that scroll across his screen. They have taken the fruits of their investigation - a wrinkled notebook and a cheap Nokia phone - back to his apartment. "Activated three months ago. Involved in a very small set of calls. None to me, none to Prester, none to that refugee camp, no overlap whatsoever with calls from his other phone. He made sure this one was totally separate. Calls to a Celtel number in Jinja, and get this, to a bunch of international numbers. Tanzania, Kenya, Zimbabwe, and the USA. Virginia area code. He received calls from the Zimbabwe number too. Those were the only incoming calls."

Veronica stops leafing through the spiral-bound notebook. "Prester."

"Prester?"

"Look."

She shows him the notebook. The front and back pages are empty; but a single page of enigmatic point-form notes is hidden in the middle, written in a close, spiderlike hand.

"That's Derek's writing," Jacob confirms. "Know it anywhere."

The single sheet of scribbled notes says: