chapter 17

It was warm, but not in a suffocating way. Mosquito netting hung from the ceiling, draped in a kind of shroud. Miles Bradford blinked and then took a deep breath. He was on a narrow bed, still clothed, although his shoes were no longer on his feet. A row of small windows lined the left wall, and filtered light came through them, casting odd shadows about the room. His head hurt and he was hungry, and recollections of the last words he’d heard from Munroe tumbled around in his mind. He hadn’t expected to be greeted with a hero’s welcome, but a friendly “Hi and welcome back” wasn’t asking much. Sure, he’d gone against her wishes in returning to Cameroon, but it hadn’t called for this level of hostility. He should have expected it, though. The woman really didn’t play well with others.

In other circumstances he would already have been at the windows, already gotten a bearing on the surroundings and known what the chances for getting out were, might have even knocked a few heads in, Munroe’s included. But this was different. He didn’t want to escape, he wanted her trust, wanted to be there when she went back to Equatorial Guinea to search for Emily—had to be there. He lay still for a moment and then, when he reached through the netting for the glass of water standing on the low table by the side of the bed, saw that he wasn’t alone in the room.

In a chair to the right, a few feet away from the bed, sat a man with features slightly distorted by the folds of netting that separated them, and although the man’s head didn’t move, his eyes followed when Bradford shifted to reach for the glass. Without breaking eye contact, Bradford brought the glass to his mouth. The man had a strong, toned body, was a little taller than he, perhaps older. He had no visible weapons, and the way he was sitting indicated no ill intent or threat.

Bradford drank the water in several long-drawn-out swallows, and when he had finished, the man leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and said, “Good morning.”

Morning. How long had he been under?

Bradford nodded in reply and held the glass lightly, ready to utilize it as a weapon if he had to. This was Munroe’s game; he would see where she was taking it.

The man asked, “Do you know who I am?” Bradford remained silent, and the man said, “You are Miles Bradford, American, private security, mercenary, assist to Vanessa Munroe in this assignment of hers, am I correct?” The voice was rich with accent, and although the words were neutral, the tone had an edge and brought with it something else—a warning, perhaps.

Bradford nodded again.

“I am Francisco Beyard: gun runner, drug runner, businessman, and strategist. It falls on my shoulders to decide your fate. Welcome to my world.”

And then it made sense. Munroe’s missing years and the way she’d regrouped back on the Equatoguinean mainland as quickly as she had without money or supplies. These were old connections, and this man was a figure from her unknown past—“Vanessa’s” unknown past. Bradford drew himself up to lean back against the wall and said, “Am I here as a guest or a prisoner?”

Francisco Beyard shrugged. “I would hardly call you a prisoner. Escape from this room, from this house, would be fairly simple, and were you to vanish into the streets of Douala, it would make my job so much easier. You have brought the supplies Vanessa needed, and so you are free to go anytime. But you don’t want to leave, you are determined to return to Equatorial Guinea with us, and that is why you and I are here in this room having this …” He paused. “This conversation.”

“I’d like to talk to Michael if she’s around.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. You see, Mr. Bradford …”

“Miles.”

Beyard nodded. “You see, Miles, I care nothing about this project of yours or this girl you hope to find. My interest in this venture—my only interest—is protecting Vanessa. As I understand it, you were the one responsible for bringing her into the assignment. You were the one with her in Malabo when she was taken from the hotel and for some reason you were left untouched. Now you insist on returning to Africa to accompany her, though your help is unneeded and unwanted. This does not bode well for you. I’m sure you understand my position.”

“I had nothing to do with what happened to Michael,” Bradford said. “I’m just as confused about the chain of events as I assume you are or she is.”

“But you are extremely eager—even demanding—to accompany Vanessa back into the country. Why is that?”

“It’s my job.”

Beyard shook his head slightly. “It was no longer your job at one point, and yet you persisted.”

“Look,” Bradford said, irritation breaking through in his voice, “I’ve known Emily and her family since she was a child. I’ve been through hell with both of her parents while they tried to locate her—her mother eventually killed herself over this. After four years of searching, we finally have a tangible trail to follow. I’m not going to let it go. I have a personal interest in bringing Emily home.”

“And you don’t feel that Vanessa is capable of doing this?”

Bradford began to say something and then stopped. No matter what he said, he would back himself into a corner.

“What you’ve just told me,” Beyard continued, “Vanessa has also told me.” He paused and stared at Bradford, rubbing his thumb against his chin. “But this is not the primary reason you have returned. You know it, so do I, so does she. In order to assess with certainty what threat you constitute to Vanessa—and by implication to myself—or to the assignment, I need to understand what compels you to return, the things that run deeper that you are not telling.”

“It is what it is,” Bradford said. “I don’t have anything more to tell.”

Beyard stood. “As I suspected. And so I’ve made arrangements for you to fly back to Houston—your flight leaves tomorrow morning. You will be sedated, and I will accompany you to the plane to be sure that you are on it. I suggest that you don’t return or attempt to find us, and should you be so foolish as to try, I will personally see to it that you are stopped. This is my home, Miles, and I am well connected. Do not underestimate me.” He turned to go. “There will be no more questions. I’m sure you’re hungry. I’ll have food sent to you.”

Bradford closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It wasn’t all bad. He could leave the house—it wouldn’t be that difficult—keep tabs on them, follow them. Yeah, right. Maybe on another continent, in another country, but not this one. He didn’t know the land or the language, didn’t have time to acquire resources and assets. Munroe would be traveling into remote areas, would know he was there and eliminate the threat she found in him. No, if he wanted to be there when Emily was located, the only way was by gaining Munroe’s trust. She had calculated this, was manipulating the situation and using this man, Beyard, as a buffer so that the only way to her was through him. There had been no bluff in Beyard’s voice, no malice. He presented an opportunity that would soon be gone. Bradford debated until Beyard’s hand was on the door and then said, “I loved her mother.”

Beyard stopped, turned.

“What guarantee do I have,” Bradford asked, “that this will be enough?”

“None,” Beyard said, and returned to the chair where he’d been sitting. “But motive is a powerful thing, and I need to know what yours is. Ultimately Vanessa will make the call. I am … how should I say? I am the screening process.”

“The truth is, I made a promise to her mother. The night before she killed herself, she made me swear I would bring Emily home.”

“An oath is something I can understand,” Beyard said. “Why was it made?”

“I loved her,” Bradford said. “It really is that simple.”

Beyard nodded. “And this man Richard Burbank, the father, the one you manipulated into hiring Vanessa, he was no doubt unaware?”

“Manipulated.” Bradford gave a quick snort and shook his head slightly. How much could they actually know? “Yeah, I manipulated Richard into hiring Michael, and no, he didn’t have a clue about the extent of the friendship that Elizabeth and I shared.”

“So you are the one responsible for Vanessa twice having been nearly killed?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s been nearly killed many more times than that,” Bradford said, and then quickly followed with, “I was responsible for getting her hired, but like I already said, I had nothing to do with what happened in Malabo or whatever the fuck else you’re talking about. I certainly don’t want to see her dead. I want her to find Emily.”

Beyard said nothing and, with arms crossed and legs stretched out, stared at Bradford while silence filled the room.

Finally Bradford spoke again. “Richard introduced me to Elizabeth about a year after they’d been married. We’ve never been friends, Richard and I. Acquaintances, business associates, I guess you could say. We’ve worked together on and off over the years on assorted deals, and it was at some formal business event that I first met her. No matter what it looked like on the outside, they weren’t happy. Richard is a controlling, demanding asshole, and it carried over into their marriage. Elizabeth turned to me for advice, and in time we became very close.” Bradford’s voice caught, and he paused for composure. “I would have done anything for her, you know? God, I loved her.” He raised his eyes to meet Beyard’s. “Yes, we were lovers.

“I was with her the day before she died—I’d gone to see her at the retreat where she’d been staying. I’d been making fairly regular visits just to check on her, but on that particular day she was different, stressed, nervous, had difficulty focusing. Richard had come to see her the day before to talk about her will. Apparently everything she had was to go to Emily, and with Emily having been missing for nearly a year, Richard wanted her to rewrite the will. For obvious reasons the conversation didn’t go well. Elizabeth refused to believe that her daughter was dead. Richard seemed to think otherwise.

“She spent a lot of time talking about Richard, about him forcing her to make changes she didn’t want to make. She made me promise that I would do everything I could to find Emily, that I would bring her home.” Bradford looked directly at Beyard. “I did, and the next day Elizabeth was dead.”

Beyard was silent for a moment and then finally said, “Why Vanessa?”

Bradford smiled. Almost laughed. “You’re from her past. I guess you don’t know much about her present. Michael deals in information, and as far as I know, she’s the best there is at getting it. You give her a scenario, a country, whatever it is, and she’ll find a way. Doesn’t matter the language, the gender, cold, hot, war zone, military dictatorship, whatever—she gets it. I used some of the stuff she put together for a couple of the security jobs I worked. It was always accurate, always good.” Bradford paused and brushed his fingers through his hair, sighed and stared toward the window. “I was running out of time. It had been four years since Emily’d disappeared, and I realized that unless we tried a different avenue, we’d keep turning up nothing. I’d been watching Michael for a couple of years, had assembled something of a portfolio on her.” He stopped and looked at Beyard. “Before you start jumping to conclusions, my curiosity was purely professional—admiration, the way one artist admires the work of another. Anyway, I knew that Michael’s assignment in Turkey was close to finished, so I brought what I had to Richard and asked him to give it one last shot, told him that if Michael couldn’t track down Emily, nobody could, and that he could know for certain that she was dead, and he could have the closure he wanted.” Bradford shrugged. “That’s pretty much it, from the beginning, my side of the story. True to form, Michael began to deliver, and then we got to Malabo and the shit hit the fan, and I’m still trying to figure out what the hell happened.”

Beyard put his hands on his knees and said, “Well, Miles, that’s a very interesting story.” He stood. “One last thing: I have been asked to collect a notebook. It’s inside your bag there. I have seen it but prefer to allow you the courtesy of giving it to me rather than taking it from you.”

“Is there any difference?” Bradford said, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Either way I have no choice.”

“A matter of semantics.”

Bradford nodded, dug the notebook out of his bag, and handed it to Beyard.

“Thank you,” Beyard said, and opened the door. “You’re free to leave, stay, wander, as you wish. Make yourself at home.”

“I’d like to talk to Michael.”

“She’s not here at the moment.” Beyard glanced at his watch. “Three hours, perhaps.”