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fifty-five f

Kenya Redux

A week later, Gary picked me up in a new, deep-red Corvette. He’d taped a hundred-dollar bill onto the passenger side of the dashboard.

“I love the car, but what’s with the bill?” I asked.

“You’ll see.”

Instead of driving north on Route 1 to Ben’s place, Gary drove south for a few miles and pulled onto the interstate. The Corvette went from zero to infinity in a matter of seconds. I held onto my seat to keep from flying into the windshield.

“You asked about the bill,” Gary said, “I’m gonna punch it. If you can grab it, it’s yours.”

“I’m game,” I laughed.

The car picked up more speed. Each time I leaned forward, I was thrown back, unable to grab the bill. Finally, I gave up.

“This car moves!” I squealed.

“Damn straight.” Gary slowed to a legal speed. “Can’t risk speeding for too long. The Feds are everywhere.”

I shot Gary a worried look.

“Don’t worry, Ava. They don’t know where any of us live. We’ve been usin’ pay phones, talkin’ in code, doin’ business in different hotels.”

Speeding in a red Corvette didn’t fit my definition of keeping a low profile. I hoped Gary knew what he was doing.

We exited the interstate and headed toward Pompano Beach, eventually pulling into a motel that had seen better days. Gary parked behind the building and escorted me to room 122. Gary knocked three times, paused, then knocked three more times. Ben cautiously opened the door. We hurried inside.

“I’ve been moving around a lot lately,” Ben said, “trying not to do business at home.”

“Have a seat, Ava,” Gary said. “We wanna discuss Kenya.”

Ben handed me an envelope. “Here’s your ticket to New York. You’ll be leaving on April 24. From there, you’ll be flying on the Concorde to London.”

“I’m leavin’ on the nineteenth,” Gary said. “I’ll meet you at the Dorchester.”

“I’m having déjà vu,” I said.

“But this time, no Mike, no five days in London, no open-ended trip to Mombasa,” Ben explained.

“Two weeks and we’re back home,” Gary said.

Ben sent Mike to the Bahamas, which allowed me to leave without an excuse. Coming home would be another story. I’d deal with that when the time came.

My flight to New York was unremarkable. And then I saw the Concorde. I’d heard about the remarkable plane that would bring me to London in three hours, but nothing prepared me for the delta-winged, drooped-nose, supersonic spaceship waiting at JFK International Airport. Despite its magnificence, the plane was small . . . maybe a hundred seats. I walked through the front section, passed the restrooms, entered the rear section, and sat next to a tiny window. The entire plane was first class.

The noise on takeoff was deafening, but I didn’t care. The crew treated me like royalty with endless flutes of champagne, caviar, and steak tips. I felt spoiled, loved, and valued. Mike, prison, and the real reason for my trip evaporated.

The Dorchester was as I remembered: polished and luxurious. Gary and I shared a two-bedroom suite with a common living room. Gary left a note saying he’d be back later that evening. Since we’d be leaving the next day for Nairobi, I wanted to take advantage of every amenity the hotel had to offer. I treated myself to a hot bath in the oversized marble tub, then ordered from room service.

The next morning, we ate a hurried breakfast and took a cab for Heathrow, where we boarded a plane to Nairobi. Our flight was smooth, and we arrived in time for our connection to Mombasa.

I had mixed feelings on the taxi ride to my former home. The city and countryside were frozen in time, but I was someone new. The exuberance I’d felt last year had faded into the reality of our visit. I knew the dangers the country held and was determined to avoid a repeat of the prior year.

Ben had alerted Rajiv and our household staff to our visit. Mary, Fatima, and Peter greeted me with smiles and hugs. They escorted us to the dining room, where they had laid out a welcome-home feast rivaling our return-from-prison meal. This time I ate with relish.

“I had no idea you guys lived so well,” Gary said. “I could get used to this.”

I tried imagining the setting from Gary’s perspective: the tropical gardens and pool, luxurious furnishings, and a kind, loyal staff. He was in heaven. I had returned to my personal hell.

I gave Gary first choice of bedroom. I chose Tina’s old room and vowed never to set foot in my former bedroom.

w

Waititu joined us for breakfast the next morning.

“Where is Mr. Mike?” he asked.

Gary and I had decided it would be best to keep the truth in Florida.

“He’s busy back home,” I said.

Waititu squirmed. “To be honest, I never thought he was the right man for farming. I hope I do not offend.”

Gary and I exchanged glances.

“No offense taken,” Gary replied. “Ava has spoken highly of you. With your help, we hope to save the operation.”

“I will do what I can,” Waititu said. “But please know our farmers are frightened.”

“Can you find us new farms?” Gary asked.

“I will try.”

I appreciated Waititu’s honesty. I had a sinking feeling our trip would be another waste of time and money.

Gary and I spent the day sightseeing with Waititu. We ended the day at the seaside café where his brother-in-law tended bar. He ordered Tusker beer for the guys and white wine for me. I felt as if I were in a time warp. If only I could rewind the tape that was my life and return to this scene a year ago. I would play my cards much differently.

I left the guys to discuss business and took a walk on the beach. As the sun began to set, a light breeze blew from the west, cooling my emotions. I couldn’t imagine a more tranquil scene, but I promised myself it would be my last sunset on Mombasa Beach.

Gary and I spent the next day at the house. I read by the pool, while Gary spent much of his time on the phone with Ben. I thought about the cost of the calls, then looked around me. Ben was willing to spend $250,000 on a house he’d never seen. What were a few international calls?

Gary left with Waititu the next morning. He arrived home in the evening with a bag of pot that I suspected had been harvested before the fields were burned. We enjoyed Mary’s superb Kenyan food, chilled South African white wine, and tokes from a hand-carved pipe.

My days became monotonous and lonely. Gary spent his time with Waititu; the household staff left me alone except at mealtimes. Gary shared little with me about the operation, but from what I overheard on his calls to Ben, it didn’t sound good.

I was right. After ten days, Gary brought me up to speed.

“This Kenya thing is done for,” he said. “Ben wants me home. Guess we’ll do a rewind in a coupla days.”

“Rewind?”

“Y’know, Kenya to London, London to New York, then back to sunny Florida.”

And a rewind back to Mike.

“Are you okay?” Gary asked. “Not ready to go home?”

“I don’t have a home.”

“Sure you do. You’re one of us.”

Gary’s words did little to comfort me.