Page 67

CHAPTER 66

Lake Kivu, Rwanda, 1 a.m.

THE MAIN FLOOR of Club Riva looked out on the water—moonlit and beautiful, surrounded by dark green hills. Lial checked the time on her cell as she angled her way through the crowd toward the rear patio.

The music was Berlin techno, and it was incredibly loud. Lial could feel the bass in her bones. It felt good to breathe some outside air, even if it was thick with humidity. She’d only been in the club for thirty minutes, but already her clothes were sticky and saturated with cigarette smoke.

She looked up. Joseph Kabera’s small floatplane appeared over the trees in the distance, circled the lake once, then made a slow approach from the west. Lial watched as the plane glided to a feather-soft landing on the water.

The red pontoons churned up white streams of foam until the aircraft came to rest about twenty-five yards from shore. A small dinghy set out from the club’s dock. The pilot-side door opened. Lial saw a tall Black man step out onto the pontoon.

It was him. Rwanda’s infamous minister of interior security.

Lial knew that Kabera traveled with two bodyguards, but always flew the plane himself. Sure enough, two muscular-looking men clambered out of the rear door. The dinghy swung alongside. The bodyguards steadied it while Kabera stepped in. He wiped a small splash of water off his shoe.

Lial slipped back inside to the crowded bar and caught the bartender’s eye. He brought over a bottle of top-shelf vodka and poured her a shot. She downed it, exhaled slowly, then tapped the bar top. Another shot. She slammed the glass down and whipped around, heading for the center of the room.

The dance floor was small for the size of the club, and it was already packed. Lights twinkled in overhead netting and glitter fluttered from the ceiling. Huge Turbosound speakers pumped the music straight down, mainlining it toward the dancers. Lial wore flesh-toned earplugs. Even so, the sound was nearly overpowering. Her estimate: 110 decibels. About the same as a jackhammer.

Lial pushed her dark hair up with her hands and let it fall in a loose tumble over her bare, brown shoulders. She reached down and teased the hem of her very short skirt a few millimeters higher. Then she started moving. Sometimes it was fun to let go—or pretend to. It was one part she actually enjoyed playing.

In seconds, she was surrounded by other dancers. Striking men. Stunning women. Striking men dressed like stunning women. Black, white, Asian, and every mix in between. It was that kind of club. Lial was careful not to play favorites. She danced with anybody and everybody who moved into her orbit, arms pumping, hips swinging, hair flying. At this rate, she would burn off the booze in an hour.

Plenty of time.

She glanced toward the patio as Kabera slipped in through a rear door with his bodyguards flanking him. Kabera was just thirty-one, and his guards looked barely twenty. The minister was a good-looking man and, by reputation, a real lady-killer. Also, literally a killer, with hundreds of extrajudicial murders to his name—men, women, children. Entire families. Sometimes entire villages. All of this Lial knew in detail. She’d studied the reports. She’d seen the photos.

Cal Savage wanted Kabera removed in order to make room for one of his own operatives. It’s not that Kabera was too cruel, Savage told Lial. It’s just that he was too independent. Savage needed somebody totally loyal to him. A fresh start. It was all part of his methodical chess game.

Lial spun herself toward the edge of the dance floor. She didn’t try to catch Kabera’s eye. No need. Let him come to her.