Cross Country (Alex Cross 14)

“Please call me Adanne. Everyone does.”

“Adanne. You obviously care a great deal about this, but I don’t know you. I wish I could trust you, but I can’t.”

Her stare told me I hadn’t lost her yet. “But I hope you’ll help me anyway. I’m Alex, by the way. Everyone calls me that.”

She thought about what I had said, and I could see she was conflicted. It was unusual to see this in a journalist, at least the ones I knew back in Wa

shington—this kind of transparency.

Finally she stood. “All right,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do for you. I’m in.” She picked up her pen again, a silver-topped onyx roller, the kind people give as gifts. “Where can I reach you? Alex?”

At the Redeemed Church of Christ men’s shelter—that’s where I live now.

I don’t know if she noticed my pause. Whether or not it was wise, I found that I wanted to impress Adanne Tansi.

“I’ll call you,” I said. “First thing tomorrow. I promise.”

She nodded, and then she smiled. “I believe you, Detective Cross. So far, anyway. Don’t disappoint me, please.”

How could I even think of it, Adanne?

Chapter 76

A BUSINESSMAN WITH rumored connections named Mohammed Shol stood like an expensively framed portrait of himself in the open double doors of his enormous home. The main building was twenty thousand square feet, and the guesthouse was another eight thousand. He was among South Darfur’s wealthiest men and never missed an opportunity to show it off.

The gated compound with its high walls and attached citrus greenhouse made its own statement: Who but the devil lives like a king in the middle of hell?

Not that the Tiger minded dealing with devils; he did it all the time. This was his business, and if he had carried a card, a black devil might have been the logo.

Shol smiled broadly as he shook hands to elbows with the large and quite handsome fixer and murderer. “Welcome, my friend! Your team will wait out here, of course.”

“Of course.”

“They will be fed.”

“They are always hungry.”

The Tiger left Rocket in charge of the others and knew he would maintain discipline. The boys waited by the front gate, across the yard from Shol’s two plainclothes guards, who watched the younger ones with unconcealed amusement. The guards at the estate had come up from the streets themselves.

Let them be cocky and sure of themselves, the Tiger thought as he eyed the older watchdogs. Underestimation had always worked in his favor.

He followed Mohammed Shol through the estimable front hallway and across an interior courtyard. Cooking smells, cardamom and beef, came from one side of the house. Boys’ voices came from the other—reciting in Arabic, which further defined Shol’s politics.

They came to a glass door at the far end of the courtyard.

An enclosed grove of exotic fruit trees showed on the other side. Shol stopped.

“We’ll meet in here. Can I offer you tea? Or perhaps grapefruit juice?” The latter was a boast, since such juice was a delicacy here.

“Nothing,” the Tiger said. “Only what I came for. Then I will be gone.”

Shol dismissed his houseboy with a quick flick of the wrist, then used a key from his jallabiya pocket to let them inside.

It was pleasant in the greenhouse, temperature controlled with a waft of humidity lacing the air. The tiled floor was shaded under a low canopy of green. Above was the geometric pattern of a glass-and-steel ceiling.

Shol gestured for the Tiger to enter a small dining area in the back.

Four rattan chairs surrounded a luminescent bai wood table. Shol moved aside a potted sapling. Then he ran the combination on a floor safe hidden behind the tree.