Black Star Nairobi (Melville International Crime)
Mukoma Wa Ngugi
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Two cops—one American, one Kenyan—team up to track down a deadly terrorist.
It’s December 2007. The Kenyan presidential elections have gotten off to a troubled start, with threats of ethnic violence in the air, and the reports about Barack Obama on the campaign trail in the United States are the subject of newspaper editorials and barstool debates. And Ishmael and O have just gotten their first big break for their new detective agency, Black Star.
A mysterious death they’re investigating appears to be linked to the recent bombing of a downtown Nairobi hotel. But local forces start to come down on them to back off the case, and then a startling act of violence tips the scales, setting them off on a round-the-globe pursuit of the shadowy forces behind it all. A thrilling, hard-hitting novel, from the author of Nairobi Heat, a major new crime talent.
“Old … it needed a new pressure valve. I told them that they needed a new boiler immediately. They said they would order one from the United States and get it shipped in. I guess it’s still on its way,” he said, trying not to smile at his joke. “Did you see anything suspicious?” I asked. “No, nothing around the boiler,” he answered. “Has anyone else come to see you? Americans?” I asked. He looked alarmed. The stories about the U.S.’s extraordinary renditions, when told with a Kenyan flair for
tense between O and his mother. He’d be back any minute now, but Mary cleverly said that she didn’t know how long he would be. “Guestimate, as the Americans like to say. When can we expect his esteemed company?” Jamal asked. “Midday, he said he would be back to make lunch,” Mary answered. Jamal put the gag back on her. “Could be later … much later. O loves his African Time, or for the benefit of Ishmael, Colored People Time?” Jamal laughed, but the white men smiled politely. “If you can give
understood. His Luo-accented Kiswahili would only heighten the situation. I lowered my Glock and walked toward them. “I am an American.” Never before had those words sounded so hollow and devoid of meaning. I stupidly thought I might as well have also announced that we came in peace. “And we are here to make burial arrangements for a friend,” I added. There was some murmuring and then two young men stepped forward—one of them held a gleaming machete and the other an old hunting rifle. The one
what Julio was doing to the English teacher. If he had sold out Julio, his gamble would be that Julio didn’t have enough information—therefore needed a confession. So if he kept quiet, Julio couldn’t know for sure. And if he hadn’t sold out Julio, he would have to trust that Julio would believe him, because Julio had nothing on him. Julio had raised the stakes, though, with the simple question—How well did he know Julio? How safe was he in either telling the truth or lying? Would Julio come at
five extra minutes it took to get the baby out of the infant seat and gather her toys and feeding bottle found them still at the farthest corner of the second level of the garage when the bomb went off. Those five or so minutes had saved their lives. “Who was I talking to? Who heard us?” the man asked, looking around. “I enjoyed our conversation,” I said as I walked up to him. I thought he was going to cry, but his wife leaned into him and they both looked at their sleeping infant. I