Night Of Knives

Chapter 16

Downtown Kampala is an area of wide, scarred boulevards intersected by narrow side streets, clogged by choking squalls of traffic and dense clouds of pedestrians, lined by a dizzying array of African commerce: nyama choma street-meat braziers, boda-boda motorcycle taxis, newspaper hawkers, bakeries, bookstores, Internet cafés, pharmacies, stationary shops, cell-phone stores, fast-food stalls. The grassy meridians of the boulevards are fenced by ankle-high barbed wire. Huge concrete monoliths rise above the retail level, banks and government buildings. Posters advertise Sleeping Beauty cosmetics and Celtel phones.

"I guess this is it," Jacob says, looking up at the rotting concrete stairs that lead upwards beneath the hand-painted sign HOTEL SUN CITY, then down to the hiptop computer in his hand, and the tiny Google Map of Kampala on its screen. He can't imagine why Derek would have had anything to do with this place, but according to the hiptop's GPS receiver, the Hotel Sun City is the real-world establishment that best overlaps the cloud of orange dots that correspond to Derek's twice-weekly calls to a handset located this region.

Jacob closes the hiptop's clamshell case and looks around. His shirt is already damp with sweat. The street they are on is one of the busiest in Kampala. Buzzing pedestrian traffic, aggressive sidewalk vendors, protruding metal signs, dangling vines of casually strung electrical cables, and occasional stands of bamboo scaffolding combine to make walking a careful business. The opposite side of the boulevard, across a churning river of smog-belching traffic, is occupied by Kampala's central taxi park, a gargantuan and mindnumbingly busy triangle of dirt occupied by hundreds if not thousands of matatus, East Africa's ubiquitous minivan shared-taxis, and their associated passengers, drivers, vendors and askaris. On reflection Jacob can think of two advantages to this location: anonymity and quick getaways.

"All right," Veronica says doubtfully. "Let's take a look and get this over with."

Jacob follows her up the cracked and uneven stairs, and despite the uncertainty of their situation, as he climbs he can't help but be distracted by Veronica's trim, swaying hips. He's half-amused at himself, half-pleased that life is coming back to him; he hasn't thought about sex since the Congo, but clearly he is recovering fast, and Veronica is easily the most beautiful woman he's ever spent an extended amount of time with. Not that he has any illusions anything is going to happen between them. He's a geek; Veronica is a former model who married a multimillionaire. Jacob is ruefully aware that he is way out of her league.

They ascend to a glassed-in security box manned by a woman who awards them a hostile glare.

"We want to see a room," Jacob improvises, "we might stay here tonight."

The receptionist frowns suspiciously and passes him a key. "Number 307. Ten minutes."

They advance into the hotel's labyrinthine interior. It's much bigger than it looks on the outside, six stories tall and occupying almost the whole block. The interior arrangements are gloomy and bizarre: a half-dozen interior stairways connect only two or three stories apiece, hallways terminate at doorless walls, benches and chairs sit in dark alcoves. Water drips from leaky pipes. Except for themselves the halls are eerily empty. Jacob is reminded of Gormenghast.

They glance into Room 307 out of curiosity. It's barely big enough for its rickety bed. There are roaches on the filthy floor and the even filthier mattress. The mosquito net is full of holes. The shower is a nozzle set in bare concrete, the toilet has no lid, and there isn't even a light, just a bundle of torn wires protruding from a hole in the roof beside a fan that doesn't work.

"I sure hope it's cheap," Jacob says, appalled. He can't imagine any less desirable place to stay in Kampala. Even a shantytown hut would be better than this.