Kwei Quartey - Gold of Our Fathers

She forced herself into the tight space beside him. “Any news?”

Dawson shook his head. “Not yet. It’s been almost two hours now. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

“We can only hope for the best,” she said.

“I appreciate your coming,” he said, putting his hand over hers. “Mama took the kids?”

“Yes, she did, and gladly. You know her. Any excuse to look after them.”

Dawson smiled, realizing that despite his reservations about his mother-in-law, she was often a godsend. He gave a detailed account of the raid and the shooting to Christine, who nodded at intervals as she listened carefully.

“I know you’re blaming yourself, because that’s your nature,” she said, when he was done, “but if you had been farther back from the scene, it might not have made any difference. He was still going to come up behind you. In fact, it might have been worse if he had shot at you and Kobby from close range.”

Dawson cocked his head and conceded her point. Christine really knew how to make him feel better.

A nurse came to the corner of the waiting area and beckoned to Dawson. He stood up and followed her to the operating suite anteroom.

“Doctor will be with you,” she said. “Please, have a seat.”

Dawson sat, his stomach churning. He felt sick with anxiety and suspense.

The surgeon emerged, surgical mask dangling from around his neck. Dawson tried to read his face, but it was neutral.

He sat beside Dawson, looking tired. “Good news, Chief Inspector.”

Dawson felt some of the tension leave him, like a stretched rubber band returning to normal length.

“Mr. Kobby suffered a collapsed lung,” the surgeon continued, “but we have now expanded it with a chest tube. Other than that, the shot penetrated soft tissue and shattered some ribs, but nothing life threatening.”

Dawson found himself hyperventilating with relief. “Thank you, Doctor. From the bottom of my heart.”

He smiled. “You are welcome. He will be in recovery for about an hour, and then return to the ward for further treatment.”

“But you think he’ll be okay?” Dawson asked, needing the certainty.

“Barring the unforeseen,” the doctor said.

“I’m very grateful to you for all you have done. If I had lost him…”

The surgeon smiled as he stood up. “Yes, I know.”

Dawson was at Kobby’s bedside when he woke up. He looked around, puzzled.

“You’re in the hospital,” Dawson told him. “Do you remember what happened?”

Kobby shook his head, looking down at his bandaged chest. “No, sir.” He winced at the large-bore tube in his right side.

“You were shot,” Dawson said.

Kobby searched his mind. “I remember the mission, boss-going to get the Chinese guys, but what happened after that is completely blank.”

“It’s okay,” Dawson said reassuringly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Were you all right, sir?” Kobby asked him, turning his baby face to look at him.

“Fortunately, yes.”

“What about the guy…”

“Dead,” Dawson said. “One of the soldiers took him down.”

Kobby reflected on that for a moment. “So, apart from what happened to me, the mission was completed successfully?”

“Yes,” Dawson said. “Well, except that you were injured. You and I were standing too close to the raid, and that’s my fault.”

“Oh no, sir…” He trailed off, appearing saddened that Dawson felt that way.

Dawson stood up. “You should rest, Kobby. I will come back to see you tomorrow.”

Christine was still in the waiting area and texting a friend when Dawson emerged. “How is he?” she asked, standing up.

“He’s holding up well,” Dawson said. “He’s a good man. Come on, let’s go home. I’m tired.”

It was now dusk, and the street outside KATH was lit with roadside vendors cooking up goat or chicken kebab, or waakye , or banku and okro stew. Dawson and Christine walked side by side. He was despondent and wished he could start the day over.

“You came by cab?” he asked Christine.

“No,” she said airily. “I came in the four-by-four.”

“What four-by-four?” Dawson asked, looking at her in puzzlement.

“Over there,” she said, pointing to a huge black Toyota Land Cruiser gleaming under the streetlamps.

Dawson laughed. “You’re funny.”

“Don’t believe me?” she asked, taking keys out of her purse. The Cruiser’s lights flashed twice, as if winking at them.

Dawson stopped in amazement. “Wait a minute. Whose vehicle is that?”

“It’s mine,” she said simply. “Come along.”

Eyes wide, Dawson opened the passenger front door and got into the seat next to his wife. Not more than a few weeks old, the SUV’s tan leather was still fragrant. When she turned on the ignition, the dashboard lit up with blue and amber lights, and the TV/GPS screen welcomed them aboard.

“Oh, my God,” Dawson whispered.

“Nice, huh?” Christine said, smiling blissfully.

“Yes,” he replied, “but if you’ve stolen it, you know I’m going to have to arrest you, right?”

She laughed as she pulled her seat belt across her chest. “Okay, I’ll tell the truth. It actually belongs to Uncle Joe. When I told him I was going down to see you, he said he was expecting company, so he couldn’t take me, but he said I could borrow it.”

“Wow,” Dawson said, somewhat awed as she pulled out into traffic. Who would have thought coming to Kumasi would have his wife driving the vehicle of choice for ministers of Parliament?

“I think I’d like to get one of these,” Christine said. “I feel so powerful in it.”

“Feeling powerful isn’t enough,” Dawson said dryly. “You have to be rich too.”

She giggled and gave the monster some gas.

“Er, Christine, take it easy,” Dawson said nervously. “You’re not used to driving anything this big.”

“Okay, okay,” she said happily.

A little taste of luxury , Dawson thought ruefully. That’s all it takes to spark the craving for more.

“What’s on your agenda tomorrow?” she asked him.

“I have to write a full report of the incident to present it to the commander on Monday morning.”

“I’m assuming none of that will be fun,” Christine said, gunning the SUV and overtaking several vehicles.

“No, it won’t,” Dawson said, fumbling for the grab handle near his window. Christine’s driving in a small sedan was ferocious. In an SUV, it was positively terrifying.

Even so, Kumasi’s crawling evening traffic eventually got the better of Christine. As they sat trapped in a sea of vehicles, Dawson put his head back and closed his eyes for a moment as his mind roamed over the day’s events. He wondered who had tipped off Chuck Granger and Wei Liu that the police and military forces were about to stage a raid on his camp. The best person to ask was Wei himself. He tried calling Mr. Huang to ask if he could translate for Dawson while he questioned Liu, but Huang didn’t pick up. Dawson suspected that after the awkward questions he had asked Mr. Huang at his store, the poor man would never answer another call from Dawson.

He looked at Christine. “Do you know any Chinese? I need a translator.”

“No, I don’t,” she said, swerving around a stalled taxi.

“Thought so. I was just checking.”

“What do you need a Chinese interpreter for?” she asked.

“I’m going to interview Wei Liu.”

“Right now? We’re not going home?”

“Not yet,” Dawson said. “Take the next right. Mr. Liu is going to understand and speak English tonight whether he likes it or not.”