Mystery in Harare

4 The Closest to Her Most Fervent Prayer-1

4

THE CLOSEST TO HER MOST FERVENT PRAYER

Priscilla almost but not quite came to. She was at the first of what would be three safe houses, as it were. But as to the actual location of this first one, she would not know for a while.

Better, she thought, much better. She was sinking into unconsciousness again, when she heard a voice—a loud masculine voice, in an accent she had heard before—talking not far away.

Again her eyelids fluttered. Again she was glad to shut them.

But the part of her mind that was conscious followed the familiar voice. Tommy Wozniah? Nah. That couldn’t be him. What’s he doing here, wherever this is? she thought. That Tommy was a high-powered Ohio lobbyist was about all that she knew about him, someone she had met back during her tenure in the Ohio Senate.

Her eyelids felt so heavy. Halfway open. Shades of light. Groggy. She let her eyelids fall shut, again.

She was lucid enough to realize that she had been drugged; but, for whatever the reason, she was not afraid. She did not know why she was not afraid, only that she was not.

Then, she thought she heard Tommy’s voice again. But he was not talking to her. She felt alone. The voice sounded distant from her. The voice would talk awhile, then fall silent before speaking again. The long pauses made it easier to follow at least one side of what had to be a conversation. The voice seemed to Priscilla to be reciting what sounded like an itinerary. Then there was silence.

Then she thought she overheard Tommy say something like “the cathedral in Ha-rah-eh.”

Another voice—which she did not recognize—said, “Salisbury?”

“No, man. Today it’s called Hoorah-eh or Ha-rare-ry. Whatever,” It sounded to Priscilla as if Tommy was trying to correct the other man.

Confused. She blanked out again.

Priscilla did not know whether she had drifted back into unconsciousness for a while, but the next thing she remembered was having asked herself what had happened and where she was. Was Jonathan really dead, or had she experienced a bad dream? Did the perpetrator mean to shoot Jonathan, or had his target been the senator? Had she really seen Tommy Wozniah and Carlton Bernhardt? If so, where was that? Were her mom and other family members and friends safe? Did anybody even know why the assassin had chosen the occasion of her wedding? Did her family know where she was and why she had been abducted? Was that stupid South African Divestiture Bill worth someone’s life? She repeated her questions to herself over and over, but no answers were forthcoming. Nor did any of her abductors come into her midst and talk to her. She felt so alone.

Satisfied they had secured the safest haven for their ward—Priscilla—what she had overheard had been a telephone conversation between Tommy Wozniah, a member of the CF relief team—which she was unaware of—and his contact informing him that they had accomplished the first part of their mission.

“Yeah, man,” Charlie (the manservant)—the other voice that she did not recognize—the contact at the safe house, had said, in his intentionally encrypted report: “Missy’s snuggled in like a gnat in a rug. By the way, she’s not gonna like it when she realizes this is home for a while.” Then there was a pause. “So … how’s it going on your end? And the senator?” But by this time, the manservant was briefing Tommy about Priscilla’s situation. So Priscilla had in fact heard two different voices and bits and pieces of two different conversations at that.

Another pause.

“Hum.”

Then, “Too bad about the bridegroom. He seemed like a pretty good fella. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I guess our girl here’s going to take it real hard. But I’m sure she already knows he’s dead,” the manservant had said with finality. “Oh, yeah,” he continued, “she’s been talking out of her head. Sounds like she thinks she saw you and the other fellow at the château. You know who? So, how’s it going on your end?”

Then there had been another pause in the conversation.

“Her makeover? Excellent,” almost laughing, the manservant had said. “Damn, we’re good at this job. You’d hardly recognize her.”

Then the voice that sounded like Tommy’s moved on with the conversation. “We’re pretty sure our guy is back on his home turf,” and then he had added, “Is the messenger system set up? Besides, when our girl fully regains consciousness, we’re going to have to answer her questions before too long.” Then Priscilla heard what sounded like the end of the conversation. She would never know for certain that it had been Tommy who had come and gone so quietly and quickly.

As Priscilla regained consciousness, to a greater degree of clarity than any time before, she happened to raise her hand to her head. She rubbed both hands around her head. Where’s my hair? Her worst fear was confirmed. The parts of the conversation that she had overheard about some kind of makeover had been about her.

While her rescuers were in the kitchen continuing their discussion about their situation, Priscilla chanced getting up from what she observed to be a tattered sofa in a stifling, strange, drab-colored room that contained, at first sight, none of the modern conveniences that she was accustomed to. Somewhat sluggish, she stumbled. She stared out one of the windows and noticed that the dwelling in which she and the masculine voices she had overheard in the next room were situated in the central part of a large compound walled around with bricks and cement. She did not see a telephone in the room. She continued milling about and noticed antiquated plumbing; odd-shaped pipes protruded from a washbasin and a bathtub in what must have been a bathroom. She returned to the living space and saw a ceiling fan but no air conditioning units.

Man alive is it hot! But at least her clothes were comfortable. These certainly are not my clothes, she thought as she examined the loose-fitting, long-sleeved, blue, black-and-white-striped shift over baggy linen pants and leather sandals that she wore. Instinctively she continued to rub her head, feeling for her hair that had been cut off at the French château.

No ropes. No shackles. No armed guards standing over her. Plainly, she thought, I’m not much of a threat to anybody. Not yet fully recovered, she kept stumbling about lightheaded, but much more lucid than before.

Priscilla chanced a walk outside the front door. That was when she realized that no one was alarmed enough to stand guard over her or to curtail her movements about the place. So she decided that she must have been among friendly forces. Once she stepped outside, she felt the heat of the sun overhead. I’m certainly not in Ohio. She saw a couple of stray dogs and some goats and chickens. She saw a smidgen of grass, some beautiful exotic succulents and trees, and what appeared to be the tops of a few other dwellings nearby. She saw a dirt roadway and that the other dwellings resembled the mud or clay huts usually found in countries where poverty runs rampant.

“Where the devil have they ditched me anyway?” she whispered to herself.

At first, she thought she was somewhere in the Caribbean, but off the beaten path of tourists. But she had never seen clay huts in Trinidad and Tobago or in the Bahamas, so maybe she was stashed someplace else.

That’s it. I’m in North Africa, she thought, somewhere like Morocco. Then she decided, Nah, this can’t be Africa. I mean, it can’t be. At the least, she hoped that she had not been that far from home. As if her situation could not get any worse, she remembered the absence of telephones in the house, at least from what she had seen. Indeed, Priscilla was wholly isolated from most of the conveniences and the people whom she knew.

Suddenly, terrible images flooded her mind. Again, over and over, she saw Jonathan’s head exploding, his falling, his blood splattered everywhere. She hid her eyes with her hands as though that would stop her memory.

No, she told herself. Not now. Don’t think of that now. Just now, it’s too much …

It took all her considerable inner strength to shut off her memory and master her grief. Later, probably for the rest of her life, she would have to deal with the reality of her bridegroom’s death. Yet her even more pressing concern was having been whisked away to the hinterlands of God only knows where.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “Maybe tomorrow and after tomorrow, I can think of all that …”

Just then she concentrated on gratitude that she had escaped physical harm and death. Her limbs gave way beneath her, and there, on the ground she knelt, covered her face and prayed. As it so happened, her behavior showed a remarkable likeness to what her rescuers—who were watching her from the windows inside the house—had hoped that she would manifest; they had wanted Priscilla to shield herself from all things American.

Still kneeling on the ground, she thanked God that she was alive and thanked God for the men who had rescued her. She asked God to keep her family and friends safe from further hurt and harm. She told God that she was not ready to talk about Jonathan or about the man who had killed him. Last, she said, “Bear with me, Lord, and give me the strength and the wherewithal to cope with whatever lies ahead. Amen.” And it came to her, as she knelt, that this was only the second time in her life that she had experienced so much depth in her prayer. She was a preacher’s daughter, but it was not until the night that her beloved father died that her faith had been so affirmed by the grace and presence of her loving God. And again now, here, as she mourned the man who had almost and not quite become her husband, that again, she felt the deep comfort of her faith. Oblivious to her surroundings, she rose and began strolling about as if her new situation were normal.

Then she began constructing a way to cope with a situation that somehow she was aware was not turning out to her advantage. But apart from her faith and her strong will, nothing could prepare her for the events that lay ahead—nothing. Even so, in her customary way, she started to figure out how she had come not to this physical space, but to this mental space in which she now found herself.

She spotted a big tree stump under the shade of what looked to her like a spreading banyan tree. She walked over and settled herself on this natural bench. What I need now, she told herself, is some time with Jonathan. She settled in for a long, restorative visit with happier, more serene and ultimately more innocent times.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The first time they met, she remembered, she had not an inkling of how important he would be to her.

Priscilla had just returned from her first trip to Europe—in fact, she was actually unpacking, when the phone rang and Willa Mae Robinson—an elderly deaconess friend from her church—launched into a rendition of everything that had happened during Priscilla’s “whirlwind vacation,” as she called it. The two of them, despite their age difference, were fairly close, with their occasional lunch outings and teas together. But apart from their relationship, Priscilla remained distant from most other members of the church. Because Mrs. Robinson was also Priscilla’s class leader, part of her responsibility was to inquire about her members’ well-being, their family situation and more. Sometimes she asked Priscilla, “How fares your soul?” Because First Church had an unusually large membership, association with one’s class leader was one way to maintain communications. It made the members feel a part of the large church.

Soon Mrs. Robinson got to the point of her call. “Miss Lady,” she said, “get some rest and come out to church tomorrow. I want you to meet our new pastor. He’s single and unattached, as far as I can see.”

Priscilla was glad the woman could not see the grimace on her own face. “Mrs. Robinson, you know how I feel about preachers.” But Priscilla also knew how churches were. After all, she had grown up inside of one. “See you in the morning.”

A little later, when Julia came to call, Priscilla invited her along to First Church.