Chapter Forty-Eight
Restaurant Unique
New York City, New York
Everett Westcott sipped his wine slowly as he watched Dr. Nelson Anderson cut into his last piece of venison.
Nelson didn’t act like most guests Westcott usually invited.
Nelson was relaxed, didn’t seem threatened by his presence, which was rare, and everything he’d said during dinner had been thoughtful and earnest.
Still, something about him was off.
“I’ve been with MSF for a long time,” Nelson said, using the French initials for Médecins Sans Frontières. “It’s rewarding work, challenging, too, but . . . I think I’m ready for a change.”
“Really?” Westcott asked. “You’d like to go back to practicing medicine?”
Westcott had been wondering why Nelson had reached out to him. He had a feeling he was about to find out.
“Maybe,” Nelson said, reaching for his own wineglass. “Or . . . if the right opportunity came up, I’d consider something with Hearts United.”
There it is . . .
While the statement didn’t shock Westcott, it did come somewhat as a surprise.
In theory, someone with Dr. Nelson Anderson’s reputation and pedigree would be a prestigious acquisition for Hearts United.
Nelson not only had a stellar reputation on the world stage, he’d also been doing important, high-profile work for Doctors Without Borders for more than a decade.
But while he’d also been a staunch ally to Westcott and Hearts United in Kenya, the last time the two men spoke, Nelson had clearly indicated he wasn’t going to leave the NGO.
So, what had changed?
“You’re serious?” Westcott asked.
Nelson nodded and offered him a warm, modest smile. “You once said I should reach out if I was ever looking for new opportunities. So, I thought I’d take you up on that.”
“I remember. And I meant it,” Westcott replied. “We’ve done good work together.”
He let the silence stretch a moment.
“There might be something opening soon in the DRC,” he said carefully. “It’s a high-level position that requires the kind of expertise you have, Nelson. And now that I think about it, you’d be the perfect fit.”
“The DRC? Really? I . . . I appreciate that. I really do,” a rattled Nelson said.
From Nelson’s dazed expression, it was obvious to Westcott that the man hadn’t expected to receive a job offer on the spot. And then Nelson smiled again, but this time it felt forced, as if he had forgotten to smile and had realized his mistake.
“I can’t tell if you’re happy about the offer or not, my friend,” Westcott said.
“I know how much you care about the DRC and its people, but the country is going through some very complex changes at the moment,” Nelson said.
“The National Assembly is in disarray, since the arrest of Prime Minister Bongonda, and you know, with allegations that he was an operative of the River Congo Alliance . . . I’m .
. . I’m just not sure I understand the region well enough to be of service.
I mean, Bongonda? With twenty million dollars in an offshore account? I didn’t see that one coming.”
“Not many people did, so don’t get too worked up about it,” Westcott said with a smile.
“Honestly, I was taken by surprise too. But you know what? As shocking as Bongonda’s arrest is, I trust the Congolese people will sort it out.
And who knows, with Bongonda’s removal, this might clear the way for President Mutombo’s agenda, which I support. ”
Westcott studied Nelson carefully, looking for any clues the man didn’t agree with him .
. . or that he was too eager to go. If he was to place Nelson in an important leadership and operational position in the DRC, they had to see eye to eye.
But on the other end, no sane man, especially not one with Nelson’s real-world experience, would accept a high-profile job in the DRC without reticence.
Unless someone asked him to seek me out.
Westcott didn’t think it was the case, but since the Sofie Bergmann incident, he was going to be much more careful about who he brought into his inner circle. After dinner was done, he was going to have a long talk with Mpassi about Nelson Anderson.
“The truth is,” Nelson said, “depending on what it is you have in mind for me in the DRC, I may or may not be the best suited candidate for the position. I’d have to know a lot more about what would be expected of me before I even considered it.”
The man’s answer quieted some of Westcott’s doubts.
If Nelson had been tasked with infiltrating Hearts United, wouldn’t he have jumped at the opportunity Westcott had just offered him on a silver platter?
But he hadn’t. Nelson Anderson was well versed in the complexity of the region Westcott wanted to send him to, and he was intelligent enough to know he might not have all the answers.
Which was something Westcott appreciated.
So why do I feel there’s something else?
They finished the meal with light talk, mostly discussing what was going on in Eastern Africa and a potential pharmaceutical partnership between Doctors Without Borders and an American company.
“Thank you again for dinner, Everett,” Nelson said, shaking his hand.
“My pleasure. I’ll be in touch very soon,” Westcott said. “How long are you in town for?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’m headed to Portland, Maine, to see my folks.”
“All right, then. Enjoy your time in Maine.”
Westcott watched the man leave. He didn’t like questions without answers. And Dr. Nelson Anderson had just raised a few.
Westcott sank into his seat at the back of the armored Escalade. The powerful engine purred as they pulled away from the curb. To his left, Mpassi tapped through an interface on a secured tablet.
“Well?” Westcott asked.
Mpassi looked up. “We may have a problem with the good doctor,” he said.
“Go on.”
“You asked me to monitor your dinner. We captured the entire conversation and ran it through our analysis software in real time. The AI picked up several inconsistencies with Dr. Anderson’s answers.”
Westcott tilted his head. “Such as?”
“He told you he flew into Newark.”
“He did.”
“Well, he didn’t. Not really.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dr. Anderson did land in Newark earlier today, but he did so because he took a flight from Boston, not Nairobi.”
Westcott raised an eyebrow. “When did he get back from Africa?” he asked.
“Two days ago. He landed at Logan Airport in Boston.”
“He told me he has family in Maine, so that makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Then why did he tell you he was still jet lagged?” Mpassi asked.
“What’s your point, Charles?”
“What I’m saying is that he made it sound like he had just flown in from Nairobi, when in fact he didn’t.”
Westcott looked out the window, his mind going through the reasons that could have pushed Nelson Anderson to make him believe he had just flown in from overseas. Could it be a simple misunderstanding?
“And there’s more,” Mpassi continued. “His parents own a trucking company near Portland, Maine. And FYI, the ATF has a file on them. It’s unclear why.”
“These companies attract federal attention all the time,” Westcott said. “Could be tax evasion, interstate-cargo irregularities, drug trafficking—”
“I get it,” Mpassi said. “Could be anything. But I’m looking into it.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. He has a brother.”
“I remember him mentioning having a sibling,” Westcott said. “Works at the United Nations, right?”
“Name’s Caspian Anderson. He was a translator at the UN.”
“Was?” Westcott asked.
“My contact said Caspian Anderson is no longer listed as an employee,” Mpassi explained.
“But what’s truly interesting is that there’s no photos of him online.
Nelson’s parents, Richard and Elizabeth Anderson, are well known in their community.
Their pictures were easy to find. Local newspapers, chamber of commerce stuff, but Caspian? Nothing.”
“You think he’s been deliberately scrubbed?” Westcott asked.
“Too soon to say for sure, but that’s what I’m starting to believe.”
“All right. Keep digging.”