Ch 19: Visit to Mombasa

Written by Kavya and Concept by Sidhant First go to previous blogs if you have not already....

The moment Cloe stepped outside Absko's house, she called Daniel, instructing him to dig into Ruksana’s past. Who was she, really? Daniel promised to find out.

Next, Cloe headed to Absko’s office to confirm whether his absence was indeed for official business. The drive was long—an hour and a half—but her instincts told her that something wasn’t right. She introduced herself as Ruksana at the reception, requesting to see Absko. But the manager appeared instead, telling her that Absko hadn’t been in the office since the day before and had not requested any leave. His behavior, the manager explained, was uncharacteristically erratic.

Cloe’s instincts flared. Something was wrong. Absko was in danger.

While pondering her next move, her phone rang. It was Daniel, with the information she had requested.

“Ruksana,” Daniel said, “was the daughter of Mrs. Zawadi’s stepbrother. When she was fifteen, her mother, Sumaida, became a widow and took her to Dubai, where Sumaida’s parents lived. We have no further records of them since then.”

Cloe’s brow furrowed. Why had Mr. Put failed to mention this? Perhaps he had given her Ruksana’s identity for her protection, but now it seemed that Ruksana’s identity had a deeper connection to the case.

The mastermind behind all this, who appeared to be operating from Kenya, had orchestrated two failed attempts to derail Cloe. She was now in the most precarious position, and it was for her safety that Mr. Put had insisted she go undercover as Ruksana. But was it just coincidence that Ruksana was connected to Absko? Cloe wasn’t sure, but she knew one thing: she had to exploit this connection.

Determined to find more answers, Cloe returned to Absko’s home, armed with a bouquet of flowers for Mrs. Zawadi. As she arrived, she instructed Daniel to continue investigating Absko’s whereabouts, particularly in Mombasa. Mrs. Zawadi greeted her warmly once again, and after tea, she produced a small tin box.

“This,” Mrs. Zawadi explained as she handed out a box, “was given to you by your father on your fourteenth birthday. He said you should open it only when you turned eighteen. It was difficult, but you didn’t want to break your promise. So, you gave it to Absko for safekeeping. It’s time you take it back.”

Cloe was taken aback but managed to keep her composure. The box was small, green, and locked with a metal clasp. What did it contain? She didn’t know, but she kept it beside her, asking once again about Absko’s whereabouts. Mrs. Zawadi had no new information to offer. She only smiled, adding, “You know how men are—always keeping their privacy.”

Before Cloe could ask anything further, her phone rang. It was Daniel again, confirming that Absko had checked into a hotel in Mombasa, but why had he arrived only now, two days after his supposed assignment?

Without delay, Cloe arranged a flight to Mombasa, booking a room at the same beach resort where Absko had supposedly checked in.

Once she landed, she wasted no time in heading to the resort. The hotel was beautiful, nestled by the sea, and she checked in as Ruksana. When she asked the reception about Absko, they refused to provide any details, citing privacy regulations. She moved on to the dining area, hoping to spot him there.

The menu was a curious reminder of her time in East Africa. As she entered the dining room in her full Abaya, she spotted him: Absko, seated at a table, dressed in a black suit. He had changed, no doubt, but it was him. Cloe approached him, hoping to catch him off-guard.

“Somebody looks handsome,” she remarked, smiling at him. “Recognize me?”

Absko turned. He stared for a moment, then politely responded, “I don’t think I do.”

“I’m Ruksana, your childhood friend. It’s been so long. How are you?”

Absko’s eyes widened slightly, but he said nothing for a moment. Then he spoke, “Ruksana, it’s been ages. I didn’t recognize you with the new look.”

They exchanged pleasantries, but Cloe couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Absko seemed distant, almost guarded. His two bodyguards—bulky men in black—accompanied him, silent and watchful.

Absko suggested they move to a quieter spot by the garden, and Cloe followed him, hoping this would be an opportunity to learn more.

As they dined, Absko spoke about the historic Fort Jesus in Mombasa, explaining its role in the struggle for control of the Kenyan coast. But what struck Cloe was his odd behavior. He took out a pen and began drawing on a napkin, then folded it and handed it to her.

“My art for you, just like old times,” he said