Julian stiffened. “I’m not on a mission if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Four years ago, Sunny had come close to convincing him not to walk away from the SEALs. To honor his best friend by continuing the pursuit of making a difference in the world by eradicating it of terrorists. In the end, Julian couldn’t imagine serving in the military without Broman by his side. They’d spent their entire Naval career in the same boat crews and later assigned to the same SEAL team. They were swim buddies, watching each other’s backs on every mission. How could he do that with someone else?
He’d walked away from the SEALs and from the Navy, with everyone’s understanding that his last mission had been too much to overcome. Sunny was like the rest, oblivious to the truth of what really happened in Central Sulawesi.
She had no clue what he’d done. And she, more than anyone else, would have the right to hate him if she found out the truth.
Sunny asked, “Why are you here?”
Julian hesitated, not sure how to respond to her question.
Sunny’s eyes narrowed, her head tilting as she scrutinized his face. “You’re here because of a woman, aren’t you?”
It was Julian’s turn to look away. He didn’t want to hurt Sunny. He didn’t know if telling her about Mena would.
A man dressed in a rumpled business suit brushed against Julian’s arm as he angled for a better position to examine a painting on the wall near the settee.
Stepping closer to Sunny and out of the man’s way, Julian decided to be honest. No matter what had happened between him and Sunny through the years, she was still one of his oldest friends. “My girlfriend works at the Tribal Museum.”
“And you’re here to visit her,” Sunny said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
“I moved here with her. We’ll be in Nairobi for another year and a half. After that, it’ll depend on where her next job is,” Julian explained.
“Wow. Montgomery is following a woman around the world for her career. Never would have imagined that. What kind of work are you doing?” Sunny asked.
Julian bristled, not wanting to answer her question.
As if divinely inspired, the gallery worker motioned for him as the package containing Mena’s mask was brought out from a room in the back.
Julian looked back at Sunny. “I gotta go. My mask is ready.”
“No problem,” Sunny said. Reaching into the back pocket of her shorts, she handed him a business card. “We really should catch up when you’re not too busy. You can buy me a vodka tonic.”
Julian took the card and read it.
Tactical and Intelligence Defense Executive Services (TIDES). Sunny Tate. Owner.
Below the names were two phone numbers. A local Kenyan number and the Atlanta cell phone number Julian still knew by heart.
“Bye, Montgomery,” Sunny said, walking away. Heart pounding in his chest, he watched her walk out of the gallery. Sunny raised her umbrella and crossed the street to The Hub, disappearing from his sight.
An uneasiness settled within him. He had a feeling this wouldn’t be his last encounter with Sunny Tate.
“Mr. Nix, your mask is ready,” the woman said, behind him.
Julian rolled his eyes, checking his watch once again.
11:05 a.m.
Damn. He was too late. The lecture had already begun.
Chapter Four
Crossing the wide exhibit hall toward the last sculpture, Mena stopped near the center and gazed at the audience. Hundreds of guests—dignitaries, senior executives of the African business elite, and a hodgepodge of political who’s who of Kenyan government—stared back at her. Riveting was the word that came to mind as she thought about the presentation she’d been giving over the past hour.
Wangari Irungu, director of the Tribal Museum, had the forethought and vision to expand the focus of the museum to showcase temporary exhibits of art from internationally acclaimed African artists. The exhibit hall itself was a masterpiece of design, perfectly complementing the very first showcase of three dynamic sculptures by the Ghanian artist, El Anatsui.
“This last piece by Anatsui is a prime example of his philosophy that sculpture should be malleable, flexible, conforming to space, and not rigid. The form has taken on different shapes in each installation, proving the dynamic nature of his work and embodying a view that art should suggest and not dictate,” Mena explained. A soft murmur rippled through the air as the crowd nodded in approval and understanding.
