by Mike Resnick
She was interrupted a number of times, as waiters kept approaching the table, each with a different side of meat on a skewer. She chose the impala, the Thomson’s gazelle, and the hartebeest, which they sliced off in turn, and passed on the zebra and the crocodile.
She finished her story at about the same time she finished her meal. Oliver signed for the check, got up, and walked her to the safari car. A few moments later they were driving through the center of the huge city, past the Kenyatta International Conference Centre, the New Stanley Hotel, the High Court, all the familiar landmarks.
“It’s hard to believe that Nairobi consisted of nothing but two tin-roofed shacks in 1895,” she remarked. “I wonder if any city ever grew this big this fast.”
“It was tiny back then,” agreed Oliver. “The problem is that it’s too damned big now. Everyone comes here looking for work. We’ve got about three million people living here, and the water supply and sewage system weren’t built to handle even half that.”
“So what happens?”
“What happens is a lot of these poor bastards live in squalor that no one deserves,” he said with a sigh. “I wish I could help, but what can an aging safari guide do?”
“Well,” replied Lara, “if we ever go hunting for Solomon’s treasure and actually find it, you can put your share to use here.”
“I suppose there are worse things to do with it,” he agreed.
Oliver turned onto Harry Thuku Road and pulled up to the front of the venerable Norfolk a moment later. He opened the door for Lara, then tipped an attendant to park the car.
“I believe you have a room for me,” said Lara as they walked up to the registration desk. “My name is—”
“I remember you from your last visit, Memsaab Croft,” said the desk clerk. “And we have a cottage for you, not a room.” He paused. “With two bedrooms, as Mr. Oliver requested.”
She stared at Oliver in surprise.
“I didn’t know what the problem was,” he said. “But I knew you weren’t coming on safari. I live in the Ngong Hills, about ten miles from here. If you’re going to need help in a hurry, I can’t stay there.”
“That was very thoughtful,” she said. “I’ll cover all your expenses.”
“Too late,” he replied with a grin. “I’ve already paid for three nights.”
“What’s a girl to do?” said Lara. “You win.”
A porter came up and tried to take her bag from her.
“I’ll carry it myself,” she said.
“But—” began the man.
“You’ll get your tip anyway,” said Oliver in Swahili. “But the lady always carries her own bag.”
The porter looked at them as if they were crazy, but he finally shrugged and led them through a courtyard, past an aviary, and to their cottage.
“Cottage Number Five,” he announced. “This is known as the Writers’ Cottage. Many famous authors have stayed here—Ernest Hemingway, Robert Ruark, Daniel Mannix . . .”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” said Lara before he could continue his litany of writers.
He opened the door, ushered them in, puttered around showing them the light switches and fans until Oliver gave him his tip, and then departed.
“What a pleasure it is to be back here!” she said, plopping down on an oversized chair. “An uneventful flight, a great meal, and now I’m in the Norfolk. I haven’t felt this safe in quite a while.”
“You’re not that safe,” said Oliver.
“What are you talking about, Malcolm?” said Lara. “This is the Norfolk! I don’t know about writers, but it’s been hosting American Presidents and British royalty since Teddy Roosevelt’s day. Where could we find better security?”
“I guess you didn’t know that the front of the place was blown apart by a fanatic’s bomb on New Year’s Eve back in 1981,” said Oliver. “They rebuilt it to look just like it’s always looked, but it’s hardly attack-proof. Actually, I feel a little uneasy being here, since you registered under your own name. The bad guys will know where you are by now.”
“I told you: The bad guys won’t bother me until I find the Amulet,” she said. “It’s the good guys who are out to kill me.”
“That’s my Lara,” he said. “All I ever did was hunt angry elephants and man-eating lions and the like. You’re the one who leads an exciting life.”
“Right at this moment I could do with a little less excitement.”
“Well, with a little luck, you’ll have three days to rest and relax before you go to the Seychelles.”
“I certainly hope so,” she said.
They visited and discussed old times for another hour, then both walked over to the gift shop to purchase some much-needed bathroom equipment.
When they returned to the cottage, Lara found a robe that the hotel supplied, laid it out on the bed, then carried the toothpaste and toothbrushes they had just bought into the bathroom.
“I’ve got the blue one,” she said. “You can have the red one.”
“Whatever you say,” replied Oliver from the next room.
She put the toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet, rinsed her hands and face off, turned to the door—and froze.
“Malcolm,” she said softly.
“Speak up,” he replied. “I can’t hear you.”
“Malcolm, get over here—fast!”
He got up and walked to the bathroom, where the door was still open.
“Is it dangerous?” asked Lara.
Oliver looked at the snake that lay coiled on the floor between them.
“Don’t move!” he said tersely.
“What is it?”
“A black mamba,” he replied. “It’s the deadliest snake in Africa.”
The snake, annoyed by their voices, began raising its head. She stared into its cold reptilian eyes, almost mesmerized for a second.
“I’d better get my Magnum!” he said. “Don’t excite him!” He raced out the door before she could tell him to get her pistols out of her bag.
The mamba hissed and raised its head even higher.
Lara slowly, ever so slowly, began crouching down. The snake’s head lowered as it kept its eyes level with hers. When she felt she could reach her boot without any awkward motions, she moved her right hand down and slowly, gently pulled out the Scalpel of Isis.
She straightened up, and again the mamba raised its head. The snake was no more than two feet from her, within easy striking distance.
But I’m within easy striking distance of you, too, she thought.
She reached her left hand out very slowly. The snake watched it, unblinking. There was a box of tissues on the sink. Ever so carefully she pulled one out of the box and slowly moved it toward the mamba until it hissed again.
Then, tensing, she dropped the tissue. It fluttered toward the floor, and the mamba struck—and as its deadly fangs went through the tissue, she grabbed it just behind its head with her left hand and stuck the dagger up through its underjaw with all her strength. The blade went up through the mamba’s tongue and out the top of its mouth, pinning its jaws shut.
It began struggling in her grip, but it was unable to sink its fangs into her. She brought the snake’s head down again and again against the hard enamel edge of the sink. At some point she realized that it was dead, had been dead for a few moments and was simply jerking spasmodically. She walked to the door of the cottage, pulled the Scalpel of Isis out, and tossed the dead mamba onto the stone patio.
Oliver arrived less than a minute later, Magnum in hand, and saw the dead snake.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Those bastards parked my car a block away.”
“He couldn’t just have crawled in here on his own, could he?” asked Lara, gesturing to the mamba.
Oliver shook his head. “There hasn’t been a mamba in town in years. They’re actually getting rather difficult to find.” He lifted up the snake’s body. “I’d better dump him in the garbage before all the guests start leaving in a pa
nic.”
He picked up the mamba and carried it off, returning a few minutes later.
“Well, nothing good is going to happen here,” he said. “They know where you are. You’d better get your bag. If they want a second chance at you, they’re going to have to find you first, and I know this country about as well as anyone.”
26
“So where are we going?” asked Lara as the safari car made its way up the winding road.
“We’re going to stop by my house first,” answered Oliver. “It’s where I’ve got my old hunting rifle, and Max is there, too.”
“Who’s Max?”
“He’s my dog—a Jack Russell terrier. He’s got a hell of a mouth on him. Believe me, nobody’s going to sneak up on you when Max is around.”
She looked out the window. “I can’t really see it clearly, but it looks like the land’s very beautiful.”
“It is,” he said. “Karen Blixen’s old estate is just a couple of miles from here.”
“And where do you live?” she asked. “I’ve never visited your house.”
“We were always going out into the bush,” he said. “You weren’t paying to see a house. But it’s very close by, on Windy Ridge Road.”
“Windy Ridge?”
“It’s well-named,” replied Oliver. “The way the wind whips through here, especially in the rainy season, it could put Chicago to shame.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Lara. “How much property do you have?”
“Four acres,” he said. “There are a couple of local leopards living in the neighborhood, but Max lets me know whenever they’re around.”
“Leopards?” she repeated, surprised.
He smiled. “This isn’t Nairobi. This used to be farming country. Now it’s filled with British ex-pats and it’s the exurbs, which is as built-up as it’s ever gotten to be. And as long as there are places to hide, and dogs and horses to eat, there are going to be leopards. They’re like coyotes in America; just when you’re sure they’re gone, when you haven’t seen any in a year and you’ve searched every inch of the countryside and declared the place free of them, suddenly you’ve got a leopard in your lap.”
“Now I know why you keep your rifle.”
“The rifle’s for bandits,” he replied. “Oh, I’ve shot over the leopards’ heads a couple of times to scare them off, but my hunting days are over. I’ve come around to the view that leopardskins look better on the leopards and ivory looks better in an elephant’s mouth.”
He turned to the right, and she saw a small sign telling them that they were on Windy Ridge. A quarter mile later he pulled up to a large old wooden house, surrounded by verandas and patios, and with immaculate grounds.
“It’s lovely,” commented Lara.
“I wish I had something to do with it, but I only bought it a few years ago, and the gardeners came with it.”
The car came to a stop and they got out.
“That’s curious,” said Oliver.
“What is?”
“Max. He’s always here to greet me.”
“Maybe he’s sleeping.”
He shook his head. “Something’s wrong.”
“Why don’t you look for him in the house and I’ll check the yard?” suggested Lara.
“All right.”
“A Jack Russell terrier, right?”
“Yes.”
While Oliver entered the house, Lara began walking around the grounds. There was no outdoor lighting, but wherever one of the rooms was lit, it cast some light out onto the yard. It was when she went around the back of the house that she found herself in near-total darkness.
She could see the outline of a small wooden shed about fifty yards behind the house and decided to walk over and check it out in case the dog was there. She was just reaching for the door when she heard a rustling sound behind her and spun around to see what had made it.
She found herself facing the largest leopard she had ever seen. She reached for her pistols and realized that they were still packed away. She pulled out the Scalpel of Isis, prepared to sell her life as dearly as possible.
And then, rather than leaping upon her, the leopard spoke. His mouth didn’t move, but she could hear the same hollow tones, the same insubstantial voice, that had told her to find Gordon’s letter.
Why are you here? it demanded. Your path must take you elsewhere, across the sea. Find me, free me, release me, and I will give you dominion over the lives of men.
“I’m on my way,” she said, “but—”
Do not speak aloud, said the leopard silently. I can hear your thoughts.
I will be on Praslin Island soon, thought Lara.
Many will still try to stop you.
I know, she thought. Then: You seem to want me to find you. Will you protect me?
The leopard snarled.
I yearn to be found, to be used as Mareish wanted me to be used. But I protect no one. If you are worthy of me, you will come to me. If you can be stopped, then you were not the One.
“Fair enough,” she said aloud. “Just don’t hinder me.”
This meeting is done. Move away, for when I release the animal, it will do as it pleases. It has already killed the dog you are looking for.
Lara backed away a few feet and bumped into the shed.
“Fine,” she muttered to herself. “I’ll wait inside here until you go away or Malcolm sees you and blows you away with his rifle.”
She entered the shed and felt around for the back wall, and her hand came into contact with one of Oliver’s old hunting rifles. She checked the bolt to see if it was loaded. It wasn’t, but she felt numerous boxes of cartridges on a small shelf.
She opened one up and slid it into the rifle, only to find that it was the wrong size.
She looked out the door at the leopard, and could tell by his eyes, by his entire demeanor, that he had regained possession of his body. He began slinking through the grass toward her.
She slipped another bullet into the rifle, and this time it fit. She lined the leopard up in its sights as best she could in the darkness, then stood motionless at he stalked closer and closer, his tail twitching nervously.
Finally, when she was sure that the leopard was about to spring, she fired the rifle over its head. The leopard leapt back, snarling, and dashed away into the night when she raised the rifle again.
Oliver came racing out of the house, rifle in hand.
“What happened?” he shouted. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Malcolm,” she said. “Just a close encounter with a leopard.”
“Did you wound him?” Malcolm asked urgently.
Lara shook her head. “I also believe leopardskins look better on their original owners. I fired a shot to scare him off.”
“I’m surprised that old rifle didn’t break your shoulder,” he said. “It’s a .550 Nitro Express.” He looked around. “Did you see any sign of Max? I hope he didn’t run into that leopard.”
If I tell you the leopard killed him, you’ll ask how I know, and I don’t think it’s an answer you’re prepared to hear.
“No,” she said truthfully. “I haven’t seen him.”
“I guess he went off on a hunting expedition of his own,” said Oliver. “He does that every now and then. Ah, well, no sense waiting around all night, maybe all weekend, for him. I’ve got my rifle; that’s what I came for.”
They returned to the car, where the first thing Lara did was unpack her pistols and wrap her holsters around her hips. She tossed the shoulder bag on the rear seat, and then they drove down out of the Ngong Hills and were soon back on a level road again.
After a few miles she turned to him, and said, “You’re heading for the Rift Valley. Why?”
“We’re not going that far,” he replied. “This is Old Limuru Road. We’re only taking it to Banana Hill.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s about twenty miles out of Nairobi,” answered Oliver.
“What’s there?”
“A very pleasant, very peaceful, almost-unknown little hostelry called the Kentmere Club.”
“The Kentmere Club?” she repeated. “Didn’t we eat there once on the way back from a safari?”
“Did I take you there?” he said. “I don’t remember.”
“Well, I remember,” said Lara. “Duck was the specialty of the house, and I also had a wonderful chocolate roulade for dessert.”
“That’s the place, all right.”
“But it’s just a restaurant.”
“Most people think so,” answered Oliver, “but it’s actually a hotel. It’s got about a dozen rooms.”
“Okay,” she said. “Why there?”
“It’s not in Nairobi, it’s not in Naivasha, it’s not in Nanyuki, it’s not in Nyeri, it’s not in any city. And as I say, very few people know it’s a hotel.”
“Can we stay hidden there until Tuesday?” she asked doubtfully.
“I don’t know,” replied Oliver. “I hope so. I suppose it depends on how well-organized the other side is. You’d know that better than I do.”
If he expected a reply he was disappointed, because Lara remained silent. A few minutes later they pulled up to a lovely old Tudor mansion that looked like it would be more at home in Surrey or Tumbridge Wells.
Oliver walked up to the desk, spoke softly in Swahili, then turned to Lara.
“Do you have any Kenya shillings with you?” he asked.
She pulled out a wad, and he took half of it, handing it to the desk clerk.
“I thought they knew you here,” she said as he walked her up the stairs to their adjacent rooms.
“They do,” said Oliver.
“Then why did they ask you to pay up front? And why don’t they take credit cards?”
“Credit cards can be traced,” he said. “And I didn’t pay up front.”
“Then what was that all about?”
“A third of it was to keep their mouths shut if anyone should come around asking about us.”
“And the other two-thirds?”
He smiled. “To make them pretend they didn’t see you walk in wearing a pair of pistols. They may seem like part of your clothing to you, but they do tend to make other people very nervous.”
