The Taste of Fear (A Suspense Action Thriller & Mystery Novel)

by Jeremy Bates

  “I don’t need a scarf,” he told her. “Just a belt.”

  “Try it on. Please?”

  Jahja went to her. She wrapped the mint-green scarf around his neck, turning him toward the mirror. He was average height, dark-skinned, and clean shaven. The entire left portion of his face was covered in leathery scar tissue. The burn that had caused the grotesque disfigurement had not only destroyed the skin but the underlying fat, muscle, and nerve structure, so now that side of his face was frozen in a mask of dumb horror. As always, he avoided looking at the deformity. He wished other people could be so considerate. They weren’t. Nearly everyone he’d passed in the department store this afternoon had stared. The women behind the fragrance counters, the other shoppers, the kids in the food court—and kids were the worst. They often stared unabashedly until their parents saw what they were staring at and tugged them away.

  Jahja adjusted the scarf. He decided it looked good, sophisticated.

  “I like it,” he said.

  “Great! Did you get a belt?”

  “Yes.” He held up the black one with the pewter buckle.

  “It’s so plain.”

  “I like it.”

  “Can’t you pick a different one?”

  “I like this one.”

  Sara rolled her eyes. “Okay.” She kissed him on the cheek—on the burned cheek. She didn’t care. That was one of the reasons he loved her so much. “You go pay for them and meet me up in toys. It’s on the fourth floor, next to that big pet center.”

  Jahja frowned. “Why are you going to toys?”

  “I want to get something for Hana.” Hana was their five-year-old daughter.

  Jahja’s frown deepened. Last year Hana had begun asking why they didn’t put up a Christmas tree and lights like everyone else. So this year, to get her excited about Eid ul-Fitr, they’d put up green-and-white lights around the house throughout Ramadan until the end of Eid. Apparently that wasn’t good enough. Hana still wanted a tree and lights during Christmas. Sara suggested it wouldn’t hurt to put up the green-and-white lights again. Jahja refused. He was worried Hana might begin to reject her Islamic faith in tawhid. Worse, she might start believing that the Prophet Isa—Jesus—peace be upon him, was something more than a mere prophet and servant of Allah.

  “We’ve talked about this, Sara,” he said.

  “I know, I know. But all her friends get presents. I just want to get her something small. One gift. Please?”

  Jahja shrugged. He was not going to argue about this, not now. Sara beamed, kissed him on the cheek again, and hurried off toward the escalators. Jahja went to the service counter and stepped into line. The man ahead of him was trying to get a refund on a pair of shoes. After a minute of complaining—he didn’t have a receipt—he walked off, grumbling. Jahja stepped up to the counter. The saleswoman had dyed silvery-blonde hair. Her makeup was bright and offensive. Jahja would never let Hana wear her hair or makeup like that when she grew up.

  “Good day,” the woman said, smiling at nothing. When she glanced up from the cash register, her eyes darted to the left side of his face. The smile remained in place, but it immediately left her eyes, which had become vacant, like someone trying not to look at something.

  Jahja set the belt and scarf on the counter. “Just these.”

  “Of course,” she said cheerfully, overcompensating for her initial reaction. He hated it when people did that.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and checked the number.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the woman. “I’ll be right back.”

  He went to a secluded corner of the shop and pressed Talk.

  “Salaamu alaykum,” a man’s voice said.

  “Wa alaykum salaam,” Jahja replied.

  “The plane ticket is waiting in your mailbox,” the man continued in Arabic. “The flight is for tomorrow morning. A friend will be at the airport in Dar es Salaam to meet you. He will take you where you need to go.”

  “I understand.”

  “May Allah protect you.”

  “Glory be to Allah.”

  Jahja hung up and returned to the service counter to pay for his belt and scarf. The woman smiled at him again. He smiled back. But he no longer wondered whether his burned face was making her feel uncomfortable; he was now wondering whether he would ever make it back to England.

  He’d like to. He’d like to wear the scarf for his wife one day.

  CHAPTER 6

  Tuesday, December 24, 6:55 p.m.

  Ngorongoro Conservation Area, Tanzania

  The dining room was redolent with the smells of saffron, vanilla, cumin, nutmeg, and the rest of the now devoured Pan-African cuisine. Everybody seated at the long table was on their third or fourth drink, speaking loudly and laughing raucously.

  Scarlett was still sipping her first glass of wine. After what Sal had told her about the Prince Hotel fire/attempted murder, she wasn’t in a festive mood. On top of that, ten minutes into the meal Sal’s stomach had started acting up, and he’d said he needed to lie down. Her first thought had been he wanted to call Danny Zamir in private. When you’ve been married for four years, it becomes second nature to intuit these types of things. In fact, that’s how she discovered the other woman. Not perfume on Sal’s shirts. Not racy text messages on his phone. Not hearsay from a friend. Just plain old woman’s intuition.

  Then, acceptingly, Scarlett became ashamed of her suspicious response to his departure. He was sick after all, and it was perfectly conceivable he wanted to be alone.

  Setting the ruminations aside, she studied the menu. There was a brandy snap coming for dessert. It sounded good, but her diet said no. To avoid temptation, she took the Merlot she’d been nursing to the outdoor deck. The clouds to the west were a striking pinkish-orange, those closer darkening to a deep blue, broken with cracks of silver and dove white. Way down on the crater floor shadows lengthened and pooled, gobbling up the greenery. She closed her eyes and let a wave or serenity wash over her.

  “Quite a view, isn’t it?”

  She started. A dollop of wine jumped the lip of her glass and splashed the deck, just missing her silver Christian Louboutins. She turned and discovered an older gentleman standing behind her. His graying hair had receded with age and white stubble textured his jaw, like a sprinkling of fresh snow. He seemed fit for his age, someone who might have ridden the Tour de France in his prime.

  “You startled me,” she said.

  “Sorry, lass. That’s the last thing I wanted to do.” His voice was coarse yet strangely alluring, softened by a charming Irish brogue. He nodded at the crater. “Three million years.”

  “Is that how old it is?”

  “Have you been down there yet, Miss . . . ?”

  “Cox. And no, I haven’t. I’m going with my husband tomorrow. We’re cutting through it, to get to the Serengeti.”

  “And where is your husband, may I ask?”

  “He went back to the room. He hasn’t been feeling well today.”

  “Shame. But you believe he will be up and about tomorrow?”

  “I certainly hope so. Have you been down there yet, Mr . . . ?”

  “Hill. Benjamin Hill. And no, not yet. I’ll be going down tomorrow as well.”

  “Perhaps we’ll see each other?”

  “Perhaps we will.” He extended his hand. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  She shook it. “Good night, Mr. Hill.”

  “And a good night to you too, Miss Cox.”

  Scarlett watched the Irishman walk away. He didn’t leave through the dining room but followed the perimeter of the building until he turned a corner and was lost from sight. She frowned. He had been well-spoken and polite, but something about him had bothered her.

  Back in the dining room, she asked the waiter if he could round up someone to escort her to her villa, then she went out front to wait, keeping in the heat of the twin fire bowls that flanked the lodge’s entrance. Up here, at this altitude,
the temperature plummeted after the sun went down. She folded her arms across her chest, her thoughts returning to the Irishman, and she realized what had nagged at her. He hadn’t been at dinner. There had been twelve chairs at the long table, twelve place settings, each occupied. Until Sal left, that is. So was the Irishman from South or North Camp? If so, what was he doing here? She glanced at her watch. Ten to eight. Hadn’t Wilson said guests were prohibited from moving around the property freely after seven?

  Hearing a noise behind her, she whirled, only to find her escort—a Masai warrior wrapped in a checkered red cloth and carrying an AK-47. She’d had her fair share of bodyguards, but this was a first for her. She wondered if the assault rifle could take down a charging buffalo, or even a big cat. She hoped she never had to find out and stayed close to the escort’s side until she was climbing the steps to the villa. In the bathroom she washed up, brushed her teeth, then slipped into a pair of silk pajamas. She got into bed, making sure she kept on her side of the line.

  “You awake?” she said.

  “Am now.” Sal’s voice was disembodied in the dark.

  “Are you feeling better yet?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Will you be okay for tomorrow?”

  “I should be fine.”

  “Good.” She was quiet for a moment. The silence was absolute. “I met a man after you left.”

  “Should I be the one calling my lawyers this time?”

  “Not funny, Sal. Anyway, his name was Benjamin Hill. I think he was walking around without an escort. We need an escort if we—”

  Sal made a small rumble. Laughter?

  “What?” she asked.

  “Benjamin Hill?” There was definitely amusement in his voice. “Was he an old British chap?”

  “Irish,” she said, frowning. “You know him?”

  “Sure.”

  “But how?”

  “I’ve seen him on TV. He had his own show.”

  It clicked. “He was more Sean Connery than Benny Hill.”

  Never one for pillow talk, Sal didn’t say anything more, and soon he was breathing the regular rhythm of sleep. She closed her eyes.

  Sometime later she was shaken awake. She sat up, and it took her a moment before she remembered she wasn’t in her bed in LA.

  “Someone’s outside,” Sal said quietly.

  The words cut through her sleepiness like a knife.

  “What?”

  “I heard a noise.”

  “Where?”

  “Shhh.”

  Scarlett listened. All was perfectly quiet. “I don’t hear anything,” she whispered.

  “Listen.”

  Then she heard something on the other side of the wall, right behind the headboard. It sounded like leaf litter crunching under a heavy weight. “That’s an animal,” she said. “What else could it be—?” She clamped her mouth shut.

  The Prince Tower. The fire.

  Had someone followed Sal all the way to Africa?

  Her fear surged. Had she locked the door? God, did the door even have a lock?

  “Do something,” she hissed.

  Sal shifted off the bed. He crossed the room, pulled back the curtains, opened the balcony door. A cool lavender-scented breeze swept into the room. He stepped outside. Looked left and right. Went left. Three steps later he was beyond the glass and out of sight.

  The seconds slugged by. Scarlett heard nothing more. No shouts of alarm. No scuffle. Nothing. Which, she realized with dread, was the sound an assassin made. Paranoia swelled inside her as she imagined Sal lying in the bushes, his throat slit. She called out to him, not caring who heard her.

  “Come here,” Sal replied.

  Exhaling the breath she’d been holding, Scarlett got out of bed and crossed the threshold to the wooden veranda. The cold wind played around her wrists and ankles and slipped down the throat of her pajama top, causing her nipples to harden and gooseflesh to break out on her skin. She followed the veranda left and found Sal leaning up against the railing, his elbows on the header, his arms crossed in front of him, like he was watching a Sunday afternoon baseball game in the park. She scanned the darkness below.

  Two jackals were sitting on their haunches in a patch of bracken, licking their fur.

  Sal barked. The jackals looked up. Their yellow eyes shone in the dark, indifferent yet somehow malevolent.

  “Sal, stop it,” she whispered.

  “They’re just dogs.”

  “They’re dangerous dogs.”

  “They can’t get up here.”

  “What if they wait around until the next time you’re crossing the grounds to the main lodge?”

  “They’re brainless animals. And brainless animals don’t hold grudges.”

  Inside once again, Scarlett slapped Sal on the rump, hard. He was a brainless animal. She slid the door closed and flicked the lock. She left the blinds open, welcoming what little light the moon and stars provided.

  Back in bed she couldn’t sleep. She had thought there had been somebody out there, another arsonist or a hit man or whatever you called someone who came to kill you during the night…

  No—she was letting her imagination get the better of her. She and Sal had already discussed this. He was safe. Nobody knew he was here. What were the chances that somebody would fly all the way to Africa and follow him to the summit of a collapsed volcano? It was ridiculous, something out of Hollywood. The noise had just been a couple wild animals.

  Sometime later, Scarlett slept.

  At two thirty that morning Fitzgerald opened his eyes. He had been sleeping but not really sleeping, a skill he’d learned long ago in the British Army. He opened the door to the Land Cruiser and stepped into the night. The moon was nearly full, the sky awash with icy stars, and he could see well enough. A nightjar made a musical churring sound that rose and fell with a ventriloquist-like quality. He heard little else, although he knew the surrounding forest was alive with life. He started down the dirt road toward the lodge where Salvador Brazza and Scarlett Cox were staying, whistling “Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye” so he wouldn’t come upon any wild animals by surprise. The animals would usually run away, but sometimes they would panic and attack, especially if they were injured or with their young. He was carrying the driveshaft he’d purchased earlier, but a driveshaft wouldn’t stop a Cape buffalo, or a leopard.

  Five hundred meters later he arrived at the car park in the clearing behind Tree Camp where six SUVs were parked in a line, side by side. They were all Land Rovers. Three were Land Rover Discoverys. Only one was the latest model, a Series III. It was the second from the right. It was the one he wanted.

  He lowered himself onto his back and stuck a penlight between his teeth. Then he inched his way beneath the high chassis and studied the underside of the vehicle. He took a small wrench from his pocket and undid the six bolts securing the coupling. The first five came off easily enough. The sixth was a bitch, taking him nearly the same time to get it off as the first five combined. He slid the driveshaft forward to disengage it from the transfer case, slid it backward to free it from the differential, gave it a jog, and tugged it loose. The lubricated O ring inside the drive tube fell onto his chest. He left it there while he examined the driveshaft. The splines were not very badly worn, nor had he thought they would be. He set the good driveshaft aside, replaced the O ring, and inserted the nearly bald driveshaft he’d brought with him. He refastened the six bolts, the sixth going back on a lot easier than it had come off. There was a metaphor about life somewhere in there, but this was not the time to consider it. He extracted himself from beneath the vehicle.

  With one solid tug, Fitzgerald tore the CB antenna from where it was mounted on the Land Rover’s rear tire carrier. He retraced his steps back to the Toyota Land Cruiser, reclined the seat, and closed his eyes, hoping sleep would come quickly. He would be waking with the sun in a few hours.

  CHAPTER 7

  Wednesday, December 25, 6:55 a.m.

 
Ngorongoro Conservation Area

  “Sal, you ready?” Scarlett called. “Silly’s packed the Land Rover. He’s waiting outside.”

  “I’m coming.”

  Sal emerged from the bathroom moments later. His hair, still damp from the shower, was combed back from his forehead as usual. It might just have been a play of the light, but he looked darker than he had the day before, healthier. She felt a slight stirring in her loins.

  “You look good,” she said, wondering if tonight would be the night the invisible line in bed was erased. She thought maybe it might be.

  “I certainly feel better,” he said. “Whatever bug I had is gone.”

  She spontaneously kissed his freshly shaven cheek, which smelled of a mix between lime and eighteenth-century medicinal balm. “Merry Christmas.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “You’re in a good mood.”

  She was. Whatever dark thoughts she’d had during the night about world-hopping assassins seemed even more ludicrous on such a fine sunny morning. Moreover, she was excited about heading down into the crater, given it was one of the best places in Africa to view animals in their natural habitat.

  Outside the villa, Silly was standing next to the Land Rover dressed in his neatly pressed safari uniform and bush hat. Scarlett snapped a picture of him with the Nikon camera hanging around her neck, then they were off, traveling west along the crater rim. Early morning dew coated the long grass and shrubs while a thousand birds chirped and whistled and sang in the branches overhead. At the gate to the crater, a green sign announced that the caldera was a conservation area, a world heritage site, a biosphere reserve, yadda yadda. Scarlett told Sal to go stand in front of it so she could snap a photo. He was having none of it. He might be many things, but a picture guy he was not.

  Seneto Descent Road was the official name of the road that switch-backed down the interior wall of the crater. Silly, however, referred to it as the Elephant Pass, which Scarlett found to be more fitting. It wasn’t so much a road but a narrow, winding, and very steep dirt track.