by Jeremy Bates
As they progressed, the morning mist thickened, creating a primordial, Jurassic atmosphere, as if they were not only descending into a collapsed volcano but back in time as well. At one point the track tiptoed along the edge of a sheer cliff face that plunged away hundreds of feet to the crater floor below. A signpost with the words “POLE POLE”—which Silly translated to mean “Slowly Slowly”—drifted past in the curdling fog.
Scarlett looked away from the window. The memories of Laurel Canyon were still raw. And if she went over the edge here, she wouldn’t be waking up in a hospital; she wouldn’t be waking up anywhere ever again.
Her anxiety, however, turned out to be for naught. Thirty minutes later bright sunlight pierced the thinning fog, and by the time they reached the bottom—thank God—the weather was postcard perfect. The view was just as spectacular as it had been from the lodge. The soda lake shimmered pink with thousands of flamingos. The savanna, which was dotted with yellow fever trees and gently undulating hills, stretched away like spun gold. And in every direction the rocky walls of the caldera towered high, a forbidding barrier to keep the outside world out.
“Look!” Silly said, slowing to a halt and pointing to a patch of tussock three hundred feet to the left of them.
Scarlett poked her head out the Land Rover’s modified roof and peered through the binoculars. She zeroed in on a cheetah that was stretched out on its side, its long, thick tail curled behind it. She passed the binoculars to Sal, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Damn hot. And it was barely eight in the morning.
Silly snatched the CB microphone from the radio unit attached to the dash, depressed the transmit switch, and said something in Swahili. His small face melted into a frown. He fiddled with a few knobs, flicked between channels, and spoke again.
“What’s wrong?” Scarlett asked him.
“The radio isn’t transmitting.”
“Who do you need to speak to?”
“I was going to call in the cheetah sighting, so the next group down the Elephant Pass will spot it.” He shook his head in frustration. “It works both ways. Now we will not hear when any of the Big Five are spotted.”
“Maybe the antenna’s broken?” Sal suggested.
Silly went around to the back of the Land Rover and examined the tire carrier. He returned to the front seat and said, “It’s gone, the entire antenna, gone. It must have snapped off in the bush. Or maybe an animal snagged it during the night.” He looked devastated. “I’m sorry. This is my fault. I should have checked the vehicle before we left.”
“Cheer up, boss,” Sal told him. “We’re only passing through the crater. It will be more of an adventure this way.”
Scarlett squeezed his thigh, grateful for his understanding.
As they progressed west across the crater floor, they saw more gazelles and zebras and buffalo than she could count. She glassed the grasslands through the binoculars for a bottleneck of Land Rovers, hoping it would indicate a predator sighting. The strategy paid off. The first gathering led them to a chilled-out leopard lounging in the crotch of an acacia tree, the second to a pack of spotted hyenas making whooping-giggling noises while tearing apart the ribcage of an antelope with their bone-crushing jaws.
When Silly mentioned they were coming up to a picnic spot, Sal told him to pull over so he could use the restroom. They still had a long trip ahead of them, and Scarlett decided a visit to the ladies’ room might be prudent. She went to the single-person cinderblock lavatory and waited outside for Sal to finish. She was watching a secretary bird wading through the tall sere grass, stomping about on its long legs, when she heard Sal talking on his cell phone. She went a little closer, but only caught one or two words before he hung up. He exited moments later and gave her a curious look.
“I need to go too,” she said.
“Be my guest.”
Scarlett did her business, then went to the sink to wash her hands, all the while wondering who her husband had been speaking to. And why in the restroom? Why not in front of her?
She glanced in the mirror on the wall, tracing her fingers around her eyes, as if she could magically erase the small wrinkles forming there.
“You’re thirty now, Scarlett,” she said to herself. “Happy birthday. These are your stripes. You’ve earned them—and you only get more.”
Her thoughts turned to Marie Dragomiroff, the thirty-six-year-old, dark-haired, dark-skinned heir to a French shipping conglomerate. The woman could speak six languages, had her own successful clothing line, and her exotic beauty upstaged anyone in the room with her, whether it be a prince, rock star, or Scarlett herself. Their first and only meeting had been at a Washington fundraiser the year before. Scarlett remembered the day perfectly. Marie had been dressed in something elegant and of her own creation, looking ten years younger than she was, working the room effortlessly, a fluttering butterfly, a natural socialite, the faces of the lawmakers and powerful business types smiling when she approached, their eyes following when she moved on.
The way she flattered Sal, innocently touching his arm…
How had I not known earlier?
She closed her eyes, rubbed her forehead.
She left the restroom.
Back at the Land Rover, Silly pointed to the sky, where a swelling of dark storm clouds was gathering. “We need to be quick,” he said. “If there is a storm, the rain could wash out parts of the road up the crater wall.”
“What would happen then?” Scarlett asked. “Would we be stuck here overnight?” She shivered at the thought of spending the night on the floor of an enclosed crater that was home to the highest density of mammalian predators in Africa.
But Silly shook his head. “That cannot happen. The rangers would come and get us.”
“Even with the road washed out?”
“There are other roads in and out of the crater that I do not know of. They would find a way.”
“The radio isn’t working, remember? How would we call them?”
“They would know,” he said simply, though she thought she saw a flicker of doubt cross his eyes.
Silly climbed behind the wheel of the Land Rover while Sal and Scarlett got in the back. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Low, angry clouds moved in front of the sun, darkening the sky. Scarlett could smell ozone and the general grayness that accompanies a storm. Then the rain began to fall. It made a tinny plink-plink-plink on the truck’s roof and patterned the dirt track with brown splotches. Within thirty seconds it had become a downpour. The windshield wipers sloshed back and forth, only just clearing the water now gushing down the windshield. A clap of thunder exploded so loudly it made her flinch, and she silently urged Silly to go faster.
They reached the western crater wall five minutes later. A sky-wide flash of lightning stung the sky white, illuminating what looked like a pencil-thin road zigzagging its way up the rocky slope. Scarlett’s stomach dropped. Two thousand feet looked almost insurmountable from the bottom up. Nevertheless, Silly barely slowed as he reached the steep gradient, and she relaxed. They were fine. They were going to make it—
Scarlett heard a loud clunk, followed by a grinding noise.
“What was that?” she said, stiffening in her seat.
“I don’t know,” Silly said. “The message center is telling me to put it in neutral.”
“Then do it, man,” Sal told him. The grinding noise was getting louder.
Silly downshifted. The Land Rover came to a quick stop, then began rolling backward.
“Put it in park, for chrissake!” Sal said.
“It’s not working!”
The backward momentum picked up.
“Do something!” Scarlett said. She looked out the back window, but couldn’t see anything through the rain and poor light.
Silly yanked the handbrake. The Land Rover shuddered to a stop.
“Leave the brake, but put it in first and try again,” Sal told him.
“It’s not letting me. I can’t m
ove the gearshift anymore.”
“Step on the gas.”
“I am. Nothing is happening. Nothing.”
“What the hell?” Sal opened the door and stepped into the storm. He circled the truck, kicked the tires, and bent twice out of sight. He tapped on Silly’s window. Silly rolled it down. “Can you lock the differential?”
“Yes.”
“Do it. Then try the gas again.”
Silly followed the instructions but shook his head. A crackle of lightning backlit the black clouds, turning them a mossy green. More ear-splitting thunder followed. Swearing, Sal climbed back inside. He was soaked to the skin.
“Power is sapped,” he told them. “It isn’t reaching the wheels. That means the problem has something to do with the transmission. I thought it might have been the differential.”
“What’s that?” Scarlett asked.
“It transmits torque to the four wheels evenly, even if they’re rotating at different speeds. If one was spinning on mud, it would deliver all the power there, effectively making us immobile. But Silly locked it, making both wheels on the axle turn at the same speed, regardless of traction. That did nothing.”
“So we’re stuck?” This was exactly what she’d feared. “There’s no radio. We can’t call for help.”
“Do you think anyone’s still in the crater?” Sal asked their guide.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Wait! Someone’s coming!”
Scarlett looked out the rear window again and saw the headlights of a vehicle approaching. Sal hopped outside and waved it over. He had a few words with the driver, then motioned for Scarlett and Silly to join him. Scarlett ducked her head and dashed through the pelting rain to the idling vehicle, some kind of big four-by-four, like the Land Rover. She tugged open the back door and climbed inside, Silly right behind her. Sal got in the front.
She was about to thank the driver for stopping, but the words died in her throat. “You!” she exclaimed.
Sal looked puzzled. “Benjamin Hill?”
The Irishman extended his hand. “Indeed I am. Your wife must have mentioned our brief encounter?”
“Yes.” Sal shook. “Call me Sal. This is our guide, Silly.”
“What an interesting name.” He smiled. “Now, what’s the problem, may I ask?”
“The truck lost all power going up the road,” Sal explained. “It’s not the differential. Could be a worn ring and pinion gear.”
“I can’t help you there, unfortunately. I’m afraid I know rather little about mechanics. What I can do, however, is give you all a lift to the top.”
They got underway, and Scarlett was incredibly grateful to be moving again. Sal fiddled with a knob on the dash until the vents blasted out warm air. A CD played Latino music on very low volume.
“So you’re here on safari by yourself?” she asked the Irishman.
“I’m in Africa on business, Miss Cox. A coworker recommended Ngorongoro Crater.”
“What do you do, Ben?” Sal called everybody by their first name.
“My firm specializes in risk analysis.”
“Well, if you’re looking for a risky place to do business, you found it.”
Sal and the Irishman talked shop for another few minutes before moving on to their golf games. When Sal started on his hole-in-one story, which involved several Japanese investors and requisite gift-giving, Scarlett tuned out. She’d heard it many times before.
Half an hour later they reached the summit of the crater.
“If I recall correctly, Miss Cox,” the Irishman said as the truck bumped and slid over the muddy road, “you mentioned you were heading to the Serengeti today?”
“Yes, that’s right. But it seems like we’re going to be delayed, seeing as we have no vehicle.”
“Would you like me to take you back to your lodge, where you can get some sort of transportation arranged?”
“That would be marvelous! But is it out of your way?”
“What else does an old man have to do with his day?”
“Hold on, Ben,” Sal said, leaning forward to peer out the windshield. “Yes. Slow down. I think that’s a park ranger’s vehicle up ahead.”
“Nonsense,” the Irishman said. “I have no problem driving you back myself.”
“Pull over.”
“Really, Mr. Brazza—”
“Dammit, Ben, pull over.”
For a crazy moment Scarlett thought the Irishman was going to continue driving straight past. But then he eased to the side of the road next to the parked vehicle. Sal got out and knocked on the ranger’s window. The ranger set aside his radio and wound the window down. Sal began talking and gesturing. When he returned, he told Silly to transfer their luggage to the other vehicle.
“What’s going on?” Scarlett asked.
“I offered the guy some money to drive us to the Serengeti. Now we won’t have to waste time going back to the lodge and waiting around for another truck.”
“What about the one down in the crater?”
“I’ll have someone back at the lodge take a look at it. Silly can return today with the ranger instead of tomorrow as originally planned and pick it up.”
It sounded good to Scarlett. She said, “Looks like we’ll be getting out now after all, Ben. Thank you so much for the lift. I hope you have a fabulous time here.”
“Thank you, Miss Cox,” the Irishman replied, giving her a strange smile. “The same to you.”
As Fitzgerald watched Brazza and Cox get into the ranger’s Land Rover and drive away, he continued to smile to himself, both pissed off and amused at how one unknown variable could throw a wrench in the most simple of plans.
Originally he’d planned to take the two of them plus the guide down the road toward their lodge, beat them all senseless, and leave their bodies in the forest for the wildlife to feast upon. By the time morning came and a search party was organized, there would be little left of their remains to be found, certainly not enough to determine their true cause of death. Investigators would be forced to conclude that when their vehicle broke down, they’d attempted to leave the crater on foot, got lost on the way back to their lodge, and were attacked by an animal and eaten. It happened more than most people thought.
What bad luck running into the bloody ranger. For a moment he had considered driving on, but if the ranger spotted Brazza or Cox in the cab, and reported this fact when their bodies were found, the circumstances surrounding their death would be much more closely scrutinized. That was unacceptable. The reason he was getting paid so handsomely for this job was because Brazza’s death had to look like an accident. More than that, Fitzgerald’s reputation was at stake. There weren’t many assassins of his caliber for hire in the world, and news of a sloppy hit spread quickly.
He lit a Kent, shoved the gearstick into drive, and started after his quarry.
They would not get so lucky a second time.
CHAPTER 8
As the Land Rover wound down through the western crater highlands, leaving Ngorongoro Crater behind, it continued to rain lightly, though the worst of the storm had passed.
“So you and Ben seemed to have hit it off,” Scarlett said to Sal. They were in the backseat, Silly up in the front with the ranger.
Sal had changed into a dry set of clothes and was now puffing thoughtfully on one of his cigars, blowing the pungent smoke out the window. “Did he say what lodge he was staying at?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“If I remember correctly, there are only four of five lodges up there on the rim. I don’t recall any as far west as ours. Why would he be leaving via the western wall?”
“Who knows? Maybe because he was closest to it when the storm broke?” She paused, wondering how to broach the next subject. Blunt was best, she decided. “I heard you speaking on your phone earlier.”
“When?”
“At the picnic stop—you were in the restroom.”
Sal appeared momentarily annoyed. Then his face smoothed ov
er and he took another puff of the cigar. “It was Danny again.”
That’s who she’d expected. “You can speak with Danny in front of me, you know.”
“He called. I was in the restroom. I answered the phone. What’s the big deal?”
“I didn’t hear your phone ring.”
“It was on vibrate. What is this? I feel like I’m getting the third degree. I feel like…” He trailed off.
She knew what he was going to say. “I wasn’t implying—”
He waved the matter aside. “It was Danny,” he said firmly.
“I know. I believe you.”
“Then what’s with the interrogation?”
“I just don’t think I’m getting the entire story here.”
“What story? I told you about the fire.”
“But what else is going on? Have the police found something out? Has Danny? I’m worried about you.”
“I told you it’s under control.”
“I want to know, dammit!” she said. “No more secrets between us, Sal. I don’t care how big or small, just no more secrets.”
He stared at her, hard, like he wanted to make this into a fight. In the end he shook his head and sighed. “I think you have more Italian in you than I do, cara mia.” He took a final puff on the cigar, then tossed it out the window. “Do you want me to tell you what Danny told me?”
“Please.”
“He thinks he knows who set the fire.”
Scarlett’s heart skipped a beat. “Who?”
“A man named Don Xi. In fact, you may remember him. You met him once.”
“Don Xi?” she repeated slowly. The name, pronounced Zee, sounded vaguely familiar. Then it hit her. Last spring she’d been in Macau with Sal while he looked at potential sites for a future casino along the Cotai Strip. They’d had lunch with this man, this Don Xi. He was one of Sal’s partners. “Yes, I do remember him now. But he’s just a frail old man.”
