PART III

KENYA

25

No one was waiting for Lara in the terminal when she got off the plane. She showed her passport to the immigration officer, then went to the baggage claim. She half-expected that her leather shoulder bag wouldn’t make it through, but it was there, waiting for her.

She looked around for Malcolm Oliver, couldn’t find him, and finally decided to take a cab to the Norfolk Hotel. As she stepped through the doors leading from baggage claim to the airport’s entrance, a tanned, white-haired man wearing a khaki shirt and shorts walked up to her and threw his arms around her.

“Welcome back!” said Malcolm Oliver. “It’s been a while.”

“I’m glad to see you,” responded Lara. “I expected to find you at the gate.”

“International flight,” he said. “We’re not allowed to meet you until you’ve passed through immigration and customs.”

“Of course,” she said. “I forgot. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

“Well, come along, and you can tell me about it over dinner.” He stared at her and frowned. “You’ve lost some weight.”

“A bit,” she acknowledged.

“The message I got was rather mysterious,” said Oliver, as he led her to his car. “Some Arab phoned me, explained that he was Omar’s uncle—as if I was expected to know who Omar is—and told me your life was in danger and I had to meet you here. Then I checked and found your telex, which was a lot less melodramatic, but on the other hand, you’ve never come here on just a few hours’ notice before. What’s going on?”

“We’ll talk in the car or during dinner,” said Lara. “I don’t want to be overheard.”

“Whatever you say.”

They reached his green Land Rover and he opened the door for her.

“A new one, I see,” she noted.

“Same as the old one, but with a lot less safaris under her belt,” answered Malcolm. “Removable top, four-wheel drive”—he reached under his seat and carefully pulled out a .44 Magnum—“and this.”

She smiled. “Why should I be the only one with illegal weapons?”

“Oh, I’m legal,” he answered. “I spent a year on the police force back in seventy-eight, right after they put an end to hunting. I never quite resigned, so I’m still permitted to carry it.”

“What do you mean, you never quite resigned?” she asked as he pulled out of the airport and turned onto Langata Road.

“I wasn’t corrupt enough for that particular administration,” he replied. “So after I arrested a number of politicians, I was asked to take a leave of absence. It’s been about a quarter of a century, and no one has ever actually fired me, so I’m still officially on the force. I’ve even made an occasional arrest up in the Northern Frontier District, when Somali bandits would stop my car and try to rob my clients.”

“Keep it loaded,” she said, nodding toward the gun. “We might run into worse things than bandits.”

“Happy to,” said Oliver. “You can tell me what kind of things in a moment.”

“Why are you slowing down?” she asked. “The Norfolk is fifteen or twenty minutes away yet.”

“You need some meat on those bones,” said Oliver. “We’re pulling in here.”

“Where is here?”

“The Carnivore,” he said. “I took you here on your last safari, remember?”

“Yes,” she said. “I loved it. But we went after dark. I had no idea it was so close to the airport.”

Oliver parked and escorted her to an outdoor table. There was a huge, Brazilian-style spit, and at least a dozen game meats of varying types were cooking on it. It smelled so good, and she’d been hungry for so many days, that Lara was afraid she might begin salivating.

“What would you like to drink?” asked Oliver as a waiter approached.

“Just a cola or an orange pop.”

He ordered two gin and tonics plus a Coke, and the waiter went off to the bar to get them.

“Two?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“The other’s for you, just in case you change your mind.”

“It’s not going to happen. I don’t drink—and even if I did, I need to keep all my wits about me.”

“Perhaps it’s time to tell me what this is all about,” said Oliver. “I was rather hoping you’d come to enlist me in the hunt for King Solomon’s Mines, the way we once discussed.”

“Perhaps next time,” she said, and began telling him everything that had happened since Kevin Mason had found her buried in the rubble beneath the Temple of Horus and brought her to the Cairo Hospital.

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 panic.”

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.”