FOURTEEN
Mugu Man
For two days Davy let the servants wait upon him, jumping down to the beach twice a day, and losing himself in the DVD collection. He tried not to think. Not of Brian Cox, not of escape, not of his captors, not of Millie. For a period in the morning and in the afternoon, he performed for Dr. Conley, jumping to and from specific locations in the courtyard as Conley measured, recorded, and speculated.
He was not surprised to learn that there was no increase in local radioactivity when he jumped. Nor any other electromagnetic fluctuations. However, an Infrared Imaging Camera, when he jumped from the shade of a wall to a sunlit portion of the courtyard, showed a slight increase in temperature at his departure site and a slight drop at his destination. It was the barest tenth of a degree change.
"The difference in temperature between the two locations is over six degrees. There must be some sort of leakage when you jump."
Davy nodded. "Perhaps." His own experience told him he wasn't disappearing one place and appearing another, but that a gate opened ever so briefly. He'd captured it, once, on video tape, and wondered if Conley had. He didn't ask, though. He didn't want to give Conley any ideas.
The next day, when he appeared in the courtyard at Conley's request, he found a strange apparatus consisting of a large, transparent four-foot cube made of one-inch-thick sheets of plastic and held together by a framework of pipe clamps. Davy went closer and smelled acetic acid. He saw that the joints had been heavily sealed with a translucent substance and the smell confirmed silicone caulk.
The chamber's only other feature was a pair of plastic pipe nipples threaded through the top. One went to a large pressure gauge with a range of 800 to 1200 millibars and the other went to a rubber hose that went off to a small air compressor.
Conley was waiting.
Davy stared at the chamber with disfavor. "Do you know anything about diving physiology?" Davy asked.
"A little." He pointed at the gauge. "The reading is absolute. I don't expect to work in differences of more than 20 millibars, so I don't think we have to worry too much about popping your lungs or your eardrums."
Davy stepped closer. The gauge read 1002 millibars but Davy had no idea how close that was to normal pressure at sea level. "Is it pressurized right now?"
"Not a bit." Conley pointed to a valve manifold mounted on the compressor. "It's open to the outside."
Davy crouched down and jumped into the box. It was warmer inside, catching the sun, but the pressure, as Conley had said, was the same. He jumped back out.
"All right. What's your plan?"
"Well, why don't I start by pumping some air into the box, about twenty millibars. Then you jump into it and we'll see what happens to the pressure. If your volume just appears out of nowhere, we should see a slight increase in pressure as the air in the chamber is compressed into a smaller space."
"How much is twenty millibars in pounds per square inch?"
A true physicist, Conley pulled out a calculator. "Uhm, point-two-nine-oh-oh. A little more than a quarter of one psi."
Davy said, "I can live with that."
He watched the gauge carefully as Conley switched valves and added a little air into the chamber. The gauge climbed much faster than Conley expected and he had to bleed some off to get down to the designated 1022 millibars. He shut the valve and said, "There. Barely half an inch of mercury. Just an afternoon high pressure zone."
Davy worked his jaw left to right to ready his eustachian tubes, then crouched again. He opened his mouth wide and jumped into the chamber but didn't really notice any pressure difference in his ears, though he felt air move through his hair for an instant. Davy glanced at Conley through the plastic and saw that the physicist's jaw had dropped.
"What?" he asked Conley, reappearing beside him.
"The second you appeared the pressure dropped back to atmospheric. It didn't increase."
"Umm." Davy didn't comment.
Conley frowned at him. "You suspected this, didn't you?"
"Not really. My ears pop all the time when I change altitudes." But I'm usually not changing to and from sealed chambers.
"Let's reverse it. Get in. Then I'll increase the pressure and we'll see what happens when you jump out."
"No more than twenty-millibars, right?"
Conley held up his right hand, palm out. "Swear."
Davy jumped back into the cube.
Davy's ears popped as the compressor ran. By craning his neck around, he could just see the gauge through the top of the chamber. Conley got the pressure right, 1022, first time, without having to bleed it back down.
Conley shut the manifold and backed away, his eyes on the gauge.
Davy jumped. His ears popped again. He looked at the gauge on the chamber. It read 1002. As he'd suspected.
"I think your gauge must be broken," he said to Conley.
"Tunneling. So that's it. It must've been warm and cold air that carried the temperature difference. When you jump, air flows through the hole."
Davy didn't say anything.
"Go put on some shorts."
"What?"
"Shorts. No socks. No shoes. Please."
Davy returned before Conley had completed his arrangements. Conley carried two plastic dishpans out of the back door of the house and behind him came one of the footmen, carrying a bucket.
Davy stood on the grass, which was cold, but not as cold as the sidewalk. Conley put the two dishpans down and directed the man carrying the bucket to fill one of them. The water steamed slightly in the cold air and Davy was relieved. At least they weren't using cold water.
Conley dismissed the footman and turned to Davy. "All right. Let's see what else passes through the hole." He stuck a ruler into the full dishpan. The water filled three quarters of its volume and the ruler showed five and a half inches at the water-line. "Stand in that, please."
"I'm going to catch my death, traipsing about in shorts with wet feet."
Conley smiled grimly. "Catching your death may be a real problem, but it won't be from a cold."
Davy stepped into the warm water. It rose slightly over his ankle.
"Good," said Conley. "Please teleport into the other dishpan."
Davy obliged. He looked down. There was a good inch of water in the previously empty dishpan he was standing in.
Conley, back at the other pan, was measuring the depth again. "Well, that's interesting, isn't it? Is it flowing through the hole or just clinging to you, a sort of surface effect, when you jump?" He motioned Davy to step out of the tub and measured the water depth. "Three quarters of an inch. Back in please."
"The full one?"
"No, this one," he pointed at the mostly empty pan. When Davy had done this, he motioned Davy to jump back into the filled tub. "Teleport back, will you?"
Davy did so.
"Conley stooped and measured the water in the mostly empty tub. "An inch and a half. The water is not clinging to you. It's flowing downhill, from deeper water to shallow, through the hole—the gate." He stared at Davy, not as a person stares at a person, but as a person stares at an annoying mystery. "You're folding space," he said, accusingly. "We'll need a gravity gradiometer."
They put Davy in the back of a cargo van.
"You're scaring me, you know," he said to Conley.
"It's just like the beach. We've got two split keys, one in a car ahead of us, one behind. You'll be fine."
Davy tapped the door of the van. "Metal. Faraday cage. Electromagnetic interference?"
"Ah." Conley pointed at a loop of wire hanging in the middle of the van ceiling. "I've run an antenna. It conducts the signal quite well. We had a test run this morning over the same route. I sat inside with the meter and there wasn't the slightest dip in signal strength."
"You could have traffic problems," said Davy.
"During the off season? Don't worry. You're not secured. You can jump back to your room at the slightest hint of nausea." Conley shut the door.
Davy sat at the front of the compartment, his back against the bulkhead dividing the cargo compartment from the driver's cab. They hadn't given Davy a watch but he counted off the seconds. There were five minutes of bumpy gravel road, then they turned onto pavement. There were a few stops, as if for a stop sign, and once a stop-start-stop-start that was clearly a few cars waiting to go through a stop sign.
He'd counted out fifteen hundred seconds before he felt the van turn tightly, then reverse. Conley opened the rear door and Davy blinked. It wasn't as bright as he expected. The van was inside an airplane hangar.
It was pretty obvious. An airplane, a single engine utility craft was parked right in front of him. There was a weird boom extending aft from the bottom of the tail section and the letters on the pilot's door said, "BHP Falcon Survey System."
Conley smiled. "We only have this for an hour. It's not the expense, but the fact that there are only a few of them and they're heavily scheduled."
"What is 'this?' " Davy asked.
Conley led him around to an open cargo door in the side of the craft. "It's an airborne three-D gravity gradiometer. They're using technology declassified a couple of years ago—a navigation tool used by nuclear submarines. They use it to locate ore bodies and map hydrocarbon reservoirs."
"How sensitive is it?"
"Perhaps too sensitive. At one meter it can detect the gravity generated by a three-year-old child."
Inside the plane a man sat at a console. A squat black rounded disk was mounted on the floor. Wires led out of gold-colored connectors and snaked down the side.
"I'm surprised you didn't just buy one," said Davy.
Conley sighed, but before he spoke the technician at the console said in a thick Australian accent, "So, that vehicle will be here during the test?"
"Yes."
"Very well. They've set up your screens," he gestured toward the side of the hangar where Davy saw the sort of standing panels used to make cubicle farms in big offices. They were set up in a long row.
"Right," Conley said. "When can we start?"
"I've got to do a calibration run with you lot at least a hundred meters away. It'll take ten minutes."
"Very well. We'll be back in fifteen?"
The tech nodded and Conley led Davy toward the end of the screens and around one end. On the other side, a standard doorway was set into the much larger hangar door. When they were at it, but before he opened the door he said, "Jump back to your room, right? Someone will tell you when to come back here." He pointed at the floor right in front of the exterior door. "Can you do that?"
Rather than answer, Davy just did it, appearing next to the four poster bed back at the mansion.
The clock on the entertainment center showed fifteen minutes elapsed before Abney, the butler, came in to tell him his presence was requested back at the hangar. Davy jumped in front of him. He didn't know how "trusted" Abney was but he hadn't been told to avoid his talent in front of the servants. He had a morbid feeling that they'd all be killed after this.
Conley was waiting for him. They walked back to the end of the screen. Conley pointed out a series of chalked circles on the concrete behind the screen. "All we want you to do is, first, simply walk from this circle to the far circle. Slowly. After that, teleport back to this first circle, count to five, the next circle, count to five, the next circle, count to five, etc."
He had Davy do a dry run while he watched. "Right. I have to clear out so my mass doesn't interfere, but the technician will give you the go-ahead, all right?"
"Understood."
"After the last jump, count to five and go back to the house. Don't come back here cause I'll have turned off the keys." Conley left by the door. As it shut, Davy jumped to it and looked through the rapidly closing gap. All he saw was a stretch of concrete and then low green brush beyond. In the distance, he saw a barn silo. It didn't tell him much. He returned to the first circle. After a moment, the Australian accent called out, "Ready when you are!"
Davy did the slow walk to the far circle, then the series of jumps with the five-second pauses. He waited the additional time before jumping back to the house.
And what did that prove?
There were heavy winds and thunder that night. The rain had stopped by dawn, but the waves thundered still onto the beach the next morning and Davy spent a good hour watching them pound the sand. It was therapeutic. He didn't know which he identified with more—the surf, raging against the immovable stone outcroppings, or the rocks, taking enormous punishment without being able to strike back.
Without thinking about it, he realized the beach faced south. It was the sun's movement across the sky and his memory of its position other times he'd been there. That fits Martha's Vineyard.
Conley hadn't bothered him after the test in the hangar. Nor had he shown up that morning. Davy was torn—curious about the results, yet happy to be left alone.
They kept a watch on him, when he was on the beach. Not to prevent him from fleeing or wandering out of bounds—obviously the governor did that—but to keep him from communicating with anyone.
Before they gave him clearance to go to the beach, they would send someone out to sit on a tall rock outside the safe zone with a view up and down the shore. If the beach was empty of people, they switched on the key transmitters and told him Davy was clear to jump.
The beach was private, without public access, but there were people in some of the neighboring houses, caretakers and stubborn winter residents surf casting in hip waders, but he'd only see them in the distance. If they looked like they were coming down the beach toward Davy, his watcher would speak on his radio and blow a whistle to let Davy know they were turning off the keys in the next two seconds.
Davy disliked the whistle almost as much as he did the earlier waves of warning nausea. In fact, at the whistle's shrill call, he'd feel nauseated but without the telltale tingle in his throat.
Only when he was back in the box did the sensation leave off.
This morning they blew the whistle before lunch when there wasn't anybody visible on the beach, near or far.
He stood in the box, breathing deeply. The door opened.
It was Hyacinth "Miss Minchin" Pope.
He almost didn't recognize her. She was dressed in a black tailored suit that conformed tightly to her figure. The skirt was short, mid-thigh, and the stockings were patterned lace ending in high-heeled pumps.
And her hair was down, falling past her shoulders in shining waves.
I guess her brains don't fall out. He felt that familiar tug of desire mixed with fear, but he managed to keep his face impassive.
"Miss Pope."
"Mr. Rice." She sauntered into the room, the heels making her hips roll even more than usual, and perched on the arm of the recliner. "You've come up in the world, I see."
Davy couldn't help himself. "It's my reward for throwing you around. I wonder if I could work up to my own bungalow?"
She laughed at him and crossed her legs. The skirt inched up and Davy saw the tabs of a garter belt suspender hooked to the top of the stocking. She leaned forward, causing the skirt to inch even higher.
Davy swallowed. "What may I do for you, Miss Pope?"
"I've come to fetch you for lunch. In the dining room. Do you want to change first?" She eyed his Dockers, tennis shoes, and sweater.
"Is this a formal event?"
She shook her head. "No, just thought I could... help." She licked her upper lip, a quick motion from one corner of her mouth to the other.
"I'll wash up," Davy said. He took off the windbreaker and hung it in the closet, then went into the bathroom, washed his hands and face, and combed his hair.
For a second he stared blankly at his reflection in the mirror. What does she want? He wondered if she was back in charge and Dr. Conley was no longer involved.
When he came out of the bathroom, she was in the lounger, sideways, looking like a lingerie ad. Her back was against one chair arm, left leg over the other, right leg straight up in the air. She was smoothing her stocking and her skirt had ridden so high Davy could make out black lace panties.
He swallowed hard and jumped past her to the door. Holding it open politely, he said, "Shall we?" Thankfully the back of the lounger blocked the more salacious parts.
She swiveled and stood, demurely smoothing her skirt as she passed him.
He didn't walk beside her but proceeded by jumps, first to the head of the stairs, again waiting politely until she'd reached him, then jumping to the landing below, then the second floor hall, next landing, ground floor hall. He even held the chair for her.
I'm not with you.
She was looking at him warily by the time he sat himself.
They were the only diners. Lunch was served by two footmen supervised by Abney the butler. Abney presented a wine bottle to Davy and he forestalled the ceremony by saying, "Perhaps Miss Pope would lend her expertise."
Abney didn't blink but changed to the other side of the table, presenting the label to Miss Pope instead. She nodded, tasted, and eventually approved a white Spätlese to go with their clam chowder and pasta with lobster, tomatoes, and herbes de maquis.
When Hyacinth asked, Abney explained that the Maquis was a thick underbrush that covered parts of Corsica and the herbs that grew there gave the island its nickname, "the scented isle."
The round loaf of hard-crusted bread was hot from the oven and wonderfully suited to soaking up the sauce. Davy concentrated on eating. Finally, he asked, "What has become of Dr. Conley?"
Hyacinth patted her lips with the linen napkin. "The good doctor has gone off to consult with colleagues. Apparently his little experiment with the very expensive gravity thingie produced results. Lots of 'em. He is in analysis mode for the time being."
She held up her wineglass and one of the footmen stepped forward and poured. She didn't even look at him. "Which leaves time for us."
Davy didn't like the sound of that. He raised his eyebrows.
She took a plastic prescription pill container from her suit pocket and pushed it across the table. "Take one."
"What is it?"
"Doxycycline. We're going to take a little trip."
He looked at the label. It read, "Doxycycline, 100mg. Take Once Daily, for the prevention of Malaria."
"The tropics. Just the two of us?"
She shook her head. "Not exactly."
Too bad. Not that he had any romantic intentions. If he were traveling with just one, they would have to use the complete signal transmitter and he might be able to grab it. Instead, they were probably going to do that roving split key thing, half in front, half in back. If it were just Hyacinth and himself, he could consider possibilities.
"Where are we going?"
"Nigeria."
They made the jump in the middle of the next afternoon.
"It'll be dark there, now," said Hyacinth, checking her watch. She'd changed into khaki pants, hiking boots, and a photojournalist's vest over a cotton polo. She carried a shoulder bag and her hair was back up in its usual tight bun.
Davy'd stuck with jeans, tennies, and a white cotton button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. They both reeked of DEET. There was always malaria to consider in Africa and Nigeria definitely had the chloroquine-resistant P. falciparum, which was why she'd given him the doxycycline.
"You're sure the keys are in place?" He hadn't meant to ask—it was almost convulsive—but the fear of jumping into an area without a safe zone was uncontrollable.
The bastards had done their job well.
"I told you. They called. They've bracketed the terminal building. You said you could do it." She put an edge of derision in her voice.
Mr. Simons, Hyacinth informed him, had sent the team out two days previously.
"All right, then," Davy said.
For Davy it was routine, but he felt Hyacinth stagger as he set her down in the terminal. He steadied her automatically as she reacted to the environmental changes: light to dark, winter central heating to an air conditioning system not keeping up with the humidity, and the total change in smells.
The dark nook off of baggage claim, normally empty, was occupied by three Hausa women and a child, watching a violent thunderstorm through the glass doors of the terminal. Davy had appeared just behind them and set Hyacinth down before the women noticed.
After her initial start, Hyacinth stood quietly. Then a bright flash of lightning striking outside the terminal followed immediately by a window rattling thunderclap caused them all to jump, Davy included.
The women gasped, almost screamed, when they noticed Davy and Hyacinth standing directly behind them and they scurried away, dragging the surprised child, and casting frightened looks over their shoulders.
Hyacinth gave a half-laugh then asked, "Where is ground transportation?"
Davy thought about directing her to the long line of small pickups, some with shells on the back, that crowded fifteen or twenty locals aboard for fifty Naira each. Instead he pointed at a set of doors across the broad hall and they started around the edge of the room, avoiding the crowds waiting for luggage or passengers. He'd been here several times and was prepared when a large, heavy local man dressed in jungle camouflage battle dress stopped in front of them and demanded their papers.
Hyacinth was reaching into her bag, probably for a bribe, Davy thought. "Don't," he said conversationally. "He's not a real official. It's an extortion scam."
"Are you sure?"
"He doesn't have rank insignia. I'm sure."
The man, who heard all this, raised his voice. "Your papers! Now!"
Davy shook his head. "Perhaps you could show us your identification," he raised his voice almost to a shout, "Mr. Barawo."
People turned at the word.
The man looked around and swore, then snatched at the strap of Hyacinth's bag but missed when she took a step back out of reach. He made the mistake of following.
She kicked him in the shin, then broke his nose with the heel of her hand. He staggered back, dripping red.
There was a stir from the other end of baggage claim and the real thing arrived: uniformed and armed National Police.
Davy gestured at the man holding his bloody nose. "Barawo. He tried to steal her bag."
"Ah," said the sergeant in charge. He gestured. "Take him."
A bystander, another local dressed in a cheap suit, said, "No. She attacked him!"
Confederate. Davy shook his head, then looked at the man with the bleeding nose still blinking tears from his eyes. He must've weighed twice what Hyacinth did. Then pointedly back at Hyacinth.
One of the NPF said, "Abokin barawo, barawo ne."
The man in the suit gulped, then backed away. "Perhaps I was mistaken."
Davy asked the policeman, "What is that you said, about a thief?"
The sergeant in charge translated, "The friend of a thief is a thief also."
"Usema." Thanks. Davy turned to Hyacinth. "A gift here would keep us from having to go to the local NPF precinct to make a statement."
She nodded and took her hand out of the bag, something folded within. She held it out to the man in charge, as if she were going to shake his hand. "We are late for an appointment, Captain. We really appreciate your help in this matter. Would it be all right if we went on?"
The sergeant didn't correct her about his rank but glanced surreptitiously at the wad of Naira notes she'd handed him. They were each of the five-hundred denomination, about $3.80 U.S. each, but the wad was half an inch thick, folded. He stuck the money in his pocket, then stepped back and saluted. "Quite all right, Madame. We will deal with this mugu man."
"Na gode," said Davy.
They went through the doors. There was a tan GMC SUV sitting at the curb with two guards huddled against it, the shapes of their assault rifles showing through their ponchos as the rain streamed off the plastic.
The rear door opened as Hyacinth stepped out, and she and Davy dashed through the downpour, then scrambled into the rearmost bench seat. A gray-haired occidental in khakis, seated in the front passenger seat, watched them as they climbed in. The two armed guards followed them, taking the center bench seat and resting their gun stocks on the floor. "Go," the white man said and the driver gunned the engine and the SUV moved out with a jerk that rocked Davy in his seat and swung the door shut.
Davy twisted and looked back through the rain. A few of the NPF were coming out onto the sidewalk, perhaps to try a separate shakedown of their own or just to see where they were going but they flinched back from the rain.
Hyacinth said, "What did he call that guy? Mugu?"
Davy leaned forward and asked one of the guards.
"Mugu?" the guard replied. "Bad. Evil."
Davy shivered. The AC was on and he was wet from the rain, but it wasn't the cold. Yes, the man in the terminal had been evil, but it was a small evil, lowercase. He stole and bullied and extorted "let me go" money from insecure people.
He looked at Hyacinth: her hair was back in the tight bun he'd only seen her without once. She was evil. Her boss was even worse.
They passed the airport sign. Murtala Muhammad had been a pretty good leader, for a dictator. He'd cut way back on corruption and seemed to be steering the country into some form of prosperity when a bunch of sergeants and low-ranking officers killed him in 1976. Still, they named the airport after him.
Davy hated coming to Nigeria.
He'd been here several times before the death of Sani Abacha, the last dictator. Once it had been for the NSA and other times for himself, removing a few Amnesty International personnel thrown in jail by the late regime. Nigeria was the sixth largest producer of oil in the world, yet it had the most appalling poverty and violence. Abacha's family got over three billion U.S. out before he died of his "heart attack" and, while some of the money had been recovered from the Swiss banks, the bulk was still missing.
The SUV didn't head into Lagos. Davy was glad. He'd heard that the roadblocks were nowhere near as bad now, but in the old days you never knew if you'd be stopped by the police, the army, or a local gang intent on robbery and murder. Instead, the vehicle rounded the airport on the perimeter road and turned into the guarded gate at the commercial air operations terminal, where the charter and oil company air services were.
He wondered where the keys were. He hadn't seen any cars preceding or following them, so they couldn't be very close. They must be broadcasting a fairly strong signal. Or they hid both keys in this car and just aren't telling me.
One of the hangar doors was open, a ten-foot gap, and the SUV pulled straight in, the headlights throwing sweeping shadows across the walls as the pounding of the rain on the SUV's roof stopped with an abruptness that was almost shocking.
He saw three helicopters and a single-engine airplane. A series of small offices had been partitioned against the rear of the hangar. The driver cut the headlights and it got even darker as someone shut the hangar door and they all got out.
The rain was even louder on the hangar roof—more area, less insulation—an oppressive wall of noise. Nobody tried to talk but someone switched on the overhead lights. They were weak fluorescent fixtures and the result, even after they flickered completely on, was inadequate, as if there was a film over the eye.
At the front of the hangar the local who'd pushed the hangar door shut waved, picked up a spindly, misshapen umbrella with a few broken ribs, and ducked out into the storm through a small door set in the greater hangar door.
The man from the front seat looked at the guards and said, "Gentlemen," and pointed at the doorway. One of the men said, "We are here to guard, not to stand in the rain. We will stay inside."
The man in khaki said something in Hausa.
The guards looked surprised, then laughed.
"And you will be paid," added the man.
The two guards pulled up the hoods on their ponchos and moved out into the storm.
"What did you say?" Hyacinth asked.
"A Hausa proverb: It's a new thing for a thief to knock at the door before entering. This way." He pointed to one of the small offices, the corner one. He unlocked it with a key, reached in and flipped a switch.
The lights inside were brighter than the poor ones in the hangar and it was air-conditioned. Even before he felt the air, he saw the moisture-laden air of the hangar condense as it mixed with the air in the office, a swirl of fog. It felt good, though, when the three of them were inside.
Hyacinth introduced him. "This is Davy. This is Frank."
Frank's accent was an odd combination of Brit and American. His skin looked like worn leather and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes spread out like the Niger River delta. He shook hands with Davy.
Back at the mansion Hyacinth had said, "He's just a pilot. He doesn't know anything about us, or you. You tell him anything and I'll have to kill him and get another pilot."
Frank worked for International Aid. He'd been loaned to them at the request of Mr. Simons, a favor bought from the board of trustees by a very large donation.
"I didn't realize the weather was so bad," Hyacinth said.
Frank said, "Not a big deal. These are just the usual afternoon thunderstorms lasting a bit late. The MET forecast is clear after midnight."
"Is that when you want to go?"
"Oh-one-hundred."
Hyacinth looked at her watch. "What's local time?"
He looked at her, clearly puzzled. "It's seventeen twenty-eight. Didn't you change your watch on the flight?"
Hyacinth began setting the local time into her wristwatch. "No."
Frank asked, "How long were you at the terminal?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
He held up his hands, placating. "Sorry. None of my business, but, what with the weather, every international flight in the last five hours was diverted into Abuja."
"Ah," said Hyacinth. "Well we didn't come by that, um, mode of transport. We'll be back at oh-oh-thirty, for the flight, all right?"
"You want the car and the guards? We didn't book them for a trip into town but they'll be glad of the work."
"Where do you get them?" Hyacinth asked. "Is there an agency?"
He laughed. "You might say that. They're National Police. Approximately half the force in Lagos is on hire as bodyguards while the other half runs vehicle checkpoints to scam 'let me go' money out of people with improper papers."
Hyacinth made a silent "Oh" with her mouth. "Don't worry about the car or the guards. We'll make our own way."
"I wouldn't go into town without them," Frank said.
Davy didn't blame him for being worried. It was fourteen miles into Lagos proper, not that the city hadn't spread out to the airport—there were more people in the area than in Los Angeles.
Hyacinth shook her head. "We won't."
She left the office and walked along the row of the doors, toward the aircraft. Frank was staring at them from the doorway, but she ignored his comment, "There's no exit back that way."
Hyacinth turned, and when she turned to pass behind the larger of the three helicopters she glanced back at Davy. "Okay?"
"Let me get my bearings." Davy took a deep breath of tropical flowers, aviation fuel, and distant smell of rotting trash. "Okay."
He picked her up from behind and she deliberately rubbed her butt against his hips. He jumped back to the square—the room in the mansion—and pushed her away, blinking in the better lighting.
She stumbled forward to regain her balance then turned, looking down at his crotch. "Do you have something in your pocket?"
He jumped past her, to the door, and opened it. "We should both get some rest if we're going back in three hours."
She raised her eyebrows and sauntered toward him. "We could lie down for a while, sure."
He considered jumping her downstairs to the dining room and immediately returning to the room alone, but there was no lock on the door. He sighed. "Leave me be." After several beats he added, "Please."
She lifted a hand and put it on his chest, just over the scar, and smoothed Davy's shirt with her fingertips.
"Or I'll jump you back to Lagos and leave you to wait in the airport terminal."
This got to her. "You can't. The keys aren't on."
He shook his head. "You're lying. You haven't communicated with your team. You didn't hear the weather report until I did. You couldn't have planned it in advance. There were too many dynamic factors."
"You're right. I better see to that." She took a cell phone from her bag and pushed a button. "Excuse me."
She left.
Davy thought about jumping back to Nigeria, before she had a chance to communicate with her team, but what good would it do? As soon as she reached them, they'd shut down the keys and he'd be forced back here.
Wait.