Reflex (26 page)

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.