The Taste of Fear (6 page)
“What does that mean?”
“Ah! Why do I know English, but you do not know Swahili, or even half Swahili? I said, ‘The accident happened when he lost control and overturned and landed in a ditch.’ But do not worry, my friend, it is only body damage.”
“I’m looking for an old driveshaft.”
“Why do you want that?”
“Do you have one or not?”
“Yes, I haf plenty. There, with the power train parts.” He pointed to a pile of scrap metal.
Fitzgerald went to the pile. There were hubs, differentials, transfer boxes, gears, and driveshafts. He examined each driveshaft closely. The front end splines—gear teeth—were maligned and worn on four. Two looked okay. One was nearly bald. He chose the bald one and asked the Tanzanian how much it cost.
“That one’s no good,” the man said. “Why do you want that one?”
“How much is it?”
“Fifteen thousand shillings.”
Fitzgerald paid him, then turned to leave.
“Hey,” the Tanzanian called. “You never told me what you need a no good driveshaft for?”
“Neco quispiam.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re the language man,” Fitzgerald told him over his shoulder. “You figure it out.”
Chapter 5
Tuesday, December 24, 4:43 p.m.
London, England
“How about this one?”
Jahja al-Ahmad looked at his wife, Sara, who held up a colorful scarf. “Too bright,” he said. He returned his attention to the belt rack, where a number of belts were hanging from the hooks like dead snakes. He wanted a black one, so he ignored the brown and white ones. All the bands were made from leather and looked similar to one another. It was the buckles that made the decision difficult. There were sterling, enamel, pewter, square, and rectangular ones. He was holding a black belt with a simple pewter buckle in his hand; it was the best he had seen so far.
He and his wife were in Harrods in Knightsbridge, in the fashion accessories department, which was on the ground floor, along with the rest of the menswear shops. Plastic Christmas trees, mistletoe, tinsel, holly, Santa Clauses, and wreaths suffocated the place. Ironically, these decorations all had non-scriptural pagan origins, nothing to do with the Messiah’s birth. The Christian infidels out shopping likely didn’t know or care about that. Christmas for them was merely an excuse for consumerism and gluttony and drunkenness.
“How about this one?” Sara held up another colorful scarf. She was dressed conservatively in heavy wool pants and a long winter jacket. A plain green
hijab
covered her hair.
“No,” Jahja said.
“Well, there’s not much left to choose from. Two days before Christmas isn’t the best time to go shopping.”
They weren’t shopping for Christmas gifts, of course. They were Muslim. Jahja had been born in Algeria; Sara in Bosnia, to Turkish parents. But Jahja needed a new belt. He hadn’t been eating much lately, and his waist size had shrunk two sizes. Sara asked him what was wrong every evening at the dinner table. He told her he was dieting. She didn’t believe him. If she did, she wouldn’t keep asking him what was wrong every evening. Nevertheless, she was a good wife. They had a good marriage. She would never in a thousand years suspect what was causing him to lose sleep, to lose his appetite.
“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 on 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’d 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. But then Scarlett became ashamed about her suspicious response to Sal’s 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. She 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. She poked Sal. This was something else she’d missed tremendously while Sal had been away: poking him. He might be her mafia don during the daytime, but he’d always been her cuddly teddy bear at night.
“You awake?” she said.
“Am now.” His 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?”