The Lioness(49)

“I suppose Patton grew up in Tanganyika?” Terrance asked instead.

“Kenya. Big estate outside Nairobi. A lot of native help and farmworkers.”

“Native help and farmworkers. This just gets better and better.” Terrance chuckled when he said it, so he could make his point about the baggage that accompanied an expression like native help, but not offend Peter.

Still, the agent turned to look him squarely in the eye. “I have just biased you completely and needlessly against the man. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. You might like him. I might like him. I sure as hell hope we both do. I don’t know him, but I promise you, Terrance, whatever faults and prejudices Charlie Patton has, he’s not Bull Connor.”

“Good to know. I’d hate to think our host is going to turn the fire hoses on me—or unleash the police dogs.”

“Just the opposite. I got the sense from one of Patton’s letters that if he were a mercenary sort, he’d be fighting in Stanleyville.”

“For or against the Simbas?”

“Oh, against. He’s as capitalist as all the colonials. But he’s smart and, I honestly believe, decent. Or decent enough. At this point, he wants Africa for Africans. Isn’t that one side’s slogan? He just wants to be sure that whoever’s running the place has a good old-fashioned Western infrastructure in place. None of this communist nonsense.”

“The right alliances. NATO. America.”

“Or, perhaps, General Motors. U.S. Steel. Esso. You know—those alliances.”

“Got it.”

“At least that’s how I read the man,” Peter said. “And Katie and David have liked corresponding with him.” The bartender had refilled his glass, and he took a sip.

“I didn’t realize David helped organize this.”

“Oh, David is very good at spending Katie’s money.”

Terrance heard the edge in the other man’s voice. It surprised him, but only a little: Peter Merrick was known for his honesty, his candor, and for refusing, under any circumstances, to put up with anyone’s bullshit. “He was the one who connected me with Patton so I could set up my little expedition after you all head home,” the agent continued.

Terrance glanced over his shoulder at the table with the foursome to make absolutely sure that they couldn’t hear the conversation at the bar. They were laughing at something, oblivious to Peter and him. “I couldn’t help but notice a little something in your tone—about David and how comfortable he is dishing out Katie’s money.”

“It was just an observation. She’s the breadwinner in that couple and he’s fine with that.”

“But he has that gallery.”

“He has that storefront with crazy rent that’s usually empty.”

“Huh. I always thought it was a prestigious little place.”

“It hemorrhages dough.”

Terrance took this in as the agent finished his second shot.

“Make no mistake, I like David,” Peter added. “I think his dad is CIA. Did you know that? Once upon a time, managed clandestine work against the Nazis. Now he’s a paper pusher. At least that’s the facade. ‘Personnel.’?”

“David told me something like that when Kate introduced us and we got to talking about our families. I had no idea his old man might be CIA, but it sounded as if he did something interesting in World War II.”

Peter nodded. “Guy may have been a super spy, and he may have been some bureaucratic underling. No idea. Either way, whatever he does now, it doesn’t result in the kind of scratch that can prop up his son’s ailing gallery. Damn thing’s a hobby.”

“David—”

“Look, David is good for Katie and she’s good for him. It’s just…”

“It’s just what?”

“It’s just that no man likes to be a failure in his wife’s eyes. Especially given that pair’s history. Remember, they grew up together back east. Same apartment building on the West Side. That’s what I mean about how they could be so damn good for each other. And so when that gallery finally goes belly up? It won’t be pretty.”

“For their marriage.”

“Uh-huh.” He nodded at the four men behind them. “I don’t know whether it’s two years down the road or four or five. But Reggie Stout and I have talked about this. At some point, Katie Barstow’s marriage is going to tank, and Reggie’s going to have his hands full as her publicist and father confessor.”



* * *



.?.?.

And so Terrance zipped up his fly.

And at the moment when the guard used his gun to motion him back toward the hut, he dove at him. Just threw himself into the fellow and drove him into the hard, dry ground. And he knew instantly that he had gotten lucky: the kidnapper’s finger had not been on the trigger and so he hadn’t inadvertently discharged the rifle. He hadn’t even yelled, because he’d had his breath knocked from him when his body had slammed into the earth.

Terrance hadn’t hit someone in decades. He’d been twelve, maybe thirteen, when he’d gotten into a fight with a couple of idiot white boys who’d jumped him, but he recalled keenly the pain in his knuckles when he pounded his fist into the side of his captor’s face and the nauseating squishiness when he punched him in his Adam’s apple. The guard was stunned, and Terrance was able to wrestle the gun from him. He stood up quickly and kicked him in the stomach and the groin to ensure his obedience, and pointed the rifle down at his chest.