The Lioness(59)

“Did you name names?”

Again, Phillip laughed. “God, no. I don’t pick fights with Soviet military advisers. But this is a small community. Procenko told enough people what he’d done—he thought it was rather funny—and everyone knew that Patton had been his host.”

Terrance considered this. “Which ticked off Charlie Patton more? The idea that he had been outdrunk by a guest or that his guests had committed a rather egregious hunting faux pas?”

“A faux pas? They broke the damn law! And Charlie was responsible. He never went to jail, but I’m sure even he had to pay one motherfucker of a fine. Anyway, he thought I’d humiliated him by going out there and then telling some of our mutual acquaintances what the hell had happened. Publishing the photos. The combination of the humiliation and the fine? He was one pissed-off, over-the-hill hunter.”

“Well, it sounds like you did embarrass him.”

“He deserved it.”

A woman almost as tall as Phillip and roughly his age came up beside the photographer and linked her arm through his.

“Ah, Nicole,” he said, kissing her on the cheek and placing his hand on the small of her back. “Meet Terrance Dutton. I believe you’ve seen at least one of his films. Tender Madness.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet,” she said, and her accent suggested she was from East Africa. Like Phillip, she was clad for safari, and she, too, exuded cinematic beauty: a statuesque carriage and an impeccable, flawless face. She also had skin, Terrance thought, even blacker than mine.



* * *



.?.?.

For a moment, Terrance stood outside the hut where Katie had been taken, his rifle still aimed at the Russian. Here was the problem: it was dark in there. Who could say what this guard would do when either Terrance demanded he untie Katie or he himself went to untie her? It would be easy for the Russian to jump him. Terrance supposed there was a flashlight in the one Land Rover still parked in the boma, but even retrieving that was playing with fire. If he sent this guy into the vehicle to get it, who knew what else he might salvage? A pistol? A knife? He had, after all, been the one driving the damn thing.

God, a part of Terrance just wanted to shoot him. But he already had one dead man on his ledger; he didn’t want two. And they needed this person. He probably knew where Margie had been taken and where the other guests—Reggie and Felix and Carmen and Peter—were being held captive. He might know the direction to drive to get the hell back to civilization.

And, if necessary, he might offer some leverage. It was quite possible they’d need some.

Terrance had searched him to make sure he didn’t have other weapons on him and to see if he had any identification. He had neither. He had keys to the vehicle, cigarettes, and a silver lighter that was exquisite. It had a red and yellow five-pointed star, the hammer and sickle inside it, embossed on one side. It was likely Soviet army gear. But when Terrance had pressed him for details, he’d insisted he wasn’t a soldier and never had been. Claimed it was his father’s, but Terrance didn’t buy that. It didn’t look that old, and it didn’t look like it had seen a lot of wear. He claimed his name was Glenn, but it was evident he was lying. He was making too big a deal about the fact it was spelled with two n’s, not one.

And so now, at Terrance’s command, the Russian had paused in front of the hut where Katie Barstow was confined, about five feet ahead of him, but not close enough to the entrance that he could dive forward and lose himself in the darkness within. That had been among Terrance’s fears, which was why he had ordered him to halt where he was. The fact remained, however, that now Terrance was at a loss over what to do. It was just the two of them, and still, it seemed, he had no good options. Which meant, he guessed, you went with the least bad option. And the least bad option was probably this: see if there was a flashlight in the Land Rover. He couldn’t get Katie and David and Billy untied without one, and that was obviously his next step.

Which was when it clicked: he should untie David or Billy next, not Katie, so there would be two men against one. Screw the chivalry right now.

“Is there a flashlight in the Land Rover?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the dashboard. Maybe under the seats. But there’s one there.”

“Okay. We’re going to walk to the vehicle and we’re going to get it. You’re going to stand ten feet from the Land Rover—the far side—away from the huts, and I’m going to check. I will also keep an eye on you. You move, and I shoot you exactly the way I shot your friend.”

The Russian shook his head. “That was point-blank. The range. You think you can hit me if I run even ten feet?”

“Not for certain. But are you really that sure I’ll miss? And do you want to run into the wild at night? Unarmed? Think that’s a good plan, buddy?”

The man’s face was bemused. Terrance wanted him scared. He’d shot his partner—twice. Put a bullet into the bastard’s skull. How the fuck was this character not terrified? Terrance had to admit, he was impressed.

“We see,” the Russian said.

So, Terrance walked him to the far side of the Land Rover and ordered him to stand where he was. “Move and I shoot,” he reminded him. Then he opened the passenger’s-side door, one eye always on his captive, and glanced at the dashboard and the glove deck. He ran a hand underneath the front passenger seat. He stretched his arm and his fingers under the driver’s seat. He reached deep into the well between the bucket seats. And he kept coming up empty. No flashlight. No pistol, either, and no knife. Briefly he thought he might have found one, based on the cylindrical shape—his mind imagined the barrel—but it was a battery, nothing more. He also found some peanuts and a bandanna. But not the goddamn flashlight.