The Lioness(61)

“Bring him into the hut you were in,” Terrance told David. His idea, as much as he had one, was to hide behind the Land Rover on the assumption that whoever was coming would park near it. If it was rangers, he would emerge and be grateful. But if it was Russians, he’d have the element of surprise and be close enough that he might be able to shoot one. Friend or foe, lady or the tiger.

At least, it was only a single vehicle. Still, how many people might be inside it? For all he knew, it was a fucking clown car with a militia of Russians piling out.

Let it be only one person, he prayed softly. Then he changed his mind: No, let it be many people, and let them be rangers.

And still David wasn’t herding this Glenn—or whatever his name was—into the hut. He was just standing there, apparently so frightened that he was paralyzed.

“David, move him now!” Terrance said, his voice a bark he didn’t much like.

Half-heartedly, David pushed him toward the hut, and the Russian responded in slow motion. But at least they were heading in the right direction. Terrance ran to the Land Rover and crouched down.

And then it was almost upon him. A jeep. Even in the twilight he could see there were two men in the front seats, but there could be more in the back. And the pair up front were white, which meant it was unlikely they were rangers. He brought the rifle to his shoulder and peered through the sight as the vehicle slowed. From this spot, he might be able to take out one of them when it stopped.

It was too dark to see whether the Russian with the crazy blue eyes was inside it, but he supposed he was.

And now it was stopping and Terrance had to decide: did he shoot?

Which was when he felt the twine around his neck yanking him back, his feet almost coming out from under him. He swung the rifle over his head toward whoever was choking him, but he missed, and so he dropped the gun and tried to wedge his fingers under the cord, but he couldn’t breathe and it hurt like hell, and he was failing. The idea crossed his mind: This is where it ends. This is how I die. But he got a single finger under the twine, then two, and he was able to inhale just enough oxygen that he could use his legs to push his whole body as hard as he could into his attacker, and it worked. He sent them both careening into the Land Rover and then onto the ground, the guy’s head banging hard into the earth, and when he looked around he saw that it was, as he expected, Glenn. Or whatever his name was.

And Terrance might have won. He might have been able to land a punch or a kick or get a finger into the Russian’s eye, despite the way he was coughing.

But there was David—David, for fuck’s sake!—grabbing one of his arms and tugging him away from his attacker.

“It’s over, Terrance, stop!” he was yelling, “Let it go, they’ll kill you!”

And then the men from the jeep were upon him—there were only two, after all—and the first of them took the butt of his pistol and slammed it into Terrance’s cheek so hard that he really did see stars, understanding for the first time in the midst of his pain and shock that seeing stars was neither hyperbole nor myth. His ears were ringing. He was on his hands and knees in the dust. He blinked, trying to clear his head and focus on something more than the twinkling lights, and when he could see again, he saw those blue eyes. Yes, their leader was back. The one he could tell was in charge.

“This isn’t a movie,” he told Terrance. He was towering above him. “You’re not making a film in Arizona or New Mexico. You’re in Africa. There are a thousand ways to die out here, including pissing me off. Again.”

It hurt to breathe. His throat. But at least he wasn’t having the wind choked out of him anymore.

“I’ll tie him up,” said the fellow who had returned with him.

“Tie them both up,” he said, and he picked up the rifle.

David looked crestfallen as the leader of the group approached him. The guy smiled cryptically when he was eye to eye with the gallerist. “Tie him up the way his father would. On his back. In the dark. Maybe take some cotton from the first-aid kit and stop up his ears so he can’t hear, either. Isn’t that what your father likes to do, David Hill? Isn’t that what your father’s people do?”

“I know nothing about what my father does. I—”

“MK-ULTRA. You have Ken Kesey’s friend in your gallery.”

“But—”

“We should tie you up, blindfold you, stop up your ears, and then drug you. Make your mind mush. LSD, right?”

Terrance tried to make sense of it all, but the idea that David Hill’s father had something to do with LSD was too wild to believe.

“I’m torn,” the Russian went on. “I’m supposed to send you to Moscow. Let the KGB interrogate you at the Lubyanka. I’m sure your father has told you about the prison. Maybe it was an inspiration for him. Possible, yes? But a part of me just wants to finish this here. I’m curious: did your father kill Frank Olson?”

“Frank Olson threw himself out a window.”

He nodded slowly.

“Did your father dose him with LSD?”

“No.”

“And you know this for a fact?”

“I just know my father.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, David Hill.” He punched him hard enough in the stomach to double him over. “You know enough. Maybe if I shoot a kneecap your knowledge will improve.” He reached for his pistol and had gotten as far as unlatching the safety when David caught his breath and began to speak.