phone in Nairobi.
“Why?”
“Well, it’s the oddest thing. I’m being followed. Someone thinks that what I’m doing here is awfully important, I guess. I’ll explain when I see you.”
“You’re intriguing me, mate.”
“See you at seven.”
“Right.”
FIFTEEN
Monday, September 21
JON MALLORY STEPPED OUT into the still-cool Nairobi morning shortly after 8:30. Merchants were lifting gates, sliding out carts, opening storefronts, displaying fruits and vegetables; boys stood on street corners already, selling cell phone cards and bottled water. Jon bought a copy of
The Standard
and a cup of coffee at a small grocery shop. He chatted with the proprietor about the weather and the local economy. Could be better, in both cases, but not bad. He walked into the park, found an open bench and sat, sipping his coffee, reading the news: local squabbles; rumors the Grand Regency Hotel had been sold to Libyan investors; internal dissent in Parliament.
After several minutes, he looked up and noticed the Renault driving past.
He waited in the park until after 9, when most of the businesses in Nairobi opened. Several blocks from the Norfolk, he went to a clothing store that sold “safari” clothes and souvenirs for tourists. Jon bought a bright yellow hooded sweatshirt with an image of a lion on it, two sizes too large, and an oversized safari hat.
For the next several hours, he traveled the city like a tourist, wearing the new sweatshirt and hat. He took a
matatu
to the Blixen Museum, an old stone farmhouse where Danish author Karen Blixen had lived from 1917 to 1931. Jon lingered on the terrace, looking out at the Ngong Hills, and thinking for some reason about Melanie Cross’s liquid blue eyes. He bought several books about Blixen in the gift shop, a few postcards and two pens, thinking he would give them to Melanie. He took a bus from there to the Railway Museum, where he looked at the old steam locomotives and ship models and the carriage supposedly used in 1900 to hunt the Maneater of Kima—the legendary “man-eating” lion. He lunched at the Nairobi Java House on Ndemi Road and afterward visited the Nairobi National Museum.
Everywhere Jon Mallory went, the Renault seemed to be following at a not-very-discreet distance. A subcontractor, clearly, performing cut-rate surveillance. But why?
It was after 6 when he returned to the hotel. He walked back up to his room, took off the sweatshirt and safari hat. He emptied the large shopping bag from the Blixen Museum and stuffed the sweatshirt and hat in it. Then he opened a beer and closed his eyes for several minutes, focusing his thoughts. Garden Road was about a mile from the Norfolk. It would take him maybe fifteen minutes to reach it.
SAM SULLIVAN WAS sitting at a table adjacent to the gardens of the inner courtyard, wearing a back-to-front ball cap and a wrinkled white T-shirt showing the name of his business, Occidental Safari. He was looking at the newspaper sports page as porters wearing tails and top hats hurried past.
“Sam?”
“Jon.”
Sullivan stood, the paper fell to the floor. He was about Jon’s height, maybe an inch shorter. And, despite his generous appetites, still skinny.
“Here, have a seat, old friend,” Sullivan said, although his expression still didn’t seem to register recognition. His face creased into dozens of lines as he smiled, making him seem to age twenty years. “I ordered you a lager.”
“All right, good.” Three bottles of Tusker lager were on the table, one empty, another half full. “Sorry if I’m a couple of minutes late.”
“Not at all. Have a seat, mate.”
Sam leaned over to pick up the newspaper; he seemed to straighten up with great effort, as if his back hurt.
“So how have you been? How’s business?”
“Never been better.” Creases rippled his face. “Turning people away. Tourism’s coming back like gangbusters.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“You bet. Cheers,” he said, raising his
“Why?”
“Well, it’s the oddest thing. I’m being followed. Someone thinks that what I’m doing here is awfully important, I guess. I’ll explain when I see you.”
“You’re intriguing me, mate.”
“See you at seven.”
“Right.”
FIFTEEN
Monday, September 21
JON MALLORY STEPPED OUT into the still-cool Nairobi morning shortly after 8:30. Merchants were lifting gates, sliding out carts, opening storefronts, displaying fruits and vegetables; boys stood on street corners already, selling cell phone cards and bottled water. Jon bought a copy of
The Standard
and a cup of coffee at a small grocery shop. He chatted with the proprietor about the weather and the local economy. Could be better, in both cases, but not bad. He walked into the park, found an open bench and sat, sipping his coffee, reading the news: local squabbles; rumors the Grand Regency Hotel had been sold to Libyan investors; internal dissent in Parliament.
After several minutes, he looked up and noticed the Renault driving past.
He waited in the park until after 9, when most of the businesses in Nairobi opened. Several blocks from the Norfolk, he went to a clothing store that sold “safari” clothes and souvenirs for tourists. Jon bought a bright yellow hooded sweatshirt with an image of a lion on it, two sizes too large, and an oversized safari hat.
For the next several hours, he traveled the city like a tourist, wearing the new sweatshirt and hat. He took a
matatu
to the Blixen Museum, an old stone farmhouse where Danish author Karen Blixen had lived from 1917 to 1931. Jon lingered on the terrace, looking out at the Ngong Hills, and thinking for some reason about Melanie Cross’s liquid blue eyes. He bought several books about Blixen in the gift shop, a few postcards and two pens, thinking he would give them to Melanie. He took a bus from there to the Railway Museum, where he looked at the old steam locomotives and ship models and the carriage supposedly used in 1900 to hunt the Maneater of Kima—the legendary “man-eating” lion. He lunched at the Nairobi Java House on Ndemi Road and afterward visited the Nairobi National Museum.
Everywhere Jon Mallory went, the Renault seemed to be following at a not-very-discreet distance. A subcontractor, clearly, performing cut-rate surveillance. But why?
It was after 6 when he returned to the hotel. He walked back up to his room, took off the sweatshirt and safari hat. He emptied the large shopping bag from the Blixen Museum and stuffed the sweatshirt and hat in it. Then he opened a beer and closed his eyes for several minutes, focusing his thoughts. Garden Road was about a mile from the Norfolk. It would take him maybe fifteen minutes to reach it.
SAM SULLIVAN WAS sitting at a table adjacent to the gardens of the inner courtyard, wearing a back-to-front ball cap and a wrinkled white T-shirt showing the name of his business, Occidental Safari. He was looking at the newspaper sports page as porters wearing tails and top hats hurried past.
“Sam?”
“Jon.”
Sullivan stood, the paper fell to the floor. He was about Jon’s height, maybe an inch shorter. And, despite his generous appetites, still skinny.
“Here, have a seat, old friend,” Sullivan said, although his expression still didn’t seem to register recognition. His face creased into dozens of lines as he smiled, making him seem to age twenty years. “I ordered you a lager.”
“All right, good.” Three bottles of Tusker lager were on the table, one empty, another half full. “Sorry if I’m a couple of minutes late.”
“Not at all. Have a seat, mate.”
Sam leaned over to pick up the newspaper; he seemed to straighten up with great effort, as if his back hurt.
“So how have you been? How’s business?”
“Never been better.” Creases rippled his face. “Turning people away. Tourism’s coming back like gangbusters.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“You bet. Cheers,” he said, raising his
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