Assassin (8 page)

“Most excellent,” said bin Wazir, unfastening his harness and squeezing past the pilot towards the rear of the chopper. “Get ready to start shooting, Tippu,” he said. Picking up a Russian submachine gun, he began cackling at his own terrible joke.

He slid open the starboard side door, hooked himself into the canvas harness, and sat down in the opening with the machine gun across his lap. The two other choppers appeared; they flew in a wide formation, three abreast, hard on the heels of the now stampeding herd of elephants.

Snay opened fire, shooting over the heads of the elephants. Two of his most trusted poachers, sitting in the open bays of the other two helicopters, starting firing as well. To Snay’s delight, the combination of the roaring choppers and the rounds flying over their heads, enabled Snay to direct the herd in any direction he wished.

“
Eh bien,
François, let’s take them due south!”

The two other pilots heard him and now all three choppers banked hard right, staying just behind the thundering herd. A huge smile broke across Snay’s features. The herd had turned south.

“Did I not tell you this was genius, Tippu Tip? Look at them! I could take them to Paris if I wished! Right up the Champs-Elysées!”

“Where you take them, Sultan?”

“You shall see, Tippu! Be patient and you shall see!” Snay was cackling like a
mafisi,
a wild hyena.

The first explosion occurred four minutes later. A female elephant, the matriarch of the herd, had been in the lead and had been first to enter the minefield. Three of her legs were instantly blown off. She went down in a heap. Explosions were coming rapidly now, as three hundred panicked elephants entered the huge minefield. It was a feast of blood, fountains of the stuff, red jets everywhere you looked. It was just the way Snay had imagined it, and his heart sang with the joy of the truly fulfilled.

“François!” he cried. “Right here! Hover over that big bull…I’m going down!” Snay stuck his foot in a wire harness and grabbed the handhold mounted in the open bay.

“But the mines, zey—”

“Do it!”

The chopper leveled off and hovered perhaps twenty feet above the dying elephant. Snay pressed a button that would allow him to descend rapidly. He had his razor-sharp machete in his hand now, and when he got low enough to the bull’s head, he slashed the face off. First the right side, then the left. The elephant, like those around him, was still alive. He bellowed in pain as Snay ripped the tusks from his bloody head. There was a small calf lying legless next to the bull, and bin Wazir, in a mad fit of kindness, used one of his .357 magnum six-shooters to put the useless baby animal out of its misery.

Tippu, looking through the lens of his video camera at the scene beneath him, stared in open-mouthed amazement. There were exploding elephants in all directions, as far as you could see. A fine red mist had risen up from the plain. And then there was the Sultan, swinging wildly about at the end of his tether. Tippu couldn’t hear him, with the roar of the rotors and the turbocharged engines. But he could see enough of the blood-soaked bin Wazir to know that he was laughing hysterically as he chopped and slashed.

This white man, he is part hyena, Tippu decided in that moment. Half man, half wild dog. A snarling creature who would devour the whole world if he could, eating everything, crushing bones and stones with his teeth, not spitting out a thing.

Snay bin Wazir seemed to have a penchant for collecting nick-names and soubriquets to go with the name he was making for himself in the world. In Africa, he was called the Sultan. Later, in London, he would style himself Pasha. But the name Tippu Tip would give him that day, the day of the first great elephant massacre, would remain with Snay bin Wazir for the balance of his life.

Tippu Tip called him the
Mafisi.

The world would come to know him as the
Dog.

D
EIRDRE
S
LADE GLANCED OUT HER UPSTAIRS BEDROOM
window at the sound of an approaching motor. It was too foggy to see anything, even with the floodlights on the rocks and one out at the end of the dock. But she knew by the distinctive putt-putt of the motor that it was Amos McCullough’s ancient lobster boat. Nice of him to bring his granddaughter over on a pea-souper night like this. He may not have all his marbles, Deirdre thought, but by God, Amos McCullough still had his good old-fashioned Yankee manners.

She looked at her small diamond evening watch and rushed back into her dressing room, her cheeks expelling a little puff of air. Almost seven. She was going to be late if she didn’t get off island by seven-thirty or so. Invitation had said eight sharp and it was a good twenty minutes in the Whaler over to the Dark Harbor Yacht Club docks. Night like this, with the fog really socked in, it could easily take her half an hour.

The Old Guard still took invitations seriously up in this part of Maine. Show up a little late, or a little stewed, or, worse yet, not at all, and you are definitely going to be Topic A at the Beach Club next morning. Deirdre had, over the years, been guilty of all three transgressions.

Thank God Amos had made sure his granddaughter Millie, the babysitter, was on time. Charlie and Laura, five and six, had had their macaroni and cheese dinner and were already bathed and in their Harry Potter jammies. She and her two children had been having a ball here on Pine Island, the three sole inhabitants of the big old house up on the rocks her parents had bought in the fifties. It was the house she’d grown up in and she adored every musty nook and cranny.

Deirdre added a little gloss to her lipstick and stepped back to look at herself in the full-length mirror. Black Chanel dress. White pearls. Black satin Manolo Blahnik heels. Pretty good for an aging babe, she thought, fooling around with her shoulder-length blonde hair. Certainly good enough for the Maine Historical Society dinner at the Dark Harbor Yacht Club.

She took a quick sip of the glass of grocery store Chardonnay sitting on the mirrored top of her dressing table.

God, she hated these things. Especially when she had to go without her husband. Still, it was fun to bring the kids back to Maine for a couple of weeks. It was spring break at their school in Madrid. Evan was of course supposed to be here. But, at the last minute, his job had gotten in the way. He had promised to join them if he could duck out of some urgent Mideast talks in Bahrain a few days early. She wasn’t holding her breath. These were tough times for diplomats, and Evan took his job very seriously. He’d plainly been on edge on the phone tonight. Something was bothering him.

Something was going on in sunny Madrid.

He wouldn’t, or more than likely,
couldn’t
talk about it. What had he said to her when they’d said good-bye in the lounge at the Madrid Barajas airport?
Keep your eyes open, darling. It’s going to get much worse before it gets better.
She waited for more, but she could see in his eyes it wasn’t coming. Over the years, she’d learned not to ask. They had a good marriage. If there was something that needed saying, and it was something that could be said, it got said.

She’d replaced the receiver and sat on her bedside, staring out into the swirling fog beyond the bedroom windows.
Keep him safe,
she whispered, on the off chance that there really was somebody up there listening.
You keep him safe.

“Hiya, Amos,” Deirdre said descending the stairway. All she could see at first were his yellow rubber boots and the legs of the foul-weather gear, but she’d know that stance anywhere. The wide-apart stance of an old man who’d spent years on the slippery wet deck of a wildly pitching lobster boat.

“And, hello, Millicent,” Deirdre started to say. “It’s awfully nice of you to—”

It wasn’t Millicent.

“Hi,” the girl said, coming towards her with her hand outstretched. She had some flowers rolled up in newspaper. “You’re Mrs. Slade. I’m Siri. A good friend of Millie’s at school. Here, these are for you.”

Deirdre took the flowers, then her hand, and shook it.

“Thank you, these are lovely. Iris. Truly one of my favorite flowers. Sorry, I didn’t catch your last name?”

“It’s Adjelis. Siri Adjelis. Millie couldn’t make it. She was so sick at her stomach and she was so upset, and, like, you know, worried about canceling at the last minute and everything. So, I was like, hey, why not, I could use the money. I hope it’s okay.”

“She normally calls if there’s a problem,” Deirdre said, now looking at Amos. “Is Millie all right, Amos?”

“Oh, she tried,” Siri said, interrupting. “Sorry, Mrs. Slade, but your line was tied up and then it was time for me and Mr. McCullough to get in the boat and head over here to the island or we’d be late.”

“Very kind of you to help out, Siri,” Deirdre said. “Funny. I’ve never heard Millie mention your name. Have you lived in Dark Harbor long?”

“No, not really, Mrs. Slade. My family just moved up here from New York six months ago. But Millie and I have homeroom together and we just, like, you know, bonded or whatever. We were like instant soul mates. You know?”

Deirdre was looking at Amos, who held his dripping sou’wester in his hands, turning it round and round by the brim, looking cold and soggy in his old blue flannel shirt and yellow foul-weather overalls.

“Amos, you look chilled to the bone. Come out in the kitchen and let me pour you an inside-outer. An old-fashioned stomach-warmer. Siri, the children are upstairs in the playroom. They’ve already had dinner and bathed. They’re allowed story time for exactly one hour. Not a minute longer. I’m halfway through
Black Beauty
and they love it. It’s on top of the dresser. Can I bring you up something, Siri? Water? Diet Coke?”

“No, I’m fine, Mrs. Slade. I’ll just go up and introduce myself to the kids. Larry and Carla, right?”

“Charles and Laura.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Brain fade. My bad, totally. Millie told me Charlie and Laura. Is five dollars an hour too much?”

“I pay Millie four.”

“Four’s fine. I just didn’t know.”

“All right. You go on up and say hello. I’ll come up and say good-bye to the kids before I leave.”

“Amos,” Deirdre said in the kitchen, pouring the old man a tumbler full of Dewar’s. “How well do you know this girl?”

She poured a short one for herself even though she’d already had two glasses of chardonnay. The edginess in Evan’s voice on the phone had somehow been creeping around the corners of her mind ever since they’d hung up.

“Know her pretty well.”

“How?”

“How what, dear?”

“How? How do you know her?”

“Oh, you know. Over to the house all the time. Up in Millie’s room. Listenin’ to that damn M&M music.”

“Have you met her parents?”

“Yup.”

“Nice people?”

“Reckon so.”

“What does the father do?”

“Some kind of mechanic, I think.”

“Oh. Where?”

“Works on airplanes. Over to the airport.”

“And the mother?”

“Nurse over to General. Pediatrics.”

“Jesus. I’ll tell you something, this world is turning us all a little bit paranoid, Amos. I’m sure she’s perfectly nice if she’s a friend of your lovely granddaughter’s. Please tell Millie I understand and hope she’s feeling better in the morning. Well, salut. Bottoms up, you sweet old soul. I suppose I’d better shove off.”

“Thick as chowdah out there tonight Dee-Dee,” Amos said, draining his whiskey. “Woman alone out in that pea souper in that little toy Boston Whaler of yours. No instruments, a’ tall. Easy to lose your bearings in a fog bank that way. Yup. That’s what happened to that Kennedy boy a few summers ago, you may remembah, over to the Vineyard. Got himself into a fog bank. My opinion is that poor boy ran out of luck and experience at about the same time.”

“I’ve been making that crossing twice a day since I was six years old, Amos, and you know it. Follow your ears out to that old bell buoy and hang a right. Yacht Club docks dead ahead. I could do it blindfolded.”

She’d found Siri on the floor with the kids, reading
Black Beauty
aloud. The light from Laura’s spinning carousel lamp was causing shadowy horses to gallop around the room. “Mommy,” Laura had said with a big smile. “We like Siri! She’s funny! She doesn’t speak Spanish but she speaks another funny language.”

“I’m glad you like her, darling. That means you’ll listen to her when she says it’s night-night time, right?” She kissed them both good-bye and said to Siri, “I’ll be home by midnight. You know the rules, I’m sure. No smoking, no drinking, no boys. Okay?”

“Yes, Mrs. Slade,” Siri said smiling. “I know the rules. Would it be all right if I watch TV after they’re asleep?”

“We don’t own a TV, Siri. Sorry. You will find plenty of good books in the library downstairs.”

She’d found Amos still on the dock. He insisted she follow his boat over to the club. On his way home, anyway.

“Thanks, Amos,” she said, climbing down into the Whaler. “And tell Millie I hope she feels better soon.”

“Yup. Ain’t like her to come down with a bug. Girl has a cast-iron stomach. Always has. Never sick a day in her life that I can recall.”

“I should be home by midnight if you want to pick up the babysitter then, Amos.”

“Sure thing. See you then, dear girl.”

She followed the halo of the hazy white running light on Amos’s stern through the fog, around old Number Nine, clanging mournfully, and fifteen minutes later tied up at the club dock. Eight on the button. She shrugged off her foul-weather gear, shook the beaded moisture off the old yellow jacket, and threw it down across the boat’s thwart seat. Her hair was damp and matted, but what the hell. Wasn’t like this was some big embassy do where she had to—

“Deirdre, darling,” a bourbon-soaked male voice said, emerging from the fog. “Popped out for a quick puff and saw your yacht steaming in.”

“Oh, hello, Graham. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Well, Michelle’s just popped down to New York with the kids for some birthday shopping or something and I’m afraid they’ve stuck you next to me. Table nine. The two bachelors, as it were.”

“No, Graham, you’re the bachelor wannabe. I’m the happily married woman. Could you possibly find someone and order me a whiskey?”

“Certainly, my dear. Bit nippy out for early June, this.”

She had to smile. She loved Americans who’d lived in London for a few years and came home with the most agonizingly affected British accents. Next thing she knew, he’d be inviting her to “nip round to his flat for a capper.” He pulled the club’s front door open for her and she waded in, waiting for it, yes, here it came, “After you, luv.”

Graham was one of the club’s self-proclaimed Wharf Rats. Never took their boats out, would never dare venture out off the perilous rocky coast of Maine. No, they just sat there in their stern chairs and drank, their fancy radars spinning merrily away on the sunniest afternoons. He was insufferable, unctuous was the word, but easy on the eyes in his black tie, and she allowed herself to just float on the buzz of conversation, the bad hors d’oeuvres, the mindless chitchat about children and summer plans.

She’d heard it all a thousand times, the major themes, the minor variations, and, smiling and nodding at appropriate moments, she could get through one of these cocktail buffets in her sleep.

When they were finally seated, Graham was on her right. He kept refilling her wineglass, trying to get her tipsy, and after a while she tired of putting her hand over the top to stop him. The wine was a way to float over the thing, look down upon the actors on the stage, paying just enough attention to be ready for the cue for her next line.

Faye Gilchrist, two seats away on her left, was saying something about children being sent home from school that day. High fevers. Something about tainted flu shots.

“Faye, excuse me for interrupting,” Deirdre said. “What did you say about the children being sent home?”

“Well, Dee-Dee, it’s just the most horrendous thing, darling. Apparently they’ve all come down with horrific fevers and stomach cramps. One child went into convulsions and is apparently in critical condition.”

“Lord. What happened?” Deirdre asked. “Something bad in the cafeteria food at lunch?”

“Oh, no, my dear. It was in the morning. A nurse in the gym giving flu shots. When the children started getting violently ill, someone called the hospital. Apparently, well, from what I hear, this nurse wasn’t even on their records and—well, she’s been suspended pending investigation. Isn’t it awful? To think that our children—”

“Excuse me,” Deirdre said, knocking over a big goblet of red wine as she got to her feet. “Sorry, I’m not feeling well and I must rush off…sorry. You must excuse me…”

She somehow managed to navigate the crowded dining room and took the shortest route through the club towards the docks, through the kitchen, everyone back there smiling at her and saying good evening, Mrs. Slade. She reached the payphone in the pantry, pulled the door closed and opened her evening bag. No cell phones allowed in the club but she managed to find two quarters at the bottom of the bag and slammed them into the machine.