The covey disappeared, almost as quickly as it had risen. Holt watched them put down mid-meadow, happy that they were still naive enough to allow a second jump. By noon, he knew, they'd be skittish, and in one week so spooked you'd have to get them the first time because there would be no second. That was when the hunting was a true challenge.
To his left, Titisi cursed and examined a handful of shells as if they were responsible for the fact that he had missed. Randell found his bird on the outskirts of a cactus patch. Lewis and Clark managed to come up with Valerie's first quail, but proceeded to fight over it, which brought Valerie bounding forth to land a boot squarely on the butt of each dog. Lane Fargo just stood there and watched, having already collected his kill. Sally, methodical as always, followed Holt's hand signals and easily found all four of his other quail. Holt picked up each one as she dropped it on his boots, felt their warmth and heft, admired the handsome plumage of the cocks and the more subtle beauty of the hens, then slipped them one at a time into the game pouch on his vest. Five birds in the first jump, he thought: it's going to be a good day.
After Holt pocketed his last bird he reached down and gave Sally a hearty "attagirl," rubbing behind her ears with his hand. She sat and looked up at him, her little stump of tail vibrating in the dirt. Before he even straightened, Sally was off again, nose down, zigging and zagging her way thirty yards ahead of him- never more-looking back every few seconds to make sure her master was paying attention. Holt shot a single that had stayed behind only to burst into the air almost at his feet. Lane Fargo did likewise, out to Holt's far left. Randell and Titisi unloaded on a pair of stragglers, hitting nothing but air. Lewis and Clark started to sprint after the flying birds, but responded nicely when Valerie called them back with her whistle. Tough to call a young dog off a bird, Holt thought, that's why a good shooter makes a good trainer. With pride he watched Valerie praise her dogs as they returned; she slipped a little something to each of them from her pocket. Holt never used food reinforcement for his dogs, but Valerie always did, and her results, he thought, were superb. He looked out to the rising sun, and breathed deeply the fine clean air of the desert. The birds in his vest were warm and heavy against his back. Sally, he thought, is probably the best dog I've ever had. Fleetingly, he remembered Patrick-how beautiful he was out here with his own dog, how gentle he was with her, and how he didn't really care if he shot ten birds or none. But he let Patrick's image flutter on past, like a quail, going out of sight. Sometimes, he reminded himself, you have to remember to forget.
By 9:30, Holt had his limit of ten quail. Valerie had nine an Lane Fargo had thirteen. They all hunted until almost eleven, giving Titisi and Randell a chance to knock a few down-which they did.
By 11:30 they had cleaned the birds, put them on ice, and loaded into the two Land Rovers for the drive into town. Holt was hungry now, and he could almost smell those burgers on the grill. Best in the desert, he thought.
"My treat at Olie's," he said, happy for the moment, glad to be thinking about nothing but birds and burgers and Valerie who sat in the passenger seat beside him, holding his hand on her lap.
CHAPTER 14
Olie's is dark and cool and quiet when they walk in from the parking lot. It is a few minutes after noon and the last of the lunch rush-a young couple with a two-year old-comes through the swinging saloon door while Titisi holds it open. They young mother thanks him, but looks at him askance.
Holt takes a look at the long, picnic-style table near the jukebox, the same one he's used for the last thirty years. He is the kind of man who likes to do things the same way, time and time again, if that way works. But as he looks at the table-certainly no different than it was a year ago-a little voice begins to stir inside him. Vann Holt is also a man who listens to his voices. The voice says nothing, just a little infant-like whine, a protest or complaint of some minor nature.
"Let's sit over there," he says, motioning to a table on the other side of the room. "That looks good."
"We always sit here, Dad."
"Now we're sitting there, Valerie."
So they sit there. Holt takes a seat with his back to the wall, which is festooned with an ancient promotional beer sign that features an ersatz running waterfall with bears playing in it. Valerie sits to his left, and Lane Fargo to his right. Across from them are Titisi and Randell, and Holt is pleased to see they are now talking about the security consultants Titisi wants to employ in Kampala.
"Number of ways to go about it," says Randell, nodding.
"Competent, responsible men," says the Ugandan, somewhat obligingly, as he looks at Holt, then back to Randell. "The kind of men who can organize, train, lead. Men like you."
Holt hands out the plastic-covered menus, feigning disinterest in the business. Consultants, he thinks: young armed men willing to take risks for money, willing to kill for it. Mercenarie or the trainers of mercenaries-what was the difference?
Of course, Randell knows this, and Titisi knows he know it, but there is a certain latitude regarding definitions that must be offered at this stage. It is a courtesy. There is always the chance-very remote here, but possible just the same-that Titisi has been spun by the Federals, and his real mission is to offer Liberty Operations an opportunity to hang itself. Holt has had those opportunities before, and he is expert at keeping his company on the legitimate side of international law as it applies to security, investigations and military consultation. But gray areas do exist. Holt knows he can smell a rat from about ten miles away, though Titisi has thus far emitted a reassuring air of greed and menace, good indicators of honest intentions and trustworthiness. It always amazes Holt how cruel governments can be to their own people, in the name of helping them. On the other hand, Holt knows that Titisi can be thinking the same thing: that Vann Holt, ex-Federal, may have finally been manipulated into blowing the whistle on certain clients. It is little comfort to Titisi that he and his nation are the smallest of potatoes. At this stage, the Holy Trinity is vagueness, optimism, courtesy.
The burgers arrive and are great. Valerie, who does not like red meat, gets a grilled fish sandwich and a big salad loaded with thousand island. Lunch goes along perfectly.
Until, from outside, comes the rumble of motorcycle engines, the deep, throaty, unmistakable rasp of America's fine; the Harley-Davidson. Dust rises up in the sunlight beyond the swinging doors. The engines are gunned, then killed. To Holt it sounds like a half-dozen of them. When the doors blast open and the boots hit the wooden floor and the men barge into the quiet of Olie's Saloon, Holt sees that he is off by two. There are four men, two of them large, one skinny and tall, one simply gigantic. These are not the kind of people Vann Holt prefers as lunch guests. He looks briefly at them, then turns to his daughter and asks about Lewis and Clark.