“Mallory.”
He seemed uncertain who Mallory was, but they talked for several minutes anyway, Jon describing a long-ago evening of nickel poker and Tusker lagers in a colleague’s living room, arguing about the World Cup and George W. Bush. And another night at Kengele’s Club, where Sullivan had danced with a woman who must’ve been seven inches taller than he was. Once he was fairly sure Sam remembered him, Jon offered to buy him dinner. “I’ve got a proposition for you. A chance to earn some money,” he said, recalling Sam’s weakness for the quick payoff. “Can you meet me at the Norfolk Hotel tomorrow, say at seven? Hibiscus Lounge?”
“May be busy at seven, mate. What’s it about?”
“I can’t really say over the phone. Good money in it, though, for very little work.”
“How much is good?”
“Mmm. A few hundred dollars? Less than an hour’s work. Can’t really talk about it now, though. Can you meet me?”
“Well, I could. If I wanted to, I suppose I could.” He cleared his throat and then coughed violently. “Forget dinner, though. Let’s just have a drink, cut to the chase.”
“All right. And could you keep the appointment just between us?”
“Pardon me?”
Jon said it again. He had taken a chance using the phone, he knew, but there was no other way to do this. If they had intercepted his call to Honi, they could probably intercept the calls from his room. But they wouldn’t have traces on every 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
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 bottle. Jon smiled cordially. Last time they had met, Sam had been in the midst of a divorce and was having cash-flow troubles. He’d quit journalism to become partner in a safari hotel west of Nairobi, but he sold his stake during the divorce—staying on, he said, as the “resident manager.” There was something a little sad about Sam Sullivan, as if he were always swimming against the current, forcing a level of enthusiasm.
“In fact, we had a couple the other week from the States,” he said. “Very famous couple, evidently. Oh, I can’t think of her name.”
Mallory waited.
“Anyway, it’s been—what, five years? Four and a half?”
“Three. Nearly three.” Both men drank their beers.
“I’ve wondered about you, from time to time,” Jon said. “How you were making out. If you were still here.”
“Where else would I be?”
“Well. Nairobi hasn’t been the most hospitable place, I guess. Has it? Particularly since the elections. Still a little corruption, too, I see.” He nodded at the newspaper.
“Not much. I really don’t follow the news anymore. Don’t have time.” Sam set his beer on the table. He was grinning at something.
“What?”
“You know how Tusker got its name?”
“Tusker?”
“The beer you’re drinking. Know how it got its name?”
“I think I may have heard this—but, no, I can’t remember.”
“British chap named Hurst,” he said, keeping his eyes on Jon’s. “George Hurst. Owned a brewery here in the capital with his brother. Back in the 1920s. One day, he was hunting out in the Valley—not far from where my lodge is, actually. And the poor fellow was mauled by an elephant. Tusk went right through him. Gored him through the belly. The other brother decided he would name the beer after him. Not Hurst, mind you, the elephant.” Sam exploded in a loud, surprising laugh and reached for his bottle. “Absolutely true story, my friend.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“So anyhow.” He set his lager down, keeping a hand on it. “What’s all this about being followed?”
“I don’t know. It’s what I’m trying to figure out. I think someone’s been tailing me since I came here.”
“And you’re here for—what? Writing some sort of travel story?”