“Ah,” Fáton said. “And what am I to take from this lesson in Gabonese civics? Other than further evidence that your prating assertions of influence meant nothing. That you failed me.”
Begela shook his head in denial.
“It may be true we cannot keep the Americans out of this city at present,” he said. “Their future is anything but inevitable, however. Port-Gentil is many kilometers from Libreville. And I have recourse to ways of making their time here most unpleasant.”
Fáton traced a finger around the brim of the panama hat on his lap.
“If by that you mean your pathetic assortment of greased gendarmes, technicals, and militiamen, then you are once again exaggerating your reach,” he said.
Begela continued shaking his head, his hands on the arms of his chair. “With utmost respect, I think I know something about my own people—”
“Perhaps so, Etienne. But you know nothing of the enemy’s strength,” Fáton said. “I cannot afford another fumble… which brings me to the reason for this call.” He paused, his eyes on Begela’s. “I’ve picked up a gift. A piece of history that I hope will benefit you. Help you avoid similar misjudgments from this point onward.”
Fáton reached into an inner jacket pocket for the plastic bag he’d brought from the fetish market, removed what was inside, and leaned forward to set it down on the desk.
The minister’s high, curved eyebrows became more pronouncedly elevated. A bleached white color, the object was a smooth, not quite flat disk perhaps four inches in circumference.
“What is this?” he said, drawing back with an involuntary start.
Fáton kept his gaze on the minister.
“Come now,” he said. “I shouldn’t have to tell a man of your erudition and deep cultural roots.”
Begela shuddered a little. He was taking in quick snatches of air, as though short of breath.
“C’est un rondelle,” he said.
“There you go,” Fáton said. “My source assures me it was taken from the skull of a Gusii chieftain. I cannot offer independent verification, but that’s of trivial consequence with something of this rarity. As you can see, it is close to a perfect circle. I also think it worth appreciating the even, regular scrape marks around its edges, where the cranial hole was made. All in all, a beautiful specimen. One that would have required an expert bit of filing and scraping with the omobari’s knife.”
Begela stared at the object, his hands still gripping the arms of his chair.
“Why?” he said. “Why do you come here with such a thing—?”
“I shall not repeat myself,” Fáton said. “Surely you know that a patient would be trephined to rid him of demons believed to have lodged within his skull. Similar practices were used in medieval France when surgeons looked to remove pierres de tête—stones of madness — from the brains of idiots and the delusionally insane.” A thin smile touched his mouth. “I don’t know if any were ever found, Etienne. But your people are enamored of French tradition, yes?”
The minister sat in silence. Beads of sweat had gathered in the depression above his upper lip.
“Take it,” Fáton said. “Carry it as a talisman around your neck, or in a pocket over your heart. How you wear it is not my concern… just so long as it stays on your person.” He continued to smile faintly. “May it guard your head against poisonous thoughts, and serve as a reminder of what can happen to a man who succumbs to them.”
Begela looked at him. Then he slowly lifted a hand off his chair, reached toward the desk, and closed his fingers around the rondelle.
“What should I do next?” he said in a dry rasp. “About the Americans…”
“You needn’t do anything for the moment — but I appreciate the fact that you’ve asked. It already signifies a new mental clarity.” Fáton rose and put on his hat. “Between us, I’ve planned an intense study of the enemy that should determine our tactics against him in coming days. Find what he treasures most, and you’ve identified his greatest vulnerability. Take it from him, and you hold the key to his defeat and destruction. It is a simple doctrine that can prove complicated in execution… but a game without challenge is hardly worth playing, don’t you agree?”
The minister had lowered his eyes onto the back of his own clenched, trembling hand.
“Quite so,” he said.
Fáton stood before the minister’s desk, his smile growing until it showed a row of small, even teeth.
“I’m glad we agree,” he said in an indulgent tone. “It seems to me we’ve made progress here today. And progress, Etienne, is always a delightful lift.”
The adoption center was at the end of a long dirt and gravel drive that led off the coiling two-lane blacktop between Pescadero Creek County Park and Portola State Park, a short fork in the road to the southwest. Julia Gordian considered herself fairly adept at following directions, but because the sign marking the drive was obscured by a thick outgrowth of oak and fir, she had missed it at first and had driven twenty minutes past her destination to the Pescadero Creek Park entrance. There a helpful ranger at the admissions gate had steered her back around, advising her to stay on the lookout for a PG&E roadside utility station about an eighth of a mile before the unpaved turnoff.
The utility station was nothing more than a green metal shed with a concrete apron that almost blended into the woods to the right, and Julia spotted it only at the last instant. But soon afterward she’d seen the sign with the wood-burned depiction of a greyhound on a rustic post amid the trees. She had swung her brand new Honda Passport onto the mostly uphill drive, muttering a stream of obscenities at the pebbles spitting up from under the vehicle’s tires to pop and rattle against its windows, and sparing some choice words for the jutting branches on either side as they raked across its shiny silver finish.
Julia drove slowly along. She had just strung together a phrase pairing synonyms for the excretory functions of various farm animals and a particularly objectionable sex act between human family members, when two buildings came into sight ahead of her — a small frame house with a neat lawn to her left and a flat-roofed prefabricated aluminum structure some yards beyond it. There were five greyhounds cavorting in a large pen behind the house. Two of them were fawn colored, two were roans, and the odd dog out was a tawny brindle. It hardly surprised Julia that none of the greyhounds were gray.
She rolled the Passport into a dusty, weed-smattered parking area by the prefab, cut the engine, grabbed her handbag off the passenger seat, strapped it over her shoulder, and got out. The plain metal sign above the building’s open door read:
PENINSULA GREYHOUND RESCUE AND ADOPTION CENTER
As she started toward the building, a man in blue jeans, a plaid work shirt, and a baseball cap with a well broken-in bill appeared in its entrance, and then came down the two wide front doorsteps to greet her.
“Julia Gordian?” he said.
She nodded. “And you must be—”
“Rob Howell, pleasure to meet you,” he said, smiling an instantly likeable smile. A lank six footer with a dark scruff of beard, he held a cell phone in his right hand, offered her the other. A pair of heavy rubber gloves was stuffed into his back pocket. “Today’s my day to clean the exercise area out back. Cynthia… that’s my wife… saw you drive up and called to let me know. I’ll introduce you later, when she’s through feeding our six-month-old.”