"Really? What happened?"
"Hunting accident," the administrator replied. "They were culling elephants, and Woking went along to observe. Shot in the back by mistake. Bloody balls-up."
"How regrettable," Pendergast said. "And the current camp concessionaire is named Fortnum, you say? When we were on safari here, it was Wisley. Gordon Wisley."
"He's still around," Rathe said. "Retired the year before last. They say he lives like a king on that hunting concession of his near Victoria Falls. Boys waiting on him hand and foot."
Pendergast turned to D'Agosta. "Vincent, do you recall the name of our gun bearer?"
D'Agosta, quite truthfully, said that he did not.
"Wait, I recall it now. Wilson Nyala. Any chance of our saying hello to him, Mr. Rathe?"
"Wilson died in the spring. Dengue fever." Rathe frowned. "Just a moment. Did you say gun bearer?"
"Pity." Pendergast shifted in his seat. "What about our tracker? Jason Mfuni."
"Never heard of him. But then, that kind of help comes and goes so quickly. Now, listen, what's all this about a gun bearer? We only handle photographic expeditions here at Kingazu."
"As I said--it was a memorablesafari." And hearing Pendergast say "memorable," D'Agosta felt a chill despite the heat.
Rathe did not reply. He was still frowning.
"Thank you for your hospitality." Pendergast rose, and D'Agosta did the same. "Wisley's hunting concession is near Victoria Falls, you say? Does it have a name?"
"Ulani Stream." Rathe stood as well. His initial suspicion seemed to have returned.
"Would you mind if we take a brief look around?"
"If you wish," Rathe replied. "Don't disturb the guests."
Outside the administration building, Pendergast stopped, glancing left and right, as if orienting himself. He hesitated briefly. And then, without a word, he struck out along a well-beaten path that led away from the camp. D'Agosta hurried to catch up.
The sun beat down mercilessly, and the drone of insects swelled. On one side of the footpath was a dense stand of brush and trees; on the other, the Luangwa River. D'Agosta felt the unfamiliar khaki shirt clinging damply to his back and shoulders. "Where are we going?" he panted.
"Into the long grass. Where..." He didn't finish the sentence.
D'Agosta swallowed. "Okay, sure. Lead the way."
Pendergast stopped suddenly and turned. An expression had come over his features D'Agosta had never seen before--a look of sorrow, regret, and almost unfathomable weariness. He cleared his throat, then spoke in a low tone. "I'm very sorry, Vincent, but this is something I must do alone."
D'Agosta took a deep breath, relieved. "I understand."
Pendergast turned, fixed him briefly with his pale eyes. He nodded once. Then he turned back and walked away, stiff-legged, determined, off the path and into the bush, vanishing almost immediately into the woven shade beneath the trees.
11
EVERYONE, IT SEEMED, KNEW WHERE THE WISLEY "farmstead" was. It lay at the end of a well-maintained dirt track on a gently sloping hill in the forests northwest of Victoria Falls. In fact--as Pendergast paused the decrepit vehicle just before the final bend in the road--D'Agosta thought he could hear the falls: a low, distant roar that was more sensation than sound.
He glanced at Pendergast. The drive from Kingazu Camp had taken hours, and in all that time the agent had spoken maybe half a dozen words. D'Agosta had wanted to ask what, if anything, he'd learned in his investigation in the long grass, but this was clearly not the time. When he was ready to talk about it, he would.
Pendergast eased the vehicle around the bend, and the house came into view: a lovely old colonial, painted white, with four squat columns and a wraparound porch. The formal lines were softened by beautifully tended shrubs: azalea, boxwood, bougainvillea. The entire plot--maybe five or six acres--appeared to have been cut wholesale out of the surrounding jungle. A lawn of emerald green swept down toward them, punctuated by at least half a dozen flower beds filled with roses of every imaginable shade. Except for the almost fluorescent brilliance of the flowers, the tidy estate wouldn't have looked out of place in Greenwich or Scarsdale. D'Agosta thought he saw figures on the porch, but from this distance he could not make them out.
"Looks like old Wisley has done all right for himself," he muttered.
Pendergast nodded, his pale eyes focused on the house.
"That guy, Rathe, mentioned Wisley's boys," D'Agosta went on. "What about the wife? You suppose he's divorced?"
Pendergast gave a wintry smile. "I believe we'll find Rathe meant something else entirely."
He drove slowly up the path to a turnaround in front of the house, where he stopped the vehicle and killed the engine. D'Agosta glanced up at the porch. A heavyset man about sixty years old was seated in an immense wicker chair, his feet propped up on a wooden stool. He wore a white linen suit that made his fleshy face look even more florid than it was. A thin circle of red hair, like a monk's tonsure, crowned his head. The man took a sip of a tall icy drink, then set the glass down hard on a table, next to a half-full pitcher of the same beverage. His movements had the flaccid generosity of a drunk's. Standing on either side of him were middle-aged Africans, gaunt looking, in faded madras shirts. One had a bar towel draped over his forearm; the other held a fan attached to a long handle, which he was waving slowly over the wicker chair.
"That's Wisley?" D'Agosta asked.
Pendergast nodded slowly. "He has not aged well."
"And the other two--those are his 'boys'?"
Pendergast nodded again. "It would seem this place has yet to enter the twentieth century--let alone the twenty-first."
And then--slowly, with great deliberation--he eased out of the vehicle, turned to face the house, and raised himself to his full height.
On the porch, Wisley blinked once, twice. He glanced from D'Agosta to Pendergast, opening his mouth to speak. But his expression froze as he stared at the FBI agent. Blankness gave way to horrified recognition. With a curse, the man abruptly struggled out of the chair and rose to his feet, knocking over the glassware in the process. Grabbing an elephant gun that had been propped against the wooden siding, he pulled open a screen door and lurched into the house.
"Can't get much guiltier than that," D'Agosta said. "I don't--oh, shit."
The two attendants had dropped out of sight below the porch railing. A gunshot boomed from the porch and a spout of dirt erupted behind them.
They threw themselves behind the car. "What the fuck?" D'Agosta said, scrambling to pull his Glock.
"Stay put and down." Pendergast leapt up and ran.
"Hey!"
Another report, and a bullet smacked the side of the jeep with a whang!sending up a cloud of shredded upholstery stuffing. D'Agosta peered around the tire up at the house, gun in hand. Where the hell had Pendergast gone?
He ducked back and winced as he heard a third shot ricochet off the steel frame of the jeep. Christ, he couldn't just sit here like a target at a shooting gallery. He waited until a fourth shot sailed over his head, then raised his head above the vehicle's fender, aiming his weapon as the shooter ducked behind the railing. He was about to pull the trigger when he saw Pendergast emerge from the shrubbery below the porch. With remarkable speed he vaulted the railing, felled the African shooter with a savage chop to the neck, and pointed his .45 at the other attendant. The man slowly raised his hands.