“So what are you doing here, Em?”
“I told you I’d come when it was safe. I did some checking and found out you were traveling to London to attend this conference. It seemed like the right time.”
“What about the guys at the hotel who were supposed to be keeping an eye on me?”
Emma shrugged. “Occupational hazard. I decided you were worth the risk.”
Jonathan smiled. He suspected that there was something more, some reason that she was in London other than to see him. Emma gave her emotions short shrift. But he was too caught up in the moment to give it more than a passing thought. “I’m glad you came,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see you again.”
“How are things at the camp?”
“Not bad, all things considered. We’re short a few pair of hands, but we have adequate supplies for once. That’s saying something.”
“Enough antibiotics?”
“The Red Cross airlifts a pallet of meds to us once a month. We’ve got enough to keep malaria and dengue down. Something crazy happened last week. I’ve got to tell you about it. A girl was playing down at the river and a croc got hold of her arm. Took it off below the elbow. The father was watching. He got so upset, he wrestled the croc out of the water and killed it. It was a monster, twelve feet at least. Anyway, he cut open that croc, and there was his daughter’s arm, intact, with barely a scratch. We were able to get the girl on the table less than an hour after the accident and reattach her arm. If we can stave off infection, I’m thinking she just might regain some use of her fingers.”
“You and those hands,” said Emma. “Magic.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your hands. You’re gifted. You’re the best surgeon I’ve ever met.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“I would. And I know from firsthand experience.” Emma took his right hand and spread the fingers one by one, kissing each playfully, and then not so playfully. “And not just on the operating table,” she whispered, stepping closer to him, so that their bodies pressed against each other and Jonathan could smell her scent. “As I recall, these hands are rather gifted in another department as well.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but they’re out of practice.”
“Hmm? Are they? We’ll have to see, now, won’t we?” She untucked his shirt and ran her own hands across his chest. Her hands changed direction, and Jonathan closed his eyes. “Doesn’t take you long, does it, mister?” she said. “Christ, I’d almost forgotten.”
Jonathan put his arms around her and lifted her up. “Forget the mattress.”
Afterward, Jonathan lay back, feeling warm and sated, and maybe even happy. “We have to figure out a way for you to come back with me…”
“Stop right there.”
He propped himself on an elbow, eager to explain. “No, no, not like that-I don’t mean come back with me on the plane. I mean how you usually get around. Via Paris or Berlin or…”
“Jonathan-”
“Or Havana.”
“ Havana?” Emma burst out laughing. She pulled herself closer to him. “And from Havana, where to? Or should I even ask?”
Jonathan considered the question. There was something in her voice that led him to hope that maybe the question wasn’t entirely academic. “ Venezuela,” he said.
“ Venezuela? Caracas or Barranquila? They both have decent airports.”
“I’ll leave the choice to you. If neither’s any good, you can hit São Paolo. Brazil doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S. Once you’re in South America, it will be much easier to get to Kenya.”
“By tramp steamer this time? Or do you have another idea?”
“I’m thinking more like by jet. I can’t wait another six months to see you.”
Emma nodded as he spoke, taking it all in. “And then I suppose we’ll meet up at the Turkana camp?” she asked, in a less reasonable tone.
“Yeah. We’d be safe there.”
“So I can just move in with you, or maybe you can build me a little thatched-roof hut in the forest where you can visit me every day after work or whenever you get bored, and we can get it on under the stars like we used to? Is that what you want, Jonathan? Keep your wife stashed away for some action on the side?”
He didn’t reply. He’d picked up on the prickly timbre in her voice. At heart Emma was a realist, and she didn’t tolerate forays into Never-Never Land.
“I just have one question,” she went on. “What about the people who are watching you to see if I happen to turn up?”
“You said that they only picked me up when I came to London. There’s no one watching me at the camp.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Jonathan nodded. “There’s only nine of us permanently at the camp. And seven haven’t left in over two years. I know them, Emma. They’re not working for any government. Besides, I’m being careful. I don’t ever mention your name. I only tried to contact you that once.”
“What about Hal Bates?”
“Hal Bates? You mean lazy-eyed Hal from the UN Commission on Refugees? You think he’s interested in me? Come on. The guy shows up once a month for a day or two, does a camp count, asks if we need any moldy K-rats, then scoots back to Nairobi. I don’t even talk to him.”
“Hal’s a twenty-year man with the CIA. The UN thing is his day job. Every time he goes to the camp, he asks around about you. No strong-arming, mind you. Just the casual question here and there. ‘By the way, old chap, happen to see Dr. Ransom with that overbearing wife of his? You know, the good-looking mwanamke with the decent pair of knockers?’ That sound like Hal? He even takes a few pictures of you and sends them back to Langley, and they pass them down the line to Connor at Division. All in the name of intra-agency cooperation.”
“That can’t be,” protested Jonathan. “I mean, someone would have told me. I know everyone who works there, the locals, too. They’re friends. Even then, I keep an eye on them to see if they’re watching me a little too closely. I am being careful, Em. I’d know if someone were watching.”
“You don’t know how to be careful,” she said, with a sympathy that irked Jonathan. “You couldn’t spot one of our networks if it were a snake crawling up your pants. We wouldn’t let you.”
“You’re wrong!”
“And Betty?” Emma asked, not missing a beat.
“Betty the breakfast cook?” Jonathan was dumbstruck at the mention of her name. How could Emma know a thing about her? “She’s fourteen years old. She’s been in the camp for years. Are you saying she’s an asset?”
“Not for a minute. But she doesn’t need to be. All she has to do is keep a sharp eye and be ready to report if she ever sees you with a European woman who doesn’t work in the camp. Last I heard, the going fee for a tip is a hundred U.S. -double that if the tip pans out. That’s half a year’s wage in that part of the world. What are you paying Betty the breakfast cook?”