He had been driving along the edge of a fairly steep ridge. Its conical shape suggested it might have been an ancient volcano. Something he would have to ask Maria about.
Maria.
Only a couple of brief texts since Saint Barts and no mention of her work.
Some relationship! But a normal family-type life as he had shared with Laurin was hardly possible, not until Moustaph was counting his virgins, a pursuit in which Jason intended to render every possible assistance. What would it be like, he wondered dreamily, having a real home again, a place where there was no need for motion detectors, weight sensors, and a personal arsenal? No apprehension he might have to leave on a moment’s notice. A place where a knock on the door was more likely to be a neighbor dropping by unexpectedly than an assassin.
Sure, the irrepressible voice from inside said. With a white picket fence and climbing roses around the door. Maybe even a couple of rug rats crawling around if Maria stood still long enough.
So, what’s wrong with that? Jason demanded.
Life-size vision of you holding a projectile-vomiting, screaming heir in one arm while you try to replace shitty diapers with the other. Enough domestic tranquility to have you in alcohol rehab in no time.
I had a life like that with Laurin, Jason rebutted, regretting he couldn’t sound huffy in mental communications.
That was then, this is now, the voice replied with infuriating logic. That was pre-Momma. No, old buddy, you are warrior class now, samurai, as it were. Adventure and excitement are as much a part of you as the Italian Baroque composers and acrylic land and seascapes. It’s in your DNA, man. You couldn’t quit if you really wanted to and you don’t.
Don’t tell me what I want. Once Moustaph is dead, I…
Face it: There will be another Moustaph and another after that.
The potential truth of the observation had haunted the corners of Jason’s mind from time to time: becoming an assassin’s version of Hendrik van der Decken, captain of the ship Flying Dutchman, of legend and Wagnerian fame, doomed not to sail the Cape of Good Hope for eternity, but to pursue Islamic terrorists in perpetuity, never to have a life of domesticity.
No! Once Moustaph is done…
“Jason, who are you talking to?” Emphani had waked up.
Jason hadn’t realized he had become so agitated he was speaking out loud. He thought he heard a distant snicker.
The Hotel la Colombe was an unremarkable two-story building surrounded by a low hedge that was fighting a losing battle with the sand and heat. The facade presented the traditional Islamic architecture of curved windows on the second floor. The air-conditioning was a pleasant surprise as the four men’s steps echoed from the stone floor. The desk clerk in Western jacket and tie treated them to a dazzling smile.
“You are the gentlemen from the magazine?” he asked in Oxfordian English. “Perhaps you need assistance with your luggage?”
“We can handle most of it,” Jason replied, holding up a camera on a tripod.
“Very well.” The clerk studied the register in front of him. “I note you have four rooms on the southern, or outside, wall of the hotel. Whoever made your reservations did not understand the more desirable accommodations are on the other side, those that overlook the pool and patio. That side also receives much less sunlight and is therefore cooler and quieter than those on the street.”
“Thanks,” Jason said, “but we’ll endure the heat and noise. We want the view of the town. That’s what National Geographic sent us here for.”
What Jason did not say was that southern exposure gave them an unobstructed view downward across the two courtyards of the Sankore Mosque and the pyramidal minaret on the structure’s southern edge.
“Very well, sir. I will ask the dining room to remain open.”
The prospect of a meal of something other MREs, the military’s bags of self-heating cuisine, brought smiles to four sand-encrusted, unshaven faces.
Thirty minutes later, Jason, Andrews, and Emphani, bathed, in clean clothes, and smelling of herbal soap, were making their way down the stairs.
“The Russian,” Emphani asked, “where is he?”
“If the hotel has a bar, that would be the first place I’d look,” Andrews offered.
“If is the operative word,” Jason observed. “Mali being a Moslem country, booze might not be available.”
Viktor appeared at the foot of the stairs, swaying slightly and holding aloft an earthenware cup. “Zdorovie!”
“I’ll not ruin my health drinking to yours,” Andrews said good-naturedly.
“Perhaps there is wine wherever you got what may be in that cup?” Emphani asked hopefully. “Man was not made to drink only water.”
“You guzzled your share,” Jason reminded him.
“Man drinks water for thirst, wine for pleasure.”
Viktor gave him a pat on the back and pointed to a small room where three or four tables were grouped in front of bottles on mostly empty shelves. “Is bar! If wine is as bad as vodka, is shit. Shit vodka better than no vodka.”
“Old Russian proverb, no doubt,” Jason noted dryly.
“First toast always to health,” Viktor said with a grin. “Second to family. In army, third to fallen comrades. Fourth is to hope never to be in third toast.”
Jason joined in the levity. “As you Russians say, ‘Only a problem drinker drinks without a toast.’ ”
“Is true!” Viktor beamed before draping an arm around Emphani’s shoulder. “Come, drink many toasts!”
After several vodkas for Viktor, one glass of wine for Emphani, who swore it had no relationship to the French vineyard on the bottle’s label, and two room-temperature Budweisers for Andrews and Jason, which miraculously tasted like the Anheuser-Busch product, Jason put his empty bottle on the table.
“Gentlemen, dinner is waiting.”
“Roast goat or sheep, take your choice,” Andrews mumbled.
The sole entrée was alabadjia, according to the desk clerk, now maître d’. Goat, cooked separate from its juices, pounded tender, seasoned with ghee, the local butter, and then marinated with the juices served over rice. Both tasty and filling.
Jason declined the small cup of viscous after-dinner coffee that followed a meal in this part of the world, standing. “Not for me. Long day tomorrow, guys, deciding whether the town is worth a full shoot. I’m headed to bed.”
A murmur of agreement went around the table until it reached Viktor who held up a hand, thumb, and forefinger inches apart. “A small, what you say… hat on the night?”
Jason stood. “Nightcap.”
Viktor was the only person he knew who could literally drink himself sober. But then, he knew few, if any, other Russians. Viktor would be fine in the in the morning while any normal person would suffer the mother of all hangovers.
Upstairs, Jason paused outside his door to check the telltale, the hair he had pasted with saliva between door and jam. It was gone. Someone had opened the door.
Jason checked the hallway. Empty other than the shadows of low-wattage bulbs. Ear to the door, he heard nothing as he drew the killing knife. One breath, two.
He slammed the door open with a crash loud enough to at least momentarily distract the intruder.
Had there been one.
The room was quite empty, as was the small bath. In the simply furnished room, there was nowhere else to hide.