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Authors: Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child
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D’Agosta.”
The man looked at them in turn. “What can I do for you?” It seemed to D’Agosta that this was a man who didn’t get many unexpected
visitors.
“May I ask your name?” Pendergast asked.
“Rathe.”
“My friend and I were on safari here, about twelve years ago. We happened to be back in Zambia again—on our way to Mgandi
hunting camp—and thought we’d drop in.” He smiled coldly.
Rathe glanced out the window, in the general direction of the makeshift parking area. “Mgandi, you say?”
Pendergast nodded.
The man grunted and extended a hand. “Sorry. All the goings-on these days, the rebel incursions and whatnot, a fellow gets
a little jumpy.”
“Understandable.”
Rathe gestured at two well-worn wooden chairs before the desk. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything?”
“A beer would be nice,” D’Agosta said instantly.
“Of course. Just a minute.” The man disappeared, returning aminute later with two bottles of Mosi beer. D’Agosta accepted
his bottle, mumbling his thanks and taking a grateful swig.
“Are you the camp concessionaire?” Pendergast asked as the man took a seat behind his desk.
Rathe shook his head. “I’m the administrator. The chap you want is Fortnum. He’s still out with this morning’s group.”
“Fortnum. I see.” Pendergast glanced around the office. “I suppose there have been a number of personnel changes since we
were here. The entire camp looks rather different.”
Rathe gave a mirthless smile. “We have to keep up with the competition. Today our clients demand comfort in addition to scenery.”
“Of course. Still, it’s a shame, isn’t it, Vincent? We’d been hoping to see a few familiar faces.”
D’Agosta nodded. It had taken five swallows just to get the dust out of his throat.
Pendergast gave the impression of thinking a moment. “What about Alistair Woking? Is he still the district commissioner?”
Rathe shook his head again. “He died quite some time ago. Let’s see, it must have been almost ten years back.”
“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
memorable
safari.” 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
The man looked at them in turn. “What can I do for you?” It seemed to D’Agosta that this was a man who didn’t get many unexpected
visitors.
“May I ask your name?” Pendergast asked.
“Rathe.”
“My friend and I were on safari here, about twelve years ago. We happened to be back in Zambia again—on our way to Mgandi
hunting camp—and thought we’d drop in.” He smiled coldly.
Rathe glanced out the window, in the general direction of the makeshift parking area. “Mgandi, you say?”
Pendergast nodded.
The man grunted and extended a hand. “Sorry. All the goings-on these days, the rebel incursions and whatnot, a fellow gets
a little jumpy.”
“Understandable.”
Rathe gestured at two well-worn wooden chairs before the desk. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything?”
“A beer would be nice,” D’Agosta said instantly.
“Of course. Just a minute.” The man disappeared, returning aminute later with two bottles of Mosi beer. D’Agosta accepted
his bottle, mumbling his thanks and taking a grateful swig.
“Are you the camp concessionaire?” Pendergast asked as the man took a seat behind his desk.
Rathe shook his head. “I’m the administrator. The chap you want is Fortnum. He’s still out with this morning’s group.”
“Fortnum. I see.” Pendergast glanced around the office. “I suppose there have been a number of personnel changes since we
were here. The entire camp looks rather different.”
Rathe gave a mirthless smile. “We have to keep up with the competition. Today our clients demand comfort in addition to scenery.”
“Of course. Still, it’s a shame, isn’t it, Vincent? We’d been hoping to see a few familiar faces.”
D’Agosta nodded. It had taken five swallows just to get the dust out of his throat.
Pendergast gave the impression of thinking a moment. “What about Alistair Woking? Is he still the district commissioner?”
Rathe shook his head again. “He died quite some time ago. Let’s see, it must have been almost ten years back.”
“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
memorable
safari.” 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
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