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Authors: William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone
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investigation.”
“Now you know better, eh, Ward?”
“I couldn’t pry too closely. Didn’t want to show an undue interest in him or any others in the DIA team. My ‘friends’ back at agency headquarters, as you call them, wouldn’t be my friends for too long if they knew what I was really up to in Lagos.”
“A very uninformed intelligence agency.”
“They only know what I tell them, Krentz. Washington’s a long way off. But that’s not who I have to keep happy. My bosses back home—my real bosses, not the agency—won’t be happy until the job’s finalized and Kilroy is dead,” Thurlow said.
“It’ll get done. It’s only a matter of time. He’s just one man,” Krentz said. “Go back to Lagos and leave me and the troops here to finish the job. It’ll all be over in another day, two at the most.” Indicating the swamp, he added, “No lone man can last long in that hell.”
“There’s nothing I’d like better than to haul ass out of here,” Thurlow said feelingly. “I’m dehydrated. My bowels are starting to act up on me. The heat and the bugs and the stink are driving me crazy. Lagos is the shithole of the world. I never thought I’d miss it. But compared to this godforsaken swamp…At least back at the embassy compound there’s air-conditioning and clean sheets, hot meals and cold beer, a bath—”
“So go back. I’ll stay out here and kick the butts until the job is done. That’s what they pay me for.”
Thurlow shook his head. “Not that I doubt your abilities, Krentz, but I don’t like to leave any loose ends. More important, my bosses don’t like them. I’m not leaving without tangible proof that Kilroy is dead.”
Krentz gestured toward the cannister lashed in place in the stern of the boat. “Proof like that, you mean?”
“That’s another story. All I need is a confirmed kill. I don’t like this business of collecting trophies,” Thurlow said.
“It’s not a matter of what you like or I like, Ward. In this case it’s a matter of what Minister Tayambo likes,” Krentz told the other.
“You don’t have to remind me. What a fucking ghoul! What the hell is his problem anyway?” Thurlow asked.
Krentz’s eyes narrowed, looking sly. “It’s juju,” he said. “Magic. Tayambo’s got a couple of tribal witch doctors on his payroll. Most of the big men in the palace cadre do. It builds their confidence and unnerves their enemies.”
“What does Tayambo do with his…trophies?” Thurlow’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.
Krentz’s shrug was eloquent. “Who knows? Maybe he gives them to his devil doctors to use in their cauldron of blood to brew up potent black magic spells. Maybe he collects them. A generation ago, Ugandan dictator Idi Amin used to eat the hands and hearts of his enemies.”
Thurlow swore.
“Ritual cannibalism, you know. A widespread practice throughout the continent, then…and now. Eat your enemy and you absorb his power,” Krentz went on, enjoying the other’s evident discomfiture.
“You’ve got to be philosophical about such things, Ward. Minister Tayambo is an important man. If he craves such keepsakes, who are we to tell him no?”
Thurlow grimaced, visibly steeling himself. “Well, at the embassy the ambassador is always telling us to be mindful of building good relations with our hosts. And nothing succeeds like gift giving.”
“There you are. Be guided by the ambassador and you can’t go wrong,” Krentz said cheerfully. “But have you considered the possibility that we might never be able to confirm Kilroy’s death? The swamp is big, with lots of places for a body to disappear. Kilroy might be at the bottom of a quicksand patch or in the belly of a crocodile.”
“I doubt it. That son of a bitch is proving uncommonly hard to kill,” Thurlow said sourly.
Krentz flicked his cigar snipe overboard, its glowing ember describing a meteoric arc until it hit the water and blacked out.
The radio transceiver in
“Now you know better, eh, Ward?”
“I couldn’t pry too closely. Didn’t want to show an undue interest in him or any others in the DIA team. My ‘friends’ back at agency headquarters, as you call them, wouldn’t be my friends for too long if they knew what I was really up to in Lagos.”
“A very uninformed intelligence agency.”
“They only know what I tell them, Krentz. Washington’s a long way off. But that’s not who I have to keep happy. My bosses back home—my real bosses, not the agency—won’t be happy until the job’s finalized and Kilroy is dead,” Thurlow said.
“It’ll get done. It’s only a matter of time. He’s just one man,” Krentz said. “Go back to Lagos and leave me and the troops here to finish the job. It’ll all be over in another day, two at the most.” Indicating the swamp, he added, “No lone man can last long in that hell.”
“There’s nothing I’d like better than to haul ass out of here,” Thurlow said feelingly. “I’m dehydrated. My bowels are starting to act up on me. The heat and the bugs and the stink are driving me crazy. Lagos is the shithole of the world. I never thought I’d miss it. But compared to this godforsaken swamp…At least back at the embassy compound there’s air-conditioning and clean sheets, hot meals and cold beer, a bath—”
“So go back. I’ll stay out here and kick the butts until the job is done. That’s what they pay me for.”
Thurlow shook his head. “Not that I doubt your abilities, Krentz, but I don’t like to leave any loose ends. More important, my bosses don’t like them. I’m not leaving without tangible proof that Kilroy is dead.”
Krentz gestured toward the cannister lashed in place in the stern of the boat. “Proof like that, you mean?”
“That’s another story. All I need is a confirmed kill. I don’t like this business of collecting trophies,” Thurlow said.
“It’s not a matter of what you like or I like, Ward. In this case it’s a matter of what Minister Tayambo likes,” Krentz told the other.
“You don’t have to remind me. What a fucking ghoul! What the hell is his problem anyway?” Thurlow asked.
Krentz’s eyes narrowed, looking sly. “It’s juju,” he said. “Magic. Tayambo’s got a couple of tribal witch doctors on his payroll. Most of the big men in the palace cadre do. It builds their confidence and unnerves their enemies.”
“What does Tayambo do with his…trophies?” Thurlow’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.
Krentz’s shrug was eloquent. “Who knows? Maybe he gives them to his devil doctors to use in their cauldron of blood to brew up potent black magic spells. Maybe he collects them. A generation ago, Ugandan dictator Idi Amin used to eat the hands and hearts of his enemies.”
Thurlow swore.
“Ritual cannibalism, you know. A widespread practice throughout the continent, then…and now. Eat your enemy and you absorb his power,” Krentz went on, enjoying the other’s evident discomfiture.
“You’ve got to be philosophical about such things, Ward. Minister Tayambo is an important man. If he craves such keepsakes, who are we to tell him no?”
Thurlow grimaced, visibly steeling himself. “Well, at the embassy the ambassador is always telling us to be mindful of building good relations with our hosts. And nothing succeeds like gift giving.”
“There you are. Be guided by the ambassador and you can’t go wrong,” Krentz said cheerfully. “But have you considered the possibility that we might never be able to confirm Kilroy’s death? The swamp is big, with lots of places for a body to disappear. Kilroy might be at the bottom of a quicksand patch or in the belly of a crocodile.”
“I doubt it. That son of a bitch is proving uncommonly hard to kill,” Thurlow said sourly.
Krentz flicked his cigar snipe overboard, its glowing ember describing a meteoric arc until it hit the water and blacked out.
The radio transceiver in
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