how the African had gained so much power so quickly.
Bahame had started bringing his clapped-together religion to the tiny villages of northern Uganda almost a quarter century ago. Not long after, he armed a group of disciples large enough to begin converting the region’s farmers, whether they were persuaded by his dogma or not. He burned and raped and kidnapped, learning to manipulate the pliable minds of children and turning them into a fighting force unbounded by any moral or religious sensibility that didn’t flow directly from him.
As time went on, the religion he’d created became more political and more about him. He had portrayed himself as everything from Muhammad to Jesus to the reincarnation of Karl Marx — fanning the flames of tribal animosity and promising a utopian society of milk and honey without work or effort. Now, thousands of followers later, Bahame no longer knew where he stopped and God started.
Omidi climbed onto the podium and Bahame threw down the megaphone to greet him. When their hands clasped, a loud cheer rose up.
“Mehrak, my good friend,” Bahame said in English better than his own. “God told me you would be delivered safely to me.”
“May his name be praised.”
Bahame smiled and turned, using a claw hammer to break open a crate of whiskey. The exaltation of his congregation grew in volume as he tossed the bottles out to them, reserving one for himself.
“My magic has given us many victories and has made them love me,” he said, breaking the neck off the bottle. His eyes were clear, but it was impossible to know what they saw. Unquestionably, a man to be very carefully handled.
“You’re a great leader.”
“Yes, but Uganda is a large country, full of evil. It will require more than magic to take it. Even my magic.”
Omidi nodded gravely. “All great generals — all great men — face the same problem. You cannot do everything yourself. And to rely on others is…unpredictable.”
“What you say is true, Mehrak.”
“I’d like to see your magic. To see if you can teach us to wield it without your power.”
He seemed pleased by that and took a long pull on the bottle before holding it out to Omidi.
“My God doesn’t permit it,” the Iranian said.
“He gives you his permission.”
Omidi smiled politely, making sure his eyes portrayed only serenity. Was Bahame saying that he had spoken to God on his behalf?? Or that he
A murmur went through Bahame’s people, and Omidi used it as an excuse to turn and see what had distracted them from fighting over the liquor.
A group similar to the one that had brought him there burst into the clearing dragging a badly injured African man along with them. Behind, a Caucasian in his late sixties appeared, terrified and exhausted.
Bahame jumped to the ground and Omidi followed at a distance that would allow him to be an observer of what was going to happen without risking becoming a participant.
“Where is the woman?” Bahame demanded.
One of the men pushed their injured comrade to the ground at his feet. “Dembe let her escape.”
The prone man’s right pant leg had been cut away and there was a bloody bandage wound around his thigh. He tried to crawl away but was stopped by the impenetrable ring of armed children that had formed around them.
Bahame pointed to the white man. “Who is he?”
“A doctor we found to keep this pig alive so he could face you.”
The cult leader’s eyes widened to the point of bulging, and his stare fixed on the man begging pathetically at his feet.
He dropped the bottle in his hand and picked up a rock the size of an apple, falling to his knees and bringing it down with horrifying force between the man’s shoulder blades. An anguished scream erupted from him, though it was quickly drowned out by the laughter of the crowd.
“No, stop!” the doctor shouted. He made a lunge to protect his patient but was slammed to the ground before he could reach him.
Bahame continued to work with the rock, studiously avoiding the man’s head and neck — attacking his arms, his torso, his legs. Sweat dripped from him and his breathing turned ragged as the dull thud of rock on flesh was joined by the sound of snapping bones and blood gurgling in his victim’s throat.
The skill of it was admirable — turning a man’s body into a broken bag of parts while keeping him not only alive, but conscious.
Eventually, Bahame began to tire, and he stood, still refusing to deliver the man into death. He picked up the whiskey he’d dropped, now spattered with blood, and drank from it before holding it out.
Omidi hesitated for a moment, looking down at the man twitching in the damp soil. Finally, he approached and accepted it, using the bottle to salute his host before bringing it to his lips.
29
Jon Smith put his face directly into the lukewarm water, letting the shower wash away the sweat and dust. The hotel had turned out to be perfect — quiet, mostly empty, and out of the way enough that they would attract minimal attention.
More important, though, the water pressure was good, the bed looked comfortable, and the restaurant served alcohol. It might be awhile before he got to enjoy those particular luxuries again, and he intended to take full advantage while they were at hand.
He stood there until the water turned cold, then toweled off and walked out into the main part of the room, where he’d left the glass doors open to a private deck. The moon was visible through the gauzy curtains, and he dressed in its light before grabbing a beer from a trash can he’d filled with ice and heading out into the night air.
From his vantage point, he could look down on a bar strung with Christmas lights and the sparsely populated area by the pool. Howell and Sarie were sitting at a dim table near the hedge bordering the property, both with drinks that rated multiple paper umbrellas. Some of Howell’s strange malaise seemed to have lifted, and he smiled as Sarie lifted her hands to mimic the horns of an animal she was telling an extremely animated story about.
Smith was going to start down immediately but then thought better of it. The breeze was perfect, his beer was frosty, and the distant lights of Kampala twinkled through the humidity. The calm before the storm.
Mind if I join you?”
“Jon!” Sarie said. “Look at you. You clean up so nice!”
“I was about to say the same about you.”
She was wearing a loose-fitting floral skirt and a sleeveless top that hugged her athletic torso. The hair he’d only seen tied back was now free to dance across her shoulders.
The bartender came up as he grabbed a seat, sliding some concoction in a coconut shell onto the table along with a place setting that included a knife large enough to field dress a rhino.
“Did we order?”
“Sarie took the liberty,” Howell said. “You’re having…Was it the zebra roulade?”
“
“I was just thinking how long it’s been since I’ve had a nice piece of zebra,” he joked, scanning the tables around them. It was nearly ten p.m. and most of the guests had drifted off to their rooms. A few people were left at the bar, and there was a young Scandinavian couple drinking beers with their legs dangling in the pool, but no one was within earshot.
