cycle reared up on its back wheel as it accelerated. She turned her face to him as she flew past where he stood. Her expression was at once angry and stricken and he could have sworn that there were tears on her cheeks. Hired gun!
she cried at him.
Judas!
And then the motor cycle howled away. She banked it sharply, the steel foot-rest raised a shower of sparks as it grazed the tarmac, and she weaved into the traffic in Kimathi Avenue.
Daniel ran down to the corner. He caught one more glimpse of her two hundred yards down the avenue, leaning over the handlebars like a jockey, her braid standing out stiffly from the back of her head in the wind.
He looked around for a taxi to follow her, and then realised the futility of even trying. With the lead she Had, and the Honda's manoeuvrability no car could hope to catch her.
He turned on his heel and marched back towards the hotel, intent on finding Bonny Mahon. Before he reached the entrance he realised the danger of confronting herein his present mood. It could only lead to bloody battle, and probably the break-up of their relationship. That did not worry him too much, but what restrained him was the danger of losing a cameraman. It might take weeks to find a replacement, and that could lead to a cancellation of his contract with BOSS, the end of his quest to follow the Lucky Dragon, and Ning Cheng Gong, into Ubomo.
He checked his stride and thought about it. It wasn't worth the pleasure of pinning back Bonny Mahon's ears.
I'd better go and cool off somewhere. He chose the Jambo, Bar, one of the notorious bars down near the station.
It was full of black soldiers in camouflage, and mate tourists and bar girls. Some of the girls were spectacular, Samburu and Kikuyu and Masai, in tight shiny skirts with beads and bright ribbons braided into their hair.
Daniel found a bar stool in the corner, and the antics of the middle-aged European tourists on the dance floor helped to alleviate his foul mood. A recent survey of the Nairobi bar girls had determined that ninety-eight percent of them were HIV positive. You had to have a death wish to enjoy fully all that these ladies had to offer.
An hour and two double whiskies later, Daniel's anger Had cooled sufficiently, and he headed back to the Norfolk Hotel.
He let himself into the cottage suite and saw Bonny's khaki slacks and panties in the centre of the sitting-room floor where she had dropped them. This evening her untidiness irritated him even more than usual.
The bedroom was in darkness, but the lights in the courtyard shone through the curtains sufficiently for him to make out Bonny's form under the sheet on her side of the bed. He knew, she was feigning sleep. He undressed in the darkness, slipped naked into his side of the bed, and lay still.
Neither of them moved or spoke for fully five minutes and then Bonny whispered, Is Daddy cross with his little girl? She used her simpering childish voice. His little girl was very naughty. . She touched him.
Her fingers were warm and silky down his flank. She wants to show him how sorry she is. He caught her wrist, but it was too late. She was cunning and quick and soon he didn't want her to stop. Damn it, Bonny, he protested. You screwed up a chance Shh! Don't talk, Bonny whispered. Little girl will make it better for Daddy. Bonny. . . His voice trailed away, and he released her wrist.
In the morning when Daniel checked the hotel bill before paying it, he noticed an item for 120 Kenya shillings. International telephone calls.
He taxed Bonny with it. Did you make an overseas call last night? I called my old mum to let her know I'm all right. I know how stingy you are, but you don't grudge me that, do you? Something in her defiant manner troubled him. When she went ahead to see her video equipment safely packed into the taxi, Daniel lingered in the suite. As soon as she was gone he called the telephone exchange and asked the operator for the overseas number that was on his bill. London 727 6464, sir.
Please get it for me again now. It's ringing, sir.
A voice answered on the third ring. Good morning, may I help you?
What number is that? Daniel asked, but the speaker was guarded. Who did you want, please? Daniel thought he recognized the voice, the strong African accent. He took a chance.
Is that you, Selibi? he asked in Swahili. Yes, this is Selibi. Do you want to speak to the Bwana Mkubwa? Who shall I say is calling?
Daniel hung up the receiver and stared at it.
Selibi was Tug Harrison's manservant. So Bonny had telephoned Tug's flat the previous evening while he had been at the Jambo Bar.
Curiouser and curiouser, Daniel muttered. Miss Bonny isn't all she pretends to be, unless her old mum lives in Holland Park. Every seat on the Air Ubomo flight to Kabali was taken. Most of the other passengers seemed to be businessmen or minor civil servants or politicians. There were half a dozen black Soldiers in camouflage and decoration ribbons, berets and dark glasses. There were, however, no tourists, not yet, not before BOSS opened the new casino on the lakeshore.
The hostess was a tall Hita girl in flamboyant national dress.
She handed out packets of sweet biscuits and plastic mugs of luke-warm tea with the haughty air of a queen distributing alms to her poor subjects. Halfway through the four-hour flight she disappeared into the toilet with one of the soldiers and all cabin service came to a halt.
They hit heavy clear-air turbulence over the eastern rim of the Great Rift Valley and a corpulent black businessman in one of the front seats entertained them all with a noisy regurgitation of his breakfast. The air hostess remained ensconced in the rear toilet.
At last they were over the lake. Although like most names with colonial overtones, its name had been changed, Daniel still preferred Lake Albert to Lake Mobutu. The waters were pure azure, flecked with white horses and the sails of fishing dhows, and so wide that for a while there was no shore in sight. Then slowly the western shoreline emerged from the haze.
Ubomo, Daniel whispered, more to himself than to Bonny.
The name had a romance and mystery that made the skin on his forearms tingle.
He would be following in the footsteps of the great African explorers.
Speke had passed this way, and Stanley and ten thousand other hunters and slavers, soldiers and adventurers.
He must try to instil some of that feeling of romance and history into his production. Across these waters had plied the ancient Arab dhows laden with ivory and slaves, the black and white gold that had once been the continent's major exports.
