each building to the next, the linen pavilions that sheltered comfortable deck chairs on which a dozen fat and happy tourists dozed, cameras dangling from their necks. Strings of tiny lights were strung along the rooflines. A generator purred off in the bush. Everything was done up in bright--almost gaudy--colors.
'This is straight out of Disney,' D'Agosta said, getting out of the vehicle.
'A great deal has changed in twelve years,' Pendergast replied, his voice flat.
They stood there a moment, motionless, without speaking, in the shade of the sausage trees. D'Agosta took in the fragrant smell of burning wood, the tang of crushed grass, and--more faintly--an earthy, animal muskiness he couldn't identify. The bagpipe drone of insects mingled with other sounds: the whine of the generators, the cooing of doves, the restless mutterings of the nearby Luangwa River. D'Agosta shot a covert glance at Pendergast: the agent was stooped forward, as if he bore a terrific weight; his eyes glittered with a haunted fire, and--as he took in the scene with what seemed like a strange mixture of hunger and dread--a single muscle in his cheek twitched erratically. He must have realized he was being scrutinized, because the FBI agent composed himself, straightening up and smoothing his safari vest. But the strange glitter did not leave his eyes.
'Follow me,' he said.
Pendergast led the way past the pavilions and dining tent to a smaller structure, set apart from the rest of the camp in a copse of trees near the banks of the Luangwa. A single elephant was standing, knee-deep, in the mud of the river. As D'Agosta watched, the animal scooped up a trunkful of water, sprayed it over its back, then lifted its wrinkled head and emitted a harsh trumpeting sound that momentarily drowned out the hum of insects.
The small structure was clearly the administrative building for the camp. It consisted of an outer office, currently empty, and an inner office occupied by a lone man, sitting behind a desk and writing industriously in a notebook. He was about fifty, thin and wiry, his fair hair bleached by the sun and his arms deeply tanned.
The man looked up as he heard them approach. 'Yes, what can I...' The words died in his throat as he caught sight of Pendergast. Clearly he'd been expecting to see one of the guests.
'Who are you?' he asked, rising.
'My name is Underhill,' Pendergast said. 'And this is my friend, Vincent 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 a minute 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?'
