other European. German, I think. They... they supplied the man-eating lion. Supposedly trained. They were well funded.'
'How did you know their nationalities?'
'I heard them. Behind the dining tent, talking to Woking. The night before the tourist was killed.'
'What did they look like?'
'It was night. I couldn't see.'
Pendergast paused. 'What did Woking do, exactly?'
'He set up the death of the tourist. He knew where the lion was waiting, he steered the tourist in that direction. Told him a warthog, a photo-op, was there.' Wisley swallowed. 'He... he arranged for Nyala to load your wife's gun with blanks.'
'So Nyala was in on it, too?'
Wisley nodded.
'What about Mfuni? The tracker?'
'Everyone was in on it.'
'These men you mention--you said they were well funded. How do you know?'
'They paid very well. Woking got fifty thousand to carry out the plan. I... I got twenty thousand for the use of the camp and to look the other way.'
'The lion was trained?'
'That's what someone said.'
'How?'
'I don't know how. I only know it was trained to kill on command--though anybody who thinks that can be done reliably is crazy.'
'Are you sure there were only two men?'
'I only heard two voices.'
Pendergast's face set in a hard line. Once again, D'Agosta watched the FBI agent bring himself under control by the sheer force of his will. 'Is there anything else?'
'No. Nothing. That's all, I swear. We never spoke of it again.'
'Very well.' And then--with sudden, frightening speed--Pendergast grabbed Wisley by the hair, placed his gun against the man's temple.
'No!' D'Agosta cried, placing a restraining hand on Pendergast's arm.
Pendergast turned to look at him and D'Agosta was almost physically knocked back by the intensity of the agent's gaze.
'Not a good idea to kill informants,' D'Agosta said, modulating his voice carefully, making it as casual as possible. 'Maybe he isn't done talking. Maybe the gin and tonics will kill him for us, save you the trouble. Don't worry--the fat fuck isn't going anywhere.'
Pendergast hesitated, gun still pressed to Wisley's temple. Then, slowly, he released his grip on Wisley's thin tonsure of reddish hair. The ex-concessionaire sank to the ground and D'Agosta noted, with disgust, that he had wet himself.
Without speaking, Pendergast slipped back into the vehicle. D'Agosta climbed in beside him. They pulled back onto the road and headed for Lusaka without a backward glance.
It was half an hour before D'Agosta spoke. 'So,' he said. 'What's next?'
'The past,' Pendergast replied, not taking his eyes from the road. 'The past is what's next.'
12
WHITFIELD SQUARE DOZED PLACIDLY IN THE failing light of a Monday evening. Streetlights came up, throwing the palmettos and the Spanish moss hanging from gnarled oak limbs into gauzy relief. After the cauldron-like heat of Central Africa, D'Agosta found the humid Georgia air almost a relief.
He followed Pendergast across the manicured carpet of grass. In the center of the square stood a large cupola, surrounded by flowers. A wedding party stood beneath its scalloped roof, obediently following the instructions of a photographer. Elsewhere, people strolled slowly by or sat on black-painted benches, chatting or reading. Everything seemed just a little soft and out of focus, and D'Agosta shook his head. Following the mad dash from New York to Zambia to this center of southern gentility, he felt numb.
Pendergast stopped, pointing across Habersham Street at a large gingerbread Victorian house, white and immaculate and very much like its neighbors. As they headed over, Pendergast said, 'Keep in mind, Vincent--he doesn't yet know.'
'Got it.'
They crossed the street and mounted the wooden steps. Pendergast pressed the doorbell. After about ten seconds, the overhead light came on and the door was opened by a man in his mid-forties. D'Agosta looked at him curiously. He was tall and strikingly handsome, with high cheekbones, dark eyes, and a thick head of brown hair. He was as tanned as Pendergast was pale. A folded magazine was in one hand. D'Agosta glanced at the open page: the footer read
The sun, dipping behind the houses on the far side of the square, was in the man's keen eyes, and he couldn't see them well. 'Yes?' he asked. 'May I help you?'
