the whole continent tipping on its side. Alex felt his ears pop and he was glad he was belted in. For a few seconds he had almost been upside down, and in a plane like this it would be easy enough to tumble out. They were flying back exactly the same way they had come. For a second time, they passed over the lip of the dam. The wheat field lay ahead of them, less than half a mile away.
For the first time, Beckett turned around and called out to him. Her eyes, behind the goggles, looked enormous. “When I tell you, I want you to pull the lever.” Alex could barely hear what she was saying.
She repeated herself, stressing each word. He nodded.
Pull the lever? What was this all about? Alex wondered if he might be about to eject himself, if this hadn’t all been some cruel and horrible trick. But he had no choice but to play along, and anyway, if he refused, it would be easy enough for her to reach back and do it herself.
They swept in low over the wheat and Beckett signaled with one hand. Alex pulled the lever. At once, there was a gurgle. Alex felt the rubber pipes under his feet swell as liquid rushed through them, and seconds later a spray began to burst out from beneath the wings, spreading out in the air and falling evenly onto the crop. He wondered why he was even remotely surprised. The plane was a crop duster and that was what they were doing. Dusting the crops.
They flew over the field four times before the liquid ran out. Alex could only sit there, watching the artificial rain, completely mystified. At last, Beckett turned around again. “Now we can go back!” she shouted.
It took them just a few minutes to return to the runway. Njenga was still waiting for them, leaning against the Land Rover in the heat of the sun. Alex saw his head turn slowly as they approached. He had been smoking a cigarette. He dropped it and ground it out under his foot.
They landed. The plane rattled back to the grass and came to a standstill. Myra Beckett flicked off the engine, then took off her goggles and helmet and climbed down. Alex followed her. He was glad to have his feet back on the ground. He stood there, waiting for her to explain herself.
“Did you enjoy that?” she asked.
“What was it all about?” Alex demanded. Suddenly he was angry. “Why don’t you stop playing games with me? I don’t know what you’re doing, but you’ve got no reason to keep me here. I want to see McCain. And I want to go home.”
“Desmond will be here this evening and he will explain everything to you, including the purpose of our little flight today. But I’m afraid I have to tell you there’s no chance of your going home.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re going to kill you, you silly boy. Surely you must have realized that. But first we’re going to hurt you. You see, there are things we need to know. I’m afraid you do have a very unpleasant time ahead of you. If I were you, I’d get as much rest as you can.” She untangled her eyeglasses and put them back on. Then, with a brief laugh, she walked back to the waiting car.
18
WOLF MOON
ALEX HEARD DESMOND MCCAIN arrive later that afternoon. He came in a plane that was larger than the Piper, with a deeper, more solid-sounding engine. Alex didn’t actually see it—he hadn’t been allowed out of his tent since the flight with Myra Beckett—but he heard it land.
He had been on his own all afternoon. Only once, a Kikuyu guard had come in carrying a meager lunch on a tray: fruit, bread, and water. He refused to think about what the Beckett woman had told him. He had been threatened before and he knew that part of her plan was to weaken him psychologically, to sap his resolve.
Instead, he used the time to collect his thoughts. He presumed the crop duster had been carrying the liquid that had been developed at Greenfields. But what was the point of spraying a single field in Kenya, and why had Beckett made such a big deal of it? Alex tried to connect the dots. An international charity, a dead African village mocked up in a film studio, his own kidnapping, the wheat field. The more he thought about it, the more unsettled he became, and in the end he pushed it out of his mind and dozed off. He would let McCain explain himself when the time came.
But the sun had set and darkness fallen before Beckett returned to the tent.
“The Reverend McCain would like you to join him for dinner,” she announced.
“That’s very kind of him.” Alex swung himself off the bed. “I hope it’s better than the lunch.” Once again, they left the tent.
Simba River Camp looked better at night than it had in the day. There was a full moon and the pale light softened everything and made the river sparkle. There were a few lights burning in the camp, but they were hardly needed when the sky was so full of stars. The air smelled of perfume. Cicadas were already at work, grinding away in the shadows.
Alex followed the woman to what was clearly the center of the camp, a circular clearing with the river on one side and acacia trees on all the others, the wide branches stretching out as if to form a protective screen. Two wooden buildings stood opposite each other. One was a welcome center and administrative office. The other combined a bar, lounge, and restaurant. It had a thatched roof that was much too big for it, almost thrown over it like pastry on a pie. There were no windows or doors . . . in fact, no walls.
Alex could imagine the guests meeting here for iced gin and tonics after their long day spotting wild game . . . except the tables were piled up in the corner and the bar was closed.
He noticed a satellite dish mounted on the roof of the first building and realized there must be a radio somewhere inside. Might it be possible to send out a message? He doubted it. There were yet more guards patrolling the area—there must have been a dozen of them altogether—these ones armed with spears, which they carried as if they’d had them from the day they were born. Guns and spears. It seemed a strange combination in the twenty-first century, but Alex guessed that in the hands of the Kikuyu tribesmen, one would be just as dangerous as the other.
“Over here, Alex.”
There was a raised platform close to the river with a bonfire burning low to one side. The embers were glowing bright red and the smell of charcoal crept into the air. A table and chairs had been laid out on the platform with two white china plates, two crystal wine glasses, but only one set of silver knives and forks.
“You’re not joining us?” Alex asked.
Beckett added a couple of branches to the fire. “Mr. McCain has asked to eat with you alone.”
