“Whew.” Fletch shook his head. “Witch doctors. A lost Roman city. Carr, you are a surprising fellow.”
Carr shrugged. “It’s just a hobbyhorse of mine. If anything works out, I might make a bit of a name for myself. It’s so crazy anyway, I didn’t mind going to a witch doctor about it. You never know what little thing might come out of traditional wisdom.”
“Are you actually spending time and money looking for this place?” Barbara asked.
“Time and money. I have a camp set up. Sheila’s there now.”
“Is Sheila your wife?”
“Might as well be. Dear old thing’s been with me years now.”
Barbara looked shyly at him. “Has either of you a degree in anthropology, archaeology, anything?”
“Good heavens, no. Barely finished school. But to paraphrase the ignoramous regarding art, I’ll know when I see something out of the ordinary.”
Fletch smiled. “And is your camp in the south, in the hills, near a river?”
Carr nodded. “Exactly. Figured the Romans needed a certain altitude, a supply of fresh water, and a river big enough to give them access to, yet protection from, the sea.”
Fletch pushed his chair back. “We won’t tell anyone.”
He couldn’t imagine Frank Jaffe’s reaction to such a story anyway.
“Tell anybody you like,” Carr said. “
“Go for it.”
Carr smiled at Barbara. “I thought you’d prefer the goat to the beef.”
Barbara said, “What goat?”
“Anytime you have a choice around here between goat and beef,” Carr said, standing up, “choose the goat.”
Barbara was looking at the empty plates. “I’ve been eating goat?”
“It’s much more tender,” Carr said, “than beef. Tastier, too.”
“I’ve been eating goat? I ate Billy the Goat?”
Suddenly, Barbara looked ill.
On the dark sidewalk outside the Norfolk Hotel, Juma crossed his arms over his chest. His feet were planted far apart.
Carr had just driven away in the Land-Rover.
Juma said to Fletch: “At the shamba in Thika you said my friends were drunk.”
“Sorry,” Fletch said. “Didn’t mean to insult your friends. They looked pretty drunk to me.”
“How do you decide friends?”
Fletch said, “I don’t care about drunkenness.”
“How do you decide who is your friend? Is that something you decide about?”
“What?” Barbara asked.
“How can you decide someone is your friend without deciding everyone else is not your friend?”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Fletch said.
“Do you decide who is your enemy? That’s not the way things happen,” Juma said.
“Oh, I see.”
“Things just happen,” Juma said. “When you first saw me, I was with those boys. They were drunk. I don’t decide if they are my friends or not my friends. Maybe they are my enemies. How could you decide?”
Barbara shook her head. “I am very, very tired. I don’t have to decide that.”
Juma grabbed her arm. “That’s right!”
“Barbara said something right?”
Juma looked all around. “Deciding everything like that, all the time, north, east, south, west, is very hard.”
Barbara asked, “Do you mean difficult…?”
“… or harsh?” Fletch finished.
Juma turned and began walking away from them down the street. He waved. “Nice time!”
Watching him, Barbara asked, “Does he mean,
“… or We
“I don’t know.” Barbara took Fletch’s arm as they started into the hotel. “But he understands Fletch is your father … ”
“… and he’s sorry.”
Fletch had a funny line ready but, although he had used it before, he couldn’t remember it. Instead, he said, “Hello?”
“Did you both sleep well?”
“So far.” Fletch remembered the line. “Is this Fletch, too?”
“‘Fraid not. Carr here again.”
“Oh.” Fletch finally got his head off the pillow and rolled over. “There was a message waiting for us at the hotel when we got back last night. My father had been here during the afternoon.”
“I’m sure he was, old chap.”
“And that he’d call us in the morning.”
“I’m sure he meant to.”
“This is morning?” The window was filled with gray daylight. In the bed beside him, Barbara had not noticed.
“Shortly before eight of the clock, Nairobi time. To my surprise, I’m downstairs about to have breakfast. I only have an hour or so this morning.”
“That’s very nice …”
“Hate to awaken you this way, your first real day here, and all that. Your father called me a couple of hours ago. Something’s come up, you see. If you could pull yourself together and join me for a cup of coffee, I could fly away with a sense of duty done.”
“Something’s happened to my father?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right down.”
“The Kenyan coffee is quite pleasant but you might want to cut it with milk or hot water.”
The waiter was pouring black coffee into Fletch’s cup. Carr was finishing a large bowl of fruit.
He said, “The pineapple here is probably better than anywhere.”
“Barbara will be right down.”
“Yes.”
There was a huge, round, beautiful breakfast buffet in the middle of the Lord Delamere dining room.
“What’s up?” Fletch asked.
“The senior Fletcher called me about five-thirty this morning. It seems there’s been a spot of trouble.”
Carr was right. The coffee did need cutting. “What kind of trouble?”
“It seems that yesterday, the senior Fletch, doubtlessly nervous about your imminent arrival, began quaffing the local brew a bit early on.”
“He got drunk.”
