been a bone of contention between Snay and his manager al-Fazir. Bin Wazir, who had personally captured Saddam and installed him at the entrance, contended he was a great attraction. The terrified manager, who had to submit his monthly booking figures to the owner’s wife, Yasmin, argued quite the opposite. “You could live with a man- eating dragon snarling at your door, but why would you?” he would ask Yasmin.
“Excellency!” al-Fazir shouted, rushing out of the entrance and embracing bin Wazir. “Allah has granted you safe journey! It has been a long time, my good friend. Much too long!” The man tried to hide his surprise at bin Wazir’s enormous girth, which had tripled to sumo size since last they’d met.
Snay bin Wazir made a show of returning the awkward embrace and then held the other man at arm’s length, looking at him carefully. He’d never completely trusted this al-Fazir. He always suspected his manager went behind his back, dealing with Yasmin on important hotel issues. Also, even the most cursory look at the books revealed a long history of inconsistencies. At any rate, year after year the hotel managed to eke out a small profit, Yasmin seemed to like the fellow, and so Snay tended to let it go.
“My great friend,” he said, looking down at the bleary-eyed man, for Ali was a good head shorter, “Are you all right? Have you been ill? Look, you are trembling.”
“No, not at all,” al-Fazir said with a thin smile, “A touch of monkey fever, perhaps, that’s all. I’m much better now, Excellency. Quinine, you know. Nothing better.”
Especially with vast quantities of Tanqueray gin, Snay bin Wazir thought. Actually he looked not good at all. His hands were damp and clammy, his skin sallow, his cheeks hollow, and his bloodshot eyes glassy and furtive. He had a long-standing bottle problem, Snay bin Wazir knew. Perhaps it had worsened. He smiled at the man and took his arm.
“Good, good,” bin Wazir said. “If you need care, I’ll arrange a charter. My pilots can fly you out to the hospital in Jakarta. The doctors are shit on this island as we learned during the last outbreak of the dengue.” Ali had lost his wife to dengue fever. He had not been the same man since.
“Come, we will speak of it later,” the bleary manager replied. “Let me take you up to the Owner’s Suite. It was a long flight. A drink, perhaps, first? In the bar? While your luggage is being unpacked?” The man looked desperate for a drink himself.
They sat drinking Bali Hai beer in a booth in the cool dark of the main bar, just off the lobby. The room smelled of spice and mildew and leather. Overhead in the gloom, the paddle fans spun silently. The room was richly paneled with various Indonesian hardwoods, with a soaring beamed raffia ceiling. Snay bin Wazir himself had designed the room, modeling it after the Long Bar at Raffles in Singapore. His ideas on hotel interior decoration were much changed, less extravagant and more traditional since the Beauchamps debacle.
There was a white man sitting at the far end of the bar, talking quietly with the bartender. He wore a soiled linen jacket over khaki shorts and had leather sandals on his bare feet. His longish hair and beard were bleached by the sun, and he was deeply tanned. Clearly, he was someone who spent most of his time in the bush.
“A guest?” Snay bin Wazir asked, the question laced lightly with venom. He took a long, slow draught of his lager as he eyed the man at the bar. He’d specifically told his manager this seminar was to be strictly a closed, private affair; absolutely no outside guests when the attendees began arriving.
“Yes, yes, but do not worry, Excellency,” Ali replied. “Name’s Nash. He’s checking out first thing. Tomorrow morning.”
“No. He is checking out first thing this afternoon, Ali. What did I tell you?” Snay strained to contain himself. An outsider in the hotel was the last thing he needed.
“He has a charter, Excellency, flying in from Java. Picking him up at first light and heading back there. You have my humblest apologies that he—”
“Who is he, anyway? Looks like a fucking Brit to me.”
“Doesn’t he? He’s Australian. Perth, I believe. But he speaks perfect Bahasa. Like a native. He’s some kind of scientist, I believe, studying the fauna and—”
“Idiot.”
Snay bin Wazir rose from the table and strode deliberately across the room to the bar. Ali al-Fazir watched with his heart in his throat as bin Wazir stopped and whispered a few words to the bartender polishing glasses at the near end of the bar, then proceeded to the other end, taking the two stools next to Nash. As the two men spoke, Ali al-Fazir’s head sunk lower and lower until his chin was resting upon his sternum. Was the Pasha a day early? He couldn’t remember anymore. He was lost, drowning in the bottle.
“Hello,” Snay said to the foreigner. “I am Mr. bin Wazir, the owner of this establishment.”
“G’day, mate, Owen Nash is my name,” the man said, extending a strong brown hand, which bin Wazir shook.
“I’m afraid I’ve some bad news for you, Mr. Nash. The hotel is fully booked.”
“Right, I understand there is a large group arriving tomorrow.”
“Ah. Who might have told you that?”
“Your manager over there, Mr. al-Fazir. Great bloke, awright. We had a few beers together just last night.”
“Yes, he’s a fountain of information, isn’t he? What else did he tell you?”
“Oh, nothing really. Hotel gossip and such. Soul of discretion, I assure you. No worries, mate.”
“No worries. But, how unfortunate that Mr. al-Fazir has his dates mixed up. The group is arriving this very afternoon.”
“Today? But my charter flight out arrives at dawn. Surely you can find a spot for me for just the one night, Mr. bin Wazir. A linen closet would suit me just fine.”
“What do you do? Mr. Nash?”
“I’m a photographer, in actuality. On assignment here for the National Geo magazine. Big feature on the Komodo dragons coming up. Might make the cover if I get lucky. Quite a few of them on this island, actually. Besides that bloody big bloke at the front door, I mean.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve captured quite a few dragons on Suva myself. My mascot Saddam, as you see, is getting a little long in the tooth. I’ve got a pair of healthy young fellows just waiting to take his place. Not quite as large as Saddam, but a lot quicker and stronger.”
“In captivity?”
“Yes. A large cage the hotel maintains on the property. You can take a look at it on your way to the airstrip, Mr. Nash. Take pictures.”
“Thank you, Mr. bin Wazir. Light should be great that time of morning, actually.”
“Actually, you’re going out there now, Mr. Nash. I’ve instructed the bellman to collect your things and put them in the boot of the hotel Daimler. As it happens, I have a plane at the airstrip. My pilots will be only too happy to give you a ride on the short hop over to Java.”
“But—”
“Ah, here’s my driver now. He’ll take you to the airstrip. Say hello to Tippu Tip, Mr. Nash.”
The towering African chieftain in the red dashiki stuck out his hand and Nash had little choice but to stick his own out as well. The African crushed his hand and smiled broadly, revealing his red-stained teeth.
Nash picked up the antiquated bakelite speaking tube hanging from a hook beneath the rear window of the Daimler.
“Why are we stopping here, driver?” he said into the tube. “The airstrip’s up just ahead. Let’s press on, mate.”
“Boss say you lak take picture of baby dragons.”
“Oh, never mind that. Let’s just get to the airstrip if it’s all the same to you, mate.”
“Boss say you take picture, you take picture.”
“Yeah, well your boss isn’t my boss, is he? Now, you—Christ!”
Tippu suddenly swung the big car off the side of the road and skidded violently to a dusty stop in the short grass. Even with the air conditioning on and all the windows up, you could hear the thrashing and roaring of the two young Komodo lizards from their cage somewhere just inside the solid green wall of jungle. His passenger grabbed
