The dense din of insect music provided a natural background for the man and his two companions. The three of them were sitting on the broad Bambah verandah, bathed in the pale equatorial light of late afternoon. The owner himself was seated in a tall white wicker rocking chair, regal as a fat old maharajah, sipping his gin fizz and lime. The cane and wicker rocker was creaking under the burden of his weight.
Bin Wazir wore his favorite evening attire, an aged white dinner jacket made up long ago at Huntsman’s of Savile Row. He’d had his tailor enlarge it any number of times, still he had to be very careful not to strain the seams. Age and the brutal Indonesian heat had turned the vast silk jacket almost yellow, which made it even more elegant. He was wearing black striped silk trousers, black tie, and a pair of black velvet evening pumps without socks. He had rubbed oil of macassar into his thick dark hair and combed it straight back off his domed forehead.
In the distance, out beyond the sweeping ring of the bay, the peak of the towering volcano was sending plumes of grey ash into the whitish-yellow sky. Occasionally, brilliant red and orange jets of molten fire would streak upwards, pause, and then fall back into the mouth of the volcano. There were reports of increased activity. Reports? Anyone who’d lived around volcanoes long enough knew it was early days. The old mountain was just building up a head of steam. Even Saddam, his tail whispering across the floorboards, knew it was only a matter of time.
From time to time, barefoot servants in gold and red sarongs would appear, padding out onto the verandah with bowed heads and hands clasped as if in prayer, silently topping off bin Wazir’s gin, adding tinkling ice from a silver bucket. Or, another might insert a fresh yellow Baghdaddie into his long ebony holder, while yet another held his flaming gold Dunhill to the tip.
Tonight was clearly a very special occasion in the long and storied history of the Hotel Bambah. A sense of nervous excitement was obvious among the staff and guests throughout the hotel, even out here on the verandah. Especially out here on the verandah.
“Most kind,” the owner would say to the servants, and then the verandah, save the constant insect hum, fell quiet once more.
His two companions sat in silence. Three, really, if you counted the dragon, Saddam. Earlier, Tippu Tip had been playing with the Komodo, rolling monkey heads across the floor. He aimed them carefully, keeping them all a foot, and no more, outside the range of Saddam’s jaws, the dragon snapping and straining at his steel leash. The African had tired of this game well before the dragon, and was now lying stretched to his full length atop the cushions of a bamboo divan, snoring quietly.
Saddam was coiled in his corner, his great scaly tail swishing slowly, snaking across the old wooden floorboards, head down, eyeing the various occupants of the porch carefully with his yellow eyes. He had varying degrees of interest in these three humans. He regarded the sleeping African for a while, his eyes flashing, then he turned his attention to Snay bin Wazir rocking in his chair at the top of the steps.
The sight of his owner seemed to calm him. The man never teased or threatened him. And never failed to toss a monkey head or two his way when he came up the steps from walks in the gardens. Pacified, he would even allow the human to stroke his great snout. Satisfied that all was well with Snay bin Wazir, Saddam directed his gaze to the third man on the verandah, Ali al-Fazir. The bright eyes flashed again and the long forked tongue shot out, licked the air, and retracted.
The hotel manager was Saddam’s chief tormenter when the owner or guests weren’t around. He was sitting on the steps below Snay bin Wazir with his arms wrapped morosely around his knees. He was gazing out into the darkening gardens. The old dragon smelled fear and flight; at any moment the much-hated old sack of bones might stand up and sprint off into the encroaching gloom.
Snay spoke, breaking the long silence.
“All of the guests have arrived and are checked in?”
“Yes, Excellency,” Ali al-Fazir said, “All four hundred. All very beautiful, may I say, sire. Exquisite.”
“Yes. But, chosen for the their brains and training, my dear Ali. The creme of the camps the world over. The preparations for this evening’s reception? And the welcome dinner?”
“Complete.”
“The menu?”
“Beef Rendang, Ikan Pedis, and Babi Panggang for the main course. Sate Ajam, Gado Gado, and Kroepoek udang to begin. As you ordered, sir.”
“Ah, well,” Snay said with a sigh, “I suppose there’s really nothing left for you to do then, is there, Ali old friend?” He took another sip of gin.
The silence continued thus until Ali could stand it no longer. “I was wondering, Excellency, about….” He realized he had no idea what he was wondering about, that he was just desperate to say something, anything, to prolong the inevitable. “About…”
“About?”
“Trees,” Ali said, a lost look filling his bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes.
“Trees.”
“Yes, sire, all the trees you planted so long ago out there in the garden. I’ve always wondered what they are.”
“Ah, curious, after all these years.”
“Well, I am curious, sire, about the various—”
“No, no. I meant it is curious that after all this time on the property, you suddenly develop an interest in its horticulture.”
“I only meant—”
“Quiet, Ali. Silence. At any rate, these plantings here at the foot of the steps are East Indian snakewood from Java and Timor. The seeds yield strychnine. And, just over there, those evergreens beyond the path, are my favorite. From Borneo. They call it the ordeal-tree, or poison tanghin as the fruit contains tanghinine, a toxic asthenic. These spectacular Hawaiian climbing lilies, Gloriosa superba, are a wonderful source of colchicine, three grains of which are fatal. The castor bean plants at your feet contain the seed which produces ricin, a quite fashionable poison once again.”
“All poisonous. Everything.”
“With few exceptions, yes. A lovely thought isn’t it? The Poison Garden. Thinking of going for a walk, are you not?”
“I was, yes.”
Ali got slowly to his feet, pushing down with his hands on his knees for leverage.
“How far will I get, sire?”
“Depends on your herb of choice, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
Snay turned and looked at the African and saw the big rheumy red eyes staring at him in the growing darkness. “I believe we’re ready,” he said to Tippu Tip and the big head nodded once in acknowledgement.
He looked back at al-Fazir and saw that the man was rooted to the spot, his chin down on his sternum. He was shaking like a leafless stalk in a strong breeze.
“I-I’ve been a good soldier,” he blurted out, more to himself than Snay.
“Good-bye, Ali,” Snay said pleasantly. “One last thing. That tree by the gate. If you get that far, it’s a Chinaberry tree. The fruit contains a narcotic that instantly shuts down the entire central nervous system. It might be of some help.”
Ali bowed deeply from the waist.
“Sire.”
The man leapt from the steps and hit the ground running. Bin Wazir let him get twenty feet away and then looked over his shoulder and nodded. Tippu already had the key in the security lock. The glass cover of the device slid back and he pulled the red ring. The steel pole the dragon was chained to descended silently into the verandah’s floor.
“Saddam!” Snay whispered to his roaring dragon. “Kill!”
Ali did make it to the Chinaberry tree, such was his desperation and fleetness of foot. He leapt up and caught
