George Martin - Suicide Kings

She didn’t respond. Instead, she stared at his shoulder. Her eyebrows rose. “Wally? Did you know you’re… rusting?”

Wally craned his neck to peer over his shoulder. Little splotches of orange dusted his skin. Sure, it was wet here, but he’d hoped this wouldn’t have started quite so fast. “A www, heck.”

“Does that hurt?”

Huh. Nobody had ever asked him that before.

“Nah,” said Wally. “Not when it’s just on the surface like that.” He fumbled through his pockets until he found some steel wool. A few quick rubs turned the splotches into a red dust. The slightest of breezes carried it away.

Jerusha still looked upset. She was frowning. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Sometimes. When it’s humid outside.”

“Humid? We’re heading into the jungle. During the rainy season.”

“Don’t worry. I got lots of S.O. S pads with me.”

Jerusha frowned, looking doubtful. She started to say something, but stopped when the sound of raised voices echoed across the street.

They turned. The aide was talking to a fellow with grey skin, dark little eyes deep in his round face, and a snout topped with a thick horn. He was a big guy, too, built like a fire hydrant. Wally remembered the Living Gods, jokers that had taken the forms of the gods of ancient Egypt. Kinda like the way Wally had grown up around open-pit iron mines and ended up with iron skin. This fella seemed to be something similar, only here in Africa his jokerism had taken the form of a rhinoceros.

The aide waved Jerusha and Wally over. They joined him. To the rhino guy, he said, “Here they are. Jerusha Carter and Wally Gunderson.” To Wally and Jerusha, he said, “This is Denys Finch. He’s the pilot I mentioned.”

“Best pilot in the bush,” said Finch.

Wally held out his hand. “Pleased to meetcha, guy.”

Finch looked him up and down, his stubby little ears twitching like crazy. He did the same to Jerusha, then looked at the aide again. “Oh, no,” he said. “Not this time. I’ve had it with your bloody tourists.”

The aide looked embarrassed. “Not tourists, Mr. Finch. I told you, they’re here on business for the Committee. The United Nations.”

“Yeah, you and your so-called dignitaries.” Finch spat in the dirt. “Comin’ all the way to Tanzania, askin’ me to fly them around. ‘Ooh, Mr. Finch, show us Kilimanjaro. Ooh, Mr. Finch, show us the lakes, show us elephants and hippos and the real bloody Africa so we can take a few holiday snaps before going home to brag about our safari adventure.’ Then it’s thank-you-Mister-Finch-good-job and before you know it they’re headed back to their proper Western hotels for proper Western food and proper Western air-conditioning.” He spat again. “Wankers.”

The embassy aide tugged at his collar, blushing. Wally understood the gist of Finch’s tirade, if not every word.

“Hey, fella, we’re not tourists,” he said. “Not like that. Promise. We might be here awhile.”

“Is that so? Then where’s your kit?”

Wally frowned. “Kit?”

Finch rolled his eyes. It looked like he was mad enough to hit somebody with that sharp horn of his. Wally sidled in front of Jerusha.

“Yes, kit,” said Finch. “Provisions. Gear. Tents and the rest.”

“Actually,” Wally said, “we were kinda hoping you’d help us with that.”

Jackson Square

New Orleans, Louisiana

The woman was disgusting, a mass of flesh draped in a light, silky material. Noel wondered if they’d used a circus tent. They had to have something covering her for modesty’s sake, but it had to be light given the sultry heat.

Michelle and Niobe were deep in conversation. Ink hovered at the edges of the conversation, and the terrifying Hoodoo Mama stalked the edges like a protective rottweiler.

“We’ve been married almost a year, and… I’m pregnant,” Niobe trilled. Then all of the females let out that peculiar shrill squeal reserved for news of an impending whelping. Even Noel’s large, no-nonsense, horse-faced English mother had produced the sound when they’d relayed the news to her.

Michelle rolled her head toward him. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I might surprise you.”

“I doubt it.”

“Oh, Michelle, be nice. Though we did have to try real hard,” Niobe added, and Noel closed his eyes as peals of female laughter rolled past his ears. He wondered if he would have understood these tribal responses if his mother had chosen to raise him as a girl rather than a boy.

But if she had he wouldn’t have Niobe, which indicated his brain wiring was male even if his parts were confused.

Michelle smiled at Niobe. “Would you get me a cup of lemonade? Ink can help you.”

Both Niobe and Ink looked startled. Noel gave Michelle a cynical knowing smile. As the two women walked away he moved in close to her. He noticed that she lay in a crater formed by her massive weight in the moist soil of New Orleans.

“That was a little in-artful,” he said. “So, what is it you want to say to me?”

“Are you out of the spy business?”

“I left the Silver Helix, yes.”

“That didn’t answer the question.”

“That’s all the answer you’re getting.”

“So you are up to something. I thought Niobe looked worried. She’s trying to hide it, but she’s upset.”

Noel found himself just glaring at the woman, hating to admit that she was perceptive.

“Tell me or I may just have to get a message to Jayewardene and the Committee.”

“I’m getting very tired of being blackmailed,” Noel said.

“Tough.”

He hesitated, but realized he had no choice. “Very well, I’m engineering a little regime change in the Congo.”

He thought he saw something flash in the back of Bubbles’s eyes when he said Congo. “Oh, great, that worked out so well the last time.” And her scorn and disdain drove away all thoughts about her reaction.

“If all goes well the final act will be taken by Tom Weathers,” Noel gritted.

“When I hear the phrase ‘all goes well’ in conjunction with you I immediately get hives.”

“I’d say that’s the least of your problems.”

Jackson Square

New Orleans, Louisiana

“Okay, so why is it you can’t stand Noel?” asked Juliet, when he and Niobe finally took their leave.

“I met enough self-aggrandizing dickweeds when I was a model,” Michelle replied. “Every time Noel pops in, he spends the entire time looking down his nose at everyone.”

Joey laughed. “He thinks his shit don’t stink. Yeah. Not to mention he was the fucker who stole that Sprout kid and got that cocksucker Weathers all pissed off.”

“People rarely change who they are at their core,” Michelle said. “Sure, occasionally, someone stops doing all the crappy stuff they used to, but most folks will revert to form if given the chance. Noel’s got responsibilities now. He’s got a wife and a baby on the way, but he’s still playing spy. The more he screws around with Tom Weathers, the more he puts himself, Niobe, and the baby in harm’s way.”

“He seems to make Niobe happy,” said Ink.

Joey shrugged. “He knocked her up, you mean?”

“Looks like,” Michelle replied. “I confess, it’s giving me the hard-core willies, but it’s what she wants. I don’t care if they used a spatula and a turkey baster.”

Juliet nodded, then changed the subject. “Have you had any more dreams?”

“They’re not dreams. And yes, every night, just about. I’ve got to get to her…”

“You’re assuming she’s a real person.”

“I know the difference between dream real and real real. These dreams about Adesina are real. They smell, for crying out loud. When was the last time you had a dream that smells?”