George Martin - Suicide Kings

Wally called into the jungle. “Jerusha? You okay?”

Please, please, please…

“I’m okay.” She emerged from behind a dense screen of foliage, rubbing her armpits. “Just a little bruised.”

“Oh, cripes, did I hurt you? I’m real sorry.”

Jerusha shook her head. “Don’t sweat it. I’m pretty sure they didn’t expect you to fling me into the jungle like that.” The corners of her mouth twisted into a wry half smile. “Neither did I.” She touched his arm. “It was good thinking, Wally. But next time, try to give me some warning, okay?”

Wally blushed. “Okay.”

She nodded toward the rustling kudzu vines where the kid from the patrol boat struggled to free himself. “Well. Let’s see what he has to say, huh?”

Monday,

December 7

On the Lukuga River, Congo

People’s Paradise of Africa

Nyunzu. Nyunzu. Nyunzu.

Wally rapped his fingers on the gunwale, wishing their boat had a larger engine, the river a stronger current. He’d already pushed the throttle as far as it could go. Crack. Another hairline fracture appeared in the sun-rotted wood under his hand. He stopped tapping. But he couldn’t contain the anxiety; his leg bounced up and down, almost of its own accord. Soon the boat bobbed in time with the rhythm of his impatience.

“Hey, Wally.” Jerusha turned. “You’re gonna give me seasickness. River sickness.” Her smile didn’t touch her eyes. She was worried, too.

“Sorry.” Wally directed his attention to the river, turning the wheel slightly to keep them in the center of a mild bend. Jerusha went back to watching for surprises: patrol boats, submerged logs, hippos, crocodiles…

Lucien was in Nyunzu. He had to be. That’s where the PPA was taking all the children. That’s what the kid they’d caught (whom Jerusha had caught) had said, more or less.

To change them. To turn them into soldiers. Little kids, like Lucien, given guns and taught to kill.

In the end, Jerusha had disarmed the kid she’d caught while Wally fished the other two up from the riverbank. Then they loaded up the patrol boat with a couple days’ worth of food and let them go. What else could they do? They were just kids.

Motoring around the bend, they passed a crocodile sunning itself on a sandbar. Wally tensed. But the giant reptile didn’t react to their presence. It just lay there with its mouth open and its eyes closed. Jerusha said that was how they sweated-they panted, like dogs. And that a logy croc was often a well-fed croc.

Half an hour later, they passed another croc. And another. “Huh.” Jerusha dug out her guidebook. She flipped through it. Wally watched how the breeze from the pages lifted stray hairs from her sweat-glistened forehead. A stirring sight, but somehow comforting, too.

“Yeah, that’s what I remembered.” She tapped the page with her finger. “African crocodiles don’t tend to congregate. Except,” she added, with another tap to the page, “during mating season, or if there’s food to be found. They’ll travel miles if there’s a good carcass to eat.”

Wally watched the crocodiles warily. He kept glancing at the sandbar until it passed out of sight around another bend. So did Jerusha.

“Lots of crocs,” said Wally.

“Lots of well-fed crocs,” said Jerusha.

“Tarzan wrestled with a crocodile once. Tarzan and His Mate. Johnny Weissmuller and Maureen O’Sullivan.”

“That was a movie.”

“Yeah, but it was pretty neat. He even-”

“Wally, look out!” Jerusha dropped the book and jumped to her feet, pointing at something in the river.

Wally spun the wheel; the engine died. Please, not a hippopotamus. Finch had warned them about the hippos: “Roit nasty buggers. They’ll flip your boat and bite your head off just for spite. Even yours, mate,” he’d said, jabbing his horn in Wally’s direction.

Behind him, Jerusha braced for impact. Wally clenched his eyes shut and hunched his shoulders.

Bump. Something brushed gently against the boat.

Wally opened one eye, then the other. They were still afloat. He released the breath he’d been holding. He looked at Jerusha.

She shrugged. “I saw something floating low in the water. I couldn’t tell what it was. I thought it might have been a log, or an animal.”

Wally could see it now, too, just a couple of feet off the side of the boat. They must have nudged it when he turned the boat broadside. Weird. It was a piece of pale driftwood, draped in tatters of cloth.

No, not cloth. Clothes. A sun-bleached pair of cargo pants.

On a body.

United Nations

Manhattan, New York

The elevator doors snicked open. Lohengrin stepped out. Out of his shimmering white armor he looked like a regular guy. Big and blond and good-looking, but chunkier than she remembered. Too much time behind a desk.

“Bubbles. It has been too long.” His accent was still heavy. He pulled her into a hug, then kissed her on the cheek. “Who is this?”

Michelle introduced Joey and Juliet. Lohengrin nodded as he shook Joey’s hand. “I remember this one. You raise the dead. Hoodoo Mama, ja ?”

“Yeah. And I remember how y’all didn’t like my background. Prissy motherfuckers.”

Klaus reddened. “Ah, you are so young, you do not understand. The world watches us, all the time. The Committee must be above reproach.”

“I’m not that much younger than you, asshat,” Joey snapped. “Reproach my ass. Don’t you shine me on.”

“Joey, please.” Michelle wanted to throttle the brat. The last thing she needed was Hoodoo Mama screwing things up with the Committee. “I’m sorry, Klaus.” Michelle slipped her arm into his and drew him away.

Lohengrin shrugged. “Things are more complicated than before, Bubbles. Jayewardene does what he can, but we must be so careful. He is waiting for you upstairs. Come.”

The hallway leading to Secretary-General Jayewardene’s office was lined with photographs of Committee members. Michelle smiled as she passed Jonathan Hive, Rustbelt, and Gardener, but instead of the shots she remembered of Curveball, Drummer Boy, John Fortune, and Holy Roller, there were photos of people she didn’t know. It made her uncomfortable. She’d spent a lot of time walking these halls. A year, she thought. Still, it wasn’t right that so many of her friends were gone.

Lohengrin opened the door to Jayewardene’s office and then followed the girls inside.

“Michelle, my dear, it’s good to see you looking so well.” G. C. Jayewardene rose from his chair, came around the desk, and crossed the room to embrace her. One of the perks of his position was having the largest office in the UN building. A wall of windows faced the East River. There was enough room for a sitting area with a couple of couches and an area for Jayewardene’s desk and several sleek, modern leather chairs. It was larger than most apartments on the Lower East Side.

Jayewardene was a small man, but it never seemed to bother him that Michelle towered over him. That was one of the many reasons that she’d grown so fond of him. He also had an old-fashioned, courtly side to him that she liked.

“I see you’ve brought Miss Summers and Miss Hebert,” he said. Both girls looked surprised. And, Michelle noted, he even pronounced Joey’s name right. “How are you feeling, my dear?” Jayewardene asked as he walked back to his chair.

Michelle smiled at him. “I’m certain you already know, Mr. Jayewardene. Given what happened, I’m surprisingly well.”

“You know that we want you to come back to duty as soon as possible.”

The door to Jayewardene’s office opened. A plump, dark-haired woman came into the room carrying a folder. She was pretty enough, but something in the way she carried herself made Michelle suspect she didn’t feel pretty all of the time. “Oh, Mr. Jayewardene,” she said. “I didn’t realize you had guests…”