The Taste of Fear (A Suspense Action Thriller & Mystery Novel)

by Jeremy Bates

  CHAPTER 4

  “Is that it, Silly?” Scarlett asked the guide as she peered out the window of the Land Rover at the volcanic caldera in the distance. It was rocky and huge and, well, permanent, like it had been there forever. According to Sal, the lodge where they were spending the night was perched right up on the rim, overlooking the crater. She couldn’t wait to check out the view.

  “Yes,” Silly told her. “Ngorongoro Crater.” His name was Sirily, pronounced “Cereal,” but he said he preferred Silly. She went with it.

  “How much longer until we get to the lodge?” Sal asked.

  Scarlett patted his thigh reassuringly. He’d had an upset stomach for the past half hour or so, a result, he believed, of the fruit at the café in Arusha. She wished there was something she could do for him. She’d had a bad case of food poisoning while in the Bahamas last winter, and she’d spent two full days in bed, barely able to muster the strength to sit up.

  “Not long,” Silly told him. “I can pull over if you would like?”

  “No,” Sal grunted.

  “Then I will stop at the next village.”

  “No,” Sal repeated. “Just get us to the lodge.”

  They fell silent after that. Scarlett spent the time staring out the window, captivated by the scenery. The sky was big and blue, the grasslands flat and endless. It made her wonder what early man had thought when he came down from the trees and was confronted with this new and alien world full of opportunity and danger.

  They zipped through the farming country of Karatu and Oldeani, which was dotted with farmers and their oxen, then began the ascent into the crater highlands. The dusty landscape became greener, the road steeper and steeper. Silly identified some of the local birds for them, which included Carmine bee-eaters, recognizable by their black eye masks, and brilliant malachite-colored rollers, which stayed closer to the ground, searching for grasshoppers and snails and whatever else they found good to eat. Halfway up the forested slope they arrived at Loduare Gate, the entrance to Ngorongoro Conservation Area. There were no flashing lights or music or fanfare in any way, just a little hut and a sweaty ranger with a red beret and an AK-47. Silly flashed him their permits and they carried on.

  The sealed road petered to a rutted and grooved earthen track. Scarlett poked Sal when she spotted a troop of baboons lounging in a sausage tree, drinking the nectar from the blood-red flowers that hung in long panicles. The baboons watched the Land Rover pass with their sparkling black eyes, unalarmed, likely used to seeing their distant cousins come this way.

  They continued onward and upward through increasingly dense vegetation until they arrived at a T-junction at the crater’s rim. Silly turned west. A few miles later they reached Tree Camp of Ngorongoro Crater Lodge. The five-star resort was composed of a main building and six smaller villas. They were all constructed from local wood and thatch and resembled oversized, hairy-topped mushrooms. As soon as Silly parked alongside four other Land Rovers, Sal was off to search out a bathroom. Scarlett got out and performed a few yoga poses to stretch her cramped muscles. Two men emerged from the main building, catching her in the Warrior Pose. They welcomed her to the lodge and introduced themselves as Wilson and Onesmo. Wilson was older, pasty white, with a thin mustache, while Onesmo was tall and black. He held a silver filigree tray on which rested two long-stemmed glasses of champagne and two warm, scented towels.

  Scarlett accepted a glass, then followed her two hosts inside the main building. She was impressed with the décor, a unique mishmash of Western opulence and African themes. Her first thought was of a Masai version of Versailles. She went directly to the bank of windows that offered a panoramic view of the crater. The rocky rim of the collapsed volcano curved away from the lodge to form an enormous ring, while thousands of feet below, in the vast depression, grassy plains stretched away for miles. A sprawling soda lake glittered like quicksilver beneath the midday sun.

  Sal had told her Ngorongoro Crater was sometimes referred to as Africa’s Eden, and now she understood why. It was a paradise of unspoiled nature.

  Maybe he had the right idea after all, she thought. Maybe this is exactly what we need.

  Scarlett went to the front desk and checked in. Wilson handed her an additional waiver to sign that absolved the lodge of any wrongdoing in the event that either she or Sal were injured or killed on the premises. The legalese sounded rather ominous, so she asked Wilson what he had up his sleeve.

  “Zebra, water buffalo, and elephants roam freely on the property,” he explained. “If you don’t respect them, and keep your distance, they may charge. That’s why we enforce strict precautions. After 7 p.m. every evening, if you would like to leave your villa, you must first ring the main lodge on the telephone in your suite. One of our staff will come to escort you to wherever you need to go.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, and signed away.

  Wilson led her to her villa, explaining on the way that there were in fact thirty suites in all. Twelve in South Camp, twelve in North Camp, and six here in Tree Camp, which supposedly offered the most privacy. The villa was perched on ten-foot stilts. She wondered if that was to give the guests a better view of the crater, or to keep the wildlife out.

  Wilson held the door open for her. She stepped inside to teak walls, hardwood floors, and a domed banana-leaf ceiling. She eyed the king-size bed with the purple bedspread and massive carved headboard and decided it would suffice. On the plane from LA to Tanzania, Sal had told her there had been no doubles available, and he could sleep on the sofa or a cot. She’d told him sharing a bed was fine—as long as he stayed on his side. She didn’t know how long she was going to enforce that invisible line, but one thing was for certain: a romantic getaway to the top of the world was not going to make it easy.

  “No mosquito net?” she said.

  Wilson shook his head. “Those nasty little buggers don’t survive at this altitude. It’s one of the perks of being located atop a volcano. Now, in an effort to conserve electricity, the generator is turned off twice daily, between three and five in the afternoon, and midnight and three in the morning. Make sure your cameras or what-have-you are not plugged in during those times as there may be a surge when the power resumes. Oh—there is one more thing, Miss Cox,” he added, red patches the size of cherry tomatoes blossoming on his cheeks. “Would it be too much of an imposition to ask for an autograph? I have a teenage son. He’d be delighted.”

  Scarlett obliged willingly and scribbled her name on the back of a postcard of the lodge Wilson proffered her. After he left, she went to the luggage at the foot of the bed, which the Silly Express must have brought in while she’d been signing her life away down at the main lodge. She was in the process of unpacking a few things when Sal returned.

  “How do you feel?” she asked him, wondering if the lodge sold antacid.

  “Blah.” He collapsed into one of the two high-backed leather club chairs that faced the fireplace. He considered the decanter of complimentary sherry on the low table in front of him, then poured himself a glass.

  Scarlett took the chair opposite him. “What’s going on, Sal?”

  He gave her a questioning look.

  She nodded at the sherry. “It’s barely noon.”

  Sal rarely drank. He might have a glass of wine or a single malt Scotch on special occasions, but that was all. Drinking diluted the senses, and he despised not being in control at all times. It was one of his quirks.

  Before he could answer, however, his cell phone rang. He took it from his pocket and answered it. Scarlett watched him. His jaw tightened. His eyes darkened. About two minutes later he said, “Do it.”

  Aside from the curt greeting, those were the only two words he spoke before putting the phone away once again.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “Danny.”

  The name gave Scarlett an involuntary start. Danny Zamir. She’d never liked Sal’s security chief. Part of the reason was simple jealousy. Danny always had S
al’s full attention, regardless of the time or place. Back when Scarlett and Sal had first begun dating, Sal would never answer his phone when he was out with her—except when it was Danny. Then he might step away from whatever they were doing for five minutes or forty, it never seemed to matter. Scarlett had first met Danny when he’d visited their Bel-Air home on some sort of business the year before. He was darkly handsome and roughly her age. And she had never forgotten how he’d walked—languid, like a large cat, or a supremely confident soldier.

  She might not know much about him, but she knew one thing for certain: Danny Zamir was a very dangerous man.

  “What did he want?” she asked, trying to parlay idle curiosity.

  “He’s just keeping me up to date with the hotel.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Sure.” He sipped the sherry.

  “Be straight with me, Sal.”

  He met her gaze evenly. Clockwork ticked behind his eyes as he seemed to assess whether to open up or not. Finally he said, “There was a fire at the Prince a few weeks ago.”

  Scarlett blinked. Whatever she’d been expecting to hear, it hadn’t been that. “What kind of fire?” she said.

  “It gutted the top two floors and put us behind schedule.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

  He shrugged. “It wasn’t a big deal at first.”

  “What does ‘at first’ mean?”

  “We thought it was the result of bad wiring.”

  “And now?”

  Sal hesitated.

  “Tell me,” she pressed.

  “It’s looking more like it might be arson.”

  “What?” Scarlett’s mind reeled. “Why would anyone want to burn down one of your hotels?”

  “They didn’t.”

  Sal took another sip of the sherry, acting as if the topic bored him, which she knew meant it concerned him very much. At her urging, he reluctantly explained how he had been the only person staying in the hotel at the time, how the fire had been set directly below his room, and how, if it hadn’t been for Danny Zamir, he might very well have perished.

  Scarlett felt numb. “Maybe it was accidental?” she said. “Maybe it was only a coincidence it happened right below where you were staying?”

  “The police don’t seem to think so.”

  “Do they have proof it was set deliberately?”

  “Proof enough to convince me.”

  “Who would do something like this?”

  Sal was silent.

  “You don’t have any idea?” she said.

  He shrugged. “The police are investigating. Danny’s investigating. That’s why he called. To give me an update on what he’s found out.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. He doesn’t know anything yet.”

  Scarlett recalled the angry look on Sal’s face while he’d been on the phone. Was it because Danny hadn’t found anything out? Then again, Danny had spoken for a solid two minutes, uninterrupted. That was a long time to tell someone nothing.

  Do it, Sal had said. Do what?

  “I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this from me,” she said.

  “I only learned about it the other day,” he replied. “The same day you landed yourself in the hospital. You didn’t need to be burdened with this.”

  “Someone tried to kill you, Sal! That’s not a burden. That’s something you need to talk to me about…regardless of whatever else is going on.” She took his hand, softened her voice. “I’m still your wife. Don’t forget that, silly.”

  “I love you, cara mia.”

  “I—I love you too, Sal.”

  She released his hand and sat back. Wow. She felt shaky but thrilled. They’d just made more progress than they had with months of expensive therapy sessions. Death, or even the threat of death, put the most serious of secular matters into perspective. “What happens now?” She realized how that might be interpreted and added quickly, “With the Prince.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing. It’s over.”

  “What if they try something again?”

  “They won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The police are on it. Danny’s on it.”

  “Isn’t there anything more you can do?”

  “Look,” Sal said, setting his drink aside. “Even if someone wanted to hurt me, I’m in Africa. Nobody knows I’m here. Maybe a few people from the office. That’s it. By the time I get back to Dubai, chances are good the police will have some news for me. If they haven’t already caught whoever’s responsible, they’ll at least have leads. We’ll take it from there.” He stood and kissed her on the forehead. “Now excuse me for a moment. My stomach’s acting up.” He went to the bathroom.

  Scarlett slumped back in her chair and shook her head, trying to absorb everything she’d learned.

  Who would want to kill him?

  The half-full copita of sherry on the table caught her eye. She picked it up and knocked the rest back.

  Screw it being noon.

  At two o’clock in the afternoon, Damien Fitzgerald arrived at a salvage yard located in the middle of a shitty industrial neighborhood that made all the other shitty neighborhoods he’d driven through in Arusha seem almost nice in comparison. He entered through the front gate and passed between fleets of junked cars until he came upon a rickety office with a rusted corrugated iron roof. He knocked on the door. No one answered. He tried the handle, found it unlocked, and went inside. The walls were melamine-finished particleboard, the rug green and torn, the few pieces of furniture as decrepit as the cars outside—including one bench seat that looked like it was straight out of a Volkswagen Bus.

  “Hello?” he called. The word came out raspier than usual, and his hand went unconsciously to the scarf at his throat.

  A back door opened and a Tanzanian man wearing a yellow-and-green football jersey entered. “Hello!” he said merrily. “Welcome!”

  “I’m looking for Land Rover parts,” Fitzgerald said. “Do you have any?”

  “Yes. Yes, I haf many. There are more Land Rovers in this city than flies because of you mzugus and your safaris. What do you need?”

  “A front driveshaft.”

  “Yes. I can help you. Yes. Come this way.”

  The man led Fitzgerald through the back door into a lot filed with more junked cars. He pointed to a Land Rover sitting on tireless axles. The driver’s side door was smashed in, the roof crushed. “Ile accident ilitokea alipo-lose control na aka-overturn and landed in a ditch,” he said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Ah! Why do I know English, but you do not know Swahili, or even half Swahili? I said, ‘The accident happened when he lost control and overturned and landed in a ditch.’ But do not worry, my friend, it is only body damage.”

  “I’m looking for an old driveshaft.”

  “Why do you want that?”

  “Do you have one or not?”

  “Yes, I haf plenty. There, with the power train parts.” He pointed to a pile of scrap metal.

  Fitzgerald went to the pile. There were hubs, differentials, transfer boxes, gears, and driveshafts. He examined each driveshaft closely. The front end splines—gear teeth—were maligned and worn on four. Two looked okay. One was nearly bald. He chose the bald one and asked the Tanzanian how much it cost.

  “That one’s no good,” the man said. “Why do you want that one?”

  “How much is it?”

  “Fifteen thousand shillings.”

  Fitzgerald paid him, then turned to leave.

  “Hey,” the Tanzanian called. “You never told me what you need a no-good driveshaft for?”

  “Neco quispiam.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re the language man,” Fitzgerald told him over his shoulder. “You figure it out.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Tuesday, December 24, 4:43 p.m.

  London, England

  “How about th
is one?”

  Jahja al-Ahmad looked at his wife, Sara, who held up a colorful scarf. “Too bright,” he said. He returned his attention to the belt rack, where a number of belts were hanging from the hooks like dead snakes. He wanted a black one, so he ignored the brown and white ones. All the bands were made from leather and looked similar to one another. It was the buckles that made the decision difficult. There were sterling, enamel, pewter, square, and rectangular ones. He was holding a black belt with a simple pewter buckle in his hand; it was the best he had seen so far.

  He and his wife were in Harrods in Knightsbridge, in the fashion accessories department, which was on the ground floor, along with the rest of the menswear shops. Plastic Christmas trees, mistletoe, tinsel, holly, Santa Clauses, and wreaths suffocated the place. Ironically, these decorations all had non-scriptural pagan origins, nothing to do with the Messiah’s birth. But the Christian infidels out shopping likely didn’t know or care about that. Christmas for them was merely an excuse for consumerism and gluttony and drunkenness.

  “How about this one?” Sara held up another colorful scarf. She was dressed conservatively in heavy wool pants and a long winter jacket. A plain green hijab covered her hair.

  “No,” Jahja said.

  “Well, there’s not much left to choose from. Two days before Christmas isn’t the best time to go shopping.”

  They weren’t shopping for Christmas gifts, of course. They were Muslim. Jahja had been born in Algeria; Sara in Bosnia, to Turkish parents. But Jahja needed a new belt. He hadn’t been eating much lately, and his waist size had shrunk two sizes. Sara asked him what was wrong every evening at the dinner table. He told her he was dieting. She didn’t believe him. If she did, she wouldn’t keep asking him what was wrong every evening. Nevertheless, she was a good wife. They had a good marriage. She would never in a thousand years suspect what was causing him to lose sleep, to lose his appetite.