The Constant Gardener

"Crick reported to an answering machine in Luxembourg that has since been disconnected. From there, the fatal message was passed down the line by means that you and I are never likely to establish. Until it reached the ears of the sensitive gentlemen who killed your wife."

"Marsabit," Justin said, from nearby.

"Indeed. The celebrated Marsabit Two, in their green safari truck. They were joined en route by four Africans, bounty hunters like themselves. The purse for the job was a million dollars to be divided at the discretion of their leader, known as Colonel Elvis. All we can be sure of is that his name is not Elvis and he never rose to the dizzy rank of colonel."

"Did Crick report to Luxembourg that Tessa and Arnold were heading for Turkana?"

"That, dear boy, is a question too far."

"Why?"

"Because Crick won't answer it. He's afraid. As I could wish you were. He's afraid that if he is too liberal with his information, andwiththe information of certain friends of his, he'll get his tongue chopped out to make room for his testicles. He may be right."

"What do you want?" Justin repeated. He was crouched at Donohue's side, staring into his blackened eyes.

"To dissuade you from doing whatever you intend to do, dear boy. To tell you that whatever it is you're looking for, you won't find it, but that won't prevent you from getting killed. There's a contract out on you as soon as you set foot in Africa and here you are in Africa with both feet. Every renegade mercenary and gang boss in the business dreams of getting you in his sights. Half a million to make you dead, a million to make it look like suicide, the preferred way. You can hire yourself all the protection you want, it won't do you a blind bit of good. You'll probably be hiring the very people who are hoping to kill you."

"Why does your Service care whether I live or die?"

"At the business level, it doesn't. At the personal level, I'd prefer not to see the wrong side win." He took a breath. "In which context, I'm sorry to tell you that Arnold Bluhm is as dead as a dodo and has been for weeks. So if you're here to save Arnold, I'm afraid that, once again, there's nothing to save."

"Prove it," Justin demanded roughly, while Ghita swung silently away from them and buried her face in her forearm.

"I'm old and dying and disenchanted and I'm telling you tales out of school that would get me shot at dawn by my employers. That's all the proof you can have. Bluhm was knocked senseless, shoved in the safari truck, driven into the empty desert. No water, no shade, no food. They tortured him for a couple of days in the hope of finding out whether he or Tessa had thought to make a second set of the disks they'd found in the four-track. I'm sorry, Ghita. Bluhm said no, they hadn't made a second set, but why should anybody take no for an answer? So they tortured him to death to be on the safe side and because they enjoyed it. Then they left him to the hyenas. And that, I am afraid, is the truth."

"Oh my dear God."

It was Ghita, whispering into her hands.

"So you can cross Bluhm off your list, Justin, together with Kenny K. Curtiss. Neither of them is worth the journey anymore." He rode on remorselessly. "Meanwhile, hear this. Porter Coleridge is fighting your corner in London for you. And that's not just top secret. That's eat before reading."

Justin had disappeared from Ghita's vision. She searched the darkness and discovered him close behind her.

"Porter is calling for Tessa's case to be reassigned to the original police officers, and for Gridley's head to be placed on a charger next to Pellegrin's. He wants the relationship between Curtiss, KVH and the British government to be the subject of a cross-party inquiry and he's chipping away at Sandy Woodrow's feet of clay while he's about it. He wants the drug to be assessed by a team of independent scientists, if there are any left in the world. He's discovered there's something called the Ethical Trials Committee of the World Health Organization that might serve. If you go home now, you might just be able to tip the balance. So that's why I came," he ended happily and, having drained the last of his coffee, stood up. "Getting people out of countries is one of the few things we still do well, Justin. So if you'd rather be smuggled out of Kenya in a warming pan than brave the hells of Kenyatta airport a second time, not to mention Moi's watchers and everybody else's, have Ghita give us the wink."

"You've been very kind," said Justin.

"That was what I was afraid you'd say. Good night."

* * *