Boundoukou was dusty and hot. We got caught in a traffic jam caused by yet another tanker, and the Toyota didn"t have air-conditioning. It took a while; the tanker was wedged in tightly between a flimsy wooden stall on one side of the road and a big open gutter on the other. It was trying to turn around, and it definitely wasn"t a three point turn - it was a fifty point turn as the huge vehicle shuddered back and forth, gaining a few degrees at a time.An audience had gathered, and four or five driving experts shouted and waved at the tanker pilot, issuing what was most likely conflicting advice. It would have taken much less time to take the wooden stall apart and rea.s.semble it elsewhere; it consisted of a folding table under a thatched roof supported by four gnarled poles. I glanced at Kross and saw that he was tense. He tapped the invisibility meter again.
"f.u.c.k," he said.
"They"re all watching that guy there," I said. "We"re invisible." Kross snorted.
"Battery"s nearly flat," he said. "Should be fully charged after a drive like that. f.u.c.k! Those guys, they just aren"t happy if they don"t find a way to pull a fast one somewhere."
"So what now? We buy a new battery?" He shook his head. He said:
"It"s not as simple as that. It"s not charging. We probably need a new alternator. I"ll make sure he pays for it when we get back."
"You mean your guy?"
"No, the Pope." That brought the conversation to a close.
It was another minute or so before the tanker pilot completed his dance and rolled past, shifting up every couple of seconds - his truck seemed to have an infinite number of gears. It was another three minutes or so before we could move; the vehicles in front got going one by one as their drivers and pa.s.sengers completed a.s.sorted roadside deals and finished important conversations. We traveled maybe half a kilometer at a snail"s pace, then halted for a gaggle of goats that had urgent business on the other side of the road. It was worse than rush hour in a big city.
My sweat and the dust combined into a greasy paste, and I left rusty prints on everything I touched. I looked at my watch when Kross pointed out a Total service station sign that hove into view maybe two hundred yards away. I looked at it again when we finally got there, and found that the journey had taken nearly five minutes. Throughout that time we were besieged by a horde of teenage hawkers of newspapers, soft drinks, oranges, chewing gum, cigarettes - I just sat and stared stonily ahead while Kross spat out the appropriate French phrase at those that got too aggressive.
There was a long, loose lineup at the gas pumps; it blocked access to the service area and Kross showed his mettle, poking his head through the window and shouting at a meditating minibus driver. The minibus moved to let us pa.s.s; an elderly local matron seated by one of the side windows gave us a look of utter contempt.
Kross stopped the Toyota by the service bay and got out. I watched him walk up to a tall African smoking a dejected cigarette next to a small red Kawasaki motorbike leaking oil. Kross asked him something, then disappeared inside the service bay. He re-emerged very quickly, leading a worried-looking African liberally covered in grease and oil, and pointed at the Toyota. I saw the keys change hands, followed by an eloquent little bunch of banknotes. The African looked less worried, and nodded decisively.
Kross walked back to the Toyota, jaw grimly set. He opened the door and announced:
"It"s gonna take a couple of hours. Let"s go for a beer - there"s a place across the road."
"What about the luggage?"
"Leave it. No one will touch it." I was doubtful. I said:
"You sure you don"t mind us being seen? We stand out, you know."
He didn"t bother to answer. I got out and followed him down the station lot and across the road, weaving between the crawling cars. He stopped by a tree spa.r.s.ely shading the entrance to a biggish building with blotchy red stucco.
I came to a halt beside him and looked at the unlit neon sign over the dark doorway. It was executed in fancy, flowing script, but I"m good at reading fancy, flowing script - I"ve even been known to produce such script myself. And the name was international, which helped. I said:
"The Trocadero. Where Boundoukou high-life congregates. I like the size of their air conditioner." He seemed to hesitate - his professional sixth sense setting off a tiny alarm bell in his head? - so I stepped forward and led the way into the Trocadero.
I entered and stopped to get my bearings: it was very dark, and wonderfully cool, inside. Kross squeezed past and stopped as well. A familiar female voice said:
"How wonderful. So you"ve decided to visit me after all."
Mireille was sitting at a table right to the side of the entrance, almost literally under my nose, which of course was why I hadn"t noticed her. She was holding a bottle of Fanta with a candy-striped straw. She was wearing a white T-shirt with big, floppy sleeves and a grin, the grin of a kid who has played a successful prank. She"d pulled her hair into a ponytail, and she appeared to be more beautiful than ever.
I could sense Kross, by my side, begin to open his mouth and I said quickly:
"I insisted."
Her grin turned into a thoughtful smile. She said:
"How charming. Would you like to sit down?"
We sat down. Kross almost immediately cleared his throat and announced:
"We actually have reservations at the lodge for tonight."
"It"s good to have reservations," she said. She bent her head to the side, looked at me and asked:
"Do you believe in destiny, Mister Hansen? I think you do."
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I put on a smile and said:
"Do you?"
"No," she said. "I don"t."