“I know what you’re thinking. And there’s more—I’ll be his fifth wife. No accounting for a woman’s taste, is there? That’s enough girl talk. You’ve got something for us.”
“I’m supposed to show it to Wes or Doug.”
“Wes is in Nairobi and Doug’s on a flight.”
“Michael said to show it to either of them. Personally.”
“Hey, I’m his first officer. I’m authorized,” Mary said, and turned her hand palm up. After she glanced at the note, she said, “Okay, let’s go and see what’s on order.”
When Quinette entered Knight Air’s office, Fitz bounded out of his chair and hugged her—a welcome that made up for the ones she’d gotten at the airport and from Anne.
“Okay, that’s out of the way,” Mary said. “It’s handbook.”
Fitz squatted before a small safe in a corner of the room, spun the combination lock, and pulled out a sheet of paper and laid it on his desk. Eight sets of letters were printed on it in block letters: RWOEIOHE RCRNSIEH OHEOEPEC PTLVDDTS YFIROSP IOWTNZRA IUSSTPC TTFAWEA.
“All those consonants, it looks like a listing from a Polish phone directory,” Quinette said.
Fitz chuckled. “The things I have had to learn how to do,” he said, in a way suggesting that the acquisition of these new skills pleased him.
On a blank sheet, he printed HANDBOOK, spacing the letters wide apart and writing a number under each one:
HANDBOOK
41632785
That done, he arranged the sets of letters vertically, placing each column under the number corresponding to its place in the sequence, then turned the sheet around so Mary could read the message.
Squinting at it, Quinette recognized some words, but the text still didn’t make much sense.
HANDBOOK
41632785
PRIORITY
TWOHCUTF
LOWERSFI
VETONSAR
DINESTWO
DOZPIPES
THREECAP
SEACH
“It says,” Mary explained, “that the Archangel is asking for a priority shipment of two hundred cut flowers—that’s assault rifles—five tons of sardines—that’s rifle ammunition—two dozen pipes—that’s rocket-propelled-grenade launchers—and three caps—that’s the grenades—three for each launcher.”
And now, with another look, Quinette saw the message emerge, like a lake bottom coming into clear view through a diving mask. She felt that she had gained admittance to a secret world.
Fitz turned to her. “So, mission accomplished. Join us for dinner tonight at Tara’s compound. The food there is much better.”
Proud that she had overcome her need for even basic amenities, Quinette looked upon the Hotel California’s comforts the way a reformed alcoholic would a drink. A soft bed, running water, decent food—one taste of these blessings, and she would have to start all over, habituating herself to a life without them. So when Mary, an hour before dinner, hinted that she could do with a bath by loaning her a fresh towel, a washcloth, and a bar of soap, she marched to the shower determined not to enjoy it. The cascade of hot water broke her resolve almost immediately. She stood under it for a long time, her head thrown back and eyes shut, and with guilty pleasure she watched the suds swirl down the drain, carrying away the grime and dried sweat that veneered her body.
Feeling renewed, she returned to the tent. She’d brought two changes of clothes in her carry-bag in case she couldn’t get a flight out right away—another pair of bush shorts with a matching shirt and, in case of a special occasion, the black and gold dress.
“What do you think?” she asked, holding up the two outfits.
Mary, who was brushing her hair in a mirror nailed to a tent pole, turned and answered that the dress was gorgeous, but considering Quinette’s notoriety, it might be best not to call attention to herself.
“I don’t see why I should skulk around like I’m ashamed.”
“Look”—Mary hammered the air with the hairbrush, like a scolding mother—“you’re already the subject of a lot of bad talk, so why give them a reason for more by showing up dressed like the White Queen?”
Never one to shy from attention, even the negative kind, Quinette snaked into the dress, did her lips, and put on her hoop earrings and a nest of black-bead necklaces. Eager to cause a stir, she was a little deflated when she entered the bar with Fitz and Mary and found it empty. So was the adjacent dining room, except for a South African aircrew in dark blue jumpsuits.
Round tables on concrete pedestals sprouted alongside the small kidney-shaped swimming pool, glowing an unearthly blue in its underwater lights. They sat down and ordered drinks, Quinette asking the barman for a gin and tonic without the gin—she hadn’t touched hard liquor in so long, she was afraid