cat, stretching. “So what’s with the crack-of-dawn visit, the coffee?”
“I went to have that talk with Wesley last night.”
“Good. I put the muzzle on Tony. What did Wes say?”
“To me, nothing. To Phyllis, everything.”
Douglas popped his lips two or three times and gestured to him to continue.
“She got to him first. I was near his tent when I heard voices inside. Phyllis’s is as distinctive as Wesley’s. I hung outside for as long as I could stand it in the rain. They were still talking when I left, but I’d heard enough.”
“Which was what?”
“I couldn’t hear every word, of course. Wesley is going to fly her to the Nuba on Monday. Just before I left, they were discussing the thirty-six thousand that Barrett paid to Yellowbird. She sounded very interested in that. I can see why. How sexy if she can prove that an aid agency’s funds went directly to pay for arms deliveries.”
“Damn it! Goddamn it! You should have talked to him earlier. Right after we talked.”
This was one of the responses Fitzhugh had anticipated. “You are not going to tell me what I should have done. It would not have made any difference anyway. You made this mess because of the things you should not have done, and you know what they are.”
Douglas said nothing, looking at the mat beside his bed. He stood, picked up a clot of mud that Fitzhugh had tracked in, and crossing the room, dropped it in the wastebasket.
“So that cunt wants to drag Barrett into this, but how does she prove it? All she’s got is Wesley’s word.”
“Considerably more, I’m afraid,” Fitzhugh said, watching him stoop to pick up more chunks of dirt. “I heard Wesley say he would tell her everything and show her everything. He had his records—the bank transfers, the flight schedules, the dates. And also photographs and videos.”
Douglas stopped housecleaning and faced Fitzhugh, hands in the pockets of his robe. “Photos and videos of what?”
“Of Yellowbird missions. He said he would give them to Phyllis, and I believe he has already. I saw her this morning at breakfast. She was carrying a box about this big”—he indicated its size—“and wouldn’t let it out of her sight. The videocassettes, photos, the records—that all must have been inside.”
“Wes took pictures? He made videos? I made a few runs when Mary was on leave, and I never saw any cameras.”
“Mary was the artist,” Fitzhugh said in a droll voice. “You’ve seen her. She takes pictures of everything. They probably were going to be souvenirs. Now they will be put to another use.”
“Oh, yeah. A real prize for a TV reporter. The next best thing to being an eyewitness. Wes had to be crazy to let Mary do that. Videos!” Douglas flung an arm, knocking the coffee cup off the arm of his chair. “Son of a bitch!” He wiped up the spill, then took off his robe and boxer shorts, baring his flat, cream-colored ass, opened a bureau drawer, almost pulling it out entirely, and got into fresh underwear. “Lives, our pilots’ lives. Wes doesn’t give a shit about them, he’ll risk them just to get back at me. She doesn’t give a shit—it’s only a story to her. A cunt and an asshole. Two cunts and an asshole.” He went to the bar from which his clothes hung, started to put on a shirt, and then threw the hanger against a wall. “Videos, for fuck sake!”
“Please calm yourself, my friend,” Fitzhugh said.
“Calm myself? Everything we’ve built up—a twenty-minute segment on a newsmagazine show. Know what twenty minutes is on TV? A goddamned eternity. They get CNN in Khartoum, the whole fucking planet gets CNN. We’re talking big-time here. The papers will pick it up, and we’ll be . . .” He grabbed the shirt he’d thrown onto the bed and tossed it to the floor. “Khartoum couldn’t order better propaganda. That’s what she is, a propagandist for those bastards. Everything we’ve built up, and you’re telling me to calm myself? We’ll lose our UN contracts, the UN will boot us out of Loki, and we’ll be lucky if Kenya doesn’t revoke our license.”
Fitzhugh raised his palms. “I know what is at stake. You need not go on about it.”
Douglas put his trousers on, picked up the shirt, and buttoned it crookedly, shirttails hanging out as he paced, disheveled and distracted. Fitzhugh had never seen him like this. Facing the possible ruin of his world, he had none of Tara’s dignity