lowered his binoculars. For the first time in days, a grin moved under his moustache. Lazily, he stroked the scar that marred his cheek. “We’ve spotted them. Radio Mr. Dimitri.”
C H A P T E R
8
“Do you think they saw us?”
At top speed, Doug headed dead east and kept to the thickest part of the forest. Roots and vines snatched at their feet, but he never lost his footing. He ran instinctively, through a foreign forest crowded with bamboo and eucalyptus just as he had through Manhattan. Leaves swung out and lashed back as they pushed through. Whitney might’ve complained when they swatted into her face, but she was too busy saving her breath.
“Yeah, I think they saw us.” He didn’t waste time on fury, on frustration, on panic, though he felt all. Every time he thought they’d gained some time, he found Dimitri on his heels like some well-groomed English hound who’d tasted blood. He needed to rework his strategy, and he’d have to do it on his feet. Through experience he’d come to believe it was the best way. If you had too much time to think, you thought too much about consequences. “There’s no place for them to put that copter down in this forest.”
It made sense. “So we stay in the forest.”
“No.” He was loping along like a marathon runner, smoothly, breath even. Whitney could detest him for it even as she admired it. Overhead, lemurs chattered in wild fear and excitement. “Dimitri’ll have men combing this area within the hour.”
That made sense as well. “So we get out of the forest.”
“No.”
Exhausted from the run, Whitney stopped, leaned her back against a tree, and just slid down to the mossy ground beneath. She’d once, arrogantly, considered herself in shape. The muscles in her legs screamed in revolt. “What’re we going to do?” she demanded. “Disappear?”
Doug frowned, not at her, nor at the steady, whirling sound of blades and engine overhead. He looked off into the forest while the plan formed in his mind.
It was risky. In fact, it was undoubtedly foolhardy. He glanced up to where a canopy of leaves was all that separated them from Remo and a .45.
Then again, it might work.
“Disappear,” he murmured. “That’s what we’re going to do.” Crouching down, he opened a pack.
“Looking for your fairy dust?”
“I’m looking to save that alabaster skin of yours, sugar.” He pulled out the lamba Whitney had bought in Antananarivo. While she sat, he draped it over her head, going more for coverage than style. “Good-bye Whitney MacAllister, hello Malagasy matron.”
Whitney blew pale blonde hair out of her eyes. One elegant, fine-boned hand folded over the other. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Got a better idea?”
She sat for a moment. The forest was no longer quiet with the intrusion of helicopter blades overhead. Its shade and spreading trees and mossy scent no longer equalled protection. In silence, she crossed the lamba under her chin and tossed the ends back. A lousy idea was better than none at all. Usually.
“Okay, let’s move.” Taking her hand he hauled her to her feet. “We’ve got work to do.”
Ten minutes later, he found what he’d been looking for.
Near the bottom of a rocky, uneven slope was a clearing with a handful of bamboo huts. The grass and vegetation on the incline had been slashed and burned, then planted with hill rice. Below, gardens had been cleared and hoed so that the leafy vines of beans wound up around poles. She could see an empty paddock and a small lean-to where chickens scratched for whatever they could find.
The hill was steep so that the small buildings rose on stilts to compensate for the irregular terrain. Roofs were thatched but even with the distance looked in need of repair. A line of crude steps dug directly into the hill ran down to a narrow, rutted path below them. The path went east. Doug kept low behind the cover of small, scrubby bushes and watched for any sign of life.
Balancing herself with a hand on his shoulder, Whitney looked over his head. The cluster of houses looked cozy. Remembering the Merina, she felt a certain safety.
“Are we going to hide down there?”
“Hiding’s not going to do us much good for very long.” Taking out his field glasses, he lay down on his belly and took a closer look at the huddle of houses. There was no cook smoke, no movement at any of the windows. Nothing. Making up his mind quickly, he handed