recalcitrant child. He squirmed, oinked, and subsided.
“Come along, Little Douglas, Daddy’s taking us to market.”
“Smartass,” Doug grumbled, but grinned as they cleared the trees.
“There is a bit of a resemblance,” she said as she skidded to a stop at the bottom. “Around the snout.”
“We’ll take this road east,” he said, ignoring her. “With any luck, we’ll make it to the coast by nightfall.”
Struggling with the pig, Whitney navigated down the steep dirt steps.
“For Chrissake, Whitney, put the damn pig down. He can walk.”
“I don’t think you should swear in front of the baby.” Gently, she set him down, tugging on the rope so that he swayed along beside them. Mountain, brush, and cover were left behind. From a helicopter, she mused, they’d probably look enough like farmers to get away with it. Up close… “What if we run into our hosts?” she began, casting a quick look at the huts behind them. “They might recognize this designer original.”
“We’ll take our chances.” Doug started down the narrow road and decided Whitney’s feet would be dirty enough within a mile. “They’d be a lot easier to deal with than Dimitri’s ape patrol.”
Because the road ahead looked endless and the day was only beginning, Whitney decided to take his word for it.
C H A P T E R
9
After thirty minutes, Whitney knew the lamba was going to smother her. It was the kind of day where she felt it best to wear as little as possible while doing as little as possible. Instead, she was trapped inside a long-sleeved, long-skirted sack, wound inside yards of lamba, and assigned to a thirty-mile hike.
This one would be great for her memoirs, she decided. Travels with My Pig.
In any case, she was becoming rather fond of the little fellow. He had a princely kind of waddle, trooping along with his head swiveling from side to side now and again, as though he were leading a procession. She wondered how he’d like an overripe mango.
“You know,” Whitney decided, “he’s rather sweet.”
Doug glanced down at the pig. “He’d be sweeter barbecued.”
“That’s revolting.” She shot him a long, critical look. “You wouldn’t.”
No, he wouldn’t, only because he didn’t have the stomach for it. But there was no reason to let Whitney know he had a certain delicacy. If he was going to eat ham, he wanted it all nicely cured and packaged first.
“I’ve got this recipe for sweet-and-sour pork. Worth its weight in gold.”
“Just keep it filed,” she said smartly. “This little piggy’s under my protection.”
“I did three weeks in a Chinese restaurant in San Francisco. Before I left town, I had the classiest ruby necklace outside of a museum, a black pearl tiepin as big as a robin’s egg, and a pad full of great recipes.” All he had left were the recipes. They satisfied him. “You marinate the pork overnight. It’s so tender, it practically dissolves on the plate.”
“Stuff it.”
“Herb sausage in a very thin casing. Grilled.”
“Your IQ’s all in your stomach.”
The road became more even, smoother, and wider as they left the hills behind. The eastern plane was lush and green and humid. And much too open for Doug’s thinking. He glanced overhead at power lines. A disadvantage. Dimitri could issue orders quickly over the phone. From where? Was he south, following the trail Doug so desperately tried to cover? Behind, just behind and closing in?
They were being followed, of that he was certain. He recognized the feeling, and hadn’t been able to shake it since they’d left New York. And yet… Doug shifted the basket. He couldn’t lose the notion that Dimitri knew the destination and was waiting patiently to close the net. Doug glanced around again. He’d have slept easier knowing from which direction he was being hunted.
Though they didn’t dare risk the use of his field glasses, they could see wide, well-tended plantations— with long stretches of flatland that could accommodate the landing of a helicopter. Flowers sprang up everywhere to bake in the heat. Dust from the road coated petals but didn’t make them any less exotic. The view was excellent, the day clear. All the easier to spot two people and one pig traveling down the eastern road. He kept the pace steady, hoping to come across a group of travelers they could blend with. One glance at Whitney reminded him that blending wasn’t a simple matter.
“Do you have to walk as though you were strolling toward Bloomingdale’s?”
“I beg your pardon?” She was getting the hang of leading the pig and