Sam hefted the Webley-Fosbury in his hand, appraised the weapon for a moment, then handed it to the Kid, who frowned and shook his head. “She’s yours now.”
“Pardon me?”
“Until today, she’d never been fired. It’s a tradition, you see . . . Chinese, if I recall.”
Remi smiled. “I think you’re thinking of, ‘Save a life and you’re responsible for it.’”
The Kid shrugged. “Either way, Mr. Fargo, she’s yours now.”
“Thanks. I’ll treasure it. What should we do with these two?” Sam asked, pointing to Tolotra and the dead man on the road.
“Leave them. The sooner you get to Antananarivo, the better.” The Kid read Sam and Remi’s somber expressions. “Don’t give it a second thought. They would’ve killed you.”
“How do you know that for sure?” Remi said.
“In the last five years, there’ve been sixty-three kidnappings here. Ransom paid or unpaid, not one came back alive. Trust me, it was you or them.”
Sam and Remi considered this, then nodded. Sam shook the Kid’s hand, then grabbed their packs from the truck’s bed as Remi gave their savior a hug. They turned and headed toward the Range Rover.
“One more thing,” the Kid called.
Sam and Remi turned back. The Kid dug into his pack and came out with a small burlap bag. He handed it to them. “Truffles for your troubles,” the Kid said. Then he crossed the road and disappeared into the brush.
Sam turned the bur
lap bag over in his hands. Stamped on the side in red ink was a logo—the letter C, and beside it, in smaller letters, ussler Truffles.
Remi said, “That’s nice of him. But what’s an ‘ussler’?”
CHAPTER 34
MADAGASCAR, INDIAN OCEAN
THEY WERE ALMOST HALFWAY BACK TO ANTANANARIVO AND approaching a village named Moramanga at the junction of Routes 2 and 44 when their satellite phone trilled. In the passenger seat, Remi answered. “It’s Rube,” she said after a moment, then put it on speakerphone.
“Hi, Rube,” Sam called.
“Where are you?”
“Madagascar.”
“Damn. I was afraid of that.”
Remi said, “Something tells me it’s not just a general dislike of Madagascar that’s got you bothered.”
“Someone flagged your passports at the Antananarivo airport.”
“When?” asked Remi.
“A couple days before you arrived.”
“What exactly does that mean?” Sam asked. “We weren’t stopped when we went through immigration.”
“That’s what’s got me worried. If it was a government-level request, you would have been stopped there. In spookspeak, the flag you got is called a ‘note-and-notify.’ Somebody just wanted to know when you got there.”
“And it doesn’t have to be someone in the government,” Sam said.
“In Third World countries, where the average annual income is a few hundred dollars, you can buy a note-and-notify for the price of a cup of coffee. And since Rivera’s already shown he’s got connections in Africa . . .”