The Amulet of Power - Mike Resnick [75]
“The other’s for you, just in case you change your mind.”
“It’s not going to happen. I don’t drink—and even if I did, I need to keep all my wits about me.”
“Perhaps it’s time to tell me what this is all about,” said Oliver. “I was rather hoping you’d come to enlist me in the hunt for King Solomon’s Mines, the way we once discussed.”
“Perhaps next time,” she said, and began telling him everything that had happened since Kevin Mason had found her buried in the rubble beneath the Temple of Horus and brought her to the Cairo Hospital.
She was interrupted a number of times, as waiters kept approaching the table, each with a different side of meat on a skewer. She chose the impala, the Thomson’s gazelle, and the hartebeest, which they sliced off in turn, and passed on the zebra and the crocodile.
She finished her story at about the same time she finished her meal. Oliver signed for the check, got up, and walked her to the safari car. A few moments later they were driving through the center of the huge city, past the Kenyatta International Conference Centre, the New Stanley Hotel, the High Court, all the familiar landmarks.
“It’s hard to believe that Nairobi consisted of nothing but two tin-roofed shacks in 1895,” she remarked. “I wonder if any city ever grew this big this fast.”
“It was tiny back then,” agreed Oliver. “The problem is that it’s too damned big now. Everyone comes here looking for work. We’ve got about three million people living here, and the water supply and sewage system weren’t built to handle even half that.”
“So what happens?”
“What happens is a lot of these poor bastards live in squalor that no one deserves,” he said with a sigh. “I wish I could help, but what can an aging safari guide do?”
“Well,” replied Lara, “if we ever go hunting for Solomon’s treasure and actually find it, you can put your share to use here.”
“I suppose there are worse things to do with it,” he agreed.
Oliver turned onto Harry Thuku Road and pulled up to the front of the venerable Norfolk a moment later. He opened the door for Lara, then tipped an attendant to park the car.
“I believe you have a room for me,” said Lara as they walked up to the registration desk. “My name is—”
“I remember you from your last visit, Memsaab Croft,” said the desk clerk. “And we have a cottage for you, not a room.” He paused. “With two bedrooms, as Mr. Oliver requested.”
She stared at Oliver in surprise.
“I didn’t know what the problem was,” he said. “But I knew you weren’t coming on safari. I live in the Ngong Hills, about ten miles from here. If you’re going to need help in a hurry, I can’t stay there.”
“That was very thoughtful,” she said. “I’ll cover all your expenses.”
“Too late,” he replied with a grin. “I’ve already paid for three nights.”
“What’s a girl to do?” said Lara. “You win.”
A porter came up and tried to take her bag from her.
“I’ll carry it myself,” she said.
“But—” began the man.
“You’ll get your tip anyway,” said Oliver in Swahili. “But the lady always carries her own bag.”
The porter looked at them as if they were crazy, but he finally shrugged and led them through a courtyard, past an aviary, and to their cottage.
“Cottage Number Five,” he announced. “This is known as the Writers’ Cottage. Many famous authors have stayed here—Ernest Hemingway, Robert Ruark, Daniel Mannix . . .”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” said Lara before he could continue his litany of writers.
He opened the door, ushered them in, puttered around showing them the light switches and fans until Oliver gave him his tip, and then departed.
“What a pleasure it is to be back here!” she said, plopping down on an oversized chair. “An uneventful flight, a great meal, and now I’m in the Norfolk. I haven’t felt this safe in quite a while.”
“You’re not that safe,” said Oliver.
“What are you talking about, Malcolm?” said Lara. “This is the Norfolk! I don’t know about writers, but it’s been hosting American Presidents and British royalty since Teddy Roosevelt’s day. Where could we find better security?”
“I guess you didn’t know that the