"So what’s the job?"

"You don’t waste time," Eichmann said casually. "I like that."

The Ford turned sharply onto a side street and Eichmann slowed to a crawl. He turned right again, this time onto a dirt road leading to a construction site. He killed the headlights and let the car pull itself along at idle speed. Finally, he stopped the Ford and cut off the engine.

Holloway sat motionless, trying to ignore the pinprick sensation in his hands. He hoped the cuffs would come off soon.

Eichmann stepped out of the car and lit another cigarette. He walked slowly around to the rear passenger door, kicking up little clouds of reddish-brown dust in the vacant lot.

He opened the door and unlatched the seatbelt. "Come with me," he said simply, and turned away, striding off toward a poorly stacked litter of I-beams that were slowly settling into the dirt. He took a seat on one of the rusting beams and peered toward the car, waiting for Holloway to join him.

Calvin thought it over, but quickly realized that he was no better off here than he had been outside the museum. If he was going to make a break, it would have to be later. That was fine by him; he could wait. He could be incredibly patient, when he had to be.

Finally, he climbed out of the car—no mean feat with his hands still restrained behind his back—and shuffled across the lot to where Eichmann waited.

"Now," the older man said, in the carefully measured tones of a teacher who is trying to make his point to an inept pupil, "if I take those cuffs off, you’re going to play nice, right?" To accent his point, he turned back the lapel of his jacket, showing the butt of the Beretta.

"Sure," Holloway answered easily. "Now you’ve got my curiosity up."

Eichmann motioned with one hand, and Holloway stepped up close, then turned his back to his captor and waited for the sound of jingling keys.

He was greeted instead by the sensation of a rather large shoe sole planted firmly against his backside. He realized too late what was happening, and by the time he shifted his weight in an effort to keep his balance, he was already stumbling and falling forward in the loose earth.

He quickly rolled over onto his back and sat up, spitting out a moist clump of clay-like dirt. "Asshole," he said under his breath.

"I’m that and so much more," Eichmann replied, smiling. "That was your lesson for the day, young man—never turn your back on anyone."

Eichmann stood and strode purposefully toward the younger man. Calvin could see a glint in Eichmann’s right hand, the faint moonlight bouncing off something highly reflective, like steel—

Like a knife, he thought.

He tried to roll away, but Eichmann was on him in a flash, latching onto his left shoulder with one large hand. The older man stepped easily behind him, and Calvin began to buck and kick in panic.

"Hold still, stupid," Eichmann said roughly, taking hold of the short chain between the handcuff bracelets. "Jesus, hold still!"

Holloway kept up his efforts at staying out of reach. He envisioned the older man stabbing him just below the rib cage in the back, sliding a long and sinister blade home to whatever vital organs it could find.

Finally, Eichmann was able to slip his key into its socket and release the bracelet from Holloway’s right wrist. It was only after he realized that he was being freed that he began to relax and let the agent do his work. With the cuffs off, he turned to face Eichmann. He massaged first one wrist, then the other, trying to restore the circulation.

"Thought you were gonna kill me, you crazy old fuck."

Eichmann grinned. "I could have done that a long time ago. Think, man!" He took two steps backward, then returned to his seat on the rusted I-beam.

Holloway continued to massage his wrists, all the while glancing around furtively at the construction site. To his right was a huge, oil-stained Cat bulldozer. If he could get behind that, he could cut across to the fence and be long gone before Eichmann knew what hit him. He took a deep breath.

"Two hundred fifty thousand dollars," Eichmann said, and Calvin Holloway suddenly forgot the fence, the bulldozer, the African art in the trunk of the Ford—he forgot pretty much everything.

"Two-fifty for what?"

"For the job," Eichmann answered. "Sure, I’ve got you by the balls, but I’m a fair guy. I believe in paying for a job well done."

"Must be one hell of a job." He shuffled over and sat next to Eichmann on the I-beam.

"You catch on fast. It goes like this: I pay your airfare to the target and back, and I give you an advance to cover expenses. You bring back what I’m after, exactly per my instructions, and I make you a lot richer."

"Or, I bring your shit back and you don’t pay me a goddam dime. Look, I’m not exactly new to this game. I know how it’s supposed to work. You pay me—"

"I pay you exactly what I promised to pay you, upon delivery and not a moment sooner. You’re not at a negotiating table here, you two-bit punk piece of shit." Eichmann leaned in close, so that his nose was almost touching Holloway’s. "I…own…your…ass. Get it? Or, as they say it nowadays, ‘you myyyy niggah’."

Holloway’s face tightened and his eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say a word. He simply stared at Eichmann for a long, long moment. Finally, he spoke:

"I guess you’re the boss."

"You can call me names, if it’ll make you feel better."

"Just tell me what I have to do so I can get this shit over with."

"Fair enough. Your flight leaves tomorrow at 7:18 pm. Be at International, Terminal B. Need a ride?"

"Yeah, I could use—"

"Call a cab. This is the last time we’ll see each other face to face. I don’t know you, and you sure as hell better not ever mention me or describe me to anyone. Clear enough?"

Holloway nodded.

Eichmann held a brass key at arm’s length. The key was attached to a diamond-shaped plastic tag embossed in gold with a three-digit number. "Go to the Starlight Motel, six blocks south of International. Room 228, in the closet, you’ll find an attaché case. The combination to the lock on the case is the last three digits of your Social Security number."

"Christ, what’s with all the spy shit?" Holloway interrupted.

"Your instructions are inside the case. Read through it on the way to Kigali, but destroy it as soon as you get there. As soon as you get there, got it?"

"As soon as I get where?"

"Kigali International Airport, in Kigali, Rwanda. Rwanda’s a country in Africa. What the hell is wrong with the younger generation?"

"I know what Rwanda is," Holloway spat back. "What I don’t get is, what the hell could there possibly be in Rwanda that’s worth all this effort?"

"The main target is actually in western Rwanda, but you’ve got a little business in Kigali first. It’s all in your instructions."

Holloway took a deep breath. "So what happens if I ditch, take the case to the authorities, cop a plea, turn you in—"

"The last thing you’ll ever see will be my thumbs, as I’m gouging out your eyeballs. But blindness will be the least of your worries. For what it’s worth, though, if you come through for me, you’ll get your quarter million. I’m a man of my word." With that, Eichmann turned and strode back to the Ford. He keyed the ignition and roared away into the distance, the car kicking up roostertails of dust as he went. In a moment, he was gone, and to Holloway it almost seemed as if the stranger had been an illusion altogether.

He looked down at the motel key in his hand, wondering if this Eichmann asshole was really going to pay what he promised. He stood there, watching the first of the day’s light creeping into the sky, and decided that it didn’t much matter; he had to do the job, or Eichmann was going to fuck up his world. If the creep paid up at the end, all the better, but if not—well, hell, how often do you get a free trip to Africa?

Then he stopped, remembering the priceless item in the trunk of the Ford. Eichmann had caught him, put him on the ground face-first and called it a ‘lesson’, blackmailed him into taking a job that was probably insane, and stolen his art piece.

He decided that as soon as he had his target in hand, Eichmann needed to learn a few lessons of his own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack Thompson stretched and yawned, checking the time on his watch. It was quarter past ten, five hours to takeoff. He wondered whether the anticipation would allow him to manage any sleep before his flight.

He heard a quiet click at the end of the hallway and looked up to see his wife, Bethany, closing their youngest son’s bedroom door. She shuffled up the hallway, whisper-quiet, with a small bottle of cough syrup in her left hand.

"Who’s sick?" Jack asked quietly.

"Nobody," she answered. "But you need your sleep. Call it insurance."

He stared for a moment before he began to realize what she was saying. "You mean you drugged them to get them to sleep?"

"Like I said, insurance. Don’t look so shocked, Mr. Thompson. It’s not like it’s never been done before."

"How often do you use narcotics on my kids?" He asked, his brow furrowing.

She swatted at him playfully. "Only when it’s absolutely necessary. How do you think they managed to sleep through Santa’s swearing at the assembly instructions on those bikes last Christmas Eve?"

"My God," he said, feigning horror, "My wife is doping up our kids. I bet that wasn’t in any of your Spock books."

"Nobody reads Spock anymore," she laughed. "I got this from Holdeman."

"Holdeman? Doctor Holdeman? The man we take them to when they’re sick? I’m appalled." He tried to look appalled, but a hint of a grin shone through.

"Get some sleep," she said, cinching her bathrobe tighter around her waist.

He looked at her appreciatively. Two kids later and she still looked just like she had in college. "Hey, y’know that scene in The Graduate, when Dustin Hoffman is standing in the doorway—"

"Forget it, Mister," she said sternly, wagging a finger in his face. "You need to sleep. No funny business."

"Hey, this could be dangerous," he protested. "I’m flying into the wilds of Africa, after all."

"Wilds of Africa my ass," she laughed. "You’re flying into a major airport and taking a helicopter overland to the most secure location on the damned continent."

"Yeah, but it’s right in the middle of a war zone. And a jungle."

"And you’ll be fine."

"Just think…my last night on earth, and you’ll remember it as the night you turned me down. Just when I needed you most."

She straddled his lap, pressing his face between her palms and drawing closer, until their noses were touching. "The kids and I will be there in four days," she said softly. "And I’m going to step off that helicopter wearing nothing but one of your T-shirts."

He pulled his head back far enough to focus, then stared at her for a moment. Finally, he smiled. "For that, I can wait."

"Damn right you can wait, Jack Thompson. It’s not like you have a lot of options."

"True enough," he agreed.

"So," she said gently, "are you ready?"

He raised one eyebrow, not realizing that she was actually changing the subject. "Oh yeah, I’m ready," he said, grinning slightly.

"You know what I mean," she replied, swatting at his shoulder playfully. "Tomorrow. Are you and your animals ready for the Grand Opening?"

"I’m ready, the staff’s ready, the animals are ready. The techies are working out some details in the automated security systems."

"I thought there wasn’t going to be any automation."

"There isn’t much," Jack answered. "Hammond was adamant about not being overly dependent on machines."

"Makes sense," she nodded. "Computers run too much of the world already."

Jack smiled. "If it weren’t for computers, your husband wouldn’t be on the verge of becoming the most famous geneticist in the history of the world."

She drew him close and kissed him gently on the lips. "If you don’t get some sleep, you’ll be remembered as the geneticist who slept through the most important day of his career."

He smiled at her, then nodded gently. "You’re the boss."

"Damn right," she smiled, and drew away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nigel McMorries stood at the plate-glass window overlooking two massive enclosures, visually scanning the area. His eyes narrowed as he searched for signs of anything out of the ordinary—a skill which had become habit after years spent hunting and being hunted all over the serengeti. He leaned forward, so that his nose was almost touching the glass, and looked to his right. A reinforced gate interrupted the high concrete wall there, and two men stood watch in high turrets on either side of the opening. At last he left the window and unclipped a hand-held radio from his belt.

He pressed the TALK key on the radio. "Samuel, do you read me?"

A voice, broken by static, answered back. It was instantly recognizable; of all the African natives working within the compound, Samuel’s voice was the most authoritative, and his English was the least broken. "I read you, Mr. McMorries."

"Listen, I just don’t think two men per gate is going to suffice. We need to get at least—"

"Sorry, Mr. McMorries. We’re short on men again. My people, they are leaving in twos and threes."

"What the hell for? Where are they going?"

"They’re going back to their homes. They are convinced that the animals are an abomination. They say that anyone who stays here after tonight will be struck down by God."

"Surely you’re joking," McMorries said, knowing full well that Samuel was quite serious.

"They don’t mind the group A. They say that the group A is God’s work, and that man only helped them to get here faster. It’s the group B they’re concerned with."

"Concerned is hardly the word. They’re ridiculously superstitious." He sighed deeply. In a few short hours, this entire compound would be crawling with VIPs, special guests invited to take a sneak peek at InGen’s latest creation. Hammond had insisted on numerous guests, to help fortify the idea that the compound was completely safe. After Isla Nublar, few people trusted the revitalized InGen or the aging John Hammond.

McMorries took up the radio and spoke again. "Any way we can recruit any more men tonight?"

"No, I’m thinking no. It seems that it’s late at night, and people are sleeping. In the morning—"

"Tomorrow’s too late. There won’t be any time before our guests begin to arrive."

"Surely you’re not worried," Samuel called back, his voice broken by radio static. "You sound a little superstitious yourself."

"I believe in being careful," he answered.

"Don’t I know it. Listen, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll call my brothers from town. They can be here by sunrise, if I can reach them now. That’s three more men. Better than nothing, eh?"

"Better than nothing, indeed," McMorries said thoughtfully. He considered the offer, but ultimately declined. "Thanks, Samuel, but we’d better try to make do with what we have. Two to a gate will have to be enough."

"Good enough then, sir," Samuel replied. "And if it sets your mind at ease, the crew I’ve got left are all planning to stay. They don’t believe in ghost stories and curses."

"The men who left, they thought we were cursed?"

"They’re sure we’ve cursed ourselves," Samuel replied soberly. "They think Mr. Hammond and Mr. Thompson have stepped into the shoes of God, and they expect Him to be angry."

McMorries laughed softly to himself. "Well, if they want to throw away a good working wage, in this economy, based on that sort of nonsense…"

"Then to hell with them!" Samuel finished enthusiastically. Nigel McMorries threw back his head and laughed, then clipped the radio back to his belt. Native superstition was nothing new to him; he had lost several fine hunting guides over the years to this sort of silliness. The Africans who followed the old ways and believed in the old legends were in the minority and would, before long, disappear altogether. It was a shame, really, to think of everyone on the continent becoming westernized. The old ways were the best ways, he thought, even if the ancient beliefs sometimes got in the way of progress.

He went down the stairs two at a time, and when he reached the door at the bottom he burst through like a gunslinger with a score to settle. "BOO!" he shouted into the night. From far away to his left, in the deep dark of the night, he heard Samuel burst out laughing all over again.

"Go home!" He shouted. "Tomorrow’s a big day."

"Yes, sir," Samuel called back. McMorries listened for more, and was a little disappointed when nothing else came. He liked Samuel, and enjoyed his company. He was a funny little man, choosing to wear traditional tribal clothing and gear most of the time, but selecting a t-shirt and jeans when going into town to the cinema. He owned one suit, a charcoal-gray three-piece affair that fit as if it had been custom-tailored, and it may indeed have been. He had interviewed for the position of Native Labor Supervisor while wearing the suit, and the park administrator had showed some reservations. He had returned the same afternoon in a long, red sari, with all his earrings and ornaments in place, and had been hired on the spot.

McMorries climbed into his Jeep and drove the short distance to his quarters, worrying and nervous about the next day’s important events. He was certain that sleep would be elusive, but within five minutes of his head hitting the pillow, he was on the far side of consciousness, sleeping peacefully and dreamlessly.

9/23/2003 11:41:40 AM
(Updated: 9/23/2003 11:42:33 AM)
(Updated: 9/23/2003 2:33:48 PM)

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