Glass Tiger (35 page)

‘Tatuona tena,’ he said solemnly, repeating it from their last meeting. We shall see each other again.

‘Ndio,’ replied Morengaru, equally solemn. Yes. Then he added, ‘Uso kwa uso.’ Face to face.

The woman held out a hand to Morengaru and greeted him. ‘Jambo, bwana.’

Hello, sir. ‘I am Janet Kestrel.’

Morengaru took her hand in both of his and bowed very slightly. ‘Memsa’ab.’ Madam. ‘I am Morengaru.’

Then of one accord, all three of them turned to face the pounding rain and the advancing line of green that they all had come to see. It had deepened, broadened now, from a line on the horizon to cover half the veldt in front of them. For a long time they watched its progress. No one spoke. No one had to.

When the growing grasses had almost reached their termite mound, soon to surround it and pass on, Morengaru stirred and spoke, without turning his head.

‘Since we three landless rogues, maybe we go hunting now.’

They laughed, three people lost in the vastness of the Serengeti plains, drenched by East Africa’s life-giving long rains.

As always, my wife Dori, first in my heart, is first in these acknowledgments. She accompanies me through the endless hours of writing and revision of all of my novels, brilliant and sensitive and tough-minded in her insights and suggestions.

Otto Penzler, the mystery field’s greatest editor, historian, and publisher, who invited me to join his new mystery list at Harcourt. I find myself a pygmy among giants.

Henry Morrison, my agent, who over the years has never ceased to amaze me with his wit and intelligence, his editorial and creative suggestions, his understanding of the publishing field and its dynamics.

My foreign agent, Danny Baror, a bulldog in securing foreign sales for his writers, securing excellent advances, and in protecting our rights in other countries.

Bill Corfitzen, who patiently drove Dori and me all over Washington, D.C. and environs, and gave us an insider’s description of the Department of Commerce cafe and courtyard.

Jane Lepscky, who took us around the Georgetown docks and marina, and who suggested the Alexandria tour boat as a colorful and tricky way to get my man Thorne to and from Old Town.

Several old friends from my years in Kenya, especially John Basinger and Edgar Schmidt, who shared many adventures with me. Also the late Neil Macleod, John
Allen, Errol Williams, and Joe Stewart, ex-Headmaster at Kakamega Boys Secondary School. Others embedded in my memory are the real Morengaru, Arthur ‘Squealer’ Kemoli, Elijah Muthengi, Mbalilwa, and Prabatsingh M. Mahidi.

Olga Shezchenko gave me detailed descriptions of the Tuolemne River white-water rafting trips for which she was a singularly skillful guide. Olga also told me the colorful way to build up immunity against poison oak.

Retired Army Colonel William Wood shared detailed knowledge about military tactics, arms, explosives, what snipers face, and the things they must know for their strange and deadly work.

Movie producer Paul Sandburg, for his unflagging delight and enthusiasm for all of my projects, his wisdom about the ways of La La Land, and his suggestions about L. A. locations.

The wonderful staff, especially Theresa McGovern, at the Fairfax Branch of the Marin County Public Library system, for their dedicated pursuit of obscure reference material for me.

All of the people at the Sho-Ka-Wah Indian Casino in Hopland, California, who gave Dori and me access to their operation. Especially the Hopland Tribal Council; Sho-Ka-Wah’s general manager, Don Trimble; the Sergeant of Security for the day shift, Mike Hatfield; and Herb, the security man who took us around.

Warf the Klingon, for insider information on outlaw bikers and the Harley cult.

Last, but not least, the good folks at Whiskey River in Oakdale, California, for good drinks and good talk and truly funny barroom jokes over a long Thanksgiving weekend.