glasses, hung from a cord around her neck, resting on the top button of her white captain’s shirt. “Tail end of the wet when I flew John in. Better that than this”—she motioned at the cloudless sky—“and it’s like this now in the Nuba.”
Douglas questioned her with a look.
“There’s a government garrison here, and another here,” she answered, pointing at the map spread in front of her. “And here’s Zulu One, the airstrip.”
An understanding nod from Douglas. There was between him and Tara the special bond that made bush pilots seem like members of a secret society who could speak volumes to each other with a few words.
“Do you mind explaining why you want the weather to be bad?” Fitzhugh asked. To him, small planes and thunderstorms weren’t a desirable combination.
“Our course takes us between the garrisons.” Tara gave him the indulgent smile a kindly teacher bestows on a slow learner. “In clear weather, it will be easier for the troops to . . .”
“Shoot at us?”
“I’m not too worried about that. We’ll be flying out of small arms range. I’m more worried they’ll send patrols to find out where we’ve landed. If that happens, Zulu One will be compromised, and then I shall have a jolly time coming in to pick you up, won’t I? Zulu One is it for the Nuba, although by the time you’re ready to be taken out, I hope Douglas will have found a couple of alternatives.”
She looked at Douglas expectantly, but he only turned his head, his attention drawn by the birds flitting in the branches of a nearby tree. Flashes of dark blue, iridescent blue, russet.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” he remarked, with an irritating irrelevance and a seeming indifference to what Tara had said. An indifference underscored by his posture: slumped low in his chair, ankles crossed, fingers clasped behind his head. “As common as robins back in the States, but I never get tired of looking at them.”
“Which? The superb starlings or the rollers?”
“Both.”
“Are you a birder? You don’t look like one.”
“How is a birder supposed to look?”
“Oh, owlish, I guess.” Tara grimaced as if in disapproval of her own pun. Like Diana Briggs, she was a woman of a certain age who looked much younger. The same clear English complexion, somehow preserved from the effects of time and African suns; the same startling blue eyes, the same blond hair, though hers was a darker blond and cut shorter than Diana’s. The two women could have been sisters. Close cousins anyway. Tara was taller at five-eight or -nine, and broader boned, with a strong, square face and an aloof, self-contained air that came from years of flying solo over wild and dangerous country. Not unfriendly, but certainly a woman who would prefer a handshake to a kiss on the cheek, no matter how long she’d known you. “I flew lots of birders into Tsavo in the old days, and they all looked owlish to me. Glasses like this”—circling her eyes with thumbs and forefingers—“thick in the middle, skinny legs. They were always in a sweat to see carmine bee-eaters.”
“That’s an incredible bird!” Douglas popped out of his slouch in a burst of enthusiasm, the first time Fitzhugh had seen him shuck off his cloak of studied cool. “I saw a few down there myself last year. Got pictures of them.”
“Ah! So you are a birder.”
“Not the one my mother is. If it’s got feathers and it flies, she can identify it, tell you where it winters and summers, and maybe imitate its call. She came over to go to Tsavo with me. Maybe I ought to say I went with her. She’s been around half the world with her binoculars and bird books, and when she isn’t gallivanting, she’s out on the San Pedro or Sonoita Creek. Nature preserves near Tucson.”
“That’s in the West, correct?” asked Tara as Fitzhugh thought, A mother who can afford to come all the way to Africa just to look at birds?
“Arizona,” Douglas informed her. “And
Douglas questioned her with a look.
“There’s a government garrison here, and another here,” she answered, pointing at the map spread in front of her. “And here’s Zulu One, the airstrip.”
An understanding nod from Douglas. There was between him and Tara the special bond that made bush pilots seem like members of a secret society who could speak volumes to each other with a few words.
“Do you mind explaining why you want the weather to be bad?” Fitzhugh asked. To him, small planes and thunderstorms weren’t a desirable combination.
“Our course takes us between the garrisons.” Tara gave him the indulgent smile a kindly teacher bestows on a slow learner. “In clear weather, it will be easier for the troops to . . .”
“Shoot at us?”
“I’m not too worried about that. We’ll be flying out of small arms range. I’m more worried they’ll send patrols to find out where we’ve landed. If that happens, Zulu One will be compromised, and then I shall have a jolly time coming in to pick you up, won’t I? Zulu One is it for the Nuba, although by the time you’re ready to be taken out, I hope Douglas will have found a couple of alternatives.”
She looked at Douglas expectantly, but he only turned his head, his attention drawn by the birds flitting in the branches of a nearby tree. Flashes of dark blue, iridescent blue, russet.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” he remarked, with an irritating irrelevance and a seeming indifference to what Tara had said. An indifference underscored by his posture: slumped low in his chair, ankles crossed, fingers clasped behind his head. “As common as robins back in the States, but I never get tired of looking at them.”
“Which? The superb starlings or the rollers?”
“Both.”
“Are you a birder? You don’t look like one.”
“How is a birder supposed to look?”
“Oh, owlish, I guess.” Tara grimaced as if in disapproval of her own pun. Like Diana Briggs, she was a woman of a certain age who looked much younger. The same clear English complexion, somehow preserved from the effects of time and African suns; the same startling blue eyes, the same blond hair, though hers was a darker blond and cut shorter than Diana’s. The two women could have been sisters. Close cousins anyway. Tara was taller at five-eight or -nine, and broader boned, with a strong, square face and an aloof, self-contained air that came from years of flying solo over wild and dangerous country. Not unfriendly, but certainly a woman who would prefer a handshake to a kiss on the cheek, no matter how long she’d known you. “I flew lots of birders into Tsavo in the old days, and they all looked owlish to me. Glasses like this”—circling her eyes with thumbs and forefingers—“thick in the middle, skinny legs. They were always in a sweat to see carmine bee-eaters.”
“That’s an incredible bird!” Douglas popped out of his slouch in a burst of enthusiasm, the first time Fitzhugh had seen him shuck off his cloak of studied cool. “I saw a few down there myself last year. Got pictures of them.”
“Ah! So you are a birder.”
“Not the one my mother is. If it’s got feathers and it flies, she can identify it, tell you where it winters and summers, and maybe imitate its call. She came over to go to Tsavo with me. Maybe I ought to say I went with her. She’s been around half the world with her binoculars and bird books, and when she isn’t gallivanting, she’s out on the San Pedro or Sonoita Creek. Nature preserves near Tucson.”
“That’s in the West, correct?” asked Tara as Fitzhugh thought, A mother who can afford to come all the way to Africa just to look at birds?
“Arizona,” Douglas informed her. “And
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