Tuareg

Table of Contents Title Page Tuareg Epilogue Loose Id Titles by Sarah Black 10 Things About Sarah Black

Tuareg Sarah Black

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Tuareg Copyright (c) June 2011 by Sarah Black All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. eISBN 978-1-61118-432-7 Editor: Raven McKnight Cover Artist: Justin James Printed in the United States of America Published by Loose Id LLC PO Box 425960 San Francisco CA 94142-5960 www.loose-id.com This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Tuareg Leon knew he was dreaming when Charlie sat down on the side of his bed, but he was so happy to see him, he reached out and held on to his knee. "Charlie! Don't go." Charlie was wearing a T-shirt that said DHARMA QUEEN, and he leaned forward, kissed Leon lightly on the forehead. "Silly boy. Where would I go? You've got me locked up in your heart." His voice was lightly mocking. "I'm a prisoner of love." "I miss you, Charlie." "Is that your excuse? You really must stop running, Leon. Have the courage to live the life you want to live." "But I don't know what that life is, Charlie." And he opened his eyes, awake in the darkness. Dharma Queen. A gay Buddhist angel. He grinned up at the ceiling. Charlie was picking up some cool T-shirts in heaven. He sat up on the side of the bed and looked out the window. It was early, the sky dull gray and heavy with clouds. He switched on the bedside lamp and stared at the two cardboard boxes that sat, unpacked, in the corner of the bedroom. He spent a moment trying to remember what was in them but drew a blank. He was subletting his bedroom from a man he'd met through his freelance job at the Wilderness Coalition for Africa. Kelvin was gay and out, way out, nearly off the planet, and Leon had thought he could somehow hang on to his coattails a bit, let himself get dragged into the world. Kelvin had taken him to a few parties, shown him the bars and the cruising grounds, but Leon couldn't stand the booze, the meth, the

hysterical shrieks of forced gaiety from the men Kelvin played with. Leon thought they sounded like a flock of turkeys getting their feathers plucked. He'd started refusing invitations and hiding in his room, and Kelvin got offended, and pretty soon they managed to live in the apartment without ever seeing each other or speaking. Leon felt like a ghost. And he was getting ready to split. He could feel it coming, just like last time, the way he was withdrawing, the way he had taken to carrying emergency cash and his passport and all his cameras in a backpack. He had come to DC for a three-month freelance job, and he was getting definite signs they were happy with him and wanted him to stay. He knew he should; he would be a fool to turn down the opportunity, but he couldn't pass a bus stop without wanting to climb on and just ride, not open his eyes till they got to wherever they were going. And he didn't know why, or how to stop it. It wasn't the first time. It was the Dharma Queen, he thought, then heard Charlie sniff with disapproval in his head. "Don't blame this mess on me, Leon." "I didn't say it was your fault. I said it had something to do with you." "Oh please. Give me a break. Any half-baked psychology student could tell you you're scared about what happened. You would think loving someone is a disease, and you've put yourself in quarantine. Everything doesn't end in disaster and death, silly boy." "Charlie, I don't know what you're talking about." "Uh-huh." ***

Leon got in line at the Starbucks in the lobby behind Maggie. He loved the way she dressed, some sort of Katherine Hepburn-Annie Hall hybrid

of tweed pants and vests, with thick-soled boots in the winter and heavy linen with oxfords in the summer. She turned around and gave him an up and down, her forehead creasing. "What's the matter, Leon?" "Nothing. Why?" "You look like you didn't sleep. Did you hear about Piers?" "Piers is a prick. Whatever happened, I'm sure he deserved it. What, did he get arrested for being an asshole?" Maggie winced. "Baby, you don't want to say that too loud unless you want to put yourself on the suspect list. He's dead. Killed while on assignment to the beautiful island of Zanzibar." "No way." She leaned closer, and he could hear the relish in her voice. "Run through with a Tuareg sword." Maggie didn't like Piers any more than he did. Leon stared at the young barista making espresso and thought about Piers. Well, he wasn't happy he was dead, of course, but what he had said to Maggie was still true. Run through with a sword? Piers had a way of digging too deep and too personal, standing too close, looking over your shoulder to read whatever was in your hands. Leon sometimes felt like Piers had taken a sharp steel surgical tool, shoved it into his liver, taken a little piece out, and studied it. His stomach always ached when he spent too much time in Piers's company. Piers knew he made people uncomfortable. Was he just being a good reporter, as he claimed? Leon didn't think so. He thought Piers liked watching people try to squirm out of his fist when he squeezed tight. "Double latte, right?" The line shifted impatiently behind him, and he realized he must have been standing there too long, not saying anything.

"Yeah, thanks." He pulled a five out of his pocket and paid the cashier. Zanzibar? Run through with a Tuareg sword? He must have pissed somebody off. The Tuareg were armed, and they spoke with the steel in their fist. But they were farther north, right? In the Sahara? He moved away to the serving counter and spoke to Maggie again. "So are they sending anyone? To finish his assignment? What was he working on?" "They'll probably send someone," she said, looking at him curiously. "Leon, can I ask you something?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Why do you still dress like you're in high school? You're wearing jeans and a Tshirt from the Onion and a hoodie, for Christ's sake, and you must know they're thinking about offering you a job. You've got hair halfway down your back. Who wears their hair this long anymore? How old are you? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? Why are you carrying a backpack around with you everywhere? A backpack, a hoodie, hair in a ponytail--you're a little moodier than usual, and people are going to start watching to see when you pop out of the men's room with an automatic weapon." Leon felt his mouth drop open, and he reached for his latte without looking. "Wha--It's cameras! There're my cameras! I mean..." She narrowed her eyes again. "You look like one of those guys who hops the freight trains out west. Who am I thinking of?" "Jack Kerouac. Cool. Well, too bad there's not a freight train going through DC, heading west right now. I would hop it just to end this conversation. It's like you're channeling my mother." Maggie laughed, a big, rich laugh that had everyone in the Starbucks line looking over at them. "All I'm saying is, a button-down shirt wouldn't kill you and might even make you look a little bit more like a grown-up. Now drink your coffee, and let's get to work."

Upstairs, the photographers' bullpen was buzzing like a beehive. Leon set the backpack down on his temporary desk. There were a couple of detectives in the editor's office with Tim O'Brien, lean men who looked like they worked their stress out at the gym, not the bar. They had their shields tucked into the waistbands of their dress slacks. One of them had an iPad open on his knee. Tim saw him through the window of his office and gestured for Leon to come inside. Leon resisted the urge to look behind him, hoping to see someone else being called into the boss's office. At the door he hesitated, then knocked gently on the doorframe. "Tim? Did you need me?" "Leon, come on in." He turned to the detectives. "Leon Davis, this is Detective Kramer and Detective Jones. You heard about Piers?" "Just now, down in the lobby." One of the detectives stepped up, shook his hand, stared at him with a piercing look that seemed very familiar. "I'm Kramer. Mr. O'Brien here just told us you used to be a cop. LAPD." "Not for very long." The other cop looked up from his iPad. "You the only one?" "The only one what?" "Who isn't a cop. Looks like your entire family is LAPD." Tim pulled a chair around, and Leon sat down. "It wasn't for me." Leon felt his shoulders sink a bit. Basic cop deal, everybody knows who everybody is, and everybody gets put in their place. Tim leaned against his desk. "The reason I told them about you being a cop is I'm thinking about sending you out there to Zanzibar to finish Piers's

assignment. But they"--he nodded toward Kramer and Jones--"they said they don't want you getting involved in finding out what Piers was doing. I want to know if this is related to his work for the Wilderness Coalition." Kramer interrupted him. "That's clearly the jurisdiction of the local cops in Zanzibar. It would be a blatant act to send your own people to investigate. The State Department is already involved, and they have a liaison at the Ministry of Justice in Tanzania. State's responsible for making sure any Americans killed overseas have their deaths properly investigated. If you want to send another photographer, that's fine." Kramer gave him a frown. "As long as said photographer does not stick his nose into any international murder investigation and just takes pictures of whatever that is. The panther." Tim sighed. "The leopard. The Zanzibar leopard." The detectives filed out of the office, both of them giving Leon a last, searching look. Leon noticed that Kramer gave a pained look at his long blond hair. Even in a ponytail, it marked him as "not a cop." Leon sometimes wondered if that was why he'd let it grow, so that no one would confuse him with a cop any longer. Tim waited till they were out of the office, then closed the door. Leon leaned forward. "The Zanzibar leopard is extinct. What was Piers doing?" "He was supposed to be doing a story on the Jozani-Chwaka Bay National Park. It's a unique ecosystem, with a groundwater forest, saltwater marsh, and a coral rag forest. It's a new conservation area, part of a joint Tanzania government and private coalition that's supposed to be a model for conservation projects in Africa. A habitat protection model." "You said he was supposed to be? He wasn't working for the CIA or something, was he?"

O'Brien shook his head. "I don't know what he was doing. He was killed in Stone Town. That's across the island from where he was supposed to be working. He used an encrypted e-mail program and sent in some pictures via satellite direct from his camera. No story." Tim reached for his keyboard, and the images filled the big computer screen on his desk. They were taken at night, and the leopard was angry, screaming, ears flat against her skull. It looked like she was up in a tree. The second image showed her turning away. Leon leaned closer and studied the picture. "Was she feeding? Look how fat she is." He sat back, thinking, and when he looked up, Tim was grinning at him. "Pregnant? No way." "We don't want to screw up whatever the conservation people are doing up there in Jozani. But it looks to me like we've got a pregnant, rumored-to-be-extinct Zanzibar leopard running around. I want you to go to Africa, find out what Piers was up to and where he found the leopard. And get some pictures." "You don't think he was killed because of this?" Leon gestured toward the pictures. "Piers was an asshole. I wanted to run him through with a sword more than once myself. But nobody fucks with WCA writers and photographers on assignment. Period. End of discussion. We have to know what happened so I know how much of a stink to raise with the State Department. So despite the instructions from the two detectives that just left here, I want you to find out what happened to Piers; then find out where his story is, because that prick would sooner write than breathe. Then do whatever you have to do to get pictures of the extinct Zanzibar leopard. After that, you do the story about Jozani-Chwaka Bay." Maggie pulled him out to start his prep. "Okay, first stop is the clinic for

your shots." She handed him a business card. "It's right around the corner. Make sure you get enough malaria pills for a month. I don't want you to run out. Then your visa--you know where the embassy is?" Leon shook his head. "I can find it." "No, don't worry. I'll have Alison drive you over. She's our inside man for all things related to visas and passports. Where's your passport, by the way?" "I've got it with me." "You'll need to check out some equipment--a sat phone and a portable Internet connection good from anywhere in the world. It's broad enough you can send high-res files. Strongly encourage you to send files as you get them. You can set up a file here and download as you need to, then do whatever editing you need after you get back. That way, in case of catastrophic failure, such as somebody swipes your computer or your camera, all is not lost." "What about tickets?" "Alison again. She's going to have you go through Dar es Salaam, then on to Zanzibar. You'll stop in Stone Town, establish your credentials with the local authorities, and make arrangements to go out to Jozani. Be careful about transportation. Piers complained about that." "What was the complaint?" "Who knows? I didn't listen. Piers bitched about everything and everybody. You'll have your work cut out for you, just because you have to follow him." Maggie got up and closed the door to her office. "Oh, by the way? Whatever bullshit Tim O'Brien gave you about investigating Piers's murder? Forget it. You're there for the assignment--JozaniChwaka Bay. Nothing more. I don't want you to get involved in whatever

crap Piers fell into. There are plenty of studly dicks in Tanzania who are perfectly capable of investigating a murder. You have a genius eye and a slow hand with a camera. What's going on out in Jozani is important. Important to the future of habitat conservation in Africa. This assignment, it matters a lot, Leon." She studied him, nibbling on her lower lip. "I had no idea you had been a cop." "Less than a year. It wasn't for me." "What in God's name made you want to join the LAPD?" "Oh, let's see. My mom, dad, two older brothers, one uncle, one great uncle, and one grandfather are all LAPD. My baby blankets had little embroidered gold shields." "No kidding! But, Leon, couldn't they see...couldn't they see who you are? You're an artist. You have one of the gentlest souls I've ever met. You're kind. I mean, you're gay, for God's sake! What were they thinking to want you to be a cop?" Leon grinned at her, unexpectedly touched. "I don't think the gay part goes with the rest of that list." "Yeah, okay, whatever. I don't want to stereotype you or anything. All I'm saying..." Leon stood up, gave her a hug. "I hear what you're saying. And thanks. I'll do a good job in Zanzibar." He looked toward Tim's office. "But isn't Tim O'Brien your boss too? I mean, can you really countermand his instructions?" Maggie sniffed. "Okay, well, technically he is operations manager. But I am in charge of the photographers. And you are a photographer. I already told him what I thought of his trying to make you play junior detective."

"Yeah? What did he say to that?" Maggie waved a hand like she was trying to scatter a pesky fly. "I didn't listen." "O-kay!" "You don't worry about anything other than Jozani. Make sure you take your malaria pills. Take some beautiful photographs. I've got your back." ***

The travel medicine clinic was tucked into a small office next to a bookstore, and Leon promised himself a few minutes to browse the books after he'd taken care of the shots. The nurse practitioner was a cushiony, grandmotherly-looking woman who held his hands while she talked to him. Leon found it oddly soothing after the gloved-and-rushed medical care he was used to. "Now, darling, some of these malaria pills have side effects you must know about. Psychiatric side effects." "What does that mean?" "They make you hallucinate." She patted his hand gently. "Some are designed to prevent, some to treat, you understand? I'm going to give you both. But if you take the Malarone and it gives you bad side effects, you switch over to the doxycycline. Okay? Now, let's talk about diarrhea for a moment." Leon was in love with her by the time she brought out the slew of nasty immunizations. "Darling, the typhoid is probably going to make you feel sick as a dog tonight, but I promise you it's necessary. I do not want you getting typhoid under any circumstances." She massaged his upper arm

gently after the shots, and just for a moment, Leon wanted to lay his head down on her shoulder and close his eyes. She reminded him so much of Charlie. "What is it?" He realized he had tears in his eyes, and she was waiting patiently to listen to him. "I had a friend back home." "Tell me about him." "He was seventy-seven when he died. I met him when I was a teenager. He had a classic movie theater. I went to work for him selling tickets and popcorn. Some afternoons when it was quiet, he'd put Bullitt on, and we'd both watch Steve McQueen and sigh over his blue eyes. But he was more than just a boss. He was the person I could talk to about anything, you know?" She nodded and kept his hands between hers. "When I came out, I told him first. For a long time, he was the only person I told. He was gay too, and he felt like my grandfather. He was the person who loved me without judgment. I must have been a pain-in-theass teenager, but he always listened to me. When I fell in love for the first time, he very gently talked to me about sex, about how to be safe, about what to avoid." Leon squeezed her hands, sat back. "The usual birds-andbees talk isn't much help to a gay boy. We need to know different stuff." "You still miss him a great deal." "I do." "Will you send me a postcard from Africa? I've never been. And Zanzibar sounds so lovely and exotic." "Thank you." He tucked the malaria pills in his pocket. Hallucinations?

Right. Not a chance. He would just use the mosquito netting. ***

He was sick as a dog, as predicted, and the next two days were something of a blur. The faithful Alison took him in hand and made the arrangements for his travel and visa. Kelvin had heard he was going before Leon remembered he needed to tell him. He stood in Leon's bedroom door, his arms crossed. "I wondered if you were going to say something, or if I was just going to wake up one morning and find your room empty." "Sorry, Kelvin." Leon was stretched out on the bed. He felt like crap-chills, then fever, and his joints felt like they were being hammered every time he moved. "Everything happened kind of fast." Kelvin clapped his hands. "Well, it's your last night in DC! Why don't we make it a special one?" He sat down on the side of the bed, pulled Leon up, and gave him a smacking kiss on the lips. "You're burning up! I knew you were a hot one under that shy boy. Come on, let's go have a drink and toast to your next adventure." Leon sat up. "Oh God, no. All I want to do is sleep." Kelvin pulled back, his face as white as if he'd been slapped. "That typhoid shot made me... Look, I'm sorry, it's not you, I mean..." Kelvin stood. "You don't have to come up with an excuse, Leon. I wasn't proposing marriage. I just wanted to buy you a drink. Don't worry about it." He gestured toward the boxes in the corner of the room. "Are you going to do something about those? You aren't leaving them here, are you? I'll probably need to find a new roommate. I don't know how long you'll be gone." "Yeah, okay. I'll move my stuff out." "It shouldn't be too difficult. You never really moved in."

Leon watched his back as he walked down the hall. Every stiff line showed humiliation. It was the worst thing in the world to ask and be rejected. Why couldn't he have just gone with Kelvin? Had a drink, listened to him talk, told him thank you? That would have made them both feel better. Something wasn't right with him, Leon thought, pulling himself up on stiff knees and opening the first box. He ought to go see a counselor. But what was there to say? He was gay, he was sure of it, but he just didn't want to have sex with men? Not with anyone else, either. If he was going to have sex, it would be with men. No, that wasn't right. He wanted to have sex--he craved sex, craved warmth, intimacy, love. But he had this freak-out button that got pushed every time he came close, and he couldn't run fast enough. He started shaking, deep in his belly; then it spread to his knees; then he would either have a panic attack and hyperventilate, or fall to the ground, dead to the world. Once he threw up, but that was probably the booze. He pulled out one of Charlie's old T-shirts, the one from the Monterey Pop Festival. There was a screen print of a poster on the front, Big Mama Thornton singing "Ball and Chain." "Janis had the voice, no question, but Big Mama wrote those songs. From her gut, not her heart." "I'm going to take your T-shirt to Africa with me, Charlie." "Just have some fun. Kiss somebody. Africa seems a good place to meet a tall, dark stranger." "Yeah, well. I'll see what I can do." The rest of the box was high school junk and LAPD junk, and he hauled it all outside and set it next to the trash. There wasn't anything he wanted, and he wasn't sure why he'd

dragged it across the country. Everything he cared about fit neatly into a backpack. ***

The flight to Tanzania went through Amsterdam, then one long leg to Dar es Salaam. Leon had a wide, comfortable seat in business class--a benefit, he suspected, of the late ticket and Alison's skill. His seatmate was an elegant, lean man in his thirties, with a beautiful African face. He was wearing a suit made from Italian wool, and when he removed his jacket and handed it over to the flight attendant, Leon noticed his initials embroidered on the cuff of his white shirt, so tiny they were almost invisible. He studied Leon with amusement. "Are you a writer?" "Photographer," Leon said, trying to sit up a little straighter. "Ah. I'm Ian Gabriel. Is this your first trip to Tanzania?" The man had a lovely Oxford accent. "It is, yes. But I'm going to Zanzibar. I think the main airport is Dar es Salaam." "Zanzibar is most beautiful, and it smells better than any place on earth. You will see. Spice, nutmeg and clove, sunshine, and the waters of the Indian Ocean. Are you with a travel magazine?" "No. The Wilderness Coalition for Africa. WCA." "Ah. You're going for Jozani, then." "Do you know it?" "We are very proud of the National Park and the conservation work they're doing. Tanzania will be a leader in Africa for wildlife conservation, a light of hope for the entire world." Leon was beginning to suspect he was talking to a politician. He was

sure of it when Ian smiled his brilliant smile, then turned away and began shaking hands with the other passengers seated near them. Too bad. It might have been the beginning of a beautiful friendship, he thought, then closed his eyes. But he would never appeal to the sort of man who lived in the public eye and dressed in hand-tailored suits. Leon liked travelling on planes. He liked the routines, the way one thing always followed another, drinks, food, movie, then lights out, the warm intimacy of strangers wrapped up so closely together, eating, sleeping, but never touching each other. He thought sometimes he would have been happy at boarding school or maybe living in a monastery, where the routines followed each other like the sun followed the moon. He would have to remember that monastery just in case things didn't improve with his general mood and mental health. Catholic, Buddhist, it didn't matter to him. He should find one of those places where no one spoke and you lived in a tiny stone cell with a thin mattress and no other possessions. Maybe they'd let him keep his backpack. He reached up to his head and tugged a long strand of honey blond hair between his fingers. They would shave his head for sure. Hair as beautiful as his was surely a source of vanity. The airport at Dar es Salaam was crowded, noisy. The women, dressed in bright kangas, were tall and lean, beautiful as tropical flowers. The signs were in English, French, German, and several other languages Leon didn't recognize. He followed the crowds numbly, got in the line with the most other people with blond hair and pale skin. He was amazed at how many different ethnic groups crowded the airport--Africans, Asians, Arabs in their traditional long white robes, skin in every lovely shade of brown. On the plane, he had skimmed through a history of East Africa. There seemed to be a long history of conflict between everyone who had ever lived in this land. It was the port. The harbor at Dar es Salaam was

probably the finest natural harbor in the world. It was the major shipping port for all of East Africa, maybe for the Middle East too, and all of the Indian Ocean. Zanzibar had a darker history as the center of the slave trade. The Zanzibar leopard had an interesting history. It evolved in isolation, becoming a unique species after the islands of Zanzibar broke off from the mainland. In the last hundred years, however, the leopard had become associated with witchcraft in the minds of many of the islanders, and there was government support for eradication. The leopard was hunted ferociously, with a strange mob hatred that Leon wasn't sure he understood. The UN had sent some resources, scientists and field researchers, to study the possibility of saving the leopard, but the scientists decided that the habitat that was left could not support a population, and the leopard was bound to die out. There had been no verified reports of a sighting for over ten years. Rumor, however, was that small enclaves of people living in remote regions were keeping the leopard alive. Habitat conservation was one thing, Leon thought, and no question that was where the resources should be. But if there were leopards still alive, even leopards breeding, then the species was not lost. Something about the big cats, their beauty, their power and majesty, had always appealed to him. He wanted to get some pictures of this pregnant leopard. He really wanted to get pictures of the cubs. Habitat conservation was the way to save the African animals. But what seemed obvious to Leon was that conservation took money, and money came from donors, and donors got interested when they fell in love with the pictures of the wild animals. He would do the story about Jozani and the conservation work they were

doing, and he would ask around a bit and see if he could find any information about Piers's murder. But he had come to Zanzibar for the leopard. And while he sometimes felt like his inner world was spinning on a different axis than the rest of the planet, he was a world-class photographer. If the leopard was there, he would find it. Leon pushed through the crowds around immigration and skipped customs. No one seemed to notice him until he saw a man standing in front of a group, his arms crossed over his chest. He was tall and lean, dressed in a black suit of gorgeous Italian silk, with a white silk shirt and a tie the color of ripe blackberries. Leon noticed his hair, thick and silky black in waves, tied behind his head. He was Arab or something, with a hawk nose and strong chin, and warm, cinnamon-colored skin, but dressed as a European. Leon wondered if most Arab men had such beautiful hair, and if so, why did they hide it? The man gestured toward him with his chin, then took his briefcase from an older man standing by his side, an assistant of some kind. When he moved away, long legs moving beautifully under the silk, Leon was reminded of the leopard he was coming to find. This man moved like one of the big cats, loose-limbed, like he was moments from breaking into a run. Leon watched the man walk away, wondering if he had misunderstood that gesture and if he was as seriously underdressed as he felt. The man didn't give Leon another look, but there was no question he had been standing behind immigration, waiting for him. Or waiting for someone. Leon looked around again, wondering where he should go to find a taxi. He was supposed to go to Stone Town next. Find the local authorities and give them his credentials. Two men walked forward. They looked like soldiers--dark, serious faces, olive green fatigues without any insignia or rank--and one of them was carrying a sign that said WCA. LEON DAVIS.

Leon stared at them in surprise, his mouth falling open. Was he expecting someone to pick him up? Had the faithful Alison made some arrangements? He thought back over her last hectic set of instructions. He remembered her saying something about she would be working on a place to stay and transportation and would contact him. The first soldier stepped up. "Mr. Davis? I've got a fax for you." He handed over the paper. How was the flight? You've been offered a berth with Sheik Ibrahim Ag Akhamok. He is, I understand, the money and organizing force behind Jozani. His people should pick you up at the airport, give you a room and a Jeep. They understand no strings attached. Tim said to remind you to keep your eyes open, and to tell you Piers was also offered a room with the sheik. Maggie said ignore Tim, just have a good time and think about the pics. Also try to get some pictures of the doors in Stone Town. Not sure what that's about. Ibrahim Ag Akhamok is really a Tuareg clan leader, but they call him "the sheik" in Zanzibar. Text if you need anything. Alison Leon turned around, tried to get a glimpse of the man who had just walked past him, but he had already gone. "Was that Ibrahim Ag Akhamok?" Leon must have mispronounced his name, because both men broke into grins. "Yes. He told us to take care of whatever you need. He's on his way to Cairo for a few days. I'm Jelani"--the soldier gestured toward his partner--"and this is Sefu." "Leon," he said, offering them both a hand. They shook his hand gently, as if they were afraid to crush his fingers. "Leon? You're named for the lion. Your name in Swahili is Simba, like

the Disney movie. Do you need to get your luggage?" Leon shook his head. "I brought everything with me," he said, hiking his backpack more firmly over his shoulder. Jelani and Sefu exchanged quick looks, grinning at each other. "Don't worry. You don't need much on Zanzibar. Are you ready? We have a plane waiting." "The sheik has his own plane?" Jelani shook his head. "He will tell you to call him Ibrahim. He isn't a sheik. He's a Tuareg. And the plane is a charter. Ibrahim doesn't waste money on fancy toys." "I don't know very much about the Tuareg. I've seen pictures of the men with the blue veils, and I read a story about the caravans." "That's where Ibrahim's business started." "What business is he in?" "He's a trader. Mostly in salt and spices. His ancestors would carry salt on camels through the Sahara, to Tripoli and the port at Dar es Salaam. Now Ibrahim ships salt all over the world. From every port." "How did he get into the wildlife-conservation business?" Sefu pushed open the heavy glass door to the airport, and the rush of steamy air nearly bowled Leon over. The noise was big city, but the smell and the humidity--that was all Africa. Leon couldn't quite place it, but the air smelled like something fertile, fecund, like rotting vegetation and tropical flowers and sunshine. He reached into his pocket, pulled a hair band out, and bundled his long hair up off his neck. Sefu watched him, then said something to Jelani in Swahili.

"Sefu says you have the look of a lion." "I do?" Leon felt absurdly pleased. "Lions are like any animal. Some are lazy and fat. Some are dumb as crows. Some have brave hearts and strong souls." Leon thought about this, but he wasn't ready to decide what sort of a lion he was going to be. "Hey, did you guys know Piers? The other photographer?" Jelani nodded but kept his face turned away. "That one was a hyena. Scavengers have their purposes, I suppose." His voice was carefully neutral. "This way, young Simba." He pulled open the back door of a yellow cab and climbed in next to Leon. "We're going to a small airstrip across town," he explained. Leon studied Sefu's profile in the front seat. He had a high forehead and a beautiful mouth, and there was a row of raised, dark scars across his cheeks. Jelani had similar scars. Leon wondered if they would let him take their photographs. He turned to Jelani. "Are you two brothers?" Sefu turned around and draped his arm along the back of the front seat. "Only in the metaphorical sense," Jelani explained. "We have been together since we were children. We come from the same tribe. Our people come from up near Mount Kilimanjaro." "How did you come to be on Zanzibar?" Sefu turned back around and stared out through the front windshield. "That is a very long story, Leon. Maybe one day we will tell it to you." It was the first time he had spoken in English. His accent was like Jelani's but with a touch more British in the English. "Here we are," Jelani said, leaning forward. "We'll be home in two

hours. The plane sets down in Stone Town; then we take the Jeep back to the compound." "The compound, is it in Jozani?" Jelani shook his head. "Well, Jozani is the region. Ibrahim's compound is in Jozani, and it is next to the national park that is also called Jozani. Now the park is Jozani-Chwaka Bay. Ibrahim has a small compound for the family, a couple of kilometers only." "A couple of kilometers? Do you mean acres?" Jelani smiled at him. "Kilometers. He likes his privacy." "You said the compound is for the family. Who else lives there?" "Sefu and I, we are liaisons between Ibrahim's company, Ag Akhamok Salt Traders, and the NGO and governmental organizations who support the national park. There is little money for conservation efforts from the government. Most of the infrastructure and day-to-day funding comes from Ibrahim. We are not scientists, but we have been involved in the development from the very beginning. Bazu is the silly boy who cooks. Makhammad is Ibrahim's grandfather. He is very old, frail. There is Peter, who is Ibrahim's secretary. There is my wife, Rachel, and Sefu's wife, Aeesha, and that new baby. There are many others in the business, but they don't live on Zanzibar with us. Who else?" Sefu answered. "Sabah. She is the housekeeper, a Hebrew." Leon was surprised. "I thought most of East Africa was Muslim or Christian." "That's true," Sefu said. "In our house, we have Muslim, Christian, and Hebrew. We manage to live together without bloodshed." His voice was gently ironic. "And silly Bazu, who pretends to be a Buddhist."

"I have a friend who's Buddhist," Leon said without thinking. "Well, he's turned Buddhist since he died, apparently." Sefu turned around from the front seat again and studied him. Leon felt his face heat up. "It's just, he sometimes talks to me in dreams." Sefu was nodding. "You'll be happy on Zanzibar, I think." ***

The sea out of the window of the small charter plane was bluer than anything Leon had ever seen--darker than the waters of the Caribbean, a clear, deep blue that seemed to absorb the bright light of the sun. The plane ride was short, and soon he could see Stone Town, with the tall towers of the cathedrals and mosques. The stone was different colors, some dark gray, some pale gold, but the buildings looked ancient, timeless, and gorgeous. Leon could hear Charlie in his head: "Wow. Would you look at this place?" "Yeah, I know!" "This is where all the sultans bought their slave boys!" "What, really?" "German East Africa. Traders. And slavers. This place needs its own movie." "Simba, do you want to eat?" It was Jelani, unfastening his seat belt as the little plane taxied to a stop. "We can have some Swahili food, or some curry if you like Indian." "Whatever you want," Leon said, reaching under the seat in front of him for his backpack. His stomach had been growling for an hour. "But can I go in dressed like this? I notice most of the men are dressed in a bit more formal clothes."

Sefu and Jelani studied him. "Let's go down to the fish market," Sefu said. "Don't worry, Simba. We are used to Americans who dress like they are hobos. Is that what you call them? Hobos?" Leon remembered Maggie saying something similar to him--was it just a couple of days ago?--something about Jack Kerouac and hopping trains out west. "Yes, we call them hobos. Or bums." Jelani giggled into his hand. "Bums? You mean..." He gestured toward his bottom. "Oh! No, not like that. I think I need some clothes." "Come on." Sefu led the way, and they climbed into a taxi. "Fish market," he said. The driver was a young African, and he studied Leon curiously in the rearview mirror. "If you want to talk about clothes, Ibrahim has plenty of clothes. He has a tailor in Dar es Salaam and one in London." Wasn't there something between hobo and a tailor in London? "Maybe I'll just stick with Levis for the time being. As long as I'm not being culturally insensitive or anything." "Don't worry," Jelani said. "We're used to it." The taxi sped through narrow dark streets, and Leon leaned forward to watch everything out the windows. The women on the streets were wearing colorful sarongs tied around their waists, and most were wearing veils over their hair, but veils of bright patterns and colors, lemon yellow and bright pink and lapis lazuli. Many of the buildings they passed were crumbling stone, but the doors--what had Alison said about the doors? Maggie wanted him to take pictures. The car slowed, going around one corner, and he caught a glimpse of a wooden door, two stories high, dark, the wood carved with an intricate pattern, heavy brass studs making a

huge cross. Leon pulled out his camera. "The doors in Stone Town are famous," Sefu said. "The sultans used to build their palaces here. The coralline rock crumbles, but the salt water means the doors last forever." "I hope I'll have some time to explore the town," Leon said. "I haven't read much on it since Stone Town was made a UNESCO World Heritage Site. But that's a big deal, you know?" "We used to be the center of the world. Now the center has shifted. That's a good thing for us, for the work we're doing." Leon studied his face. "Do you mean Jozani? The conservation work?" "Yes. People bring in the money we need, but they also bring in the problems we don't need." Sefu looked out the window. "When we get to the fish market, watch out for the cats." Leon lifted his lens cap off and checked the camera. He didn't know what that meant, but he wanted to be ready. "Can I take pictures of you two at the market?" Jelani and Sefu looked at each other for a moment. Leon admired the way they seemed to communicate without words. Sefu rubbed his jaw. "Of course you may take photographs, young Simba. But can I ask you something?" "Sure." "Are you here to investigate the murder of your fellow reporter, or are you here for Jozani?" "Jozani," Leon said with no hesitation. "Though my editor-in-chief asked me to see if I could find out anything."

"I knew it. Americans can't leave anything alone. How would you even know where to start? It's ridiculous." Sefu's voice was mildly dismissive. "I used to be a cop. LAPD." That got their attention. They both stared at him, openmouthed. "Like Harry Bosch! I have read all his novels." Jelani looked excited now. "Did you bring any detective novels with you, Simba?" Sefu spared him a withering glance. "Leon," he said, his voice gentle. "Jelani and I are the liaisons between Ibrahim and Jozani-Chwaka Bay. That includes security. The death of the reporter was on our watch, as you say. We take responsibility. You do not have to investigate unless it is something you feel strongly about, because I am doing that. But if you do wish to ask questions, you might start with the two of us. We will tell you what you need to know." The taxi stopped, and they piled out. The briny, clean smell of the ocean blew in. There were stalls set up with tiny charcoal braziers; crowds of women in their colorful clothes, moving in groups; fish merchants selling huge-clawed lobsters, strange spiny fish, gorgeous red and silver fish in baskets; and everywhere were cats, sliding between the ankles of the fishermen, snatching up pieces of shell in delicate jaws, then darting away. Jelani stepped up. "Simba, let me choose for you. Just a snack, because Bazu is cooking, and he will kill us if you can't eat." There was a group of merchants sitting behind stalls of fruit--huge piles of green mangoes, brilliant orange papayas, bright yellow lemons. Leon lifted the camera, raised his eyebrows at the sellers. They grinned at him and sat straighter, which he took for permission to shoot. He could smell ripe mango, and one of the men cut a mango into pieces and brought it over to him. It was warm and sweeter than any mango Leon had ever tasted. Sefu took a fat chunk with a word of thanks in Swahili, and when

he tilted his head back to eat the piece, the dripping golden mango at his beautiful mouth, Leon stepped back and took his picture. Sefu rolled his eyes, ate his piece of mango, and licked his fingers. "Leon," he said, "this is where Piers's body was found." Leon blinked up at him, then looked around at the men with their baskets of fish, the women in little groups, their kangas moving in the ocean wind so they looked like tiny schools of tropical fish. And the cats, cats everywhere. Good God. Sefu was shaking his head. "No, no, the cats didn't get to him. Come on. Jelani has picked out a good lobster for you, and it's on the grill. We will discuss the ugly Piers later." They walked across the market and found Jelani camped out at a wooden picnic table. The man behind the small brazier was very short, very old, but he nodded when Leon lifted the camera in his direction. When he pulled a couple of huge lobster claws off the grill, Leon put the camera down and just watched. The claws were smoking, and he cracked them open with a knife, then tossed them on a paper plate with another wedge of mango. He handed the plate over, and Jelani slid it in front of Leon. Leon looked at Jelani and Sefu. "Aren't you two having anything?" Sefu gestured toward the old man. "Ours are on the grill now. Guests eat first." Leon pulled the shell apart, and the white lobster meat was steaming. He ate a bite of mango, then put some lobster in his mouth with his fingers. Smoky, with a touch of ocean salt. He didn't know if the mango or the lobster was sweeter. He didn't look up again until his second claw was in fragments on his plate and there were three cats rubbing hopefully against his ankles. Jelani and Sefu were working on their own lobsters.

Leon sat back and closed his eyes for a moment. It was hot, and he could feel a trickle of sweat running down his back, but the tangy ocean was so close, the air was sweet. The voices of the merchants and the women speaking in Swahili. The tiny, hopeful voices of the cats. The crack of claws. The metal of knives cutting down into succulent ripe fruit, hitting wooden cutting boards. The rough putt-putt of Vespas on the outskirts of the market. The faint scritch-scritch of rope sandals against the rock sidewalks. The taste of fresh mango and grilled lobster. "Charlie, can you taste it all? Can you feel this place?" "Of course I can, Leon. But you need to stop worrying about me and taste it for yourself." Leon picked up the camera, fiddled with the settings. Sefu studied him across the table. "You do not seem to be an investigator dedicated to finding the villain. You're not looking for clues or interrogating anyone." Leon shrugged and looked out across the fish market. "I feel an obligation of sorts because I got this assignment over his dead body, so to speak. My boss is expecting me to do a little digging. I'm not sure it is appropriate for me to investigate when the local authorities are doing the same. Who are the local authorities, anyway? Do you know?" "You're eating with them. The Ministry of Justice has asked Jelani and myself to gather information regarding the death. Because he was staying out on the compound and because Jozani-Chwaka Bay has so very much to lose if a WCA reporter was found to have been murdered while doing a story. You understand the consequences if the US State Department warns tourists away? If the other organizations who are supporting the park begin to pull out because of a concern over safety? Everything we have worked for will be destroyed. I can share with you the results of the autopsy and show you where he was found, but I'm not sure that matters

at all." "Why not?" "I'm not convinced he was murdered." "Wasn't he found with a sword in his chest?" "No, he was found with a sword wound in his chest. But the autopsy suggests he drowned. There was water in his lungs. The sword was stuck into his chest after death. I don't believe that's a crime." "After death? Oh man! How creepy is that?" Sefu grinned. "Creepy? What is creepy? Never mind. I suspect running Piers through with a sword was a symbolic sort of gesture made after he was already dead." Leon grinned back at him. "He made friends here on Zanzibar, is that what you mean? There were many people who would have been pleased to run him through? So, what about drugs and alcohol in the blood?" Sefu's mouth twisted a bit. "Alcohol and methamphetamine. I think he brought the meth with him. We really don't have any on the islands." "Was the water in his lungs fresh or salt water?" "Salt. So he could have easily fallen into the Indian Ocean and drowned. But he was moved after death. Dumped here." "So is the working theory that he accidentally drowned, then someone who didn't like him ran him through with a sword and dumped his body in the fish market? Seems a little improbable, don't you think?" "Yes, I do," Sefu agreed. "We don't have enough information for a working theory yet. We only got the autopsy report yesterday." "Except the sword," Jelani said. "It was a Tuareg sword. The shape

and size of that sword is very unique. The wound measurements confirm the type." "Have you been able to test any local Tuareg swords for human blood?" Jelani scoffed at this. "Simba, all Tuareg swords have traces of human blood." Leon pondered all of this for a moment, then asked a delicate question. "Sefu, why would the local authorities turn over responsibility for the investigation to you? He was staying at the compound where you live and work. You have strong reasons to find that the park he was researching did not have anything to do with his death. It almost seems like that would be a conflict of interest." "Letting the fox investigate the killings at the hen house? Relationships here are a bit more complex than they are in America. We have very limited resources, and we have complicated tribal and racial loyalties that we could never explain to an American. He was Anglo. Ibrahim is Tuareg. We are African. It is considered that we would not have a conflict investigating the death of a white man in a Tuareg house, you understand? But also, Jelani and I, like you, my friend, used to be police. We were homicide in Dar es Salaam when we went to work for Ibrahim. There is no one in the country who is better able than the two of us to investigate this death. The fact that we work now for Ibrahim just means we have the added responsibility to not let this death taint the Ag Akhamok name or the work we are doing at Jozani." "And you know for sure Ibrahim was not involved?" For the first time, Sefu looked sternly at him. "Yes, Leon. I know that for sure. He was in Crete when the man was killed and his body found. He

never met your Piers." Leon made a decision. "I really don't want to get in the way of your investigation. I don't know that I have anything to contribute, certainly no special skills, and I didn't come here for that. What I would like to know is where the leopards are on the islands. I want to take photographs of the Zanzibar leopard." "The Zanzibar leopard is extinct, my friend." "No." Leon shook his head. "The leopard is not extinct. I'm going to find her." Sefu studied him, and Leon couldn't help but notice the gleam in his eyes. He didn't know if it was anger or humor. "No, Simba. You will not." "Yes, I will." "No." Jelani sighed and stood up. "Could we continue the argument in the car?" ***

The trip out to Jozani took a little more than an hour, and they couldn't continue the argument, because Sefu rolled down the windows and Leon climbed in the backseat and let the wind blow on his face. It was a strange place, Zanzibar, he thought. Maybe he was too used to the sights and sounds of the Caribbean. The coconut palms and mangrove swamps looked familiar, but it didn't smell the same; the sounds weren't the same. Leon was sure a couple of times he heard monkeys and some animal with a strange, chittering voice, like an angry chipmunk. And the flashes of bright color among the leaves could only have been birds. Once they got out of the city, the smell of cloves drifted on the wind. He would have to

do some research pronto. That was his last thought before the heat lulled him to sleep. He sat up when the car came to a stop. There was a baby crying somewhere, an exhausted, hysterical cry. Leon had heard babies crying like that before. Sefu was out of the car, leaving his door open. Jelani turned around. "That's Sefu's baby. His wife, Aeeshah, walks hours and hours with the baby, but still he cries." Aeeshah was lovely, small and delicate, with a bright swath of cloth wrapped around her head, blue and yellow that matched the kanga she had tied around her waist. The baby was up on her shoulder, and she was walking around the small pond in the front of the big house. She handed the baby to Sefu, who took him and put him on his shoulder with a fleeting look of panic. Aeeshah looked exhausted. She sat down on the edge of the pond, held on to the rocks on either side of her, and closed her eyes. Leon hoisted his backpack over one shoulder, and he and Jelani walked to where Sefu was frantically jiggling the baby up and down. The shrieks got worse. It sounded like someone was dunking the baby in a vat of boiling oil. Without thinking, Leon put out his arms and took the baby from Sefu. "It's colic," he said. "Nothing to worry about." He put the baby in the crook of his arm, rocked him a little, and rubbed his stomach. The tiny dark face was scrunched up, twisted like a little coconut, the tears flying from his eyes down into his ears. "You are going to sleep for hours after you stop all this screaming." Leon folded his hand into a fist and used his knuckles to rub in little circles on the belly. The baby gasped, opened his eyes, and looked up at Leon in surprise. He was still crying, hysterical little gulps. "I know that feels good. I have lots of nephews, and every one of them had colic."

The baby stared. Then he reached up and grabbed a long strand of Leon's hair in his fist. "Uh-oh. I'm going to have to make a better ponytail with you around." Aeeshah was at his elbow now, and Leon looked down at her. She had a sweet, pretty face that looked like it was used to smiling. She was smiling now, but tears were standing in her eyes. "It's just colic," he said. "Can't mistake that cry." She asked Sefu a question in Swahili, and he answered in the same language. "She wants to know if babies in America cry like this." "Yes," he said, "they sure do." The baby seemed to like having a deep knuckle rub on his belly, and a moment later he paused in screaming to let out a burp that was so long and so deep, they all looked at each other and burst out laughing. Aeeshah took the baby back from him, kissed the tears from his little face, and Leon gently unfurled the tiny fist from his hair. Aeeshah asked Sefu something else, but he answered her with a stern shake of his head. Leon looked at Sefu, who wouldn't meet his eye. Aeeshah was insisting, pointing to Leon. He looked a question at Jelani. "Do you know what a kinyago is, Simba?" Leon shook his head. "No idea." "It's an effigy. It helps protect a baby from the ndege chimvi--the owl, we call the bird of misfortune. Aeeshah wonders if she can have a small piece of your hair to put on the kinyago she is making for the baby." Sefu made a dismissive gesture with his hand and tried to send her back to the house, but Aeeshah stared him down. Leon looked at the baby. He was exhausted, falling into a wonderful sleep. "How long a

piece?" "Couple of inches, no more," Jelani said. Leon spoke to Aeeshah. "Sure, you can have a piece of hair. Do you want me to cut it?" Leon thought she could understand some of what he was saying, because her face lit up and she smiled at him. She handed the baby over to Sefu and sent Jelani into the house for something--scissors, Leon thought. He pulled the band out of his hair, and she made a sound of pleasure, moved behind him, and put her hands in his hair, lifting it from the back of his neck. Her hands were cool and soft. Jelani was back, and he was carrying a small pair of tiny golden scissors shaped like a stork. An older woman looked out the front door, watching. Her hair was covered with a long black scarf with a lacy fringe. Aeeshah took the small scissors, lifted his hair, and moved it over one shoulder. Leon heard a tiny snip, and she showed him the piece of hair, about three inches long. She said something else in Swahili, and Jelani translated. "She says your hair is full of sunshine." He answered another question, and Leon heard the word Simba. "She is asking your name." The older woman, who had been leaning against the doorframe, straightened up and came out to greet them. "I'm Sabah," she said, holding out a strong hand. Leon was surprised at her voice. "You're American!" "I was, a long time ago. Where're your bags?" He gestured to the backpack. "I didn't bring much with me." She blinked down at the backpack for a moment. "Okay, well, I'm sure we can help you find what you need. Let me show you to your room."

Leon turned around and shook hands with Jelani. "Thanks for picking me up and everything." "No problem, little brother. I will see you later, when Bazu calls us all to eat." Aeeshah smiled shyly at him and spoke in Swahili. Leon wasn't sure of her exact words, but he could understand what she was saying. "It was my pleasure. You have a very strong and beautiful son." Her eyes filled with tears again, and she turned around and ran down the path where Sefu had taken the baby. Jelani stared at her in surprise, shaking his head. "She's just tired. New mothers cry at everything." "You're full of surprises, Leon. I can't wait to see what Ibrahim makes of you. And you of him." ***

The house was built of dark wood--mahogany, Leon thought, or something similar. It was low and long and had wings on either side of a central hall. The windows had beautifully carved shutters, and there were fans turning lazily in the hall and in the big living room Sabah showed him with a casual movement of her wrist. "This is the parlor," she said. "We meet in here before dinner and if there's a family meeting or an emergency." She glanced at him. "Of course, you don't need to join us, Leon, but just so you know. Now, I have a room for you here down the hall, near the back. It's very cool and shady, and you have your own bathroom. It's in Ibrahim's wing. Also we have a small cabin, which is away from the house a bit, if you feel you need more privacy." Leon thought he heard something in her voice. "Piers took the small cabin?" She sniffed, stared blandly at the ceiling. "Are his things still..."

"No. I packed everything up and sent it to the embassy in Dar es Salaam. The room is clean if you want to use it." "If it's okay, I'll stay in the house. I don't want to cause any trouble." "Your choice. You are very welcome here. We appreciate the work WCA is doing for conservation efforts in Africa." They walked down a long hallway, and she opened the door to a room that was cool and dark. There was a huge old bed, the headboard and footboard of iron twisted and curled. Leon ran his hands over it. There were lion heads on each corner. A fine mosquito net hung from the ceiling. Sabah reached up and pulled the chain that hung from the ceiling fan, and the fan began spinning lazily. "Are you very tired? Do you need to rest?" "Jelani and Sefu mentioned that we would have dinner together. I wouldn't want to offend anyone by refusing their hospitality. I may go to bed early, though, after we eat." Sabah was grinning now. "We all try to keep Bazu happy. He is a genius, and he's our baby. Of course, he'll have to grow up now we have a new baby in the house. If you need anything, I am in the same room on the other hallway, all the way at the end. You're welcome to knock on my door, and I'll get you what you need. We'll eat in about thirty minutes." "I could smell it when we came into the house," Leon said. "What's he cooking?" Sabah shook her head. "I'll let him surprise you." "Sabah...when you packed up Piers's things, was there anything in his possessions that might suggest..." Her face grew pinched. "Why he was killed? Just some particularly nasty pornographic magazines. It isn't the sort of thing we have in

Zanzibar." "What kind?" She studied him a moment, as if wondering why he was asking. "Boys. Boys in handcuffs. I'll find you a clean shirt for dinner." Piers--what an unimaginable prick. What had Sefu said? He'd brought alcohol and meth into the country? And porn? You didn't have to be a genius to know how offensive that would be to a conservative community. He would need to let Tim and Maggie know about that so they could start doing some damage control. If Sabah had sent his things into Dar es Salaam, dollars to doughnuts the contents of his luggage would be public knowledge by now. Leon looked at the bed for a long moment. He could already feel the cool, soft sheets. But he pulled his shaving kit out of his backpack and went into the bathroom. The tilework on the walls was beautiful, yellow and bright blue, and reminded him of the colors in the kanga Aeeshah wore. Wasn't there a kanga for men? He'd seen sarongs before for men, and they were pretty close. He wanted one. He wanted to walk around in this Zanzibar heat, wearing a sarong and a pair of sandals and no shirt. He felt himself blush at his own silliness. Then he could hear Charlie in the back of his mind: "I want one too!" The shower was wide, and the water was warm. Leon scrubbed down with a bar of soap that smelled like coconut. There was a small bottle of shampoo on the shelf as well, and when he finished shampooing his hair, the little bathroom smelled like a tropical paradise. No, he corrected himself, walking through the room and then opening the carved wooden shutters, the whole island smelled like a tropical paradise--salt water and sunshine, coconut and sweet flowers.

Sabah had put a white dress shirt on his bed, and Leon pulled his last pair of clean boxers out of his backpack and put them on. His jeans were okay for another couple of days. The white shirt was a blend of silk and linen, and he studied the London tag--it must belong to Ibrahim. The sleeves were a little long, and he rolled up the cuffs, let the hem hang outside his jeans. It was the softest thing he had ever had against his skin. Leon combed his hair back and twisted it into a tight braid. He would let it dry later, but he didn't want to be late for dinner. He was starting to get very interested in meeting Bazu, since everyone who spoke his name smiled. He walked down the hall to the parlor, and he could hear that an argument was in progress. A voice he didn't recognize was yelling, "I have had enough of the WCA! Why don't we send him to Pemba to look at the flying foxes? Stupid, nosy buggers. I'm telling you right now, if he turns his nose up at my food, I'm going to poison his--" "Bazu, would you shut up? You sound like an idiot. More of an idiot than usual." Sefu had changed and looked handsome in dark trousers and a white shirt. "You just like him because he made that baby stop crying." Bazu was so beautiful, it almost felt like a punch in the stomach. His skin was a creamy cinnamon brown, and his hair was in long black corkscrew curls, bundled up under a piece of indigo blue linen. Leon wondered if this was a modern Tuareg interpretation of the traditional headdress and veil. He had huge black eyes and a mouth that looked like a piece of ripe fruit. And he was young. Leon gaped at him. He couldn't be older than eighteen. Sixteen looked more likely. "You will treat a guest in our home as is proper, Bazu." The old man

who spoke was sitting in an armchair in the corner, smoking from a very long, narrow pipe that looked like it was carved out of ivory. He had the same cinnamon skin as Bazu. His beard was long and gray, and his head was wrapped in indigo linen. Leon couldn't tell how old he was, but guessed seventy or more. "This is not a matter that should ever even be discussed. It should be as natural as breathing." Bazu sniffed, folding his arms across his chest, and Sabah sighed and rolled her eyes. Leon was feeling more and more awkward about listening in without making himself known. The shutters on the windows were still closed, and the room was filled with soft gray light. He stepped into the room and met Sefu's eyes. Sefu winked at him, then stepped up next to him when he crossed the room and held out his hand to the old man. "Hello, sir. I'm Leon Davis, from the Wilderness Coalition for Africa. I appreciate your hospitality." The old man reached out and took his hand. He didn't shake, as Leon was expecting, but just held his hand in both of his, looked keenly up into Leon's face. "I am Makhammad Ag Akhamok," he said, "and you are welcome in our home." Makhammad struggled to get up from the chair, and Leon saw that he was crippled, one leg twisted and deformed. He had a cane next to the chair, and Leon put the cane in his hand, reached under his arm, and helped him up with practiced ease. He had done this a thousand times for Charlie. Makhammad patted him gently on the shoulder, then turned to Bazu. Leon held out his hand. Bazu looked stricken, great tragic eyes, his hand pressed over his heart, and Leon could see that he was enjoying the drama. This boy needs to go to acting class. He could have Los Angeles at his feet in six months. "Sefu and Jelani told me you're a

genius chef. I'm happy to hear that because I'm very hungry for whatever has been cooking. I've been smelling something delicious since I walked into the house." Bazu looked delighted now. He reached forward eagerly and took Leon's hand. "I've roasted a goat! Goat with fresh mango, coconut rice, and some sweet potatoes. Real East African food. You will love my goat." Jelani joined them, and he introduced Leon to his wife, Rachel, a pretty young woman who looked like she might be Aeeshah's sister. "Aeeshah and the baby are both sleeping," Sefu told him. "I decided not to wake them." Makhammad sat at the head of the table, and Leon was given the place to his right. It was a very long table, made of rough polished planks of some golden-colored tropical wood, with room for sixteen people. If Bazu was used to cooking for this crowd, he was more skilled or older than he looked. Makhammad patted Leon's arm. Sabah and Bazu began serving, and Bazu cast an ironic look at the old man. "My family," he told Leon, "were slaves for many generations. The Tuareg always had slaves." He gestured toward Makhammad. "My grandmother was his slave when he was young." "No way!" Bazu grinned. "They have outlawed slavery, of course, but many of the old men keep forgetting." He leaned over, kissed Makhammad on the forehead. "I have to stay close and keep reminding him so he does not get into trouble." Leon studied the two of them. They had a strong family resemblance, more than just the same cinnamon-colored skin. "You look very alike," he said, unsure if it was impolite to say any more.

"That happens a great deal between masters and slaves, that strange family resemblance," Bazu said, and Makhammad reached out and swatted him. "Ow!" Leon laughed at this performance, obviously put on to entertain him. Sabah put a plate down in front of him, and the smell of the grilled meat and mango nearly made him dizzy. She gave Sefu his plate, then sat down on the other side of the table, next to Rachel. "Bazu, sit down. Don't you see how hungry Leon is?" Makhammad inclined his head toward Leon. "Would you care to offer thanks?" Leon blinked in surprise. Then the words of his grandmother's mealtime prayer came into his mind. "This is what my family says: Bless us, O Lord, and these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, our Lord." He looked down at his plate. This was worth giving thanks for--the food, the people around the table who had been so kind to him, the warmth and the sweet air of this island. He looked up, and Makhammad gestured for him to begin eating. ***

Leon opened his eyes to the dappled early-morning light, softened by the mosquito netting around his bed. Sabah was putting a tray down on the small table next to his bed. "Leon, I thought you would like coffee, but I can get you tea if you would rather." He pulled the netting aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Coffee's great, thanks." "Sefu and Jelani are coming to get you in about a half hour for Jozani." "Sabah, can I ask you about something?" She turned and looked at him, her face quiet and withdrawn. She had another scarf over her hair, and Leon wondered if it was a religious thing. "Can I ask you about

Piers?" "Why, Leon?" "They asked me to find out what happened. But I really feel like I should find out how much trouble he brought here. If he damaged WCA's reputation here in Zanzibar, or in Tanzania, I need to know so they can start doing some damage control." She thought about this for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, I understand what you're saying. The real damage is going to be to the park if the other NGOs doing conservation work out here begin to worry about safety and pull out. What questions do you have?" "Last night, I felt like...the courtesy and hospitality offered was so genuine and very old-fashioned. Did Piers eat with the family like I did last night?" She nodded. "Yes, he did, for the first night he was here." "After that?" "I took him a tray to his cabin. That was his choice. But he was only here a short time before he was killed." He studied her a moment longer. "Did Makhammad offer him the chance to say the prayer, like he did me?" "Yes." "What did he do?" "He laughed, Leon." She turned to go, then turned back. "He was unpleasant, and I did not like the way he behaved. But no one here had anything to do with his death. I don't want him to continue to breed trouble

in Jozani. We have important work to do. Maybe that work is worth your attention." She turned back at the door. "Ibrahim has Wi-Fi, if you need to use the Internet before you leave for Jozani." Leon drank his coffee, marveling at the joy of having very dark, very hot coffee brought to his bedside. Sabah reminded him a bit of one of his aunts, the one who taught high school math in Los Angeles. She spoke in the same way. You could, if you were a fool, disregard her comments and suggestions. But surely he was not that big a fool? He thought that she was probably right and Jozani deserved his attention. Also, he did not want to put this morning coffee in jeopardy. He looked at the stack of clean laundry she had put on his dresser. It might be an interesting ethical battle, between digging out the truth on one side and having hot coffee and clean laundry on the other. He got dressed and pulled out his laptop, then sent an e-mail to Tim O'Brien. Tim, there may be problems here. I believe Piers brought alcohol and pornographic magazines into Zanzibar. This seems like a conservative community, and I don't know how deeply he offended his hosts. I will let you know if I find anything out. The local authorities think he might have drowned, and been run through with the sword after death. Not sure what it all means. But maybe he wasn't murdered after all. I'm going into Jozani today. He had a new message from Tim before he finished putting on his shoes and socks. Damn right there's trouble. I've been up all night. We got a complaint through the embassy in Dar es Salaam, along with a request to withdraw consent for WCA staff members to work in Tanzania. It came from this sheik person, Ibrahim Ag Akhamok. So I want you to stay put--the complaint was made just after you arrived, so we can say we were too late to call you back. But in the meantime, don't do anything. Let me get this straightened out first.

Leon packed the laptop in his backpack, pulled out his camera, and checked the battery. He suspected he had very little time. He wondered if Sefu knew when he picked him up yesterday that Ibrahim was going to the embassy to get his permission to work in the country revoked. And why? What was going on? He wasn't going to go without a fight. He wasn't much of a fighter, not really, but he wasn't a quitter, either, and the thought of leaving this place after only one day and without even a chance to find the leopard... No. They would have to haul him to the airport in restraints. Maybe he could lash himself to one of those strangler figs. Sefu and Jelani were at the kitchen table, and Sefu was talking on a cell phone. "No, nothing." He listened again, his eyes on Leon. He pointed to an empty seat. "We're just going to drive into Jozani, look around." He listened again, then smiled unexpectedly. "Ibrahim...you might be surprised." Bazu slid a plate in front of him, fried eggs with a mound of sliced, golden bananas. Sefu looked up and handed Leon the phone. "He wants to speak with you." He took the phone and held it gingerly up to his ear. "Hello?" "You need to check your e-mail for a message from Washington." He had a cultured, elegant voice, with the same touch of British accent as Sefu. "I saw it a few minutes ago." "Fine." "Is it okay if I stay here? I mean, at your house?" The silence was brief, and his voice sounded a bit taken aback. "Yes,

of course. No one is throwing you out into the streets." "I wanted to thank you for the hospitality of your family." "It is my pleasure." He didn't sound very pleased. More silence. "Anything else?" He was a busy, important man with busy, important things to do. "Um, I borrowed one of your shirts. For dinner last night. Sabah is going to wash it, though." Ibrahim was laughing now. "Oh, really? Did it fit?" "Yes. Well, maybe an inch too long in the sleeves." "Feel free with my closet and anything else that you need. Just don't do any interviews for WCA until I return. I will see you tomorrow, and we will speak more then." Leon almost felt the edge of a threat under the elegant voice. Leon hung up and handed the phone back to Sefu, then dug into his breakfast. "He didn't say anything about not taking pictures." The phone rang a moment later, and Sefu put it up to his ear. He handed the phone over to Leon. "No interviews, videotaping, or photography if it is any part of your assignment for WCA. Not until I return." "Understood," Leon said. "Now let me speak to Bazu." Leon handed over the phone, then ate his bananas. "I think he has the house bugged."

"He might. Finish your breakfast. I want to be on the road before that baby wakes up." No one was meeting his eye. Bazu pretended to be busy at the stove. Sabah drank a cup of coffee, leaning against the sink, studying the ceiling. Jelani was shoveling eggs into his mouth. Only Sefu watched him, grinning a bit. "I need to send one more e-mail," Leon said and pulled his laptop out of the backpack. "Thank you for breakfast, Bazu." He sent an e-mail to Tim: Piers's laptop should have gone with his luggage to the embassy at Dar. I need to see his things, and I need to see what he was working on. While you're talking to the embassy, can you get permission for me to see his laptop? That was as much as he could do right now. Leon put the computer away and got his camera out. Sefu eyed it, his eyebrows raised. "Just for art, not for WCA," he promised. The drive into Jozani was quiet, and Sefu cranked the windows down on the Jeep. "Watch carefully," he said, "and you'll see the monkeys. The red colobus is only found on Zanzibar. But there are twelve different monkey species on the island." The road was a narrow track into the forest, the foliage thick, heavy with vines and enormous ferns. Sefu parked at the visitor's center, a traditional wooden building with a sign out front. It said, WELCOME TO JOZANI-CHWAKA BAY NATIONAL PARK. YOUR VISIT HELPS US BUILD SCHOOLS AND HEALTH CLINICS IN THE LOCAL VILLAGES. Leon gestured toward the sign. "How does that work?" Jelani spoke first. "This is the cooperative model we're trying--to give

the villages an economic reason to support the conservation efforts, rather than have them in competition with the park for access to the animals and plants. Tourism is the major way, plus conservation activities supported by the international conservation groups. Counting the populations for scientific researchers, for example, is one activity people here do better than anyone else because they know the land and the animals so well." "Let's go to the Butterfly Centre," Sefu suggested. "I think at last count there were over three hundred species of butterflies." "That's what I can't get over," Leon said, turning to look in every direction. "So many species. In American forests today, if you see ten different types of trees in the same area, that's unique. Maybe there are twenty-five species of butterflies. But three hundred? It's hard to imagine." "We've evolved in isolation, with a perfect tropical climate," Jelani suggested. "Here's the door to the butterfly enclosure. We have to go through double doors, and we have to check each other for hitchhikers when we leave." Inside, the trees and bushes were covered in butterflies in every color, some tiny as mosquitoes, a few bigger than a hummingbird. Jelani stood still, held his arms out, and in a moment, the butterflies started settling on his outstretched arms. When his head was covered with pale blue and bright green butterflies, Leon took the lens cap off and started taking pictures. "Here, let me take a picture of you," Sefu said, reaching for the camera. Leon stood very still and felt a tiny butterfly alight on his cheek, a small, bright pink beauty spot. "Don't move, Leon. You have some in your hair as well." Jelani reached out, pulled the hair band from Leon's ponytail, and

spread his hair across his shoulders. "Oh, look at that. The butterflies love you, my friend." "Okay, smile, Leon," Sefu said, moving around him. "You look like a movie star." That surprised a laugh out of him, and the sound startled his butterflies. They lifted en masse and flew off. "Monkeys next!" Monkeys, Leon thought later, were the most annoying creatures in the forest. Noisy, dirty, they screamed like hysterical toddlers and threw leaves and berries at his head when he walked by. When they weren't flinging themselves around the trees, they were flinging themselves on each other. Sefu showed him several tracks in the soft mud, tiny hoofprints he said belonged to the endangered Ader's Duiker, some from the bush pig that Jelani said was very good eating, and a small footprint that looked almost like a cat's but strangely elongated. "I think that's a civet, Leon," Sefu said. "If anyone thought they saw a Zanzibar leopard, it was most probably a civet. The civet has a similar dappled coat and is nocturnal. They hunt similar prey, though the leopard is very much larger." "Sefu, why are you so sure there are no more leopards?" "Some of the tourist Web sites talk about the leopards, but there hasn't been a sighting on Zanzibar in over ten years, Leon. No footprints, no scat, no signs of hunting. The duiker population has been declining steadily and I don't believe is strong enough to support a large predator, certainly not a breeding population of predators. Outside of the city, Zanzibar is a small community. I also do not believe we could have a leopard here and keep it quiet. Why are you so sure there are still leopards on Zanzibar?" Leon studied his face for a moment, wondering why he felt like he

could trust these two men. He had known them for only a day but felt as easy with them as he did with his brothers. "I've seen a picture of a leopard." "But why do you think it came from Zanzibar?" Leon started to speak, then stopped, frowning. Why indeed? Because Tim O'Brien had told him the picture was from Zanzibar. And Tim thought that because Piers sent the picture. "I need to do some digging," he said. "Sefu, when you looked through Piers's laptop computer, did you see his photo files of the animals taken on the island?" "I didn't look through his laptop. I thought he had taken it into Stone Town with him when he was killed, and it was stolen or lost." "But you don't think he was killed in Stone Town, right?" "I don't know, Leon. I don't think he was killed in the fish market, where his body was found. That was obvious from the lack of blood. But we can't conclude anything about when or how far he was moved, not with the evidence we have." "I need to see his computer. Something's hinky." "Hinky?" Sefu stared at him. "What's hinky?" "Not right. It's like a strange feeling you get that, even though you don't have all the facts, you still know something isn't right. Hinky." Jelani slapped him on the shoulder. "You need to read more American detective novels, Sefu." Sefu reached out and twisted his ear. "You didn't know what hinky was!" Jelani howled and leaped back, laughing. "Yes, I did!"

Sefu slung an arm around Leon's shoulder. "Come on, little brother. We need to start back. Bazu will kill us all if we're late to dinner." "Sefu, can I ask you a question? A personal question?" "Yes?" "Why do you call your baby 'that baby'? What's his name? I still haven't heard it." Jelani howled again. "Tell him!" "Well, actually, we haven't agreed on a name yet." "Oh. How old is he?" "Three months." Sefu looked gloomy. "She's going to wear me down." "Why? What does she want to call him?" "Tiberius. Aeeshah is a fan of the American TV show Star Trek." ***

Jet lag was starting to catch up with him. He drowsed over a delicious lunch of fresh fish, earning Bazu's displeasure. Bazu looked like a wet kitten, fur spiked in outrage, and Leon laughed at him. That made things worse, of course, so when Bazu ordered him out of the kitchen with a dramatic finger, Sefu took him out to a shady porch behind the house, put him down into a hammock, and plopped "that baby" on his chest. "Aeeshah and Rachel are going to make you a sarong. Bazu is designing it. Ibrahim wears them around the house sometimes." "Why don't you wear one?" Sefu rolled his eyes. "I am perfectly comfortable wearing pants, but thank you."

Leon smiled and closed his eyes. The baby snuffled in his sleep, pressing his tiny fists into Leon's chest. Leon could feel the hammock move gently in the breeze, and Charlie settled down next to him and stroked the baby's soft back with one finger. "I like Tiberius." "I do too. Did you see those butterflies, Charlie?" "I saw them. It's beautiful here, and this house is full of love. But be careful. There is still the matter of your colleague, drowned and run through with a sword. You need to find out what happened." "It didn't work out so well when I tried to find out what happened to you." He could feel Charlie's hand stroking his hair, soft as the wind. "It's time you put that away, Leon. Don't keep punishing yourself over me. You could be happy here." "We could be happy here. You aren't going anywhere, are you, Charlie?" "Silly boy." The baby gave a faint, sleepy cry that woke them both, and Leon reached out for him, rocked him up and down with a couple of deep breaths. The baby lifted his head a tiny bit, then settled back onto Leon's chest with a sigh. "I wonder if you're getting a tooth," Leon said, letting Tiberius suck on his pinkie. "I understand you're the only person who can get that beast to sleep." Ibrahim was sitting next to him in a chair, his feet propped up on an ottoman, a netbook open on his lap. Leon sat up, holding the baby still against his chest. "I thought you weren't getting home until tomorrow!"

"I was homesick," Ibrahim said, and the mocking note in his voice was very clear. "Besides, I wanted to see what you were up to." He held up Leon's camera. "You visited the butterflies. Very pretty." "You can always give him a job as a nanny if you manage to get WCA kicked out of the country, Ibrahim." The second man was a Brit, with a fair, sun-mottled complexion and thinning sandy hair. The sneer on his face matched the tone of his words. Leon felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Aeeshah came over to him and took Tiberius. She wiped a bit of drool from his chest with a clean diaper. Leon noticed the cautious look she gave the two men sitting on the porch with him. He stood up, feeling the need to be on his feet, and held out his hand. "Leon Davis," he said. Ibrahim stood slowly and took his hand. "Ibrahim Ag Akhamok." Now that Leon had met Bazu and Makhammad, he recognized the Tuareg in him--the beautiful cinnamon tinge to his skin and the black hair that was thick and curly. It was tied in a tail at his neck, and unlike Makhammad, he was clean-shaven, with a jaw like a piece of granite and big, liquid eyes, like Bazu. He was older, maybe forty, and he looked like hot sex in a pair of handmade Italian loafers. Ibrahim raised his eyebrows, and Leon dropped his hand, his face flushing. Leon turned to the other man, who didn't get out of his chair. "I'm Peter Sullivan," he said. "Leon Davis." Leon turned back to Ibrahim, held out his hand for the camera, and Ibrahim handed it to him. "You could have asked Jelani or Sefu if you didn't trust me," he said. "I did ask Jelani and Sefu. I like the pictures you took in the fish market."

"Thanks." Leon looked down at his chest. There were random wet marks that could only have come from a drooling baby who had overflowed his diaper. "I need to change. Can we speak later?" "Of course, Leon. I'll look forward to it." Leon had taken two steps away. "Who's Charlie? You said his name in your sleep." Ouch. Leon shook his head and turned back to the house. That hadn't gone very well. Score one for the Tuareg. When he got to his room, he pulled the dirty T-shirt off and then opened his laptop. There was an e-mail from Tim: Leon, you've got a forty-eight-hour window. Most important you find out what Piers was doing. No laptop in his luggage at the embassy. And another one from Maggie: Leon, double check the day Piers got to Zanzibar, would you? I'm noticing a small discrepancy with the date some of the photos were transmitted. How could he have taken so many wildlife photos, and transmitted them, on the day he was supposed to have arrived in the country? He was not that good. Did he come early? Something's hinky. And why haven't I heard from you? He closed the laptop down. He'd have to deal with Washington later. Too much information, and it was getting tangled in his mind. He pulled out his memo book and started making a list. Questions about the photos of the leopard. He put this at the top of the list because it was what brought him to Zanzibar in the first place. Plus the very idea of a WCA reporter not being scrupulously honest--that would be... He couldn't even find the words to describe it. Watergate and Monicagate all rolled into one would be nothing compared to it. Questions about the alcohol and drugs. This was a very conservative,

mostly Muslim community. Even in this house, where there seemed to be an unprecedented amount of personal freedom, Makhammad was clearly very old and very conservative. Leon had seen no alcohol in this house since he'd been here, nothing, not even beer. And the meth-fueled sexual idiocy he'd seen in California? No. Not on Zanzibar. Questions about the pornographic magazines. Who else had seen them? Why had he brought them here? Piers wasn't gay. What had Sabah said? Boys in handcuffs? Leon bet she hadn't looked very closely. Surely she didn't mean young boys? Where had he been killed? Who had been with him? Was he murdered, or did he drown by accident? Who had run him through with a sword? Who had taken the body to Stone Town? Did it all have anything to do with Zanzibar? Did it have something to do with Jozani? With WCA? Leon stared down at the list. "You need to stop taking naps with Tiberius and get to work, my man." He climbed into the shower and filled the little bathroom with coconutscented steam again. He loved the way this place smelled. He could see himself using coconut shampoo when he was seventy, trying to remember how Zanzibar smelled. He would never be able to get close, he thought, because it wasn't just coconuts, but the salty air off the ocean and the spices Bazu used in his cooking. And three hundred species of butterflies. They must make the air sweet when they passed. When he came out of the shower, with a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair tangled around his shoulders, Ibrahim was standing inside his bedroom door. Leon looked over at his laptop on the bed and the memo pad he had left open. Ibrahim saw the look, and his brows moved together in annoyance. "I'm not going through your things, Leon."

"You looked in my camera." "Oh, well..." Ibrahim raised a lazy hand, brushed this away. "That was nothing." "Nothing? To look in a photographer's camera, that's like getting a Vulcan mind meld against your will. It's just--" "Getting what?" "A Vulcan mind meld. I thought you guys were Trekkies around here." Ibrahim laughed, then held out a cream-colored shirt on a coat hanger. "I think Aeeshah is going to prevail. Tiberius is a good, strong name. I brought you a shirt for dinner. And I suppose I should say I'm sorry for looking into your camera without your permission. I hope you will accept my apology?" "Accepted." "I promise you, I had a reason for doing so. You seem to have made yourself at home here, Leon. The family likes you. I trust their judgment in many things." His gaze was slowly working its way from Leon's toes to his knees, up to his waist and the tangled hair over his shoulders. Leon could feel goose bumps pop up on his stomach, and his nipples tightened. It was an intimate look from a stranger, a handsome stranger, as intimate as a touch. Leon put an arm across his chest, giving in to some instinct to hide, and Ibrahim smiled at him. "You look like a merman, with your hair wet and tangled like that." Then Ibrahim stared down at Leon's feet again. "It looks like Bazu painted your toenails, my friend. What did you do, fall asleep at lunch?" "It was jetlag!" Leon stared down at his feet. Each big toenail sported a

perfect, bright yellow smiley face. Ibrahim was laughing softly to himself, and Bazu stuck his pretty face inside the door. "We finished your sarong! Can you try it on? I just have to fit the waist." Ibrahim pulled up a chair and settled down. "Oh good. Let's have a fashion show! Bazu wants to go on Top Designer." Bazu gave him an exaggerated eye roll, and Leon wondered if he could just retreat into the bathroom and lock the door. Instead he grabbed a pair of boxers off the dresser, then pulled the shirt Ibrahim had given him off the hanger. "Give me one minute," he said and went back into the bathroom. He pulled on the boxers, ran the towel over his hair one more time, and buttoned up the shirt. That stopped him, and he ran his hands over heavy, sandwashed silk the color of old ivory. When he pushed open the bathroom door, Bazu was standing with his arms folded, holding a comb. "Sit down, sit down! I'm going to comb out your hair before these tangles dry." Bazu pushed him into a chair, and Leon sent a pleading look across the room to Ibrahim. "Just let him do it," he advised. "It's easier than having to put up with the pouting when he doesn't get his way." Bazu smiled sweetly at him. "Your turn is coming," he promised, lifting Leon's mass of hair in his hands. "And I hope it's coming before supper. Leon is going to look so good, you'll have to work hard to keep up with him, an old man like you. Leon, Rachel and Aeeshah found some silk, heavy dark brown silk. They've sewn the sarong with some pleats in the front, so it's comfortable to walk in. I'm still not entirely happy with the tie in the front." He was combing Leon's hair back, gathering it in a ponytail in

one fist. "Do we want to leave it loose or make a braid? It's so beautiful, like honey." "I don't like to leave it loose when I eat. I'm afraid it will fall in the soup." "We aren't having soup, but as it happens, I saved a piece of the silk from the sarong to use in your hair." He wrapped the silk around the ponytail, left it hanging, then quickly braided it in. "You will look so handsome, Ibrahim will fall in love with you. He falls in love with men sometimes, but so far no one has been able to put up with him full time." Ibrahim was carefully studying the ceiling. "Now stand up, and I'll see if the sarong fits." Oh God, he's gay! I can't take it. Bazu wrapped the heavy cloth around his waist, made some small adjustments to the pleats and folds of cloth, and then tied it just off-center. "See what I mean? With these pleats, I think the tie is too informal, but tying is the traditional closure for a sarong. I really want a fitted waist and closures of Velcro." He stood back, chewing on his thumbnail. "I'll have to work on it. Ibrahim, I'm making one for you as well. You remember that silk you brought back from Bahrain? The dark blue with the peacock design? I'm going to make it so the peacock is spreading his feathers across your backside." Bazu's voice was gleeful. "I can't wait! Have you annoyed Leon enough? Go back to the kitchen, Bazu. I need to speak with him." "You see how they treat me?" He flung his hands out, eyes raised to the heavens. He had the look of a medieval painting of Christ on the cross. "And they say slavery is dead! I should call the United Nations!" After he left, Leon studied himself in the mirror. "Thanks for letting me

borrow the shirt," he said. "It looks good with the sarong." "Bazu picked it out. And thank you for letting the boy..." "He is hard to resist," Leon said. "I can see why you all adore him. How old is he, Ibrahim?" "He just turned seventeen. He finished school last year, and I am not ready to send him to university. I don't think he's ready for Cambridge, and for sure Cambridge is not ready for him." "Does he want to be a designer? Maybe one of the good schools in the States, like Rhode Island." Ibrahim shook his head. "I don't know. Not America. I don't trust him out of my sight. It's not him. He's innocent as a baby. But just look at his face. People will take one look at him, this beautiful boy from Africa, and he'll be sucked into a world where I can't protect him. I haven't decided yet what to do. And he only wants to be a designer this week. Last week he was going to be a great chef. He will get a crush on you and decide to become a photographer. If he does fall in love with you, Leon, don't give in to temptation and touch him. He is still too young. If you touch him, I will run you through with my sword." Leon blinked as his mind tried to keep up with the sharp edge the conversation had taken. He felt it in his stomach, like he'd been punched with an icy little fist. He listened to Ibrahim's words again. "Do you give that warning to everyone who comes into your home?" "It's not a warning, I promise you." The ice in Leon's stomach was turning to acid, and a picture of Piers's face swam before his eyes. He hated this world, crime and victims and perpetrators. "Are you sure you want to tell me that, when the last WCA reporter who came to your house was found dead, having been run

through with a Tuareg sword?" Ibrahim smiled at him, and the smile was as sharp as a razor. "We need to discuss your colleague, but perhaps it can wait until after dinner. Sefu and Jelani have some information to report. The embassy has made a request of Mr. O'Brien that you be allowed to participate officially in the investigation. Did they tell you?" Leon shook his head. "You requested to see his personal belongings that were delivered to the embassy. When they looked into his suitcase, they decided they wanted an American on the team looking into his death. And here you already were, in Jozani, in my house, willing and able!" "Is there anyone looking into his death who isn't connected with Jozani?" "No." He shrugged, an elegant twist of the shoulders. "Can I ask you something, Ibrahim?" "Of course." His voice was very polite, elegant and cultured. As if he had not just threatened murder. "Is there a reason you think I would take advantage of that child? You don't know me at all, I admit, but I'm a little offended. I mean, I am gay, but I don't think I've given you any reason..." "No, I don't think so, or you wouldn't be in my home. With a silk bow in your hair." His voice was mocking. He stood up, paced back and forth, and Leon watched him, anxiety twisting in his chest. "I suppose I want you to understand how far I'll go to protect my family." He looked up, and his eyes were as sharp as glass, dark as obsidian. "They are mine to protect." "Did you stick a sword in Piers's chest because he threatened your

family?" "No. But I could have, easily. If I had found out while he was alive what he was doing, I would have killed him, happily. But I didn't. Now, I suppose I better go put on my skirt so you won't be the only man Bazu dressed for dinner." When Leon started to speak, Ibrahim raised his hand. "Let's talk more after dinner, shall we? Jelani wants to set up a murder board in my office. He reads too many Harry Bosch novels." Leon followed Ibrahim down the hall, his mind fuzzed out with lust. Ibrahim was gay--and thank you for that information, Bazu, you angel. The sheik, that's what they called him? No wonder. He probably slept with his sword by the bed. So Ibrahim was gay. He looked...experienced. More than experienced. He was a giant walking boner. So what if Leon let himself just... Okay, worst-case scenario? Say it went horribly wrong and he threw up in the middle of it or hyperventilated. He could always leave the country. But a sheik, on the romantic island of Zanzibar! Would he ever in his life again have a chance like this? He was staring at Ibrahim's back and the long curls that were bouncing between his shoulder blades, shiny corkscrews of deep, deep black. Ibrahim turned and hammered him with a look as sharp as steel. Leon gulped, backed up a step. Could the Tuareg read minds? In the parlor, people were beginning to gather for dinner. Sefu and Makhammad were hunched over a wooden board with small depressions, some holding seeds. Sefu looked up, waving when he saw Leon. "You look very pretty!" His voice was mocking. Leon grinned back. "I told Bazu to make you one just like this so we could dress alike." His mouth fell open in horror, and Leon laughed. "No, you did not!"

"No, I did not." He studied the board and patted Makhammad gently on the shoulder. "Hello, sir." "This is Bao," Makhammad said, gesturing toward the board. "Have you ever played?" Leon shook his head. "It's a game of mathematics. We will teach you to play, if you stay with us awhile." "Thank you. I'd like that. Though I'm not very good at math." "This is why!" Makhammad gestured toward the table. "Americans don't play Bao! You play Monopoly, a game about money, and Clue, a game about murder." Leon opened his mouth, then closed it again. Sometimes it was better to say nothing. Sefu and Makhammad played fast, seeds moving across the board. They didn't speak. Sabah came into the room and sat next to Leon on the sofa. "Leon, how are you? Is there anything you need?" He turned to her, smiling. "No, I'm fine, thank you. Did you see the sarong? Made today just for me." "I know! I watched them make it. Leon, Peter Sullivan, Ibrahim's secretary, he sometimes has wine with dinner. You're welcome to also have a glass. I'm sorry I've not asked you before if you would like wine." Leon shook his head. "I don't drink, but thanks for thinking of me." She nodded, looking at him curiously. "We're eating in about ten minutes," she said. "Where is everyone else?" Sefu spoke. "Aeeshah is bringing that baby. He seems to have stopped screaming for the moment, but she will take him away again if he starts.

Rachel and Jelani are coming as well." ***

The dining room table was full, and Sabah showed Leon where he was to sit, next to Ibrahim. Bazu brought out seafood curry that was a beautiful pumpkin yellow, and Sabah poured apple cider into the glasses. There was a dish of grilled mangoes, and a tiny plate of crispy calamari was placed next to each plate. Makhammad spread his hands, and Sabah sat down next to Peter Sullivan. "Bismillahi. Ibrahim, was your trip a success? How did you find Cairo?" He gestured for them to begin eating, and Sabah stood up again, took the dish of mangoes, and began spooning some onto each plate. Peter shook his head at her. "None for me." "Cairo was very crowded, Grandfather. But I saw a pair of beautiful white camels in the market, twins." "What, Bactrians?" Ibrahim shook his head. "No, white dromedaries. They were big for their age. I think they'll grow fast, move fast. I bought the pair for the caravan coming from Tripoli." Leon was surprised. "You still have camel caravans? I thought they were all in the past." Peter picked up his glass of wine. "The Sahara hasn't disappeared, Leon. Caravans are still the only way to cross it. Despite what America believes, sometimes the old ways are still the best ways." Leon studied him, wondering at the source of Peter's low-level irritation. It seemed to be general, not specifically directed at him. But no question here was one member of the family who did not like him. Maybe

he didn't like any of them. Leon turned to Ibrahim. "Have you been on a caravan yourself? What was it like?" Ibrahim smiled at him, his dark gaze moving thoughtfully over Leon's face. "It's slow," he said. "It's slow and rough and primitive, and you have time to think. I love to travel that way. I sleep better on caravan than any other time." "That's not sleep; that's dropping into unconsciousness!" Bazu laughed at him. "Leon, you should see Ibrahim when he puts on the veil. So handsome, so fierce, like he is walking out of the pages of Herodotus." He shuddered. "But don't let him talk you into going on a caravan. It's like living the tortures of the damned! Those camels, you can't imagine the smell. And don't even ask me about the sanitary arrangements! All I'll say is: shovels and sand!" "You mean the blue Tuareg veil, right? Bazu, have you ever worn the veil?" "In a manner of speaking." Makhammad swatted at him, but Bazu darted out of his way. "It is not a decoration! It's your culture, your heritage! You put on the veil when you become a man, though I do not know when that will be in your case, Bazu. I may not live that long." Bazu scooped up another ladleful of curry and poured it into the old man's bowl. "Eat more, Grandfather. You're getting too skinny. I made this just for you, the way you like it." Makhammad put his old hand against Bazu's cheek and held it there for a moment. Peter drained his glass, nibbled on the calamari. He had eaten a couple of spoonfuls of curry, then pushed his bowl away, ignoring Bazu's glare. Sabah stood up and fetched the bottle of wine, and he held out his glass

for her. Her face was carefully noncommittal, but Leon wondered about this man. He didn't seem to fit into the rest of the family. The cynical, slightly sarcastic tone to his words seemed at odds with the openness and affection the rest of the family had for each other. Leon finished his bowl of curry, then shook his head when Bazu offered him another ladleful. "Aeeshah, can I hold Tiberius?" That got him a glare from Sefu. "I mean, that baby?" Tiberius was looking around at them all from his perch on Aeeshah's lap, but she had not been able to start eating. "Just don't start him off screaming again," Peter warned as Leon put the baby up to his shoulder. "Jelani, when are we going to see a baby from you? You and Sefu do everything together, am I right?" Rachel stared down at her plate. Jelani cast Peter a look out of the corner of his eyes. "I will be sure and let you know if any more babies are born on the island. I know how much you care for the little children of Africa." Leon didn't know what that was all about, but hostility was simmering just under the surface. Peter could not help but be aware of it, and judging by the slight grin on his face, he seemed to know it, even enjoy it. Leon stuck his finger into his glass of apple cider, then put the tip in the baby's mouth. Tiberius seemed to love the cider and gnawed on Leon's finger like he was a puppy with a bone. Then he let out one of those deep, long burps that sounded like it was coming from an old man, and they all laughed, the tension broken. When they pushed back from the table and Makhammad pulled out his pipe, Ibrahim stood up. "I need to see Sefu, Jelani, and Leon in my office, please." "Do you need me to take notes, Ibrahim?" Peter held out his glass, and Sabah poured him another glass.

Ibrahim shook his head. "No, thank you, Peter. You can have tomorrow off, if you would like. I'm going to take Leon sailing." Peter raised his eyebrows. "Lucky boy!" Leon and Jelani shared a look, and Leon could see he was not the only person who detested the asinine Peter. Sefu took the baby out of his arms and blew a wet raspberry on his belly. He handed the baby over to Aeeshah, who passed him to Bazu. "He screams when I put him down in the playpen. I think I will just hold him." Bazu held the baby up until they were nose to nose, and they stared at each other, interested. "When can he start eating vegetables? I have been growing some carrots for him." Sefu pulled Leon by the arm. "Come on. Let's think about murder. If I have to listen to Bazu talk about baby food, I don't know what I will do. I will not be responsible." "Leon, wait until you see the murder board I have set up in Ibrahim's office," Jelani said. "Two large whiteboards, and we can divide them up into a timeline, a list of suspects, and...what else?" "Motive," Leon said. "I need to get my memo book--I made some notes before dinner." "Get your laptop too, Leon." Ibrahim turned to Sabah and asked her to bring some coffee to his office. "I want to see if you've had any word from the embassy. Come on, I'll walk with you." He put his hand on Leon's lower back, and they walked down the hall to the bedrooms. "Leon, would you like to go sailing with me tomorrow?" Leon turned and looked at him. Should he mention that Ibrahim had already announced his intention to do just that? Without asking him first? Ibrahim was smiling at him, his eyes warm, a laugh lurking in the depths.

Why argue? It wasn't an argument he was going to win. "Yes, thank you, Ibrahim. I would love to sail with you." "You're a peacemaker, aren't you?" Leon thought pushover was probably the word. Ibrahim leaned closer, backing Leon up between his arms until he pressed him against the bedroom door. Leon felt him in his mouth, in his throat, a pulse of heat down in his balls. He was ready to scream like Tiberius. "I wasn't expecting to like you. We don't need to be enemies. I think we're on the same side." What? What was he talking about? Leon stared at his mouth, soft and ripe, the bottom lip curved and sweet as the mango they had eaten at dinner. His brain was going a little fuzzy, and he couldn't seem to focus his eyes. Sheiks and slave boys, silk and cinnamon skin tangled in his mind. Ibrahim smiled, and Leon looked up into his eyes. They weren't black, he realized, but deep brown, warm and endless, the color of bittersweet chocolate. "I love hot chocolate," he said, and Ibrahim laughed, leaned in closer, let his mouth brush Leon's for just one moment. The trembling started in Leon's belly, moved to his knees, and he reached out, held on to Ibrahim's shoulder so he wouldn't fall to his knees. Ibrahim studied his face, reached out, and held his shoulders. "What is it, Leon?" Leon shook his head. "Nothing, I'm just... I get shaky sometimes. Around men like you, you know..." Ibrahim shook his head. "No, I don't know." "I'm trying to explain to you that I don't have a great deal of experience," Leon said, "in dealing with men as attractive--" Ibrahim pushed him back against the wall, and he felt that beautiful mouth on his, sweeter than he'd imagined, strong hands holding him still, holding him up,

a wide chest, a hard belly, and an erect cock sliding against his own through two layers of sandwashed silk. Leon closed his eyes, praying he would not fall unconscious at Ibrahim's feet. Ibrahim sighed and lifted his head. "You are so very appealing, young Leon. With your tender eyes and your gentle spirit. I wish..." His face hardened a bit. "I wish we did not have this dead body between us. Maybe we can clean up this mess and then see. See what we can see." Leon realized he was still clutching Ibrahim's shirt in his fist. He let go and eased the wrinkles out of the silk with his fingers. Ibrahim reached up to his cheek, wrapped a strand of loose hair around his finger. "It does look like sunshine." Then he looked away. "Get your laptop. I've got something I need to show you." Leon picked up the laptop and his memo book and followed Ibrahim down the hall to his office. He blinked, then looked around in surprise. "Permission to enter the bridge, Captain Kirk!" There were enough computer monitors and high-tech electronics to monitor all the trade routes in the world, Leon thought. Or maybe Ibrahim was a secret agent with MI-5. MI-6? He got them confused. Did Zanzibar support spies? He would not have been surprised to have a shelf full of strange weapons pop out of the walls, like that scene in Men in Black. Could he stand for Ibrahim to be any cooler? Sefu and Jelani were standing at one of the whiteboards. "Ibrahim, we thought the best place to start was the questions that have come up so far in the investigation." He handed markers to Leon and Ibrahim. "Why don't you two write your questions on this board? Then we can see if we have any answers." Leon thought of the list in his memo book, then thought of the one

question that would change all the other answers. He wrote: Why are the only people in Zanzibar investigating this death in this room? Ibrahim was writing next to him. Leon looked over at the question: Why did the US Embassy ask a WCA reporter to participate in this investigation? They looked at each other for a long moment, assessing, and then Sefu put a hand on each of their shoulders. "Sabah brought coffee." Leon looked at the other board. Jelani was writing a list of questions, which started with: How was the body transported to Stone Town? Who was the last person who spoke to him? Sefu began. "Leon, we discussed your question before. Did you not believe my answer?" Leon rubbed his chin, then took a cup of coffee from Ibrahim. "I did believe you, Sefu, and I still do. I understand lack of resources and people working together and all that. I just don't think that's the entire answer. Maybe I need to hear the rest of it." "I gave the Ministry a donation and suggested they let us handle this," Ibrahim said. Leon had wondered if this might be part of it, but he was shocked at the bluntness of Ibrahim's answer. "You bribed them?" "Yes." "For God's sake, why? Don't you see how guilty that makes you look?" "I don't give a fuck how it makes me look. I told you once already I would do what was necessary to protect my family. Didn't you understand that I meant what I said? Now, why don't you tell me who you are."

"What?" Sefu answered. "Ibrahim, he was LAPD." "For exactly nine months and two days. I want, as you say, the rest of the story." Leon sat down, bending his head over his coffee cup. "I didn't like it. I couldn't be myself. I had always wanted to be a photographer, but in my family it was assumed we would do something to contribute to the world. We were teachers, nurses, cops. Nobody was an artist. That was seen as very self-indulgent. So I left." Ibrahim was staring at him, arms crossed over his chest, legs spread. "Why did you leave? I want the rest of it, Leon." "The rest of what? And why are we fencing like this when what we really need to know is who has his computer? That may tell us what he was working on while he was here, and that may give us the motive. If his death has anything to do with the story he was writing for WCA, I need to know." "That's easy," Ibrahim said. "I have his laptop. I had Sabah put it aside from his possessions going to the embassy. I see now that was a mistake. I should have kept everything here." "You can't just subvert all the material evidence!" "Yes, Leon, I can, and I have." Ibrahim strode to his office door and turned the lock. "All right. Let me explain to you all what Piers was doing on Zanzibar, what he was doing in Africa. And after that, we will have our motive, and we can go back to the list of questions." He pulled a battered, plaid computer bag out from under his desk. Sefu and Jelani exchanged looks. Leon could tell they had not known about this.

Ibrahim opened the laptop, powered it up, then turned the screen around so they could see the image on the screen: a young African boy, his hands lashed together with ropes, tied to a beam over his head. He was looking over his shoulder at the camera, petrified, and in the next shot, his clothes had been pulled off, and he was crying, praying, maybe, his eyes tightly shut. "The pictures are shot in sequence," Ibrahim said, "and everything that was done to this child is preserved here. But not just here. He sent these pictures, and many more like them, to magazines and Web sites." He looked over at Leon. "I have the proof. He did not erase his Send file on his e-mail program, and they automatically saved all outgoing e-mails, with attachments." His fingers moved over the keyboard, and he pulled up another group of photographs. Bazu in the kitchen, then another of him sitting with Makhammad to play Bao, then another, a close-up of his mouth, his eyes. "He opened a file, made some notes about the magazine he would like to sell these pictures to. Zanzibar, the historical center of the slave trade. Where could he get an antique metal collar and chain? He also made a note that he was going to get Bazu with a little pharmaceutical enhancement. He had roofies in his luggage. He said this boy was going to be his gravy train." Jelani looked confused. "What's a roofie?" "Rohypnol. Date-rape drug. A fast-acting drug that renders the user insensate." Ibrahim looked across the room at Leon. "Do you want to see more? Do you want to scroll down through these filthy pictures, see what your friend was doing in Africa? To African boys?" Leon couldn't move. His throat was full of ice, and each breath felt like he was lifting a fifty-pound block of lead sitting on his chest. He could taste the rage in his throat, acid, and his vision was shading to red. Bazu? Silly,

beautiful Bazu, his hands tied, his clothes pulled off against his will, pictures taken of him helpless, naked, chained, his legs spread, his body raped, his spirit raped? And then those pictures sold, so he could know, for all his life, that his humiliation was spread out before the cold eyes of the world? Bazu, he would not be able to stand it. He couldn't... Leon looked down at his feet, at two bright yellow smiley faces painted on his toenails. And without realizing what he was doing, Leon moved across the room, picked up the laptop, and threw it to the floor. It was still in one piece, though, with that horrible picture of the child on the screen, so he picked it up and threw it again. It crashed into the wall, fell onto one of Ibrahim's computer monitors. Ibrahim was not moving, watching him with his arms crossed over his chest. The fucking laptop was still working, still in one piece, and Leon couldn't stand it, couldn't bear to have that child staring at him, so afraid, so he picked up the chair he had been sitting in, flung it across the room, but by then Sefu had him wrapped up in his arms, and Leon was crying, sobbing out incoherent words through a throat that was stiff and frozen, but he could hear himself: "I'm going to kill that fucker. I'm going to kill him..." Ibrahim walked over, put his arms around Leon, holding him from the other side. Leon felt his head start to spin, a crushing weight on his chest, black seeping into his peripheral vision. He couldn't breathe; he was having a heart attack. "Hush, now," Ibrahim said, and Leon fell into darkness. When he woke, he was in his bed, and Ibrahim was sitting next to him, reading from a Kindle. Leon stared at him for a moment, trying to remember. Then despair washed over him, twisting his stomach into a knot. "I'm sorry. Ibrahim, I'm so sorry. I don't know..." Ibrahim looked up and put his fingers across Leon's mouth. The touch was tender, and he slipped his index finger into Leon's mouth, rubbed

gently inside his bottom lip. "You don't have to say anything, Leon." "What are we doing?" He started to sit up. "How did..." "Sefu carried you. I think Bazu is making you some hot chocolate." "Oh God. Bazu." Leon put both hands over his eyes, felt a fresh wave of tears and fury. "Ibrahim, did you look carefully? You didn't find any files, did you?" Ibrahim shook his head. "There was nothing besides what I showed you." Leon sat up, then put his head back against the headboard. "So there is the motive, that stupid fuck." "One possible motive. May I ask you something?" "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll replace your broken furniture and the computer monitor, I promise, Ibrahim, and whatever else I broke." "Tell me about Charlie. Sefu told me a little. Does he have something to do with what just happened in my office?" Did he? How could he explain panic attacks, rages, hyperventilation, passing out, punching walls, without sounding like a nutcase? Maybe he was a nutcase. Maybe it didn't have anything to do with Charlie, and he was just a nut bomb walking around, ready to blow. "How did you know I had been LAPD for nine months and two days? If you have access to that information, then you must know..." Ibrahim reached forward, ran his fingers along Leon's forehead. "I'm not trying to gather evidence against you, Leon. I just thought you might like to talk about it." Leon thought there wasn't anything in the world he would rather do

less, but he opened his mouth, and the words started spilling out. "Charlie was attacked outside the theater. He had the receipts in a deposit bag with him, and they took it, but they beat him up more than they needed to get it away from him. He was seventy-seven, Ibrahim; it wasn't like he could have put up much of a fight. And then one of them pulled his trousers down and cut a word into his skin: F-A-G, with a knife, across his buttocks. He was still alive then. They could tell from the amount of bleeding." Leon's voice was wooden, but he felt the weight of sorrow like it was yesterday, a wave a grief that was rising, ready to flood him. "I couldn't find any information about what happened. The case is still open. You left the LAPD, then you left California, and now you appear to have left the US and come to Zanzibar." Ibrahim narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?" "The homicide detectives knew who had killed Charlie; they just didn't have any proof. I found one of the boys, the one bragging about using the knife on him. And I beat him to death with my hands, Ibrahim. And no matter how hard I try, I can't feel anything. No regret, no grief. It's like something froze inside of me. But I'm not right. I can't even..." Leon put his hands up, covered his eyes. "My family, they suspected. And it was a line a cop should never cross. They're cops down to their bones, and they just couldn't get their heads around it. They never really understood how much I loved Charlie, how important he was to me. And they'll never forgive this. My dad, he can't even look at me, and my mom just talks to me in this very brisk tone of voice, like she's talking to a stranger. I can't tell them anything. They don't want to know. And they don't want to know me, either. I crossed a line. Now I can't go back home." Bazu stuck his head in the door. "Leon! I've brought you hot chocolate!

There's whipped cream, but it's made from goat's milk. I wouldn't call it whipped cream, actually. I don't have any cream, because we don't have any cows!" Leon wiped his eyes. "I'm sure it's delicious, Bazu." "Of course it's delicious! I tested it in the kitchen. I put a tiny bit of nutmeg and cinnamon in it." Leon took the cup, and Bazu stood there, watching him, until he took a sip. "Well?" It was as rich as chocolate mousse, with a tiny hint of the spice under the chocolate. Not very sweet, and with a bit of caramel flavor. "I love it. I like the richness, and so smooth! Did you put caramel in it?" Bazu shook his head. "Not intentionally. I tried to make some tiny icicles of caramelized sugar with the little torch, to go on the top like decoration, but the first one sank to the bottom of the cup! It's probably still there. I have a whole pot, Leon. Do you want some more?" Leon shook his head. "Enough is as good as a feast. My friend Charlie used to say that." "Bazu, where's my cup?" "Ibrahim, you don't like hot chocolate!" His hands were on his hips now. "Besides, you scared Leon into a fit! Jelani told me." He turned to Leon with a smirk. "What did he do to you? You tell me, and I'll tell Grandfather, and we will take care of this pirate for you!" "I only like hot chocolate when it is made with goat's milk and has little twigs of caramel floating in the bottom." Ibrahim pointed to the door. "Leon needs some rest, and so do I. Go on--you're making both of us tired." Bazu's big eyes showed outrage, comical tragedy, and Leon laughed as

he swept out the door. "You need to send him to acting school, Ibrahim." "Don't you think he's enough of a drama queen already?" "Why do you have him working as your cook? He told me it's because his family used to be your slaves." "That again? His grandmother was a slave, and Makhammad bought her when she was fourteen. Then he married her." "You mean he really is Bazu's grandfather?" "Yes, and he's my grandfather as well. But the reason I have Bazu cooking, Leon, is because you have to keep teenagers busy. I don't even want to think of the trouble he would get into if he wasn't concocting new baby food recipes. You can't imagine what Aeeshah had to eat when she was pregnant." "Can I ask you one more thing?" Ibrahim nodded. "Peter, he seems...not really like the rest of the people here." "No, he's not." Ibrahim studied his face for a moment. "In this part of the world, Leon, sometimes men bind themselves to each other through their stories or their experiences. You have trusted me with something painful and important to you. I will share something with you that I would not want to leave this room." "Okay." "Peter is embezzling money from me. He has done it before, from a small orphanage outside Nairobi. I found out about it from an old friend, but there was no evidence. I am giving him--What is that American expression? I am giving him enough rope to hang himself with. And when I have collected enough evidence, I am going to send him to prison for life. To an African prison, which he will hate with every cell of his thieving

body. Sefu and Jelani know what he did, but they don't know what I have planned for him." Now that was interesting, Leon thought, climbing out of bed. "I'm relieved to hear that. Let's get back to work." Someone had loosened his sarong, and he slipped it off, then grabbed his jeans. He noticed Ibrahim's look. "I'll save it for dinner. I think better in Levis." They walked back down to the office, and inside, Sefu and Jelani were staring at the whiteboard, making notes. "We need a timeline," Jelani said. Sefu looked through a stack of papers. "Let's work back from when he was found. It was about four thirty a.m. on the seventeenth when the fisherman found his body at the market. The autopsy isn't sure but puts the time of death between four and eight hours earlier." "So somewhere from eight to midnight the night before he was found." Sefu looked around at Leon, nodded. "Sorry, Sefu, Jelani. I didn't mean to lose control like that." Sefu shrugged and gave him a crooked grin. "Somebody had to do it. But like you, Jelani and I would happily have put a sword through that pig." He studied him for a moment more. "Leon, what does WCA want you to find out and report to them?" Leon took one of the markers, made himself a place on the board. "Several things. They want to know if he was killed because of something he was doing for the magazine. They want to know if there is something in Jozani that lead to his death. They want to know where and when he got pictures of the extinct Zanzibar leopard. Actually, that's on the top of my list as well." Ibrahim turned around from his computer screen. "Did he say he got

pictures of a leopard? I didn't see anything on his computer about that." "I saw the pictures. He shot a pregnant leopard, and she was going into a small rock cave in the forest. No other distinguishing geography to identify where it was. He said it was in Jozani. That's the real reason they sent me. They wanted to get pictures of a pregnant animal from an extinct species." "So where did the pictures come from?" Jelani was making notes as they talked. "I need to make another timeline," Leon said. "Maggie asked me to find out when he had actually arrived on the island. She said there was something hinky about the time when he sent the pictures." Sefu was going through the papers again, and Ibrahim settled down in front of one of the computers. "I think he came through immigration in Dar on the fourteenth. Yes, look at this. It's a photocopy of his passport. He came here from Kenya. He arrived in Kenya on the seventh." "He spent a week in Kenya before he came here? Where, Nairobi? Or one of the big parks? As far as I know, that wasn't part of his assignment for WCA. But they might not have told me." "I don't know." Ibrahim turned around from the computer. "There are a number of preserves in the highlands of Ethiopia, to the north. They're known for their leopards. He could have gotten the photos there." Leon moved back, stared at the board. "Can you imagine the shit that is about to hit the fan? A WCA photographer falsifying photographs of wildlife? And why? What was the point?" "Maybe to have longer on the island." Jelani gestured toward the pieces of the broken laptop. "He met Bazu, and he wanted to do his..." His voice trailed off.

"He might have taken the photos in Kenya or wherever, then decided to use them when he got here," Leon agreed. "Let me check when he sent the pictures." He pulled up the e-mail Maggie had sent. "He sent these early on the sixteenth. Less than forty-eight hours after he landed in Dar es Salaam. Okay, that's one thing." He looked up at Ibrahim suddenly. "That's why you looked into my camera when you got here. Because you had seen his laptop." Ibrahim nodded, tugging absently on a long piece of curly black hair. "Sefu, where is his camera? Did it go to Dar in his luggage?" Sefu pulled out a piece of paper. "Sabah made this list as she was packing his things. No camera." Leon squeezed his head between his hands. "Oh man. I feel like an idiot. I've been here, what, three days? Four? It never occurred to me to look for his camera." Jelani narrowed his eyes. "Ibrahim, Bazu...he can hide nothing about the way he is feeling. He would not have been able to be hurt like that"--he gestured toward the laptop--"and we not all know about it. So whatever this man was planning, he didn't do it." "I agree. So maybe someone saw something on the pig's camera that caused them to..." Sefu was shaking his head. "No, Ibrahim. Any of us could have done it. We might even have wanted to, if we had proof he was hurting children in this way. But I do not believe any one of us could have killed the man, then kept quiet about it. Pretended we knew nothing. This sort of violence"--his eyes drifted to Leon's face--"it leaves a mark." Ibrahim studied him, then nodded. "You and Jelani, yes. Bazu, yes. Even Leon, here, he is like you, as clear and deep as the ocean. Sabah has

killed before. Not out of pleasure but out of necessity. She was Israeli army. She could have done it. And for myself and Makhammad? We are Tuareg. We would have killed this pig with pleasure." He looked at Sefu out of the corner of his eye. "I suppose Aeeshah might kill you if you don't agree to name that baby Tiberius soon, but that is between the two of you. I do not believe she or Rachel had anything to do with this. I will say that for the Tuareg, women get to name the infants." Leon stood up and investigated the coffeepot. Empty. "But, Ibrahim, why would you assume it was someone in this house? He could have been anywhere. Maybe he was in Stone Town, finding some trouble to get into." Ibrahim shook his head. "He sent e-mails from his computer, from Jozani, between about seven-thirty and nine o'clock at night on the sixteenth. That's the night he was killed. Unless someone else was using his computer, which I do not believe, he was alive at"--he checked the screen--"nine seventeen. That was the last e-mail. He was in the little cabin on the night he was killed." Sefu stepped up to the whiteboard. "Ibrahim, Leon, I understand the reason finding motive is important. My experience, however, is that physical evidence and timelines matter. I want to suggest that you let Jelani and myself try to answer these questions: When did he leave his cabin, where did he go and with whom, and how did he get to Stone Town? Once we know these things, we will know how he died and at whose hand." "And then," Ibrahim said, "I will decide how to use that information." Sefu nodded. "Yes, agreed." Leon stared at him. "Excuse me? You will decide how to use that

information? I don't understand. The identity of a killer is not something that can disappear. Someone will want justice. There has to be a resolution." "Or what? Your American notions of resolution have no place here. This is Zanzibar, and I am Ibrahim Ag Akhamok. You talk about justice? Before I let a member of my family hang for this, I will tell the world what this pig was doing in Jozani." They stared at each other for a long moment. "Ibrahim, if you make the information public, that a Wilderness Coalition for Africa photographer has been travelling the world, using his work as a shield for his activities, selling pictures of children being restrained, tortured, and sexually assaulted--what do you think will happen? What will happen to Jozani and the other small parks depending on NGOs for their conservation efforts? What will happen to conservation in Africa?" "Conservation in Africa will suffer, and maybe it will never recover. But, Leon, the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many. Especially when that one is mine. Haven't you heard that before?" Ibrahim grinned unexpectedly, his face relaxing for the first time in several hours. "What kind of a Trekkie are you? Star Trek Three: The Search for Spock." Leon laughed, and it felt like three hundred species of butterflies landing on his shoulders. Before he realized what he was doing, he walked across the room, took Ibrahim by the shoulders, and kissed him right on his laughing mouth. Sefu sighed. "As I was saying, maybe Jelani and I could do some police work in peace? If you two would continue your argument tomorrow, out on the Indian Ocean, then I believe we could make some progress." He crossed his arms over his big chest. "And for your

information? I am not a Trekkie." Ibrahim stood up. "Leon, go to bed. I don't want you to pass out on the dhow tomorrow. Bazu is not coming with us, so if he asks you, the answer is no. I am sure the food will suffer as a consequence, but I am willing to risk it. For the opportunity for you and I to spend some time together. Getting to know each other." Leon felt a slight trembling in his knees at this, but he nodded and went off to the door with a wave to Jelani and Sefu. Jelani spoke as he was leaving the room. "Ibrahim, you sent him to bed like a child! He's a grown man." "A grown man about to fall to the floor again. He's not as strong as he thinks he is." Leon turned and stared back at Ibrahim, but he couldn't think of anything to say. Okay, well, hard to argue with that, since Sefu had carried him to bed last time and he was shaking like a new leaf in a March wind. At least he would go on his own two feet. Sefu rolled his eyes, then stared at the ceiling as if he was praying for patience, his arms still crossed over his chest. Leon fell into a sleep so deep, of course he found Charlie waiting for him. He wrapped Leon up in his arms, rocked him back and forth, and Leon put his head down on Charlie's shoulder and cried. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know what I was doing, Charlie. I was crazy, I just..." "I love you, Leon." Charlie kissed him on the forehead, and Leon felt a warm hand rubbing his back in little circles. Charlie had always done that, soothed him this way, since he'd been a kid. "I don't want you to worry. If you'll work on taking care of yourself, I'll take care of that poor boy."

"What boy?" Leon sat up. "You don't mean..." "He was just a baby, Leon. A killer, but a baby. That isn't who he wanted to be. Hey, check out this new T-shirt." Charlie showed him his skinny chest. The shirt had a picture of a taco and a hot dog, fists up like they were boxing. "You know how much I love tacos. And look at this!" The picture in Leon's mind was a beautiful table, set with a blue tablecloth embroidered with colorful flowers, and rough clay plates and dishes, a feast of Mexican food--enchiladas, tacos, a pot of beans, cornbread, a pile of roast pork, tomatoes, avocados... "Charlie, what is all this? Don't forget about your diabetes. You have to--" "Oddly enough, death seems to have cured my diabetes. Who knew? Look who's here with me, Leon." And Charlie had his arm around a skinny Spanish kid, dark hair in his eyes, no shoes; then there was another boy, African, and he looked so happy, running in circles, playing, that Leon almost didn't recognize him. "Do you know these boys, Leon?" He shook his head. "Yes, you do. I don't want you to worry. I'm looking out for them. And you need to forgive yourself, my darling, and stop running. You have so much love to give. Don't punish yourself forever and lose your chance. There are still plenty of boys on earth who need fathers and grandfathers and friends and brothers. Don't forget about them." ***

Sabah brought him coffee in the morning, and the air in his room looked crystal clear when she opened the shutters. "It's going to be nice today, Leon, no rain this morning. A good day to go out on the boat. Do you

need a swimsuit?" Leon shook his head and poured a cup of coffee from the porcelain pot. "No, I have a pair of old shorts. I came prepared with clothes appropriate for Robinson Crusoe. It's not a formal boat, right?" She smiled at him. "No, not formal at all." Ibrahim stuck his head in the door and tossed a pair of flip-flops in Leon's direction. He was wearing a rough white linen shirt, unbuttoned over a chest dense with curly black hair, and a pair of black board shorts. Leon felt his mind fritz out for a moment. He loved chest hair; he adored it. When he was a teenager, he used to fall asleep to a little fantasy where he would put his head down on a man's chest and feel thick, soft hair under his cheek. "Let's roll, Leon." Then he was gone down the hall, shouting for Bazu. Sabah was smiling at him when he finally closed his mouth. ***

Bazu carried a huge picnic basket down to the dock, and Leon could see there was enough food for three and that he was hoping Ibrahim would have a last-minute change of heart. But Ibrahim just pulled one of Bazu's curls and sent him back up to the house. The boat was a wooden dhow, made out of some dark redwood. Ibrahim checked something on the engine, then called for the boy standing on the dock. "Didi, get me another can of gas, would you?" The boy ran up the dock, and Leon looked at the various sails and ropes. "Ibrahim, is there something I should be doing?" Ibrahim shook his head. "Don't touch anything. Oh, wait, maybe you can look in that picnic basket and see if Bazu gave us a thermos of coffee.

Cups are down below in the galley." The narrow staircase led to a tiny galley, and there were four cups with rubber glued to their bottoms in the cabinet over the sink. Leon looked through to the bedroom--one small built-in cupboard and a bed covered in crisp-looking white sheets. One the other side of the galley was a bathroom with a toilet and a showerhead coming out of the wall. Leon didn't know anything about boats, but the wood was beautiful, dark and rich, with a heavy coat of wax that made it gleam in the light from the porthole. Leon took two of the cups and headed up the stairs. Didi had run back up the dock, and he handed over a plastic gas can. Ibrahim took it from him, leaned over, and spoke Swahili to the boy for a moment. The air was so clear, Leon felt a little dizzy. The sun looked huge, and the waters of the Indian Ocean were so perfectly clear, swallowing the sunlight, that he thought he could see down a hundred feet or more. Didi threw off the ropes, and Ibrahim pulled them up, then rolled them in a circle on the deck. Leon poured the coffee and handed Ibrahim a cup when he walked past. He settled down on one of the built-in deck chairs and checked his camera. "I can take pictures, right?" Ibrahim was behind the wheel. He slid the sunglasses down his nose, staring across at Leon with all the emotion of a cyborg. "I suppose if you have to, Leon." "Yes," Leon said, "I have to." Ibrahim was the captain, no question. The captain of this little boat, the captain of his family, his tribe, even, if Leon had understood what Sefu explained about Tuareg tribal leaders. He kicked off the borrowed flip-flops, felt the warmth of the wood under his feet. "This is a beautiful boat, Ibrahim."

"Why don't you come over here?" Ibrahim crooked his finger in Leon's direction. "What?" He was walking across the desk against his will. He wasn't a dog, to be called by a crooked finger! If Ibrahim whistled for him, that would be... Ibrahim reached around behind Leon's neck and pulled the hair band out of his ponytail. "Let your hair down, will you? I quite enjoy the look of your hair when it's over your shoulders. That's not a color I see much in Zanzibar." "Okay, well." Leon reached out and opened the linen shirt Ibrahim wore. "Let's just keep this open, shall we? I quite enjoy the look of your chest." Leon thought Ibrahim looked startled for just a moment. Then he raised his coffee cup to his mouth and took a sip. "Very well. We will agree to indulge each other today. Things have been difficult since you arrived in Zanzibar. We can take a few hours off, don't you think? See what Sefu and Jelani come up with when they are left in peace?" Leon looked around at the boat. It had a mast like he had seen in pictures of sailboats, and there were sails of faded, blood red canvas lashed at the foot of the mast. But the boat had an unusual shape, more rounded at the end. "Do we have to put the sails up? I can help if you tell me what to do. Is this a sailboat?" Ibrahim shook his head. "No sails today. We aren't going very far, and I have a tiny gasoline engine for when I'm too tired to use the wind's energy. I thought we could go around one of the smaller islands, maybe anchor and swim up to the beach. You know Zanzibar has many uninhabited islands?"

"I've heard that, but I've never seen one. This is my first trip to East Africa. It's been..." "I'm sure you won't be stumbling over dead bodies every time you come to Jozani, Leon. What are your plans? After you finish your assignment here?" Leon shook his head. "I have no idea. They said something about offering me a job back in DC, but I can't really see it. I wasn't happy there." The sun was warm on his face, brilliant sunshine on the clear water, and he reached over the side to trail his hand in water as warm and salty as blood. "But it wasn't WCA, and it wasn't DC, not really. It was me." "You seem happier this morning. Do you feel better, now that you've told me about Charlie?" "Now that I've put myself completely in your power?" Ibrahim toasted him with the coffee cup, and Leon took a sip from his own. The coffee was rich, dark, with a hint of cinnamon. "I don't know. I really like it here. Maybe I'm just enjoying the day and the sunshine and the water. And your company." "I haven't had a day off in weeks." "What do you actually do? I'm not sure I understand what a trader does." "Mostly I move salt. I sell it from the ports and the great trading cities, but the salts of the world have to be collected, moved, cleaned, packaged, sold. Same for all spices, but I admit salt has my heart. What kind of salt do you eat?" "Um...I have no idea. Morton? That little girl with the umbrella?" Ibrahim stared at him for so long, Leon wondered if he was about to be

tossed overboard and left to the mercy of the Indian Ocean. "See what Bazu put in our picnic basket." He dug through loaves of bread, still warm, wax-paper-wrapped cheese, a napkin full of grapes, and lifted out a plastic container of--he popped the top and looked in--some roasted goat with mango and rice. In the bottom of the basket was a tiny plastic bag. He lifted it out. The grains were big, a mix of coral pink, black, and white salt. He showed it to Ibrahim, and his eyebrows flew up. "Hawaiian Kai! Bazu must like you. This is sea salt, made by evaporating sea water. The colors are other minerals or elements. See the black? That's white sea salt combined with charcoal." "Isn't all salt really sea salt?" "Well, maybe originally, but now we have salt mines, like the Khewra mines in Pakistan, in the Punjab, and the salt wells in Heijing, and then the inland seas, like the Dead Sea. Hawaiian is my favorite natural salt. I really love smoked salt too. I had some alderwood-smoked salt in New Mexico once that I think was my favorite salt ever. Come and taste." He took the little plastic bag, stuck his finger in the salt, then put his finger on the tip of Leon's tongue. Then he put his finger in his own mouth and sucked the salt from the tip. "What do you think?" "I'm surprised," Leon admitted. "It isn't very salty. I mean, it's like quiet salt. Subtle." "Yes, exactly. Subtle is something I appreciate." He reached out, took Leon's shirt in his fist, and tugged him gently closer. He took his time finding the right spot, then leaned forward and kissed him. A salty kiss, Leon thought, as Ibrahim opened his mouth, slid his tongue inside. Subtle,

like the ocean. What was that saying? Salt makes everything taste better! He felt a giggle bubbling up his throat. Ibrahim was strong, powerful, and he kept one hand on the wheel. The other made its way around Leon's waist, pulled him against his chest. Leon couldn't resist reaching for that chest, sliding his fingers through the dense, soft curls that covered Ibrahim from neck to belly. His knees were shaking so hard, he was afraid he would fall to the deck. Ibrahim was working his way down Leon's neck, his beautiful mouth moving across the collarbone. Leon moved his fingers into the curls, traced a nipple with one trembling finger. Then he bent his head, put his cheek on Ibrahim's chest, and closed his eyes. It was everything he had imagined as a boy--warm and woodsy, soft, with the heat of muscle underneath. Ibrahim moved his hand up, ran it through Leon's hair, kissed the angle of his jaw. Then he held Leon's chin, forcing his face around until they were looking at each other. "You're shaking. What's wrong?" His eyes narrowed just a bit. "Leon, you're a virgin." "Well, technically yes. I did nearly give somebody a blowjob once, but I threw up, and then, after that, he--" "Why?" "I'd had too much to drink, and things moved a little faster than--" "No, I mean, why are you a virgin, Leon? What are you, twenty-five? Is this a record in America?" "Actually, I'm twenty-six. I don't know. The longer I put it off, the harder it seems to... I'm going to do something about this before I'm thirty. I mean, that's my goal." "I believe you're going to do something about this before the sun sets."

Leon felt his head spin a little, a trickle of sweat make its slow way down his spine, and he sat down on the deck at Ibrahim's feet. "I can't have you passing out every time I kiss you. Tell me why. Tell me why this was the decision you made for your life." Leon didn't intend to say anything, but he leaned his forehead against Ibrahim's leg, and Ibrahim reached down to stroke his hair, and the words came spilling out. "I fell in love when I was seventeen, with another boy. Charlie, he told me a little bit about what to expect, safety, that sort of thing. He said it was always better when you were in love. Sex wasn't for entertainment. That's what movies were for. That it was intimate, beautiful, and something you should share with someone you loved." Leon shrugged. "The other boy, he wasn't in love. He just wanted to get sucked off, thought it would be a thrill to have a boy do it instead of a girl. I keep trying to find someone else who feels the same way I do. Someone who appreciates that love and sex go together." "I think there's probably more to it than that, but maybe you don't know why you're doing the things you're doing. We can be blind to ourselves. You don't see that you're punishing yourself. You denied life to the boy who killed your friend. So now you are going to deny life to yourself, out of punishment?" Leon sat back, feeling a bit like he'd been punched in the stomach. "Leon, you're as clear as the ocean. There is nothing in you of subterfuge or deception. I can see who you are. And I agree with you that sex without love is tasteless. Love is the salt," Ibrahim said, "and I am the greatest salt trader in the world. I want you to trust me. And don't think so much. The world is too beautiful, and you are letting it pass you by." "Is it really beautiful?" Leon thought for a moment of Piers, of what was

in his laptop. "I think so. I'm going to show it to you." And Leon looked up at him, at his beautiful cinnamon skin, the dark hair curling down his back, his mouth, ripe and smiling. Ibrahim scooted his sunglasses up to the top of his head, looked down at him with dark eyes full of tenderness and a little humor. And Leon felt his heart turn over in his chest, like the slow roll of a whale in the Indian Ocean, and he knew he was in love. ***

They sailed around the coast to the eastern side of the island. Then Ibrahim pointed the boat out into the ocean, his eyes on the compass. "I have this nice inlet in mind, where the beach gets some afternoon shade. I can see your nose is already getting sunburned. Go downstairs and look in that cupboard. There might be a hat in there." Leon walked down the small stairs and opened the cupboard. There were a couple of towels in there, a spare swimsuit, and a yellow sarong with a splash of bright pink and turquoise flowers across the fabric. Leon grinned at it. No question this belonged to Bazu. He reached for the hook on the side, lifted a battered old straw hat, and pulled it down on his head. His bare toe touched something in the corner, under the cabinet, and he reached down and picked it up. It was a lens cap from a Canon camera. Leon sat on the side of the bed, looking at the cap and thinking hard. Charlie sat down next to him. "Why don't you go show it to him? I think you can trust him. You wouldn't have fallen in love with a killer, Leon." "Yeah? I'm a killer, Charlie." "Don't be ridiculous. If you're still feeling so guilty about that boy,

figure out how to make amends. Atonement. Go be a Jesuit or something." Leon fell back on the bed. "A Jesuit? Aren't Jesuits Catholic priests? Priests don't get to have sex." "Well, I don't see you having sex." Leon winced. "Charlie, you're not going to be watching, are you? I mean, that's a little creepy." Charlie reached out and twisted his ear. "Fine, then. I'll leave you in peace. But I want a full report!" Leon climbed back up, the lens cap in his hand. "Ibrahim, look at this. Is it yours?" He took the cap, turning it over in his fingers, then shook his head. "No. I've got a little Nikon. That's what you have too, right? A Nikon?" "Yeah. Piers shot with a Canon." "Do you think this was his?" Leon looked up, met his eyes. There was nothing there to fear, nothing guarded or closed. "I don't know. It was on the floor, in the corner under the cupboard. And we do have a missing camera, right?" Ibrahim nodded, reached behind him, and turned off the engine. "Let's make a call." He reached under the captain's wheel to pull out a bulky gray sat phone. He punched in the number, and Leon sat back on the deck, watching him. "Sabah, let me speak to Sefu, please. No, everything's fine. We might stay out overnight." His eyes drifted to Leon. "We have everything we need until morning. Yeah, okay." He waited a minute, studying Leon with the careful attention of a salt

trader studying a handful of rough crystals. Then he spoke again into the phone. "Sefu, Leon found a lens cap on the boat from a Canon camera. He thinks Piers used a Canon. I thought I had filled up the tank when I brought the boat in last time, but the tank was almost empty. Will you find out if anyone took the boat out? On the day in question? Yeah, okay, we'll see you tomorrow." Ibrahim disconnected and shoved the phone back under the console. Then he turned to Leon, grinning. "Tiberius was screaming like a banshee in the background." He reached over to start the engine again. "The thing is," he said, as if he was in the middle of an argument with himself, "the family knows that the boat is mine. It's my own little toy, and no one would take it out while I was gone without asking my permission. It's a small courtesy. The boat is the only place I can be totally alone, though in truth it isn't a strong need in me. Tuareg, we live in tribes. We don't have that need to be alone, like Americans. I never felt I wanted to get away from the family until I went to graduate school in America. I think that time planted some small seed in me, a love for the space and the emptiness of the West, and now I enjoy sailing away sometimes." "Where did you go to school in America? I thought you had lived in England. Your accent is sort of British." "I went to university in Oxford; then I did a graduate degree in mining engineering in Utah." "Utah?" Leon was as surprised as if Ibrahim had announced he'd attended graduate school on the moon. "Utah has some gorgeous salt, Leon. Do you know anything about America? I mean, the land itself, the physical place?" "Not very much, I guess. I'm a coastal boy. I've always lived in sight of

the ocean. It's funny--when I'm in a place surrounded by land, I get a bit claustrophobic. When I have the ocean on one side, I feel like I can swim for it if things get too bad." "You must have some whale blood. Very passionate, whales." Ibrahim grinned down at him when Leon ducked his head to hide his red face. They had sailed for about ten minutes when the line of a small island appeared on the horizon, and Ibrahim steered the boat toward a small inlet. He cut off the engine and tossed the anchor over the side. Leon felt the boat give a little tug, like a puppy on a leash. Ibrahim joined him on the deck, sitting cross-legged with the picnic basket between them. He pulled out a baguette and the cheese, handed them over to Leon, then got the plates. "Cut that cheese into pieces." Leon cut a couple of chunks of cheese, tore a loaf in half, and stuffed the cheese inside the bread. Ibrahim poured some coffee and passed him the cup, and they sat on the deck, smelled the sunshine and the ocean, looked at the waves and each other. Ibrahim reached out and pulled Leon's ankle until the sole of his foot rested against Ibrahim's warm thigh. Ibrahim stroked the calf with his hand, and Leon watched him, watched the calmness in his face, the contentment. He felt a little of the shakiness inside him subside and took a couple of deep breaths. "Will you tell me about Africa?" "There are really two Africas now. Arab Africa to the north and black Africa to the south. But Africa is still tribal, I think. The world, the UN, the people who make decisions, they don't understand tribes. They think in countries. But tribes are still our unit of government. This is where our loyalty lies. For the Tuareg, we were left out when Africa was divided into countries. From that time, many of us fell into despair."

"You were not given a country because you were nomadic?" "Partly. And partly, I think, because we did not fit neatly into the racial divide that separates Africa now. We are not Arab. We aren't black. We're something older, an ancient race, and we have a fierce loyalty to our tribe and the Tuareg way. We may change with the world. I may not wear the veil when I'm at home or negotiating a contract in Athens, but it is always there, in my mind. And I think it is in the minds of the people I deal with. Tuareg are known for being violent, ruthless, and utterly loyal to the tribe." He grinned. "We are also known for being able to get a group of camels to move across the Sahara--not an easy feat, my friend. Would you like to go on a caravan one day?" "I would, very much. Why are you..." Leon wasn't sure how to ask what he wanted to say without getting into sticky territory. "You are, as you say, ruthless and utterly loyal to your tribe. I see that, in the way you take care of your family. I'm sure you are a real devil in business." One eyebrow flew up at this. "You're a wealthy, powerful Tuareg tribal leader. So why are you bothering with me?" Ibrahim crooked his finger again, beckoning Leon to come closer, though only a couple of feet separated them. Leon found himself scooting across the deck until Ibrahim could pull him against his chest. "Because I want to, and I always get what I want." He hesitated, then reached out and moved his fingers across Leon's face. "I don't quite know what to make of you. So beautiful, but you seem fragile, like you could shatter into a million pieces. A lost boy, washed up on my shore, and now you're mine to take care of." Ibrahim looked down in his face. "That's what it feels like to me. I want you to let me watch over you, take care of you. It will please me." Leon closed his eyes, let himself sink back into Ibrahim's arms. To be protected, to be cared for, wrapped up in these strong arms. It was a

feeling like Leon had never had, like he was home, like he belonged. But had he not felt this since Sefu and Jelani had tossed him a grilled lobster claw and he had sat with them and talked as easily as if they had been brothers? He had been trying not to get his hopes up. He raised his face, looked at Ibrahim. "Can I stay with you for a while? I don't have to go, do I?" "Stay if you want to stay. You aren't my prisoner." And Leon heard an echo of Charlie's voice in his mind, a mocking laugh: "I'm a prisoner of love." Then Ibrahim leaned over him, and his voice was fierce. "I want you. Do you understand me? And after I make love to you, and after we decide what to do about that pig the WCA sent into my home, then you are free to decide if you stay or go." His grip tightened. "But I am going to love you until you feel passion as great as this ocean. You will see. And then you will never want to leave me." And Ibrahim's mouth came down on his, crushing him, strong hands pulling at his clothes, then warm flesh against his own, skin that smelled like sandalwood. Ibrahim pulled off his shirt and stood up, unlaced the swimsuit at his waist, and pushed it down over his hips. Leon lay on the deck, his body thrumming with heat. Ibrahim's narrow hips were muscled and strong, his thighs sturdy. The thick black hair on his chest was also on his belly, down between his legs, and his cock was long and dark-skinned. Ibrahim reached between his legs and lifted his cock in his hand. "Look at me, Leon." He was darker than any man Leon had ever seen, and when he pushed the foreskin back, Leon caught a glimpse of the tender wet head, the color of a ripe plum. He was up on his knees, reaching out to touch the soft hair between Ibrahim's legs, as thick as a pelt. Ibrahim caught him by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. "Let me see you, Leon," he said, and when he let go of his cock, it

bounced gently in the air, thick and erect, touching his belly. Leon ran the backs of his fingers over Ibrahim's cock, and when he felt it respond to his touch with a thump of passion, he leaned forward, dizzy, let Ibrahim hold him in his strong arms. "Get undressed before you pass out," Ibrahim said, stroking Leon's cheek lightly. "That way I can have my way with you while you are dead to the world, and you will not have to worry about virginity ever again." He stared up at Ibrahim in shock, then started laughing, and the shakiness in his belly passed. Ibrahim gestured for him to raise his arms and then pulled the T-shirt over his head. Before Leon could think what to do, Ibrahim reached forward, unsnapped and unzipped Leon's shorts, and pushed them down over his hips. Leon stepped out of the shorts, restraining the impulse to cover his groin with his hands, but Ibrahim just reached for him again and shoved Leon's boxers down his legs. "There. Now we're as we should be." Ibrahim pushed him to the deck and climbed on top of him, and Leon opened his legs, felt for the first time the weight of another man settling against him. Soft fur, and the weight of muscles and bone, warm wood at his back. It was exciting, but he wasn't scared. Now that the moment had finally arrived, he felt strangely calm. It was all so unreal anyway, like something out of a romance, with the handsome sheik acting all sheik-like, and he, the silly virgin slave boy, bound to do his lord and master's bidding... Ibrahim held himself up for a moment, looking down at Leon, and Leon reached for him, reached up and tugged him down. Ibrahim settled against his chest, and Leon felt his own heart beating madly, and Ibrahim's heart, the pulse like a wild bird in his throat. I did that, Leon thought, watching the feeling move across Ibrahim's face, his eyes dark and wide.

Ibrahim smiled down at him. "I've captured a merman," he said, then leaned in and took Leon's mouth. Leon ran his hands down Ibrahim's shoulders, down the curve of his back and over the lean, muscled hips. Ibrahim moaned a little, then thrust against him, and thrust again. Sparklers went off in Leon's mind, and a heavy, sweet tension in his cock, thick and massive, rising quickly. "I'm going to put a condom on, Leon. Then I want you to put your legs over my shoulders. That way I can make love to you and look down into your beautiful face. Taste your mouth while I'm inside you." He felt strangely detached, doing Ibrahim's bidding, and lifted his legs, let his knees fall apart, felt the cool, slick lube. "Push against me when you're ready," Ibrahim said, and Leon felt the strange, heavy tension in his cock, in the feel of Ibrahim seated, waiting for him, waiting to move into his body. He pushed against him, felt Ibrahim slip inside, watched his face, and knew this was what he had been waiting for. His body knew what to do, even if he didn't; he just moved the way Ibrahim moved and listened to the sounds he was making, felt his heart leap about in his chest and the strange, powerful feeling bubbling up in his belly. "I think my balls are about to explode," he said, his mouth tasting the salty sweat on Ibrahim's neck. "Or maybe burst into flames, like a spontaneous combustion deal." "Explode?" Ibrahim said, raising his head and smiling down. "Like firecrackers, like big Fourth of July Roman candles, and then it's going to be all over." Ibrahim pushed the hair out of his face, traced along Leon's hairline with his mouth. "But then we get to do it again." Ibrahim put both hands on Leon's face, stared into his eyes. "I want you for my very own," he said,

and Leon closed his eyes, felt his body move helplessly, felt Ibrahim's powerful thrusts, possessive and fierce. Ibrahim held him tightly, held him safe, cradled against his body. ***

Leon was lying against Ibrahim's shoulder, listening to his stories about Africa. "The bushmen in the Kalahari, they say that the sweetest smell on earth is the breath of an antelope who has eaten nothing but young grass and drank nothing but cold water from the Zambezi." He traced his fingers down, held Leon's balls in the palm of his hand. "I believe there are sweeter smells." Ibrahim touched his fingers to his mouth. "You taste sweet too. You want to go for a swim, Leon? We have fresh water in the tank, so we can shower afterward." He stood up, threw the rope ladder over the side of the boat, then climbed up until he was standing on the edge of the deck. Leon studied him, the lean line of his hip, the curve of his lower back, the strength in his long thigh. Ibrahim bent his knees, dived off the side of the boat, and Leon scrambled up and looked over the side. He watched Ibrahim's head clear the water, hair tangled on his shoulders. Leon shouted, "Cannonball!" grabbed his knees, and jumped into the water. It was warmer than he was expecting, salty and warm, and he swam around the boat a couple of times, stretching out his muscles. Ibrahim floated on his back, watching him, a smile tugging his mouth. Leon felt strangely light, like a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Maybe he was just happy. Ibrahim was one of those men, broad back, strong shoulders, calm, and he seemed like he was made to carry the burdens of a tribe. He shook his head, feeling vaguely ashamed of himself. The wrong thing to do, he thought, was to fall into this man's arms and assume it

meant...everything. Or anything, really. Ibrahim said, "You're mine," but that was just talk between lovers; it wasn't a promise. It didn't mean the guilt, the sorrow, and the shame that had kept his life locked up tightly in a box was gone. But it felt like it was gone. He felt free, like this warm ocean was washing away his guilt. Telling Ibrahim about what he had done to Charlie's killer and having him understand, having him open his arms and say, "You're mine" and "You'll never want to leave me," even after he knew what Leon had done, that was just... It didn't make what he had done go away, but he felt forgiven. Leon swam over to Ibrahim. "This means a lot to me, this time with you. It's changed me, I think." Ibrahim studied his face. "Why so serious, young Leon? You can relax a bit, don't you think? Just for today, relax, sleep, let the sun and the waves and the wind rock you. We don't have to solve anything or decide anything or save any small part of the world. Not even ourselves. Let's just be together and be happy." "You're right," Leon said. "I think too much. Is it safe to leave the boat here and go ashore? I mean, there are pirates off the coast, right? Should we be standing guard or something?" Ibrahim looked both shocked and amused. "Pirates? Leon, please, I am Ibrahim Ag Akhamok. No one touches a Tuareg. My sword would slice off the balls of any Somali lowlife pirate who interfered with me on a day at sea. Besides, I own the island." Leon laughed. "Oh, right. Sorry, Master, Lord of All He Sees." Ibrahim laughed with him, reached out, and dunked his head under water. When he came up, spluttering, Ibrahim had started swimming to shore. He was fast, and he had enough of a head start, Leon knew he

would never catch him. He started swimming. He wouldn't catch him, but he would come close. ***

They explored the shore, collecting shells and tracking footprints, then swam slowly back to the boat and climbed onboard. Ibrahim dug out a couple of pairs of swim trunks from the closet, then stepped into the tiny head and showed Leon how to use the shower. "Save me some water," he said, then hung a towel on the hook outside the door. When Leon came out, Ibrahim went into the shower and four minutes later came back out, drying his hair on the towel. He left it loose, and it was the first time Leon has seen it like this, falling over his shoulders and down his back in wild curls. He tossed the comb to Leon, who pulled it through his hair and left it loose to dry. Ibrahim stretched out on the built-in chaise and tipped his hat over his eyes. "I'm going to think for a while," he said. Leon wasn't sure if this was code for taking a nap or if Ibrahim really was thinking, but he decided to be quiet either way. After ten minutes, with Leon drowsing in the sun, Ibrahim spoke. "What do you feel is the most important thing we can salvage from this situation?" "Which situation?" "The dead photographer." Salvage? Leon wasn't sure there was anything to be salvaged. Piers was dead, after all, and there was no way they could bring his killer to justice without disclosing the contents of his computer. When the contents of his computer and his extracurricular activities came to light, most of East Africa would probably kick WCA out of their countries. More than a

hundred years of trust and careful relationships would be destroyed. With the conservation groups kicked out, money would dry up. Eventually the parks and preserves would fall into disrepair as other priorities competed for scarce money. He thought of what Ibrahim was asking him. "The most important things that need to be salvaged are the conservation efforts at the parks and preserves throughout Africa. But I don't see how that can happen. There isn't any way to bury this. When the truth gets out, then..." "I just wanted to know what your priority was, Leon. I'll figure out what everyone's needs are and then prioritize them." Was that code for shut up and let me think? Leon wasn't sure he had a good handle on the way people communicated in Zanzibar. Was he missing some critical piece of information? Were there expectations he didn't understand, now he'd been admitted into Ibrahim's tribe? And what was he to Ibrahim, anyway? Were they lovers? Exclusive lovers? Was he just a pet, a distraction? A pretty little plaything? "Leon?" "Yes?" "Don't think so much. Just let things go. Let things settle a bit. You don't have to have control over everything. Control is mostly an illusion anyway." Leon giggled a bit, then shoved a knuckle into his mouth. Ibrahim sat up, lifting his sunglasses. "Yes?" Control is an illusion? The man was the most controlling person Leon had ever met! Didn't he have an entire household dancing to his tune? Didn't they all jump to attention when he called? Ibrahim said, "Drop your shorts," he dropped his shorts. Ibrahim said, "Don't think so much," he

stopped thinking. "Nothing." "That's good." But he was grinning too, with his bottom lip between his teeth. "You can come over here now if you want. I'm through thinking for the moment." Leon scooted over, sat cross-legged on the deck, and put his head down on Ibrahim's thighs. "Come to any conclusions?" "Hush." ***

The sun sat heavily on the horizon, spreading blood across the water, when Ibrahim stood and held out his hand. "Will you come to bed with me, Leon?" Leon followed him down the stairs. Ibrahim stepped out of his swim trunks and pulled back the top sheet. Leon tossed his shorts on top of Ibrahim's, then crawled across the bed and pulled a pillow under his head. They rolled over until they were looking at each other, nose to nose, only inches apart. Ibrahim's face was dark with whiskers, heavy eyebrows, hooded dark eyes, hawk nose. Leon reached out, ran his finger over the crow's feet at the corner of his eyes. "How old are you, Ibrahim?" "Forty." "That's exactly the right age, I think." "For what?" He was amused now as he ran his hand over Leon's face, spread his fingers through his hair. "For me." "Yes, I agree. I am the perfect age for you." He moved his fingers

gently over Leon's mouth. "You are so soft." He must have seen some hurt in Leon's face, because he patted his cheek gently. "Soft doesn't mean weak. Silk isn't weak, is it? But it's...it's what appeals to me. Your face, your hair, the pretty line of your jaw, your neck, your collarbone"--he traced these places as he spoke--"are very appealing to me. I want to put my mouth on your soft skin. You don't mind being so pretty, do you, Leon? This is only you and me speaking. No one else has to hear the things we say to each other." "I don't think I'm pretty. I mean, I'm a man. Men aren't pretty." "Yes, of course. You're right. I must think of another word. Because you are a man, no question." He ran a thumb over Leon's chin, felt his whiskers. "A soft, pretty man when you're in my bed, when you smile at me, when you touch me and your hands tremble. You're an artist with your camera, someone I can trust. Is that you? I think it is." "When we go back home, what happens? Does Makhammad know anything about..." "About me? He knows I don't have a wife. He knows I sometimes travel to meet my friends. But I am the head of the family now, Leon. It is my home. If I want you in my bed, then I will have you in my bed." "I don't want to cause you any problems." Ibrahim didn't speak, just reached out and slid his hand around the back of Leon's neck. "Then open your arms." Leon opened his arms and pulled Ibrahim over until he was nestled between Leon's legs. The heavy weight of his pelvis, the soft fur on his belly, and the length of his cock, and Leon sighed, pulled him in tighter. "I feel like I've been waiting forever for this, to feel the way I feel right now."

"Lift up your legs. Wrap them around me." Leon did as he was told, the pleasure of giving in to a stronger lover filling his belly with excitement, heavy and sweet as honey. Ibrahim lifted up just a bit, and Leon felt his heavy cock slide down, nestle in the crack of his ass. "This is all I want tonight, Leon. Don't be afraid. I'm not going to do anything more than just to be like this with you." "I'm not afraid. Go ahead if you want." "We have time." He moved his mouth down, along the angle of Leon's jaw, down his neck, settled his mouth over the wildly beating pulse in Leon's throat. He lifted his hips and thrust, a slow, lazy slide of skin against skin. The soft hair on Ibrahim's belly and around his cock was tickling Leon, rubbing against the tender underside of his cock. Between the mouth kissing his neck and the cock working its slow slide against his ass, hands moving through his hair, across his face, fingers sliding into his mouth, Leon felt his mind start to fritz out, his body moving without his conscious control, and he hovered over the two of them for a moment, as if he had left his body entirely, saw the dark, proud man making love to him, and he saw himself, so hungry, so needy, drinking in every tiny drop of love that the man in his arms was willing to give him. ***

When Leon awoke, it was morning, and he was alone in the bed. Upstairs, he found Ibrahim behind the wheel, the captain, all business. They were motoring briskly toward home. "Leon, when we get back, you might want to e-mail Washington and give them an update. I'm sure they're frothing at the mouth by now." Leon thought that was probably a good description, though Tim was more a frother, Maggie a pacer. "What am I supposed to tell them? We

don't really know anything." "You can tell them what we discovered about the time Piers spent in Kenya, when the photos were transmitted, when he arrived on the island. You don't have to share our theories. And I would prefer that you do not tell anyone about the photographs of the boys we discovered. Not yet." No problemo there! Leon thought he would rather be rent limb from limb than to have to be the one to break that news to Tim O'Brien. He looked at Ibrahim behind the wheel, and Ibrahim's face softened just a bit. He shoved the sunglasses to the top of his head. "Good morning, my beautiful Leon. Would you like some coffee?" He pointed behind him. "I made a little pot, just two cups. But that should be enough to get us home." He crooked his finger, beckoning Leon forward, and Leon moved to him, kissed a man good morning for the first time. "Good morning, Ibrahim." Lips were so incredible, Leon thought, warm and sweet and wet and soft all at the same time. And when you looked at them long enough, they either smiled or kissed you. There was nothing like it. He could spend days kissing Ibrahim and looking at his smiling mouth. Leon could see Ibrahim was already back in command, his fingers itching to make lists of things to do, check on the progress of assigned tasks, shoot off important e-mails. "After I send the e-mails, do you have anything you need me to do?" Ibrahim shook his head. "What do you want to do?" "I came here for Jozani. You've had me on restriction so far, but maybe you will trust me to start work?" "Very well. What do you need?" "A Jeep. Jelani and Sefu."

"Sefu needs to work on the murder. Maybe you and Jelani can go. What do you plan to investigate first?" "I thought I would interview some fisherman, get the story about what happened, how they felt when Chwaka Bay was added to the park, how the marsh and groundwater forest is preserving the population of the fisheries. Also I wanted to interview some people about the village initiatives." "Jelani's aunt is a schoolteacher at one of the villages. Her students adopted one of the animals--was it the red colobus? I can't remember. Anyway, the children have a webcam set up, and they are transmitting video of the animals to a school in New Zealand, one in Norway, one in the US. The schools do fundraising for the project." "That sounds wonderful. So you're okay with my beginning work?" "Of course, Leon. I have no questions about your loyalty." ***

Everyone was at breakfast when they came into the dining room, except Aeeshah. Leon had heard Tiberius screaming all the way out on the dock. He greeted Makhammad, and the old man took his hand and held it for a moment in that comforting way Leon was starting to recognize. He liked it. It wasn't a handshake, the manly bit of arm wrestling he was used to, but a gentle holding of hands, no one stronger, just a skin-to-skin hello. Peter looked like he had a hangover, his sun-mottled skin pale, and he had the look of dissatisfaction stamped across his face Leon was coming to recognize as his default expression. The contempt in his eyes when he looked at Leon trailing in after Ibrahim was painfully obvious. Sabah was sitting next to him, her face noncommittal. Leon suspected she'd had her fill of his conversation this morning.

Bazu flung his arms around Ibrahim, then around Leon. "I can't believe you're alive! I was prepared to lash together a raft and come after you, even if it meant my own death at sea! I thought, what could have happened to them? A shark attack? Pirates? Sefu had to lock me in my room." Ibrahim grinned over at Sefu. "Now why didn't I ever think to lock you in your room?" Leon filled a coffee cup, but he couldn't eat, not with Tiberius in full cry. "I'm just going to..." He pointed toward their house. Ibrahim and Sefu looked at each other, both carefully hiding grins, and as Leon left, he heard Ibrahim begin to give out assignments for the day. "Okay, Sefu, let's you and I meet after breakfast for a few minutes. Jelani, Leon is ready to begin his work in Jozani. Can you take him down to Chwaka Bay? Bazu? What tortures have you prepared for me today?" "Leon." Sabah had followed him out. She was carrying a cup of coffee and a couple of biscuits in a napkin. "I'll walk with you. I have some breakfast for Aeeshah. She's having a rough time." "Do you think the baby needs to go to the doctor? It seems like colic to me, but that's only because all my nephews had colic. It seemed to go away on its own just after three months old." "I think Tiberius is fine. But Aeeshah isn't getting much sleep, and she feels like she is doing something wrong. Sefu isn't helping. He's just being a man, but he looks at her and she can tell he's thinking, Do something about that baby. And she doesn't know what to do." "Have you any children, Sabah?" "I have a son, David. He's in the Israeli Army."

"Oh no. You must worry about him all the time." She smiled briefly. "Yes, I do. But there is nothing to be done. I know Ibrahim would like to lock Bazu in his bedroom. I am in complete sympathy. But there is no way to keep our boys safe, not in this world." She brooded for a moment, her face dark. "There are too many dangerous men, some in love with violence, some with revolution, some with power or gluttony or lust. I wanted David to go to work for Ibrahim, become a trader, but he wants to build Israel." She sighed. "When he marries and has children, I will have to go back to Israel if he needs my help. But I don't want to leave this place. I am the only mother Bazu has, and Rachel and Aeeshah, they need a woman here. This feels like my home, and these people are my family. I think you're starting to feel the same way." Leon nodded, felt the sun on his face, warm as a caress. "Yes, exactly. When I first came here... But something about this place, it's healing me. I feel like I'm forgiven of all my numerous sins. But maybe that's just Ibrahim. He's so strong I just...go along with him. It's weird." "It's a bit of an adjustment," she said. "There is no question that Ibrahim is the final word in our home. His decisions are not questioned. It was hard for me to understand at first how absolute that is, and I'm a woman! I'm used to giving in to men. He will expect your loyalty." Leon was silent, thinking about what Ibrahim had said on the boat. Something of the same, that he expected Leon's loyalty. It almost felt feudal, like knights swearing loyalty to the king. He was American. He swore loyalty to...what, freedom? The freedom to choose what was right. To say what he thought. To make up his own mind. Even if he thought Ibrahim was correct in his decisions, could he give over the responsibility to make up his own mind, to do what he thought was right? Not likely. "I mean, of course I'll support him, but I have to be able to make my own

decisions. I'm not really sure what he expects me to be loyal about, but there have to be limits, don't you think? "Do you? Well, you know best, Leon. But I don't think there are any degrees of loyalty in Ibrahim's mind. Just as he expects all of our loyalty, he gives all of himself to protect us and keep us safe." She smiled up at him again. "It's the Tuareg way." Leon took Tiberius and walked him outside while Aeeshah cried in Sabah's arms, then, Leon hoped, ate her breakfast and drank some coffee. Tiberius was winding down, his screams intermingled with hysterical little gulps and burps, his face and little fists screwed up. "I need to sing you a song," Leon said, tucking him into the crook of his arm and rubbing his belly with his knuckles. That had worked last time, but Tiberius was resistant to a belly rub this morning. "What kind of song do you like? Something about turtles? But I don't know any turtle songs. If you don't tell anyone, I will make up a song about turtles just for you." And Leon rocked him back and forth, sang, "Tiberius and a turtle, sitting in a tree, ki-s-s-i-n-g." That didn't seem to go over very well, and the baby screamed louder. "Rock-a-bye turtle, in the treetop..." Was there a monkey chewing off his toes? What was wrong with this kid? He remembered something his sister-in-law had said--you have to check they didn't have hair wrapped around their toes, cutting off the circulation. Leon looked, but Tiberius did not have hair around his toes. There was some song, if he could remember. "Hush, sweet baby," he said. "No, wait, that's it! Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Uncle Leon's going to find you a green turtle." Tiberius reached up, grabbed a piece of hair that was trailing on his cheek, and gave it a hard yank. When Sabah and Aeeshah came out to find him, he had Tiberius

propped up on his lap. "And then the hero Tiberius crawled up on top of the giant sea turtle, clung to his shell with all his might, and the turtle dove deep. And then the evil squid, it couldn't keep up..." He threw a desperate look at them. "Quick, somebody. What happened when the giant sea turtle went deep?" Sabah had her arm around Aeeshah's shoulder. "Then the hero Tiberius's brave mother leaped into the ocean, snatched up the giant squid, and strangled him with her bare hands so her baby would be safe." Aeeshah laughed, gave a little hiccup, the tears still drying on her face. Tiberius stared at her, looking interested, and when she held out her arms, he leaned forward, reaching for her. Leon reluctantly gave up Tiberius, went back to his room, and powered up the laptop. The e-mails were beginning to sound hysterical. Leon, what the hell is going on over there? I hear nothing, the embassy won't return my calls, and then I finally get through to the house of this sheik person, only to be told he has taken you sailing for the day! Are you working? Have you taken a single photograph of anyone or anything in Africa? And what have you done about Piers's murder? Leon chewed on his lip for a bit, then walked down the hall to Ibrahim's office. Ibrahim was at one of the computers, a headset on. It looked like he was using a satellite to watch one of his caravans in the desert. There were camels, and the sand was so white it was nearly blinding. The men were wearing the blue face veils and turbans he had seen in pictures of the Tuareg before he left the States. He leaned over Ibrahim's shoulder, and Ibrahim reached up, ran a finger down his cheek. "If he gets worse, Mali, I'll send in a helicopter, and we can do a medical evacuation. Yes, okay."

Sefu was at another computer, and the autopsy report was up on the screen. Leon glanced at it, then looked away. He did not want to know the weight of Piers's liver. "Sefu, will you do me a favor?" "Of course." "I would like to send the picture I took of you at the fish market to my boss in DC. He's getting hysterical." "Why would a picture of me in the fish market calm his hysterics?" "He loves good photography. That's a world-class picture." Sefu reached up and pinched his cheek. "If you say so, Leon. Yes, go ahead." "Have you found anything?" "Yes, several things. Are you going to Chwaka Bay today?" "I think so." "Take a hat. Your nose is sunburned." Back in his room, Leon downloaded the photograph of Sefu in the fish market, eating a piece of mango, his head tilted back to show his profile. The sky behind him was brilliant blue, and between the bright orange mango, his dark skin, the tribal scars on his cheek, and his beautiful mouth, Leon knew Tim and Maggie were not going to worry about much else once they saw this. He sent one e-mail to them both. Very busy here, and several interesting things have come up regarding Piers. He seems to have drowned in salt water, with the sword wound coming after death. Not sure what that means. Also his computer has been found, but his camera is still missing. The team investigating his death seems very competent. I have no concerns

they will do a thorough investigation. Maybe that would get him off the hook! I have been out to Jozani already and will spend today at Chwaka Bay. I think this article is very important and strongly recommend we proceed as planned. If you can give me another week or two, I think you will be pleased. The photograph is of Sefu, and he's given me permission to send it to you. A return message came while he was in the shower. Leon, if you have his computer, can you see if he already did a story? Piers was a senior photojournalist. If he wrote the story already, you don't need to do that same work again. And did you find any documentation about the photographs he sent? Anything to suggest where the leopard's den was? Awesome photo. Now this was sticky. He pulled on his jeans, washed and folded on top of the dresser, and tied his hair back in a ponytail. Piers sent the pictures you showed me less than 48 hours after he arrived in Dar es Salaam. I've found no evidence of a leopard on this island, and the local people do not believe they have a leopard here. I will continue to look, but I did note Piers was in Kenya for a week before he came here. I wonder if he got the heading on the pictures confused? And his computer, unfortunately, is broken. I will continue to work on this story until I hear something different from you. And since he had no intention of checking his e-mail again for a while, all was well. Jelani was arguing with Bazu, who kept trying to put a huge picnic basket in the back of the Jeep. "Bazu, you know the rest of the island will want Leon to share their food. It would be disrespectful for us not to eat with our hosts."

"But you might get hungry on the way back, or--" "It takes less than an hour to get to Chwaka Bay. How hungry can we get in an hour?" "Why do I even bother to cook, when no one will eat my food?" Leon peeked into the basket. Cookies, several small round cakes with sliced mangoes on top, a thermos of coffee, a jug of tea, sandwiches. "Jelani, look." Jelani joined him and looked down at the food. Then he grinned up at Bazu. "Okay, okay. I see you made my favorite cake just to tempt me to overeat." After Bazu had gone into the house, wearing a happy smile, his indigo veil trailing behind him from his waist--he had made it into a clever belt-Jelani slapped Leon on the shoulder. "We're going to visit the village school! They won't leave a crumb of those cookies behind. We'll have to hide one cake for ourselves." They drove toward the coast, the air getting muggier. There were more bugs too, and the thick jungle foliage managed to trap the heat. "I think Ibrahim found the very coolest, breeziest, most bug-free spot for his house on the entire island." "His great-grandmother. She was the one who settled the family on Zanzibar, expanded the trade routes to the seas, not just the Sahara." "I read somewhere that the Tuareg were a matrilineal tribe, but I'm not sure if I understand what that means." Jelani looked over at him. "I'm not sure either. The tribal leader, whoever that is, is chosen, and then that person passes the responsibility on. I suppose a leader could choose a man or a woman, but I'm not sure.

The ways of the Tuareg are mysterious to me. But I suspect it has something to do with why Ibrahim is concerning himself with conservation." "I had wondered about that. I mean, he's a businessman. Why is he so concerned about the animals and the parks and habitat conservation?" Jelani looked at him, his eyes narrowed. "You don't know him very well yet, Leon. It seems hard to explain to someone not used to our ways. But Ibrahim, he feels a responsibility to Zanzibar. To all of Zanzibar. Part of his responsibility as a tribal leader is to the people of this place, and he has thought long about how to secure the future of Africa and Zanzibar. He is not just thinking about his business, money, and his family today. He is planning for the future of Africa, and he has concluded that habitat conservation, and the cooperative models we are developing here, are the only possible ways to secure a future for Africa. And I would not want to see what would happen if anyone stands in the way of that goal." "Wow. Okay, he's a little scary." "You have no idea." "Are you okay leaving the investigation with Sefu and coming out with me today?" "More than happy, brother. When I realized most of the police work I would be doing involved staring at a computer screen and writing reports, I developed an immediate strong urge to begin working in conservation. I have not missed it at all." "Does Sefu feel the same way?" Jelani shook his head. "I think he's a little bored. But he wanted to get Aeeshah out of the city, and he and I have always worked together, so he came with me. But I notice he is having a good time with this investigation."

"He can have it." Leon swatted a bug on his neck. "Every time I think of those pictures on Piers's computer, I feel like puking. This is what I hated about being a cop. People are so much worse that you expect." "Sometimes, Leon. And sometimes they are so much better. I wonder if Ibrahim could use Sefu for security or to do something in the company." "How long has Peter been Ibrahim's secretary?" "Almost nine months. Since he left that orphanage in Nairobi. I don't know what Ibrahim is thinking." He shrugged, looked happy again. "I don't need to know. I know Ibrahim. He has a devious Tuareg mind. But if that bastard Peter makes my wife feel badly one more time, I am going to have to deal with him myself." "What's he doing?" "He keeps making comments about the baby, asking if Rachel is pregnant. She had a miscarriage about six months ago. We decided to wait awhile to try again, but every time he brings it up, she feels it like a judgment, you know?" "I'm sorry, Jelani. Is she okay?" Jelani nodded. "She wants to start a small business, sewing traditional clothes. Bazu is encouraging her with his crazy ideas, but she can sew so beautifully, with the tiniest stitches. She is making a robe for Makhammad, the color of cocoa, with brown silk braid down the front. He won't notice this, but it has an extra wide opening at the neck, and the sleeves are looser than usual, so it is easier for him to get on." "Why does Makhammad limp so badly and use the cane? I've never seen his leg." "He was shot during the revolution, the Tuareg revolution back in 1966,

I think. He was in hiding after he got shot and didn't get to a doctor for several weeks. The leg never really recovered. He was once a very dangerous, very famous revolutionary. What do you call it? An outlaw. Ibrahim brought him out of exile, brought him here to live about ten years ago now. He was in Paris, but without any family to watch over him. I don't know what Ibrahim did to get him back in the country, with no warrants out for his arrest, but he did it. I suspect much salt changed hands. It was one of the first things Ibrahim did when he took over as tribal leader." They parked the Jeep in the small dirt lot in front of the school. The building was made of weathered board and was up on stilts against the flooding. But Leon noticed the solar panels out back and got several shots of the sun on the battered wooden building, up against the bright blue of the solar panels. Inside was a surprise--yellow walls and two big ceiling fans, and all the windows had screens. There was also a row of computers against the wall. Leon went to have a look--iMacs. He raised his eyebrows at Jelani. "Wow." "Ibrahim bought them," he said and brought Leon up to meet his aunt. There were about forty children in the room, and their ages ranged from six or seven all the way to twelve. There were no desks, just long, wooden picnic tables with benches. But there were bookcases against the wall, full of brightly colored books, and the children all had notebooks, different colors for different grades. Jelani told the children that Leon worked as a photographer for the Wilderness Coalition for Africa, and the teacher proudly pointed out the shelf of blue magazines on the bookshelf. "I want you to tell Leon what it means to you, what you are doing to protect the lands and the animals in Jozani."

A boy stood up. He was eleven or twelve, with a broad forehead and a serious face. "Africa, this is our heritage. The land, the water, the animals, the people--we are all interconnected. We protect them because they are our future." He looked at Leon, his face stern. "And we protect them because they are ours to protect, and we are not going to count on America or anyone to save this land for us." The youngest children, boys and girls, escorted Leon to an exhibit they were making, showing the different species of orchids in the national park. Everyone wanted a turn holding his hand, and several of the bolder girls reached up to stroke his ponytail. A group of older boys showed him their monkey-cam, and then they shared the contents of Bazu's picnic basket with the whole class and had a screening of a video. One of the students had drawn the word MONKEY-BUSINESS on a piece of cardboard, and the children had drawn the animals and plants of Jozani until the board was filled with color, every inch. That was the opener of the video, which showed the monkeys acting very much like monkeys. Which looked very much like children. Leon spoke quietly to the teacher about getting a copy of the video, and she promised to send it to his e-mail. "I'll send it to Jelani at Ibrahim's," she said. "Your regular email may not have enough memory for the video." He took a picture of the entire class outside their school, with the beautiful blue of the Indian Ocean in the background. The children were all happy to see a preview on the monitor in the back of his camera, and he did a quick head count to see how many copies he needed to print and send out here. He couldn't help but hope, looking into their open, happy faces, that Piers had never been anywhere close to these children, leaving a trail of misery like a slug behind him. On the way to Chwaka Bay, Leon told Jelani his idea. "Jelani, I think

I'm going to send the video to Maggie. She's the senior photog. I think it could stand a good chance for one of the video-of-the-day spots. They have all sorts of ways to get this sort of information out into the world. That might bring some resources out here for the children." Jelani was silent for a moment, thinking. "But will it bring more trouble? Like that pig photographer who came before you? I would not want that sort of person on Jozani if we could help it." Leon felt sick in his stomach, thinking of Piers around those boys. "No, Jelani. That's...he was an aberration. I swear, no one else like that..." Jelani reached over, patted his arm. "It's okay, Leon. Don't be upset. I think we will just be very careful from now on, you know? More tourism means more people we have no control over. But we cannot hide the children away from the world forever. Let's ask Ibrahim." "Does he have any video equipment? I could write a little introduction and then tape you speaking about the park." "Me?" Jelani's voice squeaked just a bit. "Why don't you do it, and I'll video you." Leon shook his head. "Oh no, that wouldn't work. No one wants to see me. They want to see a handsome African conservationist! I'll write the intro for you, okay?" ***

Ibrahim gave the matter about ten seconds' thought, then waved them off to go videotape each other and send the results to WCA. He had three computer screens going at once, and it looked to Leon like he had an eagle eye on a caravan in the Sahara, a tanker loading shipping containers in Sicily, and one camera looking at the entrance to a mine that could be anywhere. He had the headset on and was speaking in a language Leon

didn't recognize. Peter was in the corner of the room, sending e-mails from a long list in his hand. Leon wrote the brief introduction, then went to find Jelani. Rachel was brushing off the shoulders of his shirt, fussing over the epaulets, trying to make them lie down straight. He was wearing a dark green shirt again, with a vaguely military look. Perfect for Africa, Leon thought. Makhammad came out of the house, Sabah walking next to him, and they all settled in to watch. Jelani looked appalled. "Just pretend it's you and me, buddy," Leon said, looking at Jelani over the top of the tiny video camera they had found. Jelani smiled at him. "Yes, well. I shall be thinking how I am going to get you back for this, Leon. When am I supposed to start?" "Anytime. I'm already taping these threats." Jelani laughed, his head back, the long line of his throat so strong, and Rachel watched him, quiet pride in her face. The Indian Ocean was behind him, and to the right were some large ferns that looked like they were part of the jungle. "The children of Africa are proud of their heritage, their land, and the animals that live with them. Here on Zanzibar, we have one of the finest examples of an extant groundwater forest left in the world. The very special animals that live here are being cared for by the children of the Jozani-Chwaka Bay National Park. Through a variety of initiatives, including the monkey-cam video you will see here today, the children of Jozani are taking the lead in protecting these animals and their very special habitat." They ran through the intro several times, and Jelani manfully resisted the suggestions made by the audience. But when Bazu rushed out with a tiny pot of lip gloss and tried to put some on him, Jelani pulled off his

microphone and retired. "I am going to be a behind-the-scenes conservationist, Leon. You can be the media liaison." "I think I want to be behind the scenes as well." "I'll be the media liaison!" Bazu was nearly bouncing on his toes, and Makhammad sighed, looked toward the heavens. "Boy, if you didn't look exactly like your grandmother, I would suspect you did not have any Tuareg blood flowing through your veins at all." ***

After dinner, they gathered again in the parlor, and Makhammad brought out an ancient wooden board. The small depressions looked like they had been roughly carved with a pocket knife, but the edges of the wood were smooth, as if many hands had rubbed them over the years. Makhammad waved Leon over. "This is the first form of Bao we teach the children. It is easy, only two rows. I will show you how. If you stay in Zanzibar, you must learn to play Bao." Leon filled the little depressions from the bowl of seeds on the table. "Four in each hole, Leon." After he filled the holes, he studied the board. "This is your side," Makhammad said, indicating the row of holes near to him, "and these are mine. We want to have empty holes. When I get empty holes, I can take your seeds. Now watch." Makhammad scooped up the seeds, then dropped one in each hole in turn. "See my hole is empty? If I can do this"-he scooped up the seeds from another hole, dropped them in, and the last seed he put in one of the empty holes--"when I can put my last seed in an empty hole, look! I can take your seeds." Makhammad scooped up Leon's seeds, then filled all the holes back up. Leon studied the board. "Does it matter where you start?" Makhammad shook his head. "Everyone has their own strategy, but for

now, just pick some of your seeds. Let's practice." They played slowly at first, and Leon felt very lost, but then the pace picked up as the seeds moved off the board. The more empty holes were left, the faster the seeds moved. "I think I get it," he said. "Can we go again?" He put the seeds in place, and they played again, a little quicker this time. "Leon, did you enjoy going out on the boat?" "Very much, sir. I have never been out on the Indian Ocean before. The water feels so warm." "The lifeblood of the earth. Did Ibrahim take you to his island?" "We went on the shore of an island but didn't explore it very much." "Oh, no, you don't want to walk around that island, certainly not alone. I stayed out there once, in hiding after the war. That's when I first saw the leopards." Leon looked up, felt his blood run cold. "The leopards?" "There must be four or five on the island now. And the females, they are always the most dangerous when they are protecting their young. They will survive, I think, because they do not have to compete with people. The island belongs to them." Leon turned around, stared at Ibrahim. You son of a bitch. You cheating, leopard-hiding son of a bitch. I ought to kick your sorry butt. Ibrahim looked back, and his face showed nothing. Then he stood and came to the game board. "Grandfather, let me play a game with him." Leon put the seeds back in place, his hands trembling just a bit. Ibrahim's face was hard, eyes unreadable. Leon was so furious, he was ready to take a bite out of a Tuareg neck. They started playing, and Leon

could tell Ibrahim was very good at this game, and he wasn't giving any quarter. Five moves in, Leon was struggling just to keep moving his seeds. Any idea of strategy was lost. Makhammad murmured something to Ibrahim. Ibrahim shrugged, moved faster. Before Leon even understood how it had happened, Ibrahim's side of the board was empty, and he pushed back from the table, his eyes never leaving Leon's face. Makhammad patted Leon gently on the shoulder. "You will be a fine player in time, Leon. Ibrahim has been playing since he was a child." Leon didn't look away. "He wanted to whip my butt." "Whip my butt? What does that mean?" Leon turned to the old man. "He wanted to make sure I knew my place here." "And what is your place, Leon?" Ibrahim stood, staring down at him, hands on his hips. He didn't wait for an answer, just turned and left the room. Leon waited a few minutes, willing himself to calm down, then walked to his room. He rolled onto the bed and stared up through the mosquito netting. There were leopards in Zanzibar. The extinct Zanzibar leopard was not extinct but was being protected on an uninhabited island by Ibrahim Ag Akhamok. And he and his team had deliberately concealed that information from him. What was his place here? On the ground, with Ibrahim's boot on his neck? Had Ibrahim hidden this information from him because he was a WCA photographer looking for a story? Or was there something more? He forced his mind to roll over, consider the worst case. Did Piers find out about the leopard? Did he get photos of it? Did the leopard have anything to do with his death? Did Ibrahim--and he winced, felt anxiety roll

through his stomach--would Ibrahim kill someone to protect his leopards? Would he fake the evidence in Piers's computer to discredit him? Would he find a young, naive, fairly thickheaded photographer and seduce him in order to convince him to buy the story he had concocted? And thus have that thickhead convince the embassy and WCA? All to protect the secret of his leopards? Shit. Shit-shit-shit. Does falling in love make you go blind, or do you have to be blind in the first place to fall in love? Blind or stupid. Stupid or blind. Or both. "Charlie, help me." Leon closed his eyes. "You don't really believe that, do you?" "Charlie, if Piers was killed because of his work for WCA, if he was killed because of these leopards, then I can't let it go. You know that. Whatever else he was, I can't let that go. There has to be some justice." Charlie waved his hand. "Forget Piers for a moment. What do you feel for him? Ibrahim. What a beautiful name. A beautiful man." Charlie was stroking his forehead. Leon looked over at him. He was wearing a T-shirt with a big ice-cream cone on the front. STAY COOL, the logo said. "I'm in love with him. And I'm afraid of him." "You fear he is the sort of man who can deceive you." "He's older than me, Charlie, and smarter and tougher. And my guess is, he has been in love before. I...I think I would be easy to manipulate." "Ah well. Aren't we all? But you love him." "Yes. I love him. But I want to be in love. I think that's a dangerous

combination." "Don't think so much. Trust your heart, Leon, always, over your head. Otherwise you would not be you." Trust your heart. Leon got up, walked down the hall, and stuck his head in the office. Ibrahim was staring at the whiteboard, studying the information Sefu had carefully outlined. He was wearing black silk drawstring pajama bottoms, with bare feet and a bare chest. He had shaved, and Leon could smell his aftershave, something with spicy lime. "Where have you been? And don't even think about giving me another dirty look." He sounded mildly pissed. "I've been in my room," Leon said. "Talking to Charlie. And I can't help the way I look. I feel betrayed. You hid the leopards from me. That was just like lying." Ibrahim rubbed his eyes wearily. "You have no idea how patient I am being with you." "You shaved." Ibrahim walked closer. "You have a bit of whisker burn. I didn't want to make it worse." He took Leon's hand, held it gently in his. "And I wanted to sleep with you again, and kiss you, and not scrape your sore chin or your sunburned nose. Can we just leave any conversation about leopards and murdered photographers for the morning?" Ibrahim was holding his hand, the way men here did, and he smelled like sandalwood and lime. Black silk fell onto his bare feet, and Leon stared at his toes, thought that seeing a man barefoot in his pajamas was the sexiest thing the world had ever seen. Especially when that man held his hand in his own, palm to palm, so gently. They walked down to Ibrahim's bedroom, still holding hands, and

Ibrahim unbuttoned Leon's shirt so slowly and with such tender care that Leon felt himself melting into a sticky puddle at his bare feet. "Let me make love to you tonight," Ibrahim said, sliding the shirt off Leon's shoulders, using the cloth to hold his wrists together for one small moment. "Don't worry about anything but feeling me. Feeling what a lover can give to you." "I've been thinking about the boys. The ones in Piers's computer. I think we need to do something." "We can't save them tonight. But don't think I've forgotten them." He pulled Leon forward by the waistband of his jeans, unbuttoned and unzipped. Ibrahim pushed the cloth down over Leon's hips, let his fingers trail along the curve of his pelvis, the muscles of his lower back. Ibrahim ignored his cock, straining up through cotton boxers, and ran the backs of his fingers lightly against the skin of Leon's belly. "Let's get rid of these," he said and pushed the boxers down over Leon's hips. Leon stepped out of his boxers and followed Ibrahim's gentle tug on his hand. The bed was covered with mosquito netting draped over four tall posts of mahogany, and the cover was heavy silk, ivory with extravagant embroidery, peacocks and tropical flowers. Leon smiled down at it. "Bazu picked this out, right?" Ibrahim shook his head. "It was my mother's. And she was so much like Bazu, sometimes I think I hear her voice coming out of his mouth." Ibrahim folded the heavy silk down to the end of the bed, and Leon lifted it over to the divan in the corner of the room. The sheets were ivory too, some wonderful combination of silk and linen that Leon felt against his skin like a caress. Ibrahim climbed up after him and stretched out, his head propped in his hand. He was still wearing his silk pajama bottoms. Leon stroked his hip, feeling the elegant cloth. "Aren't you going to take these

off?" Ibrahim shook his head. "Not now. Not yet. Tonight I thought I would just concentrate on you." "I'm mad about the leopards. Just so you know. Really pissed off." Ibrahim stared blandly back at him. "And I seem to be sort of on a hair trigger when I'm around you. I may not last very long." "Ah, but you're twenty-six, Leon. I expect you can rise to the occasion again and again." He picked up Leon's hand, interlocking their fingers. His mouth moved a slow, lazy line down Leon's chin, down the angle of his jaw, and his lips ended over the pulse in Leon's throat, hot lips, quick tongue, and a little nip, and he was moving down, his mouth leaving a heat trace. He still held Leon's hand, and he moved his knee over Leon's hips, nudged his tender cock, until he was gently pinned. If he moved his legs, he felt Ibrahim's thigh at his cock, and if he moved his hands, Ibrahim squeezed just a tiny bit on his fingers. And if he moved his head, he felt Ibrahim's teeth against his soft skin. He could feel the pleasure ratcheting up, his balls already pulled up hard and tight. Ibrahim moved down until his warm breath blew on Leon's nipple. "Such pretty blond hair," he said, moving his mouth across the skin. Then he put his lips over the nipple and sucked it into his mouth. Pleasure spiked down into Leon's belly, and he arched up against Ibrahim's mouth. Ibrahim opened his mouth wider, sucked him in deeper, moved his knee just a bit, a tiny nudge against Leon's cock, and then Leon was coming, his body thrusting against Ibrahim's thigh. Ibrahim traced a finger down his chest, down his belly, and Leon snatched the pillow from under his head, jammed it over his face, and screamed into soft down. Ibrahim laughed, his hand flat on Leon's belly now, and moved tender

fingers down, held the softening cock in his palm. "Keep your pillow close," he said and slid his mouth across Leon's chest to the other nipple. "You have two of these, you know." ***

Leon slept like he'd been clubbed, deep in a cocoon of silky sheets. The mosquito netting gave everything in the room a gauzy light. Ibrahim was gone, and Leon could see his black silk pajama bottoms tossed over the end of the bed. He pulled them up to his chest, hugged them, feeling like a fool. Sabah cleared her throat gently. "Leon, I have some coffee here. Bazu is setting out breakfast as a buffet, and Ibrahim asks if you will join him at the table when you're dressed." He stuffed the pajamas under the covers but wondered why he was even bothering to make the effort. Sabah knew everything that happened in this house. He climbed into Ibrahim's shower, used some of his shampoo. When he got out, Sabah had put a clean T-shirt and boxers for him on the dresser in Ibrahim's room. He combed his hair out and let it stay loose over his shoulders, enjoying the rich scent of the shampoo. Ibrahim would like it, he thought, then gave himself a stern warning not to go mooning about like a little girl in love. Who cared what Ibrahim thought? Mr. I-won't-share-my-leopards-with-you Ag Akhamok? Acting like a damn...sheik. Ibrahim was sitting at the big table, talking to Sefu, and when Leon came in, he looked up, his eyes smiling and so tender, and Leon remembered he was a sucker and in love and was never going to win a battle with this man, and he walked straight to Ibrahim and kissed him on the mouth, holding his face in both hands. Ibrahim's hand went around the back of his neck just for a moment. Leon straightened when he heard

someone applauding. Peter was sitting down the table, the snide smile back on his face. "How sweet--young love." Ibrahim looked at him, and there must have been some warning in the look, because Peter sat up and leaned over his plate. Leon sat next to Sefu. "Good morning, Sefu. How's the baby?" "He slept last night. I couldn't take the silence. I got up four times to make sure he was still breathing." Ibrahim passed him the newspaper. "Let's meet this morning again, shall we? We'll wait for Jelani." "Ibrahim, have you discovered anything else about the death of that photographer? I feel so badly that I have nothing to contribute to the investigation." Peter was toying with a piece of toast. "WCA must be frantic for news." Leon studied Peter's face. What was this about? "Peter, did you ever meet him? I thought you were in Cypress or something when he was here." "Crete," Peter said, "and I didn't go with Ibrahim on that trip. That was a private trip, not business. You were meeting one of your friends, weren't you, Ibrahim?" Ah. Leon suspected Peter had been waiting, breathless, to slip that bit of information to him. If Peter was here when Piers drowned, surely he could have killed him? Couldn't the murderer be the nasty asshole who would embezzle from an orphanage? That would be one sweet solution. Ibrahim was grinning at him, and Leon wondered if he could he read minds. "Leon, you need to look on your e-mail. Or just go to the WCA site." He stared at Ibrahim, his mouth falling open. "No way. Are you kidding me?" He bolted from the room, snatched up his laptop, and turned it on.

On the WCA page, the video he and Jelani had sent of the kids' monkeycam was front and center, the video of the day. The contact information at the bottom of the video was for the school. Jelani looked very handsome and tough, an African conservationist down to his toes. Leon ran back into the dining room, carrying the laptop. "Oh my God! Have you seen this?" Jelani came in with Rachel, and he sat down at the table while she went to the buffet and filled a plate with his breakfast. "Seen what?" "Seen what? You're an international star, my friend!" Peter leaned over to look at the video. "Oh, look at that. Do you think anyone really sees these things, Leon?" Leon smiled up at him, ready to forgive everyone this morning. "Only about a hundred thousand people a day, Peter." He looked over at Ibrahim. "This is going to bring money into the school and the park, Ibrahim, enough for lots of things the kids need. Maybe we can buy some cameras." "Whatever you want, Leon. But you have to teach them how to use them, okay?" "Okay." Rachel brought him a plate full of eggs and biscuits, then patted him on the shoulder gently. "Sit and eat, Leon." He sat next to Jelani, and they were both too shocked and happy to think what to say. Jelani was shaking his head, grinning, and when Leon caught his eye, they both started laughing. "Leon, we've got to help them. Save some scholarship money for that boy. What did he say? 'We are not going to count on America or anyone to save them for us. They are ours to protect.'"

Ibrahim raised his eyebrows. "Sounds like you have a politician growing up out in Chwaka Bay!" "Or a young naturalist." Leon couldn't stop smiling; he loved everyone this morning. Bazu came into the room, looking suspicious. "What's going on? I heard people laughing." ***

Sefu and Jelani were discussing the boat. "How much gas was missing, Ibrahim? Enough to go out to the island?" Ibrahim nodded. "Enough for a trip out and back. Or enough for a trip to Stone Town." Jelani stood. "I need to go talk to Didi. Make sure... Leon, do you think we can get a copy of the pictures Piers sent to Washington? Ibrahim will know if they are his leopards or if Piers took the pictures somewhere in Kenya. That will suggest if he used the boat to go to the island. If he did not, then I would be inclined to wonder if he was taken out on the boat by the person who killed him. Remember, he was drowned before he was run through with the sword. And then they used the boat to take him to Stone Town. The fish market is on the water." "I'll ask if we can see the pictures," Leon said. He decided to bypass Tim and go straight to Maggie. Maggie, I need a copy of the photos of the leopard Piers sent. Don't ask me why; just trust me. Oh, by the way? Thanks. I owe you my firstborn. Sefu was staring at the whiteboard. "Leon, you're in love with motive. Why do you care if he was killed because of the leopards or if he was killed because he was hurting young boys? We need to find out who killed him. That's all. Why do you think the motive matters? What matters is how

he managed to drown and how he managed to get to Stone Town." Why did he care? Was killing justified in some circumstances and not others? He might have said so, until he had himself lost control and beaten someone to death, a killer who had hurt someone he loved. Because he felt the weight of that act on his heart and on his mind every day since he had woken, still drunk, to find his fists torn up and blood under his fingernails. He didn't excuse himself. He wasn't going to turn himself in, spend the rest of his life in jail, but the stain he felt on his soul was not going to be so easily washed away. He would have to work it off, he thought. Look for some way to atone. Charlie had told him what to do. Atonement. "Sefu, I think it matters because what he was doing to the boys? That's stopped with his death. The leopards are still there. If there was something going on and he was killed because of those leopards, then there might still be a danger to Ibrahim, you, Jelani, everyone who knows about them. And why didn't you tell me, anyway? How could you keep them a secret?" Sefu just grinned at him and turned back to the board. "I don't see how the leopards can be involved, Leon. He wasn't here long enough. Who would have told him?" Leon thought about Piers. He hadn't really known him very well, mostly in that way of people who see each other every day but aren't friends. What would Piers have done if he was faced with this household? Sefu and Jelani, Aeeshah and Rachel were African. Bazu, Ibrahim, Makhammad were Tuareg. Peter was Anglo. Sabah was Anglo. Ibrahim was the head of the household, but he had not been here. If Piers needed help, information, where would he go? He had been in Nairobi. Wasn't the orphanage Peter had embezzled the money from in Nairobi? And where

did Piers find his boys, if not from an orphanage? He really wanted Peter to be a part of this, the bad guy. "I'll be back," he said. Ibrahim smiled, eyes making their slow way over the backside of Leon's jeans. Leon could feel his face heat up, and Ibrahim's grin got wider. "Where are you going?" "I'm going in undercover. If I'm not back by lunchtime, start searching for me!" Leon found Sabah first. "Can I run something by you?" She was drying the silverware on a linen towel. "Of course. What do you need?" "Will you go for a walk with me?" They walked down by the waterfront. It was early still, but the heat and humidity were coming down like a blanket. "Sabah, when Piers came here, did he ask you for any information about where to find animals for his story?" She nodded. "Yes, he did. Unfortunately, I had brought clean towels to his room and saw the magazine in his open luggage. I was not going through his things, Leon. I promise you. He left it in plain sight. I could not..." "They were young boys?" "Yes. Young African boys." "Did you tell me he wasn't in my room?" "He had that little guest cabin to the left of the one Peter stays in." They looked at each other for a long moment. "Sabah, do you know anything else?"

Her face was like a mask, pure and calm. In the light, he could see the lines on her face, but her eyes were gentle, and the scarf covering her hair today was pale blue. She looked, just for a moment, like an older version of Jesus's mother. "I might, but how do I know what's important? You have to ask the right questions." "Okay, how about this? Do we have any alcohol in the house? Anything strong, like vodka? Or gin?" She studied him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "I do have a bottle of gin because that's what Peter likes. And there's a bottle of tonic in the cupboard next to the pantry." Leon leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Thanks." "Be careful, Leon." Leon gathered up the bottles and made his way down to Peter's cabin. If he read this man right, he needed to offer him something besides the booze. Some weakness, some crime, something to give Peter the idea he could control him. Leon pushed open the door without knocking. "Hey, man, you got a mo?" Peter was reading, sitting in the chair next to the window. He had a pair of reading glasses on the end of his nose, and he looked at Leon for a long moment over the top rims. "I thought you were playing Dick Tracy with the big boys." "They're getting along fine without me. Look what I found in the cabinet in the kitchen." He held up the bottles. "You got a glass? I'll pour you one." "You don't want to pour two?" Leon shook his head. "I better not. I don't drink, man. Not for, like, a

couple years. I was...you know." He opened the bottle of gin and splashed an inch into the glass Peter held out for him. "No, I don't know." Leon shrugged. "I was drinking too much, getting wild, you know, getting in trouble, so I quit." "Seems like going your entire life without a civilized drink is a bit harsh. You aren't one of these Muslims, after all." "It's just, I hate to lose control, you know?" Leon was channeling an airhead he had gone to high school with, a kid who had floated through his teenaged years in a cloud of reefer. "I don't like to wake up places with my clothes inside out. You know what I'm saying?" Peter's eyes gleamed, and he laughed, let Leon fill up the glass with tonic. "You aren't in any danger there from me, but I wouldn't swear you would be safe from our sheik! Ibrahim seems to leave a trail of weeping, heartbroken boys behind him wherever he goes." Leon winced. Ouch. This game was bound to hurt. Peter saw it, and his smile got bigger. "Oh, come on now, Leon, you can have just one drink, surely? I don't believe you are so, what did you call it? Out of control." "Yeah, well, okay. But just one." Peter poured this time, and Leon took a big gulp of the drink, then another. "God, I'm thirsty. It must be the heat." "I just hope you know what you're getting into, my young friend. Ibrahim, he seems to travel the world looking for men of every color to sleep with. That's dangerous these days, especially in Africa." He leaned forward. "I pray you're taking safety precautions. There is so much HIV here. And Ibrahim, he seems to have no discrimination, you know? Blacks, Arabs, pretty white boys--he sleeps with anyone. It wasn't that

long ago sodomy carried a death penalty in this part of Africa. Times haven't changed as fast as he thinks they have." Oh God. Leon drained his glass of gin. "Better slow down. I'll make sure you don't get in over your head." "I've got to get some pictures into Washington. They're gonna pull me out of here in a couple days, and I got squat so far. That little video, it's not a story, you know? They sent me here to find Piers's leopards 'cause he kept saying there were leopards here. I think he was full of shit. There aren't any leopards here. All they got is a shitload of monkeys and enough mosquitoes to give malaria to the entire third world." "Thank God for the mosquitoes and their malaria, my friend." Peter winked. "We need something to keep the population down. We're nearly overrun as it is." Leon held out his empty glass, not sure how to turn the conversation in the direction of the island. Peter was up, pouring him some more. "Did you share Piers's little hobby, Peter? You know, playtime with the boys?" Peter looked guarded now as he topped off the glass with tonic. "Good God, no. He was just doing it for the money, anyway. It wasn't anything...personal. He had a good nose for the moneymaking scheme, did Piers." And just like that, Leon knew. He knew why Piers had gone to the island, shot pictures of the leopards. And it wasn't for WCA. "Yeah, well, I've got the photos now. But he was going to share, right? I mean, you told him about the island and the boat. He was gonna share with you?" Peter walked to the window, his back stiff. "I don't know who told you--"

"I got his field notes, Peter. And his computer. And his photos. Don't sweat it, man. I can get cash out of Ibrahim, no problem, the easy way or the hard way." Peter turned at this, the sneer back on his face. "Yes, I believe you can." Leon put down his empty glass. "Two already? Or is that three? My goodness, Leon, maybe you do have a problem with the drink. Piers owed me money. He made plenty, but he was in the habit of putting it up his nose. And yes, I'm happy to share the same deal with you. I want twenty thousand. That was my cut, what Piers promised me for the information about the island. You meet his obligations, and both of us will be happy, I think." "Yeah, but you told him about the island. You haven't done dick for me. It's just your bad luck he didn't pay before he fell face-first into the ocean, right?" He lifted the glass. "Just give me another little splash, okay?" Peter walked over and unscrewed the top off the gin. Ibrahim walked in without knocking, banging the door against the wall, his face like a thundercloud. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He was talking to Leon, and he grabbed him by the arm, jerked him up and out of the chair hard enough to bruise. Then he turned to Peter. "Peter, are you about ready to leave for Dar? Sefu's driving you, I think. He's got the Jeep ready. You've got lots of things to do today." Peter looked delighted. "Nothing to worry about, Ibrahim. I was just chatting with your young friend here. And yes, I'm ready." Ibrahim hauled Leon out the door, up the path toward the house. He leaned over, his mouth very close to Leon's ear. "Sabah told me where you were. I'm the cavalry, riding to your rescue." "I got it, Ibrahim. That sorry little shit. I need to tell you and Jelani

quick, before I pass out." "Can't you go throw up or something? You smell like gin." He opened the back door to the house and pushed Leon through. Then his hand went to Leon's lower back to touch him gently. "It's too late to throw up. Oh man, my head's spinning." Ibrahim kept an arm around his waist until they got to the office. Jelani stared at him as if he had grown three heads. "What have you done? This was reckless, Leon. What if he was the one who drowned Piers?" Leon shook his head. "That little weasel didn't kill anyone. No profit in it. But he sold the information to Piers about your island and how to get out there on the boat. Piers was going to blackmail you about the leopards. Did you know?" Leon looked at Jelani. "Have you told him what Peter's been doing to Rachel? I think we should kick that stupid racist motherfucker out of here." Leon could feel his tongue getting thick. Ibrahim's mouth dropped open. "What did you just say?" He shook his head. "Never mind. Jelani, what has our pet embezzler been doing to Rachel?" Leon leaned his head back, heard the murmur of their voices rolling over him like waves, and then they had him under the arms, one on each side, walking him down to his room, and someone--Ibrahim, he thought-rolled him onto his bed, tucked in his mosquito netting, closed the shutters, and left him in the cool dark. When he woke, Ibrahim was pulling his mosquito netting aside. "Wake up, sleeping beauty. I've got chicken soup and Excedrin Migraine." Leon sat up, his head throbbing and his stomach sick. "You did grad

school in America, all right. Oh, I feel like crap." Ibrahim pushed the pillow behind his back. "Sit up. Here, have some soup." Leon took the cup and sipped. Where had Bazu gotten the stock? It tasted like homemade. Ibrahim was looking at him, his arms crossed. "You don't think you might have overdone it a bit?" He shook his head. "Ibrahim, I had to seem like I was making a total fool out of myself. Otherwise he would never have felt superior enough to brag. And I wanted to know if he was the one who had told Piers about the island and about using the boat to get out there. Piers was most likely killed on the boat, don't you think?" "No, I don't. Jelani talked to Didi. He saw the man go out in the boat, and he saw him come back in. Alive." They looked at each other, and Ibrahim softened a bit, reached out, and twisted a long strand of golden hair around his finger. "I'm going to have the--what did you call him?-that stupid, racist motherfucker thrown into prison." He smiled when Leon goggled at him. "I told you I was sending him to prison for embezzlement. I already had it set up. That's why Sefu drove him into Stone Town today. A friend of mine has a little party of cops from Dar waiting for him at the airport. It pleases me to think he is going to wonder for a long time if I did it over you. Would you rather go to prison over an insult to a young lover or over an extinct leopard?" "Definitely the leopard." Leon reached out and took the Excedrin out of Ibrahim's hand. They scraped his throat all the way down. "The first time I ever had a beer, I feel asleep, and when I woke up, I felt exactly like I do right now. I told my mother I had food poisoning. She knew what it was, though." "Leon, can I explain to you the concept of backup? And of going in undercover? Jelani nearly tore his hair out when I told him where you

were. If one of you were to act like Harry Bosch, he thinks it should have been him." "I had backup. Sabah knew where I was. She knew what I was doing, too." "Why did you choose Sabah as your backup, may I ask?" "Because she's strong. She's like steel inside, Ibrahim. Can't you see it?" "Yes, I know." His voice was softer. "I have known Sabah a long time." "Plus I wanted somebody who wouldn't tell me I couldn't go. You know, men, they always get this competition thing going, whose dick is bigger, and rather than force you and Jelani to get out the ruler and unzip, I decided to just do it this way." Ibrahim stood up. "Get out the ruler and unzip? I think you still have some gin in your system. I believe I'm going to tell Sabah we can get rid of the rest of the alcohol now. But I don't think we can afford to let you sleep the day away. Things are moving fast. Like in Bao, you know? When most of the seeds have been removed, the game moves very fast. I want you to check the e-mail and see if you got the photos of the leopards from that woman in Washington." Leon nodded as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. "We don't really know yet if Piers took pictures of my leopards, with some plan to extort money to keep their existence quiet. If that was his plan--and it seems like a reasonable conclusion--I don't see how it had anything to do with his death, Leon. Because I wasn't here and no one said anything to me about the cats. You asked Sefu about leopards on the islands, and he told me. That was the first I heard about anyone outside

our family knowing about them. But it's another piece of information for us. We just don't know how it fits into the puzzle." "Ibrahim, if he had tried to blackmail you, what would you have done?" Ibrahim's face was stern. "You figure it out." Leon thought a moment, thought of Peter on his way to life in an African prison. "Oh, right. Sorry." "Would you mind getting to work? If you can stagger over to a desk?" ***

Leon pulled up the e-mail. Maggie had come through with copies of the photos. Ibrahim looked over his shoulder, watching as he clicked through the pictures. "Shit. Those are ours." Jelani left his computer, came over, and leaned over Leon's shoulder. "Ibrahim, I'm sorry. I should have--" "Why are you apologizing?" "Sefu and I, we both feel responsible. Conservation in Jozani, that's our responsibility, right? When this man came, we took him to Chwaka Bay, took him into Jozani, the same as we did with Leon. He was after the leopards, though. He asked where he could find them, with this sly little smile. We didn't take it seriously, you know? We thought he just hadn't done his research and was looking for an easy way to do his story." "No one could have guessed that he was tipped off about the island. I think he knew about them before he came here, and he knew the leopards were important enough for us to pay to keep them safe and secret. How did Peter find out?" Jelani pointed to the computer. "There's a file in there. He was keeping track of the money. If he didn't understand where the money was going, he

moved a notation about it into a separate file. Just like you were investigating him, he was gathering data on you." Ibrahim showed his teeth, a Tuareg snarl. "Too bad I'm faster." Leon had six e-mail messages from Tim O'Brien. He opened the first, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Leon, I need some information. Our insurance company is demanding a report, the lawyers are screaming, and the State Department and the embassy are giving me the cold shoulder. And you, who are supposed to be my man on the ground, are completely ignoring my messages! If you can't do the job I asked you to do, then why don't you get on a plane and come back here, and we can discuss this in person? He left his phone number, with a notation all in capital letters that Leon was to call him, DAY OR NIGHT, when he got the email. The next five e-mails were steadily more hysterical. Leon settled back in his chair, the headache behind his eyes a dull throb. His stomach had twisted down to the size of a walnut. "Ibrahim, did I totally ruin Piers's computer? I think I need to send some of the pictures of the boys to DC. They aren't going to believe me if I tell them what he was doing." "You want to tell WCA about the boys?" Leon nodded. "Yeah. I don't see any way around it. They've got to know what he was doing, if for no other reason than they have the resources to find the boys, make sure they're okay. Make sure they have treatment--medical care or counseling. I can't let this just disappear. I've been thinking about this for days now. Maybe we can't fix this, but we might make a difference if we try to help. I don't think anything else we do is as important as that."

Ibrahim studied him, looking interested. "I agree with you, but I thought you were keen on finding out what happened. You seem to have this strange American notion of justice floating around your head like a cloud of butterflies." "I'm a little confused about that. Because if I really believed in justice, I would be in prison right now, wouldn't I? For murder. I don't care who killed Piers. I don't have any interest in solving that puzzle. Whoever they are, I hope they don't feel like I've felt since I killed that kid in LA." Jelani walked over and put his hand on Leon's shoulder. It was a gentle show of support, and Leon felt the burn of tears in his eyes. "I wanted to know if it had anything to do with Jozani, with the leopards. That seems important to me. But I don't think there is, and all I care about now is finding those boys and seeing if we can help them." "Leon, it may be too late. The pictures I showed you? That boy could not have survived what was done to him." "I know he's dead. But you know there are others. There must be. And I think I know where to look. Peter...he knew Piers. From before. We should check that orphanage in Nairobi. See if there are any boys there..." Ibrahim froze for a moment, and he and Jelani shared a look. "I didn't think of that, but you may be right. I put the files on a flash drive." He unlocked a drawer in his desk, pulled a flash out, and handed it to Leon. "Will you do me a favor?" "What kind of favor?" "Don't look at these. Just send them." Then he turned to Jelani. "We need to find out if Leon is correct about Nairobi." "I'll work on that, Ibrahim. If it's true, you need to let your friend at the Ministry know."

Leon wrote Tim an e-mail, attached the file, and zipped it. Tim, don't look at these in the office, and take them off your computer as soon as you can. I'm calling you now. Tim was sleepy and irritated when he picked up the phone. "Leon, where the hell have you been? What is going on over there?" "Tim, there's a problem. Piers was using his time in Africa to take pictures of African boys." "Yeah, so what? You just sent a video of a whole classroom full of African boys. What do you think--" "Pornographic sexual torture." There was silence over the phone. "Bullshit, Leon. Piers was a dick, but he wasn't a pedophile. What do you mean, saying--" "Open your computer, Tim. Look at the files I pulled off his hard drive." "I got a real problem with the way you've been responding to my emails, Leon. I call you; I e-mail; I get no answer... Oh my God. Oh my God." Leon could hear him frantically clicking through the pictures. "How many?" "I don't know. We can backtrack, try to find the boys--" "No! Jesus Christ, Leon, no, don't do anything. My God, do you realize what this means? This could destroy us. Our credibility in the world, our history, everything! The liability! Jesus Christ, the liability. Leon, I need you on the next plane home, you understand? Who else knows about this?" "Tim, you can't ignore these boys! They may still need--"

"You. Get on the next fucking plane out of that country, and bring every copy of these files that exist, you got me? Don't tell anyone, not one other person. Who else knows about this?" Leon stood up and kicked the chair aside, the phone clutched so tightly in his fist he might have shattered the plastic. Then he kicked the chair again. "Are you telling me you're going to do nothing?" He didn't realize what he was doing until he slammed his hand into the wall, and that felt so good he did it again, and then again, until the pain shot up to his elbow and his fingers went numb. "Are you actually talking to me about liability?" Ibrahim took the phone and hung up on Tim's voice squawking from the receiver. He reached for Leon's hand, studied the scrapes and the swelling knuckles. "Don't you say one fucking word to me about ice packs, Ibrahim, or...or..." "Leon." Ibrahim tugged him close. Leon moved into his arms, hid his face in Ibrahim's neck. How could he... "Leon." He looked up into Ibrahim's face. "Don't do anything right now. You're too angry to think clearly. We still need to know why he was killed. We can't do anything about the boys until we know why he was killed. And by whose hand. But after that, we can find the boys and take care of them. I promise you, if you want to spend the rest of your life looking for hurt boys and helping them, I'll come with you. I can move salt from anywhere. I promise you. I promise." Leon looked into Ibrahim's face, realized he meant it, and kissed him harder than he meant to, teeth banging against teeth, but Ibrahim's hands were gentle on his shoulders.

Leon pulled back, looked at the flush of color in Ibrahim's mouth, a tiny cut on the edge of his bottom lip. "I love you." Ibrahim's eyes went wide and dark. He reached down, kissed Leon again, and this time, Leon could taste the blood on his mouth. He did not calm down, and it wasn't the gin, as Jelani tactfully suggested. Ibrahim left him with a sigh and went back to his own work. Leon sent a copy of the file to Maggie and briefly described the conversation he'd just had. I'm not coming back, Maggie. I won't work for him. He looked at Ibrahim, leaning over to study the tiny picture of a line of camels on one of his computer screens. I know you'll find a way to make this right. I'm going to stay here, see what I can do. There are some people here who'll help me. ***

Dinner was a festive affair. Makhammad sat at one end of the table, looking handsome in his new brown silk robe. Rachel was beaming with pride. Leon put on his sarong, to make Bazu happy, and pulled out Charlie's old T-shirt, the one from the Monterey Pop Festival with the picture of Big Mama Thornton singing "Ball and Chain." Sabah laughed when she saw it and ran her fingers over the curvy psychedelic letters. "Leon, I went to the Monterey Pop Festival, did you know? Janis--I've never heard anything like her voice. That was a happy time for me." Bazu was frantic in the kitchen. He had promised an Italian feast, and Sabah was helping him. The smell of Bolognese sauce had filled the house for hours. Grinning like a fool, Sefu returned from Dar in time to eat. He winked at Ibrahim, who looked more handsome than usual in jeans and a black silk shirt, his hair loose about his shoulders. Leon felt a little weak around the knees, sitting to his right, smelling the shampoo on his hair.

They all sat down, Sabah next to Makhammad, and the only person missing was Aeeshah. Leon realized he had not heard Tiberius in several hours. When Bazu stopped flitting around and sat at the table, Ibrahim stood and lifted his glass of water. "I have some good news. First, Peter won't be joining us for dinner." Sefu and Jelani let out a cheer, pumping the air with their fists. Rachel smiled quietly down at her lap. "Also, Sefu has accepted a promotion. He will be working as daily operations manager for Ag Akhamok Salt Traders. Jelani is also promoted and will be manager of conservation activities on Jozani. He also is our very own Zanzibar movie star." Jelani covered his face when they all laughed at him and applauded. Ibrahim kept his glass raised. "Oh, more good news. Leon has been fired from the Wilderness Coalition for Africa." "No way! I'm freelance. I quit about one second before he fired me." Ibrahim looked at him. "Oh, is that how it happened? I must have misunderstood." Sabah smiled behind her hand. "I hope you will all join me in asking him to stay with us." "He needs to stay, Ibrahim," Makhammad said. "He has just started to learn Bao, but he's still very slow." They could hear Tiberius now, his wails coming toward the house. Aeeshah marched into the dining room, dumped the baby into Sefu's lap, and took her place at the table without a word. Sefu stared at her, shocked, then looked at the baby--fists scrunched up, mouth open, drool on his chin, screams bouncing off the walls. "TIBERIUS!" The baby stared up at him, stopped in midscream. "That. Is. Enough." Aeeshah shook out her napkin, snapped it crisply, and put it in her lap. Ibrahim bit his bottom lip to keep from smiling at the outrage on Sefu's

face. "So what happened when you got to Stone Town?" "Ibrahim, your friend from the Ministry, Ian Gabriel, he met us at the airport. There was a squad of soldiers with him. Peter never seemed to give them a second look. They just surrounded him, and one of the soldiers pulled his hands behind his back, snapped on the handcuffs. Peter started fighting them, screaming that no one was to touch him, he had friends... So then Minister Gabriel leaned forward, spoke some words to Peter, and his face went pale as a fish. They led him away then." "What did he say?" Leon reached for another piece of garlic bread. Sefu glanced at Ibrahim, smiling. "I don't know. But I suspect it was a greeting from the house of Ag Akhamok." "I think I met Ian Gabriel on the plane into Dar," Leon said, trying to keep his voice neutral. He cut Ibrahim a look. "Very handsome. Elegant. Did you meet through your tailor in London?" Ibrahim smiled sweetly and winked at him. "Old school chums, Leon." After dinner, Sabah brought coffee and closed the parlor door. Makhammad beckoned Leon to come to the table and play Bao. Ibrahim was reading, a copy of the Times-Herald open on his lap. Sefu and Jelani had gone back to their houses, with a quiet Tiberius bouncing in his father's arms. "He was just angry because his father would not acknowledge his name," Makhammad said. "Isn't that so, Simba?" Leon set the seeds out on the board. "That could be it. I was thinking colic." Sabah brought Ibrahim a cup of coffee, then sat next to him. "Ibrahim, I know that you are working to try and find out what happened to the

photographer who came before Leon. Sefu and Jelani, they are very good. They will know soon what happened to this man. I would like to know, from both of you, if it is very important to you to discover the truth about how he died. Can you not just let it go?" Ibrahim's eyes never left her face. "Yes, it is important to me. I need to know what is going on in my family. I need information to prepare, to protect everyone. Decisions need to be made. Also, this happened in my home, so I am responsible." Sabah nodded and turned to Leon. "And you, my friend? Do you also feel you need to know what happened? Do you feel the need to apply some abstract notion of justice over this man's head?" Leon felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. "Sabah, no. Please don't tell me you..." Makhammad snorted, then reached in the drawer for his pipe. "Don't be a fool, boy. I put down that dog. She has been worried about you, that you don't understand our ways. She thought if you left over this, Ibrahim would be very unhappy. He would be lonely for you, and your heart would be broken. There is no mystery. You put down a rabid dog who threatens your children. Don't you know that? You don't wait for him to bite someone, and then try to bandage the wound. Ibrahim is the head of the family, but when he is gone, I wield the sword of the Ag Akhamok." Leon looked at Ibrahim, saw the shock on his face. He hadn't known. Leon made sure there were four seeds in each hole, then studied the board. "Grandfather, would you like to move first?" "You are going to be a fine Bao player, Leon," Makhammad said. "Have you ever killed anyone?" "Yes," Leon said. "I have."

"To protect your family?" Leon shook his head, reached out, and squeezed Sabah's hand. "No, I'm afraid not. I did it out of revenge." "Ah. That will be a great sorrow to you, then. Revenge is like poison. But you stay out here with us, Leon. The air in Zanzibar, it can heal anything. Sabah will take care of you. She takes care of all of us." Leon looked up at Sabah, a quick glance at her face. She looked calmly back at him. Makhammad would have needed help. He was weak; he could barely stand on his own. Piers was already dead when Makhammad put a sword through his chest. Sabah had seen the magazine in Piers's luggage. Had she also seen the roofies? He remembered her saying, as clearly as if she were speaking now, "I'm the only mother Bazu has." As Makhammad said, you put down a rabid dog who would threaten your children. Leon had a sudden picture of Charlie in heaven, wearing his T-shirt with the ice-cream cone. Stay Cool. There were two boys with him, a young Spanish boy with black hair in his eyes and a young African boy playing with some stones. Maybe he was playing Bao. Makhammad moved his seeds. "Grandson, are you going to show Leon your island?" Ibrahim looked down at the newspaper in his lap, then turned a page. "Yes, I am." He set the paper down, walked over, and sat next to Sabah. He raised her hand in his, pressed his lips to her knuckles. "I am in your debt, Sabah. I will speak to Sefu and Jelani." "I need to make a list of things to do," Leon said, seeds moving quickly around the board. "I need to send a postcard to a nurse practitioner in DC. I need to take pictures of the doors in Stone Town for Maggie. I

have to print up copies of the pictures we took out at Chwaka Bay and take them to the children. It's time for Tiberius to have his first portrait. Ibrahim, we may need to wait a day or two, let me get some loose ends tied up. And then I need to see about a trip to Nairobi." Ibrahim sat back down and buried his face in the newspaper. "I'll ask Sefu to work on your visa and immigration. You just let me know when you're free. In the meantime, Jelani will need some help out at Chwaka Bay."

Epilogue Leon hauled on the rope that lifted the mainsail, and the red canvas stretched and billowed into the wind. When the rope was secured, he kicked off his flip-flops and settled cross-legged on the warm wooden deck at Ibrahim's feet. Maggie had sent him a world-class webcam set up for night photography, and he and Ibrahim were going to put it on the island. He had also rigged his Nikon with waterproof shields made out of plastic bags and cardboard secured with duct tape so the salty spray wouldn't ruin the works. "Ibrahim, the first day I was on the island, we were at the fish market eating lobster claws, and I said I had come for pictures of the Zanzibar leopard. Sefu said no, I wouldn't get pictures of the leopard. I said, yes, I would. He said no." Leon waved the little night camera gleefully. "He's gonna eat his words when this baby starts cranking out the pictures!" Ibrahim sighed, reached down, and gave a sharp tug to Leon's ponytail. "Do you recall suggesting once that you didn't want Jelani and me to...what was it? Get out the rulers and unzip?" Leon stared up at him, shocked. "Ibrahim! I never said that." "Oh really? Is there coffee in that thermos?" Leon poured a cup and handed it up to him, then leaned back and rested his head against Ibrahim's leg. "I remember when you said you would decide what to do with the information when we found out what happened to Piers. I thought, does he really think he can just make the Ministry of Justice of Tanzania and the US Department of State believe what he says is true? And everyone will just go along with him? There is no way that's gonna happen."

"Accidents happen all the time, Leon, even to photographers. No need to let an accident destroy habitat conservation in Africa." He reached down to run the backs of his fingers across Leon's cheek. "Atonement is something different, but I will leave that in your hands." The sun was hot, but the sail gave them some shade, and in a few minutes they would wade to the beach and set up the cameras. Ibrahim hadn't agreed yet to let the photographs be published, and Leon was content to wait him out. When they got close enough to set the anchor, Ibrahim went down the ladder first, and Leon handed him the camera wrapped in a waterproof bag. Then Leon climbed down and slipped into the ocean. The water was warm and salty, clear and full of sunshine. Up on the beach, Ibrahim put an arm out, and Leon stopped, looking where he pointed. There were footprints on the beach, big cat prints the size of Leon's hand. And running around in circles, tiny prints, lots of them. The cubs had been born. Leon wrapped his arm around Ibrahim's waist, and Ibrahim closed his eyes, leaning against him for just one moment. "I am happy to see these footprints. This is very important to me, Leon. Have I told you?" "Yes, in your own way. Let's set up the cameras and get back to the boat. Did you see what Bazu put in our picnic basket?"

Loose Id Titles by Sarah Black Border Roads Colorado Gold Slow Fires The Lincoln County Wars The Three Miracles of Santos Socorro Tootsies Tuareg Erotic Interludes Cinnamon Toast and Sex Featuring the characters from Slow Fires "Murder at the Heartbreak Hotel" Part of the anthology Partners in Crime With Josh Lanyon

10 Things About Sarah Black Sarah likes to drive around on empty, red-dirt roads on the Navajo reservation in a beat-up blue Ford Ranger pickup. Unfortunately, she still doesn't know how to change a flat tire. Every Christmas, Sarah tries to make her grandmother's fudge recipe, the one on the back of the Hershey's cocoa box. So far no luck. This year she's going to break down and buy a candy thermometer. Sarah has a secret addiction to reading books from Mother Earth News about building your own house. Right now she is reading about Cordwood and Cob. Sarah will use any excuse to buy cashmere sweaters from Land's End. She has even been known to do it without an excuse. When she was young, Sarah wanted to marry Barnabas Collins, the vampire from Dark Shadows. Life goal: To visit all of America's National Parks. Sarah has lived in: California, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Florida, Mississippi, Texas, Arizona, and Alaska. Also Italy, and one year in the Persian Gulf on the Hospital Ship USNS Comfort. First pet: Janet, a red-eared turtle the size of a quarter. During a hurricane evacuation in 1968, Sarah's father carried Janet in his pocket wrapped in a damp washcloth, inside a plastic bag. Sarah has a secret crush on Brett Favre, and believes that he redeems the sins of the rest of the NFL. He is one of the few remaining quarterbacks playing who is not young enough to be her son.

When she can't sleep, Sarah gets up and reads a random selection from the Oxford English Dictionary. Sometimes those words show up in her stories.