The Memory Collector Read Free

felt paranoid.
    When you renegotiate a deal to cut out the middleman, you’d better look over your shoulder.
    His contacts had chosen this spot for two reasons. First, because Livingstone and Mosi-O-Tunya National Park were full of European tourists, so a couple more white faces wouldn’t draw attention. Second, because this was a great place to smuggle something across a border.
    He’d come this far. He’d gotten the flask out of the lab and out of South Africa. Now he was about to make the transfer. He couldn’t mess this up.
    Sweat broke on his forehead. He was a big man, and the heat got to him. He wiped the handkerchief over his brow and drank the rest of the Castle in one go. Relax . When the meet went down he couldn’t look half-crazed. Looking jumpy would unmask him not only as an amateur, but as an easy mark.
    The breeze rippled the surface of the river, turning it silver. He raised the binoculars and scanned the southern shoreline. Near the high grass of the riverbank a canoe bobbed on the water. Locals, fishing. A pontoon boat was motoring upriver, a sunset booze cruise carrying sunburned Dutch and Japanese tourists, wealthy folks who were probably staying at the Victoria Falls Hotel over there in Zimbabwe. Beautiful, awful, fucked-up Zimbabwe, ruined by greed and egoma niacal cruelty. Screwed by—what did you call it? Politics.
    Politics, that’s what was close to ruining his future. He was a smart guy, everybody said so. He said it to himself every morning in the mirror: You’re smart. You matter. The project mattered. Killing it was criminal.
    But he was about to fix that. The company’s work wasn’t going to disappear down some black hole. He was going to make sure it got to people who could put it to good use. His payday would be a thank-you for services rendered.
    And handing it over in a broken country would ensure that nobody in the wider world took any notice.
    The sun glittered on the water. The river looked like a trail of mercury pouring across the vast green plain. What had the hotel brochure said—when the river was high like this, 150 million gallons of water spilled over the falls every minute? Incredible.
    He pulled another beer from the cooler. He had to stay chilled and show he had the balls for this. He tried to uncap the beer but the bottle opener chattered against the glass. Maybe the big Chevy engine was making it rattle, but he didn’t think so.
    Captain Wally put the boat into a sweeping turn toward the center of the river. Ahead, egrets flew from an island, blindingly white against the purple water and green shoreline. The sky above was the blue of glazed pottery.
    This was when most folks got the travelogue. Look, there’s a hippo. See that log? It’s no log, it’s a crocodile. But Lesniak had been specific: No talk. He’d paid for the ride.
    He’d paid extra for the stop they were going to make. He glanced again at his watch. In two minutes they should cross to the Zimbabwean side. He drank half the beer, getting ready.
    He was doing the right thing. This was important. Brass ring.
    As they skipped across the water he scanned the shoreline, seeing thick grass, acacia trees, a thin sandy beach. Downriver, another jet boat was racing in their direction.
    Straight at them, actually. Captain Wally eased back on the throttle.
    Lesniak frowned over his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
    Captain Wally smiled. “My cousin. Last week he borrowed sixty liters of fuel. Now he is repaying me.”
    The other boat turned in a broad arc, cutting a white wake across the river. Then it dropped to a crawl and settled low in the water. The skipper gave a languid wave. In the bow a passenger slouched beneath a baseball cap, arms crossed, a fishing rod at his side. He gazed at the southern shore, seemingly unperturbed by this time-out for family business. As if thinking: It’s Africa. Go with it. The boat pulled alongside and its skipper called out in Tonga. Captain Wally laughed. Lesniak