A Time to Die - Smith Wilbur. Страница 1

Wilbur Smith - C07 A Time To Die

She had sat for well over two hours without moving, and the need to do so was an almost unbearable affliction. Every muscle in her body seemed to quiver with the craving for movement. Her buttocks were numb, and despite being advised to do so she had not emptied her bladder before they had gone into hiding, for she had been embarrassed by the masculine company and still too nervous in the African bush to go off alone to find a private place. She regretted her modesty and her timidity now.

She was staring out through the eye slit in the rude grass structure of the hide, down a narrow open tunnel the gun bearers had meticulously cleared through the thick bush, for even a tiny twig might deflect a bullet flying at 3,000 feet a second. The tunnel was sixty yards long, paced out so that the telescopic sight of the rifle could be zeroed on target precisely.

Without moving her head, Claudia swiveled her eyes toward where her father waited in the hide beside her. His rifle was propped in the "V" of a branch in front of him and his right hand rested lightly on the stocX. He needed to lift it mere inches to his cheek to be aiming and-ready to fire.

Even in her physical discomfort, the thought of her father firing that sinister glistening weapon made her angry. He had always filled her with violent and conflicting emotions; nothing he ever did or said seemed to leave her untouched. He dominated her life, and she hated him and loved him for it. Always she was trying to break away, and always he drew her effortlessly back. She knew the main reason she was still unmarried at twenty-six years of age, despite the way she looked, despite her own singular achievements, despite having had countless proposals-at least two from men with whom she had believed herself in love at the time. the reason for all this was the man who sat beside her. She had never found another to compare with her papa.

Colonel Riccardo Monterro, soldier, engineer, scholar, Our_ met, multimillionaire businessman, athlete, bon vivant, lady-killer, sPOrtsman... how many descriptions fitted him perfectly and yet did not describe him as she knew him. They did not describe the kindness and strength that made her love him, nor the cruelty and ruthlessness that made her hate him. They did not describe what he had done to her mother that had turned her into a discarded alcoholic shell. Claudia knew he was just as capable of destroying her if she let herself be run down by him. He was the bull and she the matador. He was a dangerous man, and therein lay his appeal.

Someone had Once told her, "Some women always fall for real bastards." She had immediately scoffed at the idea, but then thought about it later and came partially to accept it. The Lord knew, Papa was one. A great rumbustious bastard, with all the charm and flashing golden-brown eyes and shining teeth of his Latin origins, he could sing like Caruso and eat all the pasta she could heap on his plate. But although he had been born in Milan, the greater part of him was American, for Claudia's grandparents had emigrated to Seattle from Mussolini's Italy when Riccardo was a child.

She had inherited his physical characteristics, the eyes and teeth and glowing olive skin, but she had tried to reject every value of his that offended her and to take the opposite path to his. She had chosen to study law as a direct defiance of the lawless streak in him, and because he was a Republican she had decided, long before she could understand what Politics meant, that she was a Democrat.

Because he set so much store by wealth and Possessions, Claudia had deliberately turned down the $200,000 job she was offered after graduating fifth in her law class and instead had taken one at $40,000 in a civil rights agency. Because Papa had commanded a battalion of engineers in Vietnam and still talked of "gooks," her work with the indigenous Inuit People of Alaska gave her satisfaction enhanced by his disapproval. He called the Eskimos "gooks" as well. Yet here she was in Africa at his request, and the true horror of it was that he was here to kill animals and that she was in collusion with him.

At home what spare time she had was devoted to working without remuneration for the Alaskan Nature and Wildlife car_, servation Society. The society devoted most of its resources and efforts to fighting the oil exploration companies and their depredations on the environment. Her father's company, Anchorage Tool and Engineering, was a major supplier of hardware to the drilling rigs and pipeline contractors. The choices she had made had been calculated and deliberate.

Yet here she was in a foreign land waiting submissively for him to assassinate some beautiful wild animal. Her own duplicity sickened her. They called this expedition a safari. She would never even have contemplated becoming an accomplice in such a heinous enterprise-in fact, she had indignantly refused the invitations he had made to her in previous years-except for the secret she had learned a scant few days before her father had invited her. This might be the last time, the very last time, she would be alone with him. That thought appalled her more even than the dirty business in which they were engaged.

"Oh God," she thought, "what will I do without him? What will my world be without him?"

As the thought struck her she turned her head, her first movement in two hours, and looked over her shoulder. Another man sat close behind her in the small thatch-walled hide. He was the professional hunter. Although her father had hunted with this man on a dozen other safaris, Claudia had met him for the first time only four days previously, when they had disembarked from the South African Airways commercial flight at Harare, the capital city of Zimbabwe. The hunter had flown them out from there in his twin-engine Beechcraft Baron to this vast, remote hunting concession near the Mozambican border that he chartered from the Zimbabwean government.

His name was Sean Courtney. She had known him four days, but already she loathed him as if she had known him a lifetime.

Not strange that thinking of her father had led her instinctively to look back at him. Here was another dangerous man: hard, ruthless and so devilishly good-looking that her every instinct shrieked a warning at her.

He frowned sharply at her with clear bright green eyes in the darkly tanned face, and the crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes puckered with annoyance at her movement. He touched her on the hip with one finger, cautioning her to stiffness again. The touch was light, but she felt the disconcerting male strength in his single finger. She had noticed his hands before, trying not to be impressed by their graceful form. "The hands of an artist or a surgeon or a killer," she had thought then, but now that peremptory touch offended her. She felt as though she had been sexually violated. She stared fixedly ahead again, through the eye slit in the grass wall, and fumed with indignation. How dare he touch her? The spot on her hip burned, as though he had branded her with his finger.