The Taste of Fear by Jeremy Bates

Hotel fire/attempted murder, she wasn’t in a festive mood. On top of that, ten minutes into the meal Sal’s stomach had started acting up, and he’d said he needed to lie down. Her first thought had been he wanted to call Danny Zamir in private. When you’ve been married for four years, it becomes second nature to intuit these types of things. In fact, that’s how she’d discovered the other woman. Not perfume on Sal’s shirts. Not racy text messages on his phone. Not hearsay from a friend. Just plain old woman’s intuition. But then Scarlett became ashamed about her suspicious response to Sal’s departure. He was sick after all, and it was perfectly conceivable he wanted to be alone.
    Setting the ruminations aside, she studied the menu. There was a brandy snap coming for dessert. It sounded good but her diet said no. To avoid temptation, she took the Merlot she’d been nursing to the outdoor deck. The clouds to the west were a striking pinkish-orange, those closer darkening to a deep blue, broken with cracks of silver and dove white. Way down on the crater floor shadows lengthened and pooled, gobbling up the greenery. She closed her eyes and let a wave or serenity wash over her.
    “Quite a view, isn’t it?”
    She started. A dollop of wine jumped the lip of her glass and splashed the deck, just missing her silver Christian Louboutins. She turned and discovered an older gentleman standing behind her. His graying hair had receded with age and white stubble textured his jaw, like a sprinkling of fresh snow. He seemed fit for his age, someone who might have ridden the Tour de France in his prime.
    “You startled me,” she said.
    “Sorry, lass. That’s the last thing I wanted to do.” His voice was coarse yet strangely alluring, softened by a charming Irish brogue. He nodded at the crater. “Three million years.”
    “Is that how old it is?”
    “Have you been down there yet, Miss . . . ?”
    “Cox. And no, I haven’t. I’m going with my husband tomorrow. We’re cutting through it, to get to the Serengeti.”
    “And where is your husband, may I ask?”
    “He went back to the room. He hasn’t been feeling well today.”
    “Shame. But you believe he will be up and about tomorrow?”
    “I certainly hope so. Have you been down there yet, Mr . . . ?”
    “Hill. Benjamin Hill. And no, not yet. I’ll be going down tomorrow as well.”
    “Perhaps we’ll see each other?”
    “Perhaps we will.” He extended his hand. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
    She shook it. “Good night, Mr. Hill.”
    “And a good night to you too, Miss Cox.”
    Scarlett watched the Irishman walk away. He didn’t leave through the dining room but followed the perimeter of the building until he turned a corner and was lost from sight. She frowned. He had been well-spoken and polite, but something about him had bothered her.
    Back in the dining room, she asked the waiter if he could round up someone to escort her to her villa, then she went out front to wait, keeping in the heat of the twin fire bowls that flanked the lodge’s entrance. Up here, at this altitude, the temperature plummeted after the sun went down. She folded her arms across her chest, her thoughts returning to the Irishman, and she realized what had nagged at her. He hadn’t been at dinner. There had been twelve chairs at the long table, twelve place settings, each occupied. Until Sal left, that is. So was the Irishman from South or North Camp? If so, what was he doing here? She glanced at her watch—ten to eight. Hadn’t Wilson said guests were prohibited from moving around the property freely after seven?
    Hearing a noise behind her, she whirled, only to find her escort—a Masai warrior wrapped in a checkered red cloth and carrying an AK-47. She’d had her fair share of bodyguards, but this was a first for her. She wondered if the assault rifle could take down a charging buffalo, or even a big cat. She hoped she never had to find out. She stayed