Crocodile Tears

The gun was now leveled at Alex. How had McCain gotten here? Alex was too shocked to think, but it occurred to him that if Rahim had chosen this airfield to refuel, then McCain might have landed here for exactly the same reason. All around him, he was aware of people—aircrew, tourists, children—running for cover, in panic. They had just seen a stumbling giant of a man, with a silver crucifix in his ear, appear from nowhere and commit murder for no obvious reason. They must think he was insane. If they only knew!
    McCain didn’t seem to know where he was—or even to care. He had seen Alex and he had come to settle the score. Nothing else mattered.
    “ Get out of the plane,” McCain said. His voice was steady, but his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, the skin around his face stretched tight. He was trembling slightly. He was doing his best to control it, but the muzzle of the gun gave him away.
    Alex stayed where he was.

    “ What do you want, Mr. McCain?” he demanded. “I’m not going anywhere. Nor are you. Your wheat field is at the bottom of a lake. There isn’t going to be any plague. It’s all over.”
    “ Get. Out. Of. The. Plane,” McCain repeated. His finger tightened on the trigger. He was holding the gun as if he were trying to crush it.
    “ Why?”
    “ I want to see you kneeling in front of me. Just for once, I want you to behave like an ordinary child.
    You’re going to cry and beg me not to hurt you. And then I’m going to put this gun between your eyes and shoot you dead.”
    “ Then you might as well shoot me here. I’m not playing your games.”
    McCain dropped the gun a few inches so that it was aiming at Alex’s legs. Alex knew that the skin of the Piper Cub would offer no protection at all. “I can make it slow … ,” McCain said.
    Alex nodded. He took one more look around him. It didn’t seem as if anyone was going to come to his rescue. The whole airfield had emptied. The other planes—and now he spotted the Skyhawk that had first brought him to Simba River Lodge—were silent, unmoving. Surely someone would have called the police by now … assuming that there were any police operating in a remote town like Laikipia.
    “ All right,” he said.
    He unbuckled his belt, gripped the sides of the plane, and began to pull himself out. At the same time, he glanced into the front of the plane, past the slumped figure of the pilot. He knew that Rahim had a gun. But there was no sign of it and no way he could search around without receiving a bullet himself.

    What else? His eyes fell on the metal lever between the two seats. He thought of the two rubber pipes running underneath his feet, connected to the plastic tanks at the back of the plane. The pipes that had sprayed a wheat field with death.
    The whole system must work on pressure, with the tank pumped up by the engine. They had been flying for an hour, so there had to be enough pressure in the tubes. But was there any of the mushroom spore left in the tanks? Alex didn’t dare turn around and look. McCain was still standing under the wing, waiting for him to climb down.
    Alex stood up. As he swung his leg over the side, he pretended to stumble. His hand shot out, slamming the lever down. At once he heard a hiss—and a mere second later, a film of gray, slimy liquid squirted out of the pipes. McCain was taken by surprise. For a moment he was blinded, caught in the middle of the shower, the mushroom brew splashing over his head and into his eyes.
    McCain fired his gun—but missed. After slamming the lever, Alex had thrown himself the other way, tumbling over the far side of the plane and down to the grass below. He heard the bullet thwack into the fuselage, inches from his head. At the same time, he hit the ground and cried out, a white flash blazing behind his eyes. He had landed badly, twisting his ankle beneath him. Worse still, the tanks had only contained a few dregs. Alex had barely got to his feet and begun to limp away before the shower stopped and McCain, cursing and wiping his eyes, was after him.
    Alex could barely do more than hobble. His foot wouldn’t take his full weight. Every step was an agony that shot up his leg and all the way to his neck. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go much farther, and anyway, there was nowhere to go. Behind him, the grass and the landing strip stretched out, flat and empty. The perimeter was fenced off with an open gate leading to the edge of the town, but it was too far