Page 41 of Murder Island
“You come from a fabled family, Doctor Savage,” said Leo. “We have that in common.”
“My family was all about science,” I said. That wasn’t entirely true. There was a lot of adventure and violence in there, too. I looked around the room. “If this castle belongs to you, you must come from money. Lots of it.”
Leo nodded. “Money. And power.” He took a breath, then launched right in. “Doctor Savage, I’m the descendant of the illegitimate son of King Leopold the Second of Belgium. The child was born to the king’s teenage French mistress in 1907. He was born with a deformed hand.”
“Philippe,” I said. “The bastard son’s name was Philippe.”I’d heard this story in one of my graduate European history classes.
“Correct,” said Leo. “Philippe, Count of Ravenstein—a minor title his father conferred on him.” Leo gave me another tight smile. “See? Iknewyou were well educated.”
Overeducated, probably. But at least I knew some historical trivia. “Philippe died young,” I said. “Age six or seven.”
Leo nodded. “So everybody thought. The truth is, his mother got weary of people mocking his deformity, so she faked his death and hid him away in a castle.” Leo gestured toward the walls. “Thiscastle.”
It was getting harder and harder to look objective. This story was getting wilder by the minute.
“Philippe grew up here, totally in secret,” said Leo. “Eventually, he took a mistress of his own. He had a son. And a grandson. And a great-grandson.” Leo tapped his chest. “Me.” He held up his gnarled right hand. “All with the same unfortunate genome.”
“So… you’re royalty.”
“Taintedroyalty,” he said. “The most interesting kind.”
I felt uncomfortable staring at his hand. So I glanced across the room at the flag. “Your family crest?”
“It’s aspirational,” said Leo. “The standard of my future regime.” He stood up and started pacing across the stone floor. “As a student of history, you know that my ancestor King Leopold once owned a huge chunk of the African continent. A million square miles, give or take.”
No mystery about that. King Leopold’s massive African colony was on every world map for most of the twentieth century.
“The Congo,” I said. “The Belgian Congo. What about it?” The Congo was now a so-called democratic republic, splintered by ethnic conflicts. It was one of the most fractious and dangerous places on earth.
“My family gave it up more than sixty years ago,” said Leo. He turned to face me. “I want it back. Every steaming acre. And you’re going to help me get it.”
Leo sounded intelligent. But now I wondered if he was all there.
“Retake theCongo?” I said. “You’d need an army for that.”
“Correct,” he said. “I’ve started on one.”
“Just out of curiosity,” I asked. “Why would I want to be part of that kind of illegal insanity?”
“First,” said Leo, “because I saved your life. Second, because I can keep you from being executed for homicide. And third… because I pay very, very well.”
CHAPTER 49
Democratic Republic of the Congo, 11 p.m.
FOR TONIGHT’S MISSION, Kira had picked a hiding spot closer to the compound, across from a specific tent—the one occupied by Hemple.
Kira had been trained to be dispassionate, but she’d developed a special contempt for this particular mercenary. Hatred, even. Through her scope, she’d observed his daily cruelty to the mine workers, pushing them, shouting at them,shootingat them. For the pure pleasure of it.
Kira had known more than a few sadists in her life. Some of them had been her teachers. They had always aroused a deep fury in her. That’s what she was feeling right now.
From her position in a thicket of raffia palms, Kira could see Hemple’s burly silhouette inside the tent, backlit by a lamp. She pulled a small straight plastic tube from her pocket and placed a smooth pebble in her mouth. Shetook aim with the tiny blowgun and shot at a metal pail outside the tent.
The pebble struck with a loudping.
No reaction.
Kira wet another pebble with her tongue. Another shot. Another direct hit. This time, she saw Hemple grab his rifle and head for the tent opening. He whipped the flap open, then recoiled as if hit by an invisible punch. He staggered backward.