His militia, uncertain as to who was meant, shot both the door answerer and the man at the door.
Under a hail of bullets, the militiaman fell outward. The caller fell inward. Their heads bumped, rebounding with heavy, coconutlike sounds. For a brief moment they formed a loose, swaying human pyramid of sorts. The caller, being more heavy, won.
Both sprawled inside onto the royal purple rug, dyeing it with their mingling lifeblood.
"Quickly! Drag the bodies in!" Anin hissed. "And shut the door!"
This was done.
Anin himself rolled the new arrival over. He was white. He did not look terribly fearsome. In his hand was clutched a manila envelope.
Hastily Anin tore it open. Out slid a sheaf of papers.
The top sheet was headed: CONFIDENTIAL REPORT.
Appended to it was a bill from the Nairobi Security Company. Angrily Anin threw this into the trash.
As the bodies were deposited in the bathroom for want of a better place, he sat on the bed and read the report in an angry silence.
Blaize Fury Aka The Extinguisher
Subject US. citizen. Former Special Forces Green Beret. Three completed tours of duty, Vietnam. Fourth tour cut short by family tragedy. Entire family burned to death by suspected arsonists. Subject vowed vengeance on US. organized crime as a result and took the nom deguerre Extinguisher.
Began highly personal campaign against all Mafia enclaves in continental United States, later shifting to antiterroristic activity after "depersonalizing" entire Mafia infrastructure singlehandedly. Suspected high-level sanctioning of counterterrorist measures reaching into the Oval Office. Leaves black calling cards at scene of his campaigns. Sometimes tiny plastic fire extinguisher. MO includes military-style reconnaissance, search and destroy, harassment and interdiction, sniper ambush tactics, as well as elaborate and highly personalized kills.
Subject believed to take name from family tradition of joining fire department in hometown of Flint, Michigan, after completing traditional military service. Subject never formally joined fire department.
Height, weight undetermined.
Hair and eye color varies according to author.
"Author?" Anin muttered. "What do they mean by author?"
Glancing toward the bathroom, he realized it was too late to put that question to the messenger.
Reading on, Anin skimmed the rest. This Extinguisher seemed more phantom than man. He wore black, was proficient in all manner of fighting arts and was reputedly schooled in jungle guerrilla-survival tactics, psychological warfare and marksmanship.
The final statement at the end of the report was most puzzling of all: until the present time, the subject was widely believed to have been fictional.
"Fictional?" Anin picked up the telephone, calling the number on the letterhead.
"Put me through to Lofficier."
"Lofficier speaking."
"This is Anin. I have your report. What is meant by fictional?"
"Nonexistent."
"Nonexistent means nonexistent. Fictional means something else. Why do you say fictional?"
"That is the most apt word to use speaking of the terrible L'Eteigneur. "
"Explain."
"When you have paid your bill, I shall be pleased to explain in full."
"You will explain now, or I will refuse to pay your maudit bill," Anin snarled.
Lofficier sighed. "As you please. This Blaize Fury is alleged to be fictitious. The creation of a writer's imagination."
"I am not being stalked by a figment of someone's imagination! He has substance, palpability."
"According to the over two hundred Blaize Fury novels sold worldwide, you are."
"Novels! This demon Fury is a novelist?"
"No, this demon Fury is a fictional character. The writer is another man entirely. Now do you understand?"
"I understand that I have been hoodwinked by your agency," Anin raged. "You have sent me a dossier on a man who does not exist. But the Extinguisher who stalks me now does exist. He has left his card, his plastic icons, and I regret to inform you he has shot dead your messenger."
"Jean-Saul?"
"Cut down cruelly by the infallible one."
"Then you are next, monsieur."
"Not if your dossier is truthful," said Anin, slamming down the telephone.
Tossing the report into the same wastebasket that had collected the bill, Mahout Feroze Anin stood up.
"I am being hoaxed," he announced. "You must all leave at once."
The militia sat down on the rug with stiff expressions roosting like buzzards on their dull faces. Two cocked their semiautomatic pistols.
"When you are ready to, of course. In the meantime, shall I order room service?"
Smiles of anticipation grew on their dusky faces, and Mahout Feroze Anin decided that he would not move from the bed until morning lest one of these ragged beggars attempt to steal the mattress out from under him.
That night Anin could not sleep. It was not merely the snoring coming from the sprawled figures on the rug, nor the metallic scent of blood wafting from the bathroom. It was the nagging feeling that something was wrong.
Why would a person stalk him and take the name of a man who did not exist?
Or did he exist?
Brilliant Nairobi moonlight filtered through the curtained balcony window with a spectacular view of one of the few unscorched skylines of east Africa. It blazed into Anin's open eyes. At least here he felt safe.