Hot Ice

“We’ve got work to do.”
    Ten minutes later, he found what he’d been looking for.
    Near the bottom of a rocky, uneven slope was a clearing with a handful of bamboo huts. The grass and vegetation on the incline had been slashed and burned, then planted with hill rice. Below, gardens had been cleared and hoed so that the leafy vines of beans wound up around poles. She could see an empty paddock and a small lean-to where chickens scratched for whatever they could find.
    The hill was steep so that the small buildings rose on stilts to compensate for the irregular terrain. Roofs were thatched but even with the distance looked in need of repair. A line of crude steps dug directly into the hill ran down to a narrow, rutted path below them. The path went east. Doug kept low behind the cover of small, scrubby bushes and watched for any sign of life.
    Balancing herself with a hand on his shoulder, Whitney looked over his head. The cluster of houses looked cozy. Remembering the Merina, she felt a certain safety.
    “Are we going to hide down there?”
    “Hiding’s not going to do us much good for very long.” Taking out his field glasses, he lay down on his belly and took a closer look at the huddle of houses. There was no cook smoke, no movement at any of the windows. Nothing. Making up his mind quickly, he handed the glasses to Whitney. “Can you whistle?”
    “Can I what?”
    “Whistle.” He made a low steady sound through his teeth.
    “I can whistle better than that,” she said with a sniff.
    “Terrific. You watch through the glasses. If you see anyone coming back toward the huts, whistle.”
    “If you think you’re going down there without me—”
    “Look, I’m leaving the packs here. Both of them.” He grabbed her hair so that he could pull her face close. “I figure you want to stay alive more than you want to get your hands on the envelope.”
    She nodded, coolly. “Staying alive’s become quite a priority lately.”
    It had always been his. “So stay put.”
    “Why’re you going down there?”
    “If we’re going to pass ourselves off as a couple of Malagasy, we need to acquire a few more things.”
    “Acquire.” She lifted a brow. “You’re going to steal them.”
    “That’s right, sugar, and you’re the lookout.”
    After a moment’s thought, Whitney decided she rather liked the idea of being a lookout. Perhaps in another time and place, it might’ve had a crude ring, but she’d always believed in enjoying each experience within its own frame.
    “If I see anyone coming back, I whistle.”
    “You got it. Now stay down, out of sight. Remo could come buzzing by in the copter.”
    Getting into the spirit, Whitney shifted onto her stomach and scanned with the glasses. “Just do your job, Lord. I’ll do mine.”
    With a quick glance toward the heavens, Doug began to scramble his way down the steep slope behind the huts. The steps, such as they were, would leave him in the open for too long. He avoided them. Loose pebbles bounced against his calves, and once the eroded slope gave out under him and sent him sliding five feet before he could gain another foothold. Already he was working out an alternate plan, in case he ran into someone. He couldn’t speak the language, and his French interpreter was now his lookout. God help him. But he had a few— very few, he thought grimly—dollars in his pocket. If worse came to worst, he might buy most of what they needed.
    Pausing a moment, straining to hear any sound, he dashed into the open toward the first hut.
    He’d have liked it better if the lock had had more character. Doug had always found a certain satisfaction in outwitting a clever lock—or a clever woman. He glanced up and around toward where Whitney waited. He hadn’t finished with her yet, but in the case of the lock, he had to make do with what there was. In seconds, he was inside.
    Comfortable on the soft ground of the forest, Whitney watched him through the glasses. He moved very well, she decided. Because she’d been running with him almost since the moment they’d met, she hadn’t been able to appreciate the smoothness with which he moved. Impressive, she decided, and touched her tongue to her top lip. She remembered the way he’d held her in the water of the lagoon.
    And much more dangerous, she reminded herself, than she’d initially believed.
    When he disappeared into the hut, she began a slow sweep with the field glasses. Twice she caught a movement, but it