The Laughing Falcon Read Online Free Page A

it.
    “Excuse me, but I have a reservation for your lodge tomorrow.”
    “I am so sorry, we have to cancel.”
    “But you can’t. I paid for four days and three nights.”
    The young woman beckoned Maggie inside and fetched her boss, a scrawny scraggly-haired American in his fifties, rings in both ears, possibly a late-blooming hippie. He introduced himself as Elmer Jericho. “This is a real hassle. How about we slot you in a week over Christmas for the same price?”
    “I’ll be gone then. I’m afraid you’ll have to honour my reservation.”
    “See, this here’s the problem. We had to cancel nine others. We had to make way for some heavies, VIPs.”
    “I intend to report you to the tourist bureau.”
    “You better take it up with the American Embassy, lady, because it’s the ambassador who’s coming, with his wife and a bunch of suits from Washington. And Senator Chuck Walker and his wife.”
    Maggie recognized the name of the junior senator from South Dakota from CSKN newscasts: a conservative ex-marine colonel who had his eyes on the White House. But she wasn’tabout to be bumped by these Washington grandees. She needed this wilderness experience for her book.
    Fiona Wardell wouldn’t be put aside so easily. “The
Geographic
is going to be very unhappy. Well … I guess there are other wilderness tours. Who would you recommend?”
    Elmer Jericho retrieved a reservation slip from a file on the desk. There she was: “Margaret Schneider, Saskatoon, Sask., occupation, writer.”
    He looked at the camera case slung over her shoulder. “That what you do – travel writing?”
    “Everything. Freelance, travel.” She had in fact written a couple of pieces for a naturalist magazine: “Seeking the Burrowing Owl,” “Birds of the Drylands.” “Mostly novels, though. Here, I have one.” From her bag she produced a copy of
When Love Triumphs —
on the theory that anyone can blithely claim one’s a writer, she usually carried with her a selection of her paperbacks, along with written proof Nancy Ward was her pen name.
    Jericho studied the cover copy: “A heart-searing tale of forbidden passion by the author of
No Time for Sorrow.”
Her feats of creativity seemed to impress him. “Hey, man, I’m gonna write a book some day. Interstellar travel.” His hand glided through the air, a swooping spaceship. “You got a letter from the
National Geographic?
They got to give us advance notice, don’t they?”
    “I never thought to bring my contract. Phone them.” She was flirting with exposure; would he be able to reach their offices on a Sunday?
    “Jeez … just a minute.”
    He disappeared into his office, and Maggie could hear him on the phone. Her mask would soon be stripped away.
    When he came out, he said, “Hey, lady, far out, the senator wants to know if you’ll include him in the article.”
    “Sure, that would make an unusual sidebar.”
    “With pictures and all.”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Okay, I’ll have a driver pick you up for the airport.”
    “The airport?”
    “Yeah, to Quepos. Staging area, man.”
    “I’d rather go by bus to see the countryside.”
    “See it on the way back; it’ll still be there.”
    “I’m not keen on flying.”
    “How did you get down here from Saskatoon, by dog-sled? A travel writer who don’t fly?”
    “No, I … I get tired of all the flying I have to do. Never mind, I’ll take the plane.”
    “There’ll be a ticket waiting at the SANSA counter. The rest of the way is by four-wheel taxi, and here’s a map so your driver don’t get lost. The others are going in by Mixmaster.”
    “By what?”
    “A beater, a chopper. There’ll be Secret Service, too; hey, man, the colonel’s running for president. The lodge has got twenty staff up there with a combined forty left feet, it’s gonna be like a Mexican fire drill. I used to run tours for these guys; now they got me down here doing the orientation sessions, clicking slides, man.” Jericho had the