“What the fuck you do that for? Just wanted to get a look at it,” Fenn said, puffing up.

“They coil like that, they’re going to strike I doubt if we have any antivenom here. You might have survived the chopper ride out, but you definitely would have missed the party.”

The actress was apparently over her snake phobia now that it was dead, and also clearly didn’t want her screaming fit to be the last image in the minds of the press guys who’d gotten off the chopper with them.

“Shamus, we’ve come to save Africa, not to help destroy it,” she said, stomping off. A minute ago, Fenn had been halfway into her pants. Now she was marching over to Mooney.

Fenn walked over to Hardin. Hardin was five foot nine, 175 pounds. Fenn had four inches and 20pounds on him. Fenn got in real close. “I don’t know who you are, cowboy, but I don’t like you already.”

Mooney broke things up. “Shamus, this is Nick Hardin. You haven’t been out here before or you’d know him. He was just looking out for you.”

“I’ve looked out for myself in worse places than this. Not afraid of some pissant snake,” said Fenn.

“Of course not. Come on, let’s get you settled in, get you up to speed on the program.” Mooney got an arm around Fenn’s shoulders, turned him away from Hardin, walked him off.

Within two hours, the story of Shamus Fenn’s arrival in Darfur was up on one of the press blogs, complete with video, and nobody was missing a chance to put the needle in with Fenn. And now Fenn was stalking Hardin around the party. Fenn was liquored up, had been hitting it hard for a couple of hours. Every time he saw Hardin, he’d start angling toward him, but Hardin would move off, and somebody would grab Fenn and start chatting him up.

Then Hardin lost his concentration. The actress from the snake scene came over – having been at the booze herself some – wanting to apologize for the whole thing, hitting on Hardin pretty hard; making it clear that, if he wanted to stop by her trailer after the party, she’d be waiting. And Hardin was definitely thinking about it. You get up in your forties, you don’t have a lot of hard-body twentysomethings throwing themselves at you. And getting laid was one of the downsides to an Africa career nowadays. Condoms or not, with the AIDS rates, you had to think real hard before you dipped your wick anywhere. So this chick was stroking his arm, leaning forward so that her loose and not-very-buttoned blouse kept falling open, and Hardin had his mind on something other than Fenn long enough for Fenn to get right up next to him.

“You a star-fucker, Hardin? That your deal?”

Hardin turned, and Fenn was right behind him, face red, smelling of Bombay and testosterone.

“I was just thanking Mr Hardin for saving your life earlier, Shamus,” said the girl, putting some real bite into it, and all of a sudden Hardin got it. Some kind of history between these two, and she’d come over here to tee Hardin up, get Fenn over, make some scene, get some more face time on YouTube. Hardin thinking how his pecker could still get him in trouble.

Which was when Fenn threw the right. Shitty right. Movie right. Big, long, telegraphed punch Hardin could have slipped twice. But Hardin stood in, just turning with it at the last minute, let it glance off his head, made a show of going down.

“Whoa, nice shot,” Hardin said from his knees, showing his ass, still looking for an out. “Look, I guess I had that coming, OK? Just let me get out of here.”

But when Fenn went to put a boot in while Hardin was getting up, Hardin lost it. He grabbed the leg, flipped Fenn over onto the bar table, and gave him a good right to the nose. Just one, but the right kind: straight, short, starting from the legs, hips turning with it. Fenn’s nose got way broken, and pieces of the highball glass he landed on ended up stuck in his back.

“Oh, Shamus!” The blonde, all concern now, leaning over the semiconscious actor.

“Better get him to the doc,” said Hardin, trying to pull her aside so he could get a look.

She reared up and slapped him hard across the face. “Get your hands off of me. You thug. This whole continent is full of thugs.” She stomped off, exactly the same carriage as earlier, after the snake. Her exit stomp, Hardin figured. Must have that one down.

That derailed the gravy train, right there. Mooney kept him on through the concert, and he was cool about it after. “Everyone knows Fenn’s an ass, especially when he drinks,” said Mooney. “But the Darfur story is bigger than us, said Mooney. “Can’t afford to let it be about some movie star brawl,” said Mooney. “Need to let you go to get you and Fenn off the front page, make this about the people again,” said Mooney. “You’ll always be a hero of mine,” said Mooney. “Here’s another ten grand.”

Hardin knew there was more to it. The whole Hollywood PR machine was cranked up around Dollars for Darfur. It was their chance to prove what a big heart the industry had, take everyone’s mind off the brainless crap they put out – the no-panty starlets and the revolving doors at the rehab clinics. And now, instead of Darfur leading the news, they had video of a drunk actor acting like, well, a drunk actor.

That was five years ago now.

Hardin had tried to get back into the network gigs, but suddenly no one returned his calls. After a couple months, he ran into a producer he went back with a ways, and the guy told him he’d been blackballed. Word had gone out from the agents and PR flacks – any news team working with Hardin gets zero play with their people. And the same media conglomerates who owned the movie studios owned the news networks. The movie studios made way more money.

So five years of scrambling, taking riskier gigs for less money, working with some of the European outlets, Al Jazeera, even. Burning through his savings.

And maybe a few other things… not-quite-legal things. Hardin hadn’t always been a glorified gofer. He’d spent eight years in the Marines, Scout/Sniper back in Gulf War I. When a beef back home meant he needed a get-out-of-jail-free card, he spent half a decade in the French Foreign Legion, 1st Co, 2nd Para regiment, the baddest asses in a bad-ass crowd, pretty much his whole time in the Legion spent in Africa. It was no continent for pussies. Not just journalists who needed a little security.

Then Hardin heard some interesting noises about a new twist in the old West African blood-diamond business. That had cooled off after Charles Taylor and his RUF animals finally got run to ground, but there’d always been a Lebanese connection to the diamond trade in West Africa. Now Hardin was hearing that Hezbollah had muscled in on that, and then Bin Laden and the boys had muscled in on Hezbollah, and now Al Qaeda was using diamonds as a way to move capital sub rosa since the US was putting the freeze on any above-ground cash flow. Not to mention, if you got Hezbollah in the mix, then you got Tehran holding their leash.

Story felt a little canned, though; had a little Mossad scent around the edges, Hardin getting the feeling maybe the Israelis were trying to play him, get some storyline they liked to come out through Al Jazeera so it would fly on the Arab street, give them some way to muddy up Iran a little in case this was the week they decided to bomb something. So Hardin did a little recon. Far as he could tell, the story checked out.

A couple things, though. First thing was this. Even if he got Al Jazeera to bite, this was going to come to maybe ten grand on his end – ten grand after probably a month with a higher-than-usual chance of getting his ass shot. Second thing? These blood diamond guys, sometimes their security wasn’t what it ought to be.

Hardin figured he’d had a good run in Africa. But he was pushing fifty, and after almost twenty years schlepping around the Sahel, fifty was pushing back. It was time for an exit strategy. A few million dollars in untraceable stones looked like a good one.