by Dan Fletcher
David shrugged, “It’s too early to tell by all accounts sir, could go either way. The new vet said that the first few days are crucial.”
“Ah yes, Dr Brennan,” the Deputy Director smiled and David thought he saw a twinkle in his eye. “She’s quite something isn’t she Nbeke?”
“She certainly is, sir,” David nodded, pretty sure that they weren’t on the same wavelength.
“Keep me informed of how it goes, won’t you?”
“Yes sir,” David noticed that there were more grey hairs sprouting from Tanui’s temples than the last time they had met.
“Now, what was so important that you needed to see me in person?”
After hearing the tail end of Tanui’s conversation with the reporter David decided to keep his theories to himself until he had a few more facts.
“Nothing specific sir,” David hoped that what he was attempting looked something like a smile. “I just wanted to give you my account in person while I was in town.”
Tanui raised an eyebrow, “As far as I understand it a large group of poachers, some twenty in number, came across the border and slaughtered a family of eleven elephants. They hacked off the tusks and made good their escape into Tanzania before you could catch them. Is that about the size of it Captain?”
“Yes, sir.” David studied his bootlaces, “Apart from the fact that ten elephants were killed, the calf was the eleventh member of the herd.”
“Ten, eleven, what difference does it make?”
“Not a lot I guess, sir.” Unless of course you happen to be number eleven, David thought. “I just wanted to make sure that you knew the facts.”
“Ah yes, the facts Captain Nbeke. Can you tell me what you were doing so far off the beaten track?”
“We were following the herd.”
“And on whose orders was that?”
“Mine sir,” David frowned. Why did he get the feeling that there was nothing spontaneous in Tanui’s questioning? “It’s usually the best way to spot the poachers, sir, it’s worked for us before.”
“Well it didn’t this time did it Captain?”
David held Tanui’s stare, “No sir, I’m afraid it didn’t.” The imprint of the bloodbath was still fresh on his mind.
The Deputy Director turned swiftly on his heel and walked over to his office. He paused with one hand on the door handle and looked over his shoulder, “I’m assuming that all of this will be in your official report?”
“Yes sir.”
Tanui’s smile was forced and didn’t reach his eyes, “Good, then I’ll look forward to reading it, but in future make sure that you let Base Camp know of any change in your patrol. We need to know where you are for your own safety. Now if there really is nothing else Captain, I’ve got work to do.”
Then the Deputy Director was gone and the door closed. Leaving David feeling sure he had made the right decision not to say anything.
He bumped into Ngozi on the way out, an awkward moment as they rubbed shoulders in the stairwell. David went out through the fire escape and breathed in the cool night air. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the darkness enveloping the city had somehow seeped into the very fabric of the building and its occupants.
Tanui’s behaviour was out of character to say the least, far from the passionate and dedicated ranger that had convinced him to join the Service. David shrugged, probably just the pressure of the job.
The lights in the reception building were off, Tikolo nowhere to be seen and the parking lot even emptier than before. Although he would be staying on site David decided not to eat in Maggie’s Restaurant, the staff canteen. The food was passable but he needed time to think and didn’t want to be interrupted, especially not by the likes of Idi Tikolo. David walked over to the truck and fished in his pockets for the keys. He knew just the place.
*****
David took the longer route to avoid Kibera slum. Only the residents and lost tourists went there at night. The ghetto was a no-go zone for the police, run by street gangs and drug lords. Anyone unlucky enough to live there was pretty much left to their own fate by the authorities. Not a place that you wanted to break down in or have an accident. The detour, combined with the seemingly endless stream of traffic, meant that it was over half an hour before he pulled up outside the restaurant. He almost regretted the decision to eat there.
The Hankook Garden was a bamboo structure tucked away in a quiet residential suburb on Kindaruma Road not far from the hospital. A Korean BBQ serving the best food David had tasted in Nairobi. A place he stumbled upon by chance when he was a recruit exploring the city’s nightlife.
His visits to the restaurant weren’t often enough for him to be considered a regular. But the menu never changed and neither did the décor. David felt at home in the familiar surroundings and his stomach managed to lead him there whenever he was in town.
The bi-fold doors were wide open, adorned with snow-white linen that flapped gently in the breeze. The potted palms inside the building and exotic plants filling the garden gave the impression that you were on a tropical island somewhere in the Pacific.
He looked up as he walked between the columns marking the entrance, admiring the subtle elegance of the tall bamboo pillars and vaulted ceiling. Four cooking stations were spaced around a spacious dining area. Chefs were busy preparing food at two of them, the other’s empty. He joined the smaller of the groups and sat at the opposite end of the long steel griddle. Trying to put some distance between himself and the trio of Asian businessmen.
“What would you like to drink sir?” asked the waiter in immaculate whites who headed over to him from the central bar and kitchen area. A round structure built of grey stone blocks. The illuminated shelves built into the walls displayed bottles of wine and beers, both local and Korean.
“I’ll have a bottle of Tusker please, make sure it’s cold.” With the power company struggling to keep up with the growing demand Nairobi’s establishments and homes were running on generator half of the time, finding an ice-cold beer was becoming increasingly difficult.
The waiter nodded and glanced over at the obviously drunk businessmen before handing him the menu. David studied the badly typed list even though he already knew what he was having. The dishes were roughly translated into English below the alien Korean script. He went for his favourite. The thinly sliced beef with special sauce, although chilli was the only ingredient that David could positively identify, with some spicy noodles. He gave his order to the chef and sat back.
The diminutive Korean nodded and gave the sizzling pork he was cooking a quick flip. With amazing speed and dexterity the ninja-like chef mixed together his chosen ingredients from the bowls on the counter and threw them onto the hot plate. Everything looked fresh and the smells that were wafting over as the meat, vegetables and spices combined were out of this world. The waiter returned and David took a welcome sip of what turned out to be a well chilled beer, it trickled like nectar down the back of his throat.
“You’re not a Muslim then?” The American’s voice beside him almost made him spit out the mouthful he was trying to swallow. “At least not a practising one.”
So much for not being interrupted, David turned his head towards the man he had seen talking to Tanui, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“If you’re asking whether I followed you, then the answer is yes.” The reporter perched on the adjacent stool and wriggled to get comfortable.
Sergeant Ngozi was right about the clothes. Although David guessed that the torn holes in the knees of the reporter’s jeans were a fashion statement rather than a reflection of his financial status. Well-worn Doc Martin boots, faded brown and scuffed at the toes. His collarless white granddad shirt was open at the neck, exposing a hairless chest and silver crucifix hanging from a thin piece of leather. The reporter was in his late forties possibly early fifties, right-handed and a heavy smoker, judging by the lines on his face and the tobacco stained fingers of his right hand. Probably involved i
n the Summer of Love and been protesting against injustice ever since.
“If you don’t mind I would prefer to eat alone.”
“What is it with you KWS guys? Do they train you to be anti-social or something?”
David smiled despite himself, “Sorry it’s been a bad day that’s all. As you Americans would say I need some ‘downtime’. Now what is it you want?”
“Sorry I should have introduced myself,” he held out his hand. “Aaron Bernstein, I’m writing an article for the National Geographic.”
That explained the slight hook to his nose and unkempt beard. “So I heard,” the man’s grip was firm and confident, “David Nbeke.”
“I know,” Bernstein’s smile seemed genuine, his otherwise perfect teeth stained from smoking. “You’re the one who brought in the baby elephant today.”
David nodded. He didn’t see the harm in confirming something that the reporter already knew and would no doubt be in the papers tomorrow. “That’s right. Did the Deputy Director tell you that?” David knew that Tanui wouldn’t have given out his name.
Bernstein shook his head, “No, let’s just say that I’ve got my sources and leave it at that.”
“This source of yours, she isn’t Irish by any chance?”
Bernstein’s momentary hesitation and the widening of his pupils gave him away.
“A good reporter never reveals his sources,” Bernstein shrugged, “You know how it is.”
“Not really. What else did she tell you?”
“They told me that you weren’t far behind the poachers, and that the rest of Ella’s herd were butchered.”
“We counted over twenty different sets of tracks heading over the Mara River into Tanzania,” David took a swig of his beer, “They were only about an hour ahead of us.” Bernstein’s pad was out and he was taking notes but David didn’t care. He needed to tell somebody.
“The bastards should be hung for the way that they did it, those animals really suffered before they died. There wasn’t one single kill shot. Some of them were still alive when their tusks were removed.”
Bernstein looked appalled, “How do you know that?”
“By the amount of blood around some of them,” David grimaced as he pictured the scene. “Their hearts were definitely still pumping.”
They were interrupted as the chef presented David with steaming plates. His stomach churned just looking at the food. He remembered to thank him and the Korean gave a curt bow of his head before returning to the BBQ. There was an outburst of laughter from the other end of the island as one of the businessmen slipped off the edge of his stool. Fortunately the man was prevented from hitting the floor by one of his friend’s surprisingly quick reactions. They were seriously drunk now and starting to get rowdy.
“Do you mind if I get a beer?”
David shrugged, “It’s a free country.”
“Not if you’re Kikuyu,” said Bernstein solemnly, he swivelled in his seat and beckoned the waiter.
There was definitely more to Bernstein than met the eye. David was beginning to think that his casual appearance might be a deliberate disguise.
He scooped up a spoonful of the beef and stared at it, trying to get rid of the sickening images in his head. David couldn’t see the point in trying to use chopsticks. He spent more time dropping food than eating it when he did. David summoned up his courage and shoved the spoon into his mouth. The meat was so tender it seemed to melt on his tongue but he still had difficulty swallowing it down. Bernstein waited for his drink to arrive and took a swig from the bottle before continuing.
“I understand that you’re one of the few rangers who have actually made an arrest?”
Three to be precise, all of this was common knowledge, covered by the national newspapers. Bernstein was fishing for something.
David put down his spoon. He didn’t feel like eating anymore and might as well find out what the reporter wanted. “Why don’t we cut to the chase? I heard you talking to the Deputy Director. You obviously think that someone in the Service is involved.”
Bernstein looked nervous for the first time. He frowned and fiddled with the label on the bottle of beer as if struggling to reach a decision.
“Maybe there’s more than one person. They might not even be in the Service, but they definitely seem to know where the patrols are going to be and when. The few poachers being caught are just the tip of the iceberg, a peace token to make the press think that something is being done and appease international pressure. Whoever is in charge it has to be someone high up.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The sheer volume of ivory being poached, we are talking about hundreds of elephants every year. Chinese stockpiles have gone up from 20’000 tonnes to ten times that in the last three years when there’s supposed to be an international ban. There’s also been a massive increase in the quantity of rhino horn being poached. Only someone with connections could pull that off.”
David nodded, it all made sense and confirmed a few things, including his suspicions as to why the spotter plane hadn’t turned up. Most of the illegal ivory ended up in China, where a loophole in the law allowed traders to sell stockpiles they had ‘forgotten’ to declare prior to the 1989 embargo. Hiding the illegal goods and shipping them to Asia would not be easy, not on the scale it was being done. There would be customs officials to bribe and other palms to grease along the way.
“Supposing your theories are correct, where exactly do I come in to all of this?”
Bernstein took another sip of beer before replying. He turned to look at David. “I need someone on the inside with access to KWS records, somebody who’s not afraid to tell the truth.”
“What makes you think that I’m that person?”
“Like I said you are one of the few rangers with an actual arrest record. And you brought that baby elephant in, not everybody would have done that.”
David shook his head, much as he liked Bernstein they had only just met, “You’ve got the wrong man. Your suspicions are based on rumour and conjecture yet you expect me to lay my career on the line? Sorry but no thanks.” He picked up his spoon and used it to point at his plate, “My food’s getting cold.”
“All I’m asking is that you keep your eyes and ears open.” Bernstein stroked his beard, “Let me know if you come across anything suspicious.”
“You’ve got no evidence that someone in the KWS is actually involved and nothing to go on.”
“That’s why I need you.”
“Not interested. Now are you going to leave or shall I have you arrested for harassment?”
“Can you really do that?”
“Try me!” David pushed the food around his plate and made an effort to ignore Bernstein.
“OK, I know when I’m not wanted.” The reporter stood up and produced his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He took out a business card and put it on the counter next to David’s beer, “Let me know if you change your mind.”
David waited until he was sure that Bernstein was gone before picking up the card and slipping it into the breast pocket of his shirt.
CHAPTER SIX
Royal Nairobi Golf Club
August 11th, 1996
Wei’s one wood connected cleanly, his style was textbook. A straight swing and perfect follow through. Swivelling his hips and turning his trailing leg so that his knee pointed in the direction of travel. The ball bounced neatly in the middle of the fairway. What Wei lacked was power. The shot barely travelled 150 yards.
Maliki smiled behind the Counsellor’s back, it would be a more even match if he used the women’s tee. Why he insisted on betting on every game was a mystery to Maliki. Wei hadn’t won since the very first time they played by claiming that he had a 28 Handicap. The cheating little bugger ended up sixteen strokes under par and took the thousand dollars without batting an eyelid. Maliki soon put a stop to that. The next time he insisted that they play on a level pegging or all bets were off. Wei accepted,
his love of gambling outweighing his common sense.
The sun was still low in the sky and they were already on the fifth hole. An Imam chanting the Morning Prayer was being blasted over a cheap tannoy, the tinny sound coming from behind the trees to their left. Hard to believe that Kibera slum was on the other side, tens of thousands of people living in squalor without electricity or running water. A thin line of cedars and an electric fence separated the residents from the freshwater streams that belonged to the course.
Maliki secretly hated golf. Not so much the game, although there seemed little point trying to hit a ball into a hole on the other side of a field. What he really didn’t like were the pompous attitudes and gaudy outfits worn by most of the members. Including Wei. The matching trousers and cap were offensive. Made from a yellow and purple tartan that was almost painful to look at. Thankfully Maliki was wearing sunglasses.
But golf was a rich man’s game and a nice quiet place to do business. Maliki had natural talent and he practiced hard to lower his handicap and mingle with Nairobi’s elite. He was first introduced to Wei at the clubhouse bar.
Not that it was a chance meeting. Maliki planned it for months and had Counsellor Wei followed to find out his weaknesses. It didn’t take long to discover something he could use, Wei’s addiction to gambling and his ability to lose made him an easy target. Maliki bought Wei’s fifty thousand dollar debt from a local casino and had owned him ever since. Although Wei seemed to be forgetting that lately, he hadn’t even mentioned the transfer.
He waited until Wei pulled back his arms to take his second shot, “Where’s my money?”
The Counsellor’s shoulders tensed up and he hooked the shot badly. The ball flew over the trees and Maliki smiled as he heard it hit a tin roof behind them.
Wei said something that sounded abusive in Mandarin and then turned to face Maliki. His pencil-line moustache quivered, “It will be transferred today as agreed. All in due course.” He smiled weakly and flicked the fringe of his jet-black hair to one side. For some reason it was styled to fall over his right eye and covered a good portion of his face. A few strands of grey hair suggested that the colour came out of a bottle.