Dead of Night

by Michael Stanley

  ‘I know who you are, Crys,’ Goldsmith interjected. ‘That’s not the issue. I’ve been very impressed with the reporting you’ve done on the plight of grey wolves.’

  For a moment Crys was taken aback. This was a huge compliment, coming from such a prestigious source. She felt herself blush.

  ‘Thank you,’ she stammered. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d ever have read any of my work.’

  ‘Because of who we are and the people who are our customers, we try to keep tabs on everyone who’s doing good work in the same areas as we are. Your name has popped up a few times, including from Michael, so we’ve been keeping an eye on what you’ve been up to. I thought your grey wolf piece in the Duluth News Tribune last week was excellent. And it was widely syndicated too.’

  Crys wasn’t sure what to say, so she just repeated a thank-you.

  ‘So, what you’re suggesting is that we send you,’ Goldsmith continued, ‘because you’ll have a better chance of gaining access because of the National Geographic connection. Is that right?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  There was a silence. And the longer it lasted, the less optimistic Crys became.

  ‘I don’t know, Crys.’

  ‘Please give it some thought, Ms Goldsmith. We have to do something. This isn’t just about the story. Michael may be in serious trouble. We have to find out what has happened to him.’

  ‘Give me a call tomorrow. I’ll have an answer, but don’t get your hopes too high.’

  The next twenty-four hours moved as slowly as the syrup from the maple trees next to her house during a spring cold snap. Every time Crys looked at her watch, only minutes had passed.

  She slept so badly that she left the house at seven the next morning to ski for an hour. Anything to keep her mind off the clock. She’d had three cups of the Duluth News Tribune’s coffee by the time she called Sara Goldsmith again.

  ‘It’s Crys Nguyen, Ms Goldsmith.’

  ‘Please, call me Sara…’

  ‘Have you thought about my suggestion?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Crys waited anxiously for her to continue.

  ‘Are you sure about this, Crys? If Michael ran into trouble researching his story, you could too. It could be extremely dangerous.’

  ‘I’m willing to take that risk. And I’ll be very careful.’

  ‘If I say yes, when could you leave?’

  ‘As soon as I can get organised. Perhaps by tomorrow night. Every day may make a difference to Michael’s safety.’

  ‘Crys, listen to yourself. You’re talking about rescuing him, not finding him. That’s a big difference. You aren’t qualified to rescue anyone … but, I suppose you are qualified to perhaps find someone.’

  Crys held her breath. Had she overstepped the mark in her enthusiasm?

  There was another of Sara’s long silences.

  ‘Okay, Crys. I have management permission to hire you to work with Michael on finishing his piece. We’ll obviously pick up all expenses, and there’s a reasonable stipend if we publish your article.’

  Crys felt a huge wave of relief. ‘Thank you, Sara. Thank you. I won’t let you down. I promise. Please send Michael’s material by overnight. I’ll email you the address. And also, please give me the names of anyone you know he spoke to.’

  ‘I’ll send the email now, and you’ll get the material tomorrow morning. I’ll include the remit I gave to Michael. So, you’ll know what we asked him to do. Any questions?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ Crys replied, her head spinning with excitement.

  ‘There is one other thing: Michael’s deadline is six weeks from now. I need you to meet that.’

  ‘Six weeks? For the travel and research and writing? Michael had more than twice that.’

  ‘If you don’t think you can…’

  ‘No, no, of course, I can make it. I was just taken aback by how quickly everything was happening. You’ll have your article on time.’

  ‘And remember, Crys – officially I’m sending you because I need that article. That’s your first priority. Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you can find out about Michael, so much the better. But that’s not your top priority. And anything you do find out, you report it to the police. Don’t put yourself at risk.’

  After she hung up, Crys pumped her fist in the air. Not only could she look for Michael, but National Geographic had just given her a huge professional opportunity. And she’d get to a continent she’d always wanted to visit. After wolves, elephants were her favourite animals, even though she’d never seen a live one. And Africa had the biggest population of them in the world.

  There was another huge bonus.

  She could visit Vietnam…

  She’d been born there, but when she was one year old, she, her mother and her brother had left for Minnesota, taking advantage of the refugee programme. Crys had never been back.

  She stood up and walked down the passage to her boss, Scott Nielsen’s, office.

  He looked up as she came in. ‘You look pretty pleased with yourself.’

  Crys nodded, a huge smile lighting up her face. ‘National Geographic has asked me to be a co-author on an article on rhino poaching! I’ll have to go to South Africa.’

  ‘That’s wonderful! When do you need to leave?’

  ‘Tomorrow!’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Scott gasped. ‘Why so soon? I’ve got stuff I want you to do.’

  As she explained what had happened and why she was offered the job, Scott raised his eyebrows. ‘You never cease to amaze me, Crys. Now you’re a one-woman search-and-rescue mission. Okay, you’d better get going, but there’s a price for me being so accommodating – a weekly column on what you’ve been up to in Africa. Okay?’

  She nodded. ‘Of course. It’ll be fun to write something more casual than the Geographic stuff.’

  ‘Drop me an email tonight about the projects you’re working on. I’ll make sure they’re covered.’

  ‘Thanks, Scott. I just can’t believe this has happened to me.’

  That night Crys was frantic. There was so much to organise.

  She started by going online and buying an open ticket to Johannesburg via Atlanta.

  Fifteen hours on a plane. Not her favourite activity.

  She then sent off a number of emails to set up appointments in South Africa, to be followed up the next day with calls.

  The next morning, she raced around Duluth trying to find clothes more suitable for Africa than Minnesota, and a good, but not-too-expensive camera.

  When she got home, the parcel from Sara was on her doorstep. She grabbed it, made a cup of coffee, and skimmed through Michael’s material to find out who he’d spoken to and what he’d learned about rhino poaching and rhino-horn smuggling.

  She was immediately drawn into his investigation. He’d met with several government officials and NGOs in Vietnam, as well as some people involved in selling rhino horns and rhino-horn powder. It seemed that either consumption was increasing or supply was decreasing, because several of the people selling the horns had complained about a shortage and rising prices.

  After that, he’d gone to South Africa. And that’s where the trail stopped. There was nothing since he’d emailed her and Sara about being close to a breakthrough on how the horns were being smuggled out of that country.

  There was no hint of what he had found out or who was involved. It was a mystery.

  She put the notes aside with a frown. Now she needed to pack. She could read the material more carefully on the flight to Johannesburg; perhaps she would find some detail she’d missed.

  PART 2

  South Africa

  Chapter 3

  Crys wanted to scream. She’d been sitting outside the minister’s office at the Department of Environmental Affairs in Pretoria for more than two hours, basically twiddling her thumbs. Instead of interviewing the minister about the future of the rhino population in South Africa, she was struggling to
keep awake as jet lag took hold of her body. To make matters worse, she’d heard nothing from Delta about her luggage, which had failed to show up on the carousel at Johannesburg’s Oliver Tambo airport the night before.

  ‘Do you think the minister will be available soon?’ she asked the minister’s secretary for what felt like the hundredth time.

  The secretary shrugged. ‘Dr Duma said she’d be back by now, but it was the president who wanted to see her. He’s a little unpredictable when it comes to time.’

  ‘I’ve flown here all the way from the United States for this appointment,’ Crys said, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

  Organising the meeting with the minister by phone from Duluth had been difficult enough. Now it looked like she wasn’t going to see her at all. Crys forced a smile, trying to keep in the secretary’s good books. ‘What does her schedule look like tomorrow?’

  The secretary glanced at her computer screen. ‘Impossible. She has a meeting at eight. Then a lunch with her counterpart from Mozambique, and in the afternoon, she flies to Switzerland. The best I can do is to take you to Mr Tolo, the deputy minister. Let me call him and see if he’s willing to talk to you.’

  Crys wasn’t happy with the offer, but accepted reluctantly. But she did recognise the deputy minister’s name from Michael’s notes. The minister had reneged on her meeting with him as well.

  A few minutes later, she was shown into Tolo’s office. He waved her to a seat and went back to reading a letter.

  At last he looked up. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Nguyen?’ He pronounced her name ‘Naguyen’.

  Tired and irritable, Crys couldn’t stop herself: ‘It’s pronounced like the word ‘when’. It’s Vietnamese.’ Seeing his raised eyebrows, Crys tried to adopt a more pleasant tone. ‘It’s very difficult to pronounce, I know. And thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr Tolo, particularly at such short notice.’

  Tolo stared at her, impassive, so Crys pulled out her notebook and launched straight into her list of questions.

  But he wasn’t helpful, and Crys found his answers superficial, even evasive at times.

  Keep cool. Don’t blow it, she told herself.

  She was frustrated, though, that she had to keep pushing to get answers to her most important questions and began to think that Tolo either didn’t know much about the rhino situation, or simply didn’t care.

  Eventually he held up his hand. ‘Miss Nguyen,’ he said, using the same mangled pronunciation as before, ‘we appreciate your concern about the rhino population here. But we know what we’re doing. We’re managing the situation.’

  ‘Mr Tolo, I’m not here to judge,’ Crys said, ‘just to gather facts for an article National Geographic has asked me to write. Southern Africa lost about fifteen hundred rhinos last year, with over a thousand of those in South Africa itself. How can you say you have the situation under control?’

  Tolo sucked in his lower lip. ‘I didn’t say there wasn’t a problem. I said we’re doing what we can. South Africa is much stricter on these things than most other countries in Africa. And poachers are often shot on sight here – although that’s not allowed, or encouraged, of course. We appreciate the support we get from National Geographic and the World Wildlife Fund and so on, but we don’t need to be told how to run things.’ The smile he now gave her wasn’t exactly warm. ‘Maybe you should visit your countrymen in Vietnam and tell them to stop buying rhino-horn powder. That would be a huge help.’

  ‘I’m going there when I’ve finished here,’ Crys replied, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘And I certainly plan to ask why they’re the biggest consumers of rhino-horn powder.’

  Tolo didn’t respond; he just pointedly glanced at his watch.

  Crys realised her time with Tolo was running out, so she tried a different approach. ‘Some experts advocate legalising trade in horns that have been legally obtained – from rhinos that have died naturally in a national park, for example. What is the South African government’s position on that?’

  He shook his head as though it was a stupid question. ‘CITES is the body that regulates international trade in animal and plant products, and they’re against that practice. However, as you probably know, it is legal to trade rhino horns here in South Africa as long as they are not exported. But as there’s no local demand, it makes no difference.’

  ‘What about sawing off the horns?’ Crys asked. ‘Some private game farms have done that. And they stopped losing rhinos right away.’

  Tolo sucked his lip again. ‘Impossible! That may work for a game farm, but in a big national park where there are thousands of rhinos? You have to find them, dart them, and remove the horns. That’s very expensive. Tens of thousands of dollars each time. Then they grow back, so you have to do it all again a few years later. Where’s the money going to come from?’

  Crys wasn’t getting anywhere.

  ‘Mr Tolo, a colleague of mine from National Geographic, a Michael Davidson, interviewed you a few months ago. I wonder if you’ve spoken to him since.’

  Tolo shook his head. ‘I remember talking to someone from your magazine, but don’t remember his name. But I’m sure I haven’t spoken to him since. Why do you ask?’

  ‘We haven’t heard from him for a while, and he hasn’t returned to the US from South Africa. We’re concerned.’

  Tolo just shrugged. ‘In that case, I suggest you take it up with the police rather than Environmental Affairs.’

  He was as helpful about Michael as everything else.

  ‘As part of the research for my story,’ Crys continued, ‘I’d like to spend time with one of the anti-poaching units in a national park. I want to see how they operate. Can you arrange that?’

  ‘Impossible! It’s too dangerous. It’s a war out there, you know. As I told you, some of the patrols shoot to kill. And the poachers shoot back. I can’t put you at that kind of risk.’

  Crys started to explain to him how she could look after herself, but could tell he just saw a young Vietnamese woman who’d only be in the way. She sighed. It wasn’t the first time she’d had that problem.

  He stood up and, after scrabbling around in a filing cabinet, handed her a thick envelope. ‘There’s lots of background information in here. I’m sure it will answer any other questions you have. Now, I’m afraid I have another appointment.’

  Crys had nothing to show for her morning except a few notes that added nothing to what Michael had already written.

  As she left the building, a wave of heat hit her. It was difficult for her to comprehend that just three days before, she was cross-country skiing in Minnesota at minus five degrees Celsius. In Pretoria, it was about thirty-five and sticky with it.

  I don’t miss Tolo’s attitude, she thought, but I do miss his air-conditioning.

  There was a rush of people on the sidewalk. South Africa’s economy may have been shaky, but downtown Pretoria was frenetic. A scruffy man walked up to Crys and asked her for money. She shook her head and started to walk away, but he followed.

  ‘I’ll get you a taxi,’ he said. Crys shook her head again. It had only taken a few minutes in the cab to get to the department from the hotel, and she was looking forward to the walk back. Fortunately, he wasn’t persistent and vanished into the crowds.

  As she walked on, however, she had the sensation that she was being watched. She spun around just in time to see the man who’d asked her for money. He quickly looked away and pretended to be going in another direction.

  Probably a pickpocket looking for an easy hit.

  Crys knew more than a little karate. A scrawny pickpocket didn’t worry her; but she did hold her briefcase more firmly, and when she reached her hotel was pleased to escape the crowds and the heat.

  When she opened the door to her room, Crys was relieved to see her suitcase on the bed. At last, something was going right: Delta had actually come through with their promise to deliver.

  Crys went to open it, but as she did, she noticed
that both locks were broken. All that was preventing the contents from falling out was the colourful strap she always used – more for identification than for security.

  Crys groaned. Her next stop was at Tshukudu Nature Reserve on the border of the Kruger National Park, so she’d have to buy a new suitcase before heading out there.

  She flipped the case open.

  ‘What the—’ Crys couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Someone had been through her belongings. Her neatly folded clothes had been taken out, scrunched up, and stuffed back in; all her toiletries had been removed from their bag, but not replaced. And the lining of the case had been cut. Someone had been checking to see whether anything was hidden behind it.

  Why would anyone do something like this?

  It wouldn’t be customs – Crys had travelled a lot and knew they were usually halfway decent at repacking suitcases. She pulled out her phone and pressed the number for Delta’s baggage services.

  After waiting for an age to get through to the right person, Crys was assured that her bag had left the airport in good shape. She frowned as she rang off, staring at her jumbled belongings. Could this have happened after her suitcase arrived at the hotel?

  She picked up the room phone, called the concierge and asked if he had taken delivery of the suitcase.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘at about half past two.’

  ‘Did you notice if it was in good shape?’

  ‘Yes, it was. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Yes, there is! It’s wrecked – someone’s broken it open. And they’ve been through it. My stuff’s all messed up.’

  ‘I’ll call the police right away, madam.’

  ‘No … don’t bother.’ Crys sighed, dropping onto the bed, exhausted. ‘My insurance will cover the suitcase itself, and I don’t think I’ve lost anything. It’ll just be a waste of time to get the police involved. But…’ She thought for a moment. ‘You didn’t notice anyone following the porter who delivered the suitcase to my room, did you?’