“He’s my grandfather.”
An old man, wiry, approached with a stick in his hand. It had a shiny knob on the end. He stalled when he caught sight of Brandt and Wusani. Brandt released the child, and the boy raced to his grandfather.
“It’s okay,” Brandt called out in Setswana, putting down his rifle and showing his hands. Another man, younger, was now exiting the village gate. A group of women near the fence stopped to stare.
Brandt inhaled, approaching them, preparing for a lengthy Botswana greeting—anything less would be an insult.
He introduced himself to the wiry old man with salt-and-pepper curls. The young man joined the group, and Brandt introduced himself to him, too. The young man said he was Wusani’s father.
Brandt asked who the village headman was, and whether they had cattle. He congratulated them when they said they did—livestock was money and status. They in turn asked about his own cows, and congratulated him when he said he had a few head. He felt the clock ticking, time dribbling away like sand between his fingers.
The old man told Brandt the chief’s name was Baikego Khama.
“Everyone calls him B.K.” His wizened face cracked into a gap-toothed grin, gums pink. More villagers were gathering near the fence, curious. Brandt’s heart sunk—there was no way out of this now.
From his pocket he took the wad of greenbacks he’d liberated from the Germans. All eyes went to the money.
“U.S. dollars,” he said. “I’m interested in buying that jeep under the tree over there. Who owns it?”
“It belongs to the village,” explained the old man. “But B.K. controls who can use it.”
“Can I speak to B.K.?”
They nodded and made a gesture for Brandt to follow them. Brandt motioned for Dalilah to come over. She scrambled down the bank, and picked up his rifle, bringing it to him.
Wusani skipped on his skinny little legs beside them as they entered the village and made their way to the headman’s hut. They passed the jeep. It was old, and on the side of the door were faded letters that read: Masholo Safari Lodge. The vehicle had likely been sold to this village when the camp offloaded it, thought Brandt.
Wusani’s dad went up to the chief’s door and knocked.
“Your grandson doesn’t go to class with the other kids?” Brandt asked the old man as they waited a respectful distance away.
A shadow crossed the man’s face. “Wusani runs away from school.” He shook his head. “He’s a smart boy, like his uncle who works for the mine. But Wusani muddles his letters—he can’t learn to read and so he runs away.”
Dalilah glanced at Brandt, curiosity raising her brow.
He took her hand, squeezed. “Just small talk,” he explained in English.
The chief came out of his hut.
Brandt greeted the headman with deference and began the whole greeting routine all over again. The chief had a Zionist badge on his shirt—a common southern African practice, claiming allegiance to the African Zionist church. He was likely a good man, a principled man. And Brandt’s head hurt as he thought of Amal coming closer and closer, what he might do if he thought these good people had helped him and Dalilah in any way.
“My name is Brandt Stryker, from over that way,” he told B.K. as he pointed west. “They call me Tautona where I come from.”
B.K.’s eyes went to the lion tattoo on Brandt’s arm.
“I have a plane, and I fly tourists to lodges all over Botswana. I’ve flown guests to Masholo Lodge, too. Do you have villagers who work at Masholo?”
B.K. said there were.
“They will know of my plane,” he said, drawing Dalilah closer. “And this is my friend.”
There was no point in hiding his identity—his tag was emblazoned across the tail of his Cessna, and Amal wouldn’t have to dig too hard to find out who the plane was registered to.
“We want to buy, or borrow, your jeep—my plane is not working, and we have far to go.” Brandt took out the wad of greenbacks again, fanning them out so the chief could see the amount. “We’re also in a hurry.”
Suspicion crossed B.K.’s face. He looked up from the money into Brandt’s eyes.
“It’s not enough money to buy the jeep,” B.K. said.
Brandt inhaled slowly, tempering his mounting sense of urgency. “I will bring more money when my plane is fixed.”
B.K. shook his head.
“What is he saying?” Dalilah whispered.
“He’s saying it’s not enough.”
A group of five women, one with a baby wrapped onto her back, another with a toddler at her feet, had gathered nearby. Brandt felt the fire of panic burning through his gut. This was just going from bad to worse—they had to get out of here.
The toddler waddled over to Dalilah and she smiled, dropping into a crouch. The baby touched her face and she laughed, a husky, warm sound. Anger braided through Brandt.
“Leave that kid alone,” he whispered harshly in English.
Surprise widened her eyes. “Why?”
“Don’t touch them—just leave these people. We shouldn’t even be here, talking to them. We’re putting them in danger by being here!”
She swallowed and stood up, a strange expression crossing her face.
He turned back to B.K. “Look, I know it’s not enough,” he said in Setswana. “But I have cattle. I have a farm. I will return with a new jeep for you. A much better one, and more money.”
B.K. turned to Wusani’s grandfather, and they moved off to the side where they were joined by three other men including Wusani’s father. They argued in low tones.
“What is it?” Dalilah asked.
“It’s not enough cash for the jeep, and they don’t trust that I will return with more.” Sweat beaded on Brandt’s brow—he felt as if he was going to implode. He spun round, paced. “We should have just walked.”
“We’ve waited this long already.”
“We’re not getting that jeep now. And they’ve seen us and know we’re desperate for a vehicle. Do you think they’re going to let us creep back in here to steal it as soon as it gets dark? They’ll try to stop us, and I’m not hurting these people. Not taking it by force.”
Dalilah stared at him, that odd look still on her face.
“Do they speak English?” she said suddenly.
“Hell knows. Some of them, probably. The teacher for one.”
She spun around, pointedly taking it all in, her gaze touching on the school building, the water tower, the creaking windmill, the goats, the straggling vegetable garden, the colorful houses with their tin roofs, then alighting on the toddler.
“This is what I wanted,” she whispered.
“What?”
“This. My goal. My work. The mission in Zimbabwe.” Her eyes shimmered with sudden, fierce emotion. Her mouth went tight, her hand fisting. She turned suddenly and marched toward the group of men arguing quietly under the thorn tree near the chief’s house.
“Dalilah!”
She didn’t heed him.
“Dalilah!” He ran after her, took her arm, whirled her around to face him. “What are you doing?”
She shook him off and went up to the men. “I can pay for the jeep,” she said to them.
They all looked at her.
“Do you speak English? Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” said Wusani’s father.
“I can buy the jeep.” She was wiggling the ring on her hand, desperately tugging it off her swollen finger as she spoke, and it struck Brandt suddenly what she was doing.
“Dalilah—no!”
“And gas. I want spare gas—petrol, for the jeep?”
She yanked the ring off and held it up to them. Sunlight caught sparks of grapefruit pink. The platinum setting gleamed white.
“I will pay with this.”
The men stared.
Brandt took her arm. “Dalilah,” he said into her ear, “they have no idea what that’s wor—”
She angrily shru
gged him off again.
“Does anyone here know anything about diamonds? Do you know what you can buy if you sell this stone?”
A murmur went through the group as energy shifted.
“Go get Teep,” the headman barked at one of the younger men, suddenly all clipped business. He shot a glance at Brandt, then at Dalilah, then the huge rock—an apple of temptation.
“Teep,” he said quietly, while staring fixedly at the rock, “is my son. He works at the Botswana diamond mine. He has come back to the village to see his family.”
A tall and devastatingly handsome man who looked as though he’d been carved from ebony came striding toward them, Wusani scampering excitedly at his heels. He wore perfectly pressed khaki pants and a crisp white shirt. His black leather shoes had been polished to a high gloss.
His greeting, thankfully, was less traditional and brief. He took the ring from Dalilah, held it up to the light. His body went dead still, but Brandt could see the subtle shift in his muscles, the quickening of his pulse at his carotid. He swallowed and looked slowly at Dalilah, as if in disbelief.
“They don’t even have pink ones like this in South Africa.” His English was impeccable, British accented.
“Ten carats.” Dalilah said. “Cut and polished from a rough 21.35-carat gem mined from the Argyle mine in the East Kimberley region of Western Australia. It’s set in platinum. If you give us the jeep, spare gas, camping supplies and water, you can keep the diamond.”
“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Brandt whispered, pulling her aside.
“I’m doing what I want to. I want the jeep and I want to get out of here.”
Teep drew his father aside, and they conversed in low tones.
“Jesus Christ, Dalilah,” Brandt whispered. “You can’t give away a sultan’s ring like that—”
“Haroun can afford it, Brandt. Look at it this way, it’s buying my life. He’ll have to understand that. If he doesn’t, he has a problem. Besides, I’ll reimburse him.”
“What’s that thing worth anyway?”
“Two point five.”
“Million?”
She said nothing.
He stared at her, his brain reeling. “Dalilah, what decision, exactly, are you making here?
“Just leave me, okay!” she snapped, reading the deeper questions in his eyes. “It’s my decision, not yours.”
“That’s more money than these people will know what to do with.”
She raised her arm and swept it in a wide arc, taking in their surrounding village. “They need a new school. Those kids could do with shoes. That water tower needs to be replaced. They could install solar power, get hot water and electricity into their homes, increase their crops with better irrigation. More cows, another windmill, a new jeep, maybe even a secondary-education fund.”
He just stared at her. The group of men, including B.K., were now looking at her, too. More women were gathering nearby and the school kids were coming out. The whole damn village was coming to witness this event now.
Urgency exploded in him.
“It’s what I’ve always wanted, Brandt,” she said quietly, urgently. “I have wealth and I want to help.” Her eyes glittered with passion. “This continent is my home, and this is my dream.”
“This is more than just about the jeep and helping African villages, isn’t it?”
“This is about my life, Brandt,” she said quietly, “and what I want to do with it.”
A quiet rustling wildfire of hope ignited suddenly in Brandt—hope for something he didn’t even dare want to think about. Chief B.K. was approaching them, but Brandt’s brain had suddenly stalled and all he could do was stare at the princess.
“Teep says this is a good diamond,” B.K. announced.
“It’s a damn fine diamond,” Dalilah said.
“Why do you want to give us this stone? Is it stolen?”
She moistened her lips. “No, it’s not stolen. I want to give it to you because we need that jeep very badly, and because I can see your village needs new water tanks, and a new school, and a proper vegetable garden.”
He regarded her intently for several long beats.
“Well—is it a deal?” she said.
B.K. bowed, softly clapping his hands together in a sign of thanks. He followed this by making a sign of the cross for good measure.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank the Lord for this gift. You may take jeep, and all our petrol, and any supplies we can give. Teep will help you. Tell him what you need, and he will get the villagers to bring everything.”
“We’re in a hurry,” she said.
“Yes—we will be quick.”
Dalilah smiled triumphantly at Brandt, an expectant look in her face.
“I’m not saying thank-you,” he growled. “If Amal comes here, finds that ring…” He pointed after B.K., then swore and stalked off toward the jeep. She ran after him.
“I’m not asking for your thanks, you…brute.”
He huffed, walked around the jeep, evaluating her purchase. Afternoon shadows were already lengthening. Doves sounded in the trees.
On the rear of the jeep someone had scratched the word Skorokoro.
“You see that?” He jerked his chin to the scrawled inscription. “It means too old to work. You paid two-point-five million for a lemon that might not even get us to the road.”
“If you have issues, I’ll drive. It’s my jeep now.”
He grunted.
“You just don’t like a woman taking over, do you, Brandt? Or is it the fact I have money?”
He stopped dead, turned to face her square. “No, Dalilah, it’s Haroun. I don’t like that family, and you’ve just given away his ring—I don’t know what constitutes a violation in his goddamn tradition.”
Her face sobered. “You’re afraid for me.”
“Hell, yeah. Nothing about this is right.” He waved his hand at the jeep, the village. “We’ve probably brought harm right to their door. And now—” He stopped speaking as he saw Teep approaching with two women dragging a cart of boxes loaded with supplies.
Teep handed him the jeep key as the women began to load the supplies into the back.
“Food, water, spare petrol, camping stove, pot, kerosene lamp, spare tin of kerosene and a blanket.” Teep hesitated, then said, “And two tins of motor oil.”
“Thank you,” Brandt said, irritably taking the keys. “Does it leak oil, then?”
“A bit.”
He grunted irritably. “You have any spare ammunition lying around?”
Teep’s eyes shot to his.
“For my rifle. Might need to hunt.”
Wariness crossed the man’s features, but he called out over his shoulder for someone to bring rifle bullets.
A man came running with two boxes of shells.
“Get in, Princess,” Brandt said as he took the boxes. “Your chariot awaits.”
She muttered something in Arabic and climbed into the passenger seat.
Brandt got in, turned the ignition.
The engine coughed, then sputtered to life with an unearthly growl.
“Skorokoro, you better have some juice in you,” he said as he pressed down on the accelerator.
He gave a wave of thanks and they trundled toward the gate, someone running ahead to open it. The children ran behind in their dust, squealing and waving. One of the women began to sing, and others joined in, waving them goodbye.
But as they reached the gate, Brandt stopped the vehicle just before the cattle grid and disinfectant trough.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, throwing open the door.
Dalilah shot him a look—he was edgy, she thought, like bottled fuel ready to blow. “Where are you going?”
But he was gone already, engine still running, door open. Dalilah spun around in the passenger seat. He’d taken the chief aside, his head bent down, urgency in the set of his body as he discussed something. A whisper of trepidation ran through Dalilah. Th
e shadows were growing longer, the colors of the bush turning gold.
Brandt got back into the driver’s seat and shifted gears. They bumped over the cattle bars, and he laid on the gas. Dust boiled out behind them, catching the sun’s yellow rays. The jeep had some power in it, even if it sounded cranky. Dalilah took off her hat before the wind could snatch it from her head, holding her hair in her fist to keep it from whipping her face.
She glanced at his profile. His hands were tight on the wheel, his features pulled into a frown.
“What did you say to the chief when we left?”
“Told him if men come to his village asking about us, to say that we stole the jeep—then to show Amal our tracks to the road.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want Amal to think they helped us or that they’re hiding anything. I don’t want to give him any reason to hurt them.”
She swallowed, thinking of the villagers’ faces, the children, the bright, white smiles, the happy school. The babies.
They came to the road. It was narrow and the paving was pocked with potholes and being eaten away by thick grass along the edges. A rickety wooden arrow declared the Limpopo River border with South Africa was to the left, and another arrow pointed right to Bulawayo.
Brandt wheeled onto the rugged road and headed south toward the Limpopo.
“We’ll travel about twenty klicks down this paved section, then cut off into a tract of controlled conservation area. We’ll do some countertracking at the junction, and hopefully Amal will lose our vehicle tracks for good along here.”
“Countertracking?”
“Hide our tracks so it’s not obvious that someone recently veered off this road into sand.”
In the opposite lane, a vehicle came toward them, shimmering in the distance. It blew past—a blue-and-white Botswana police van heading north. She shot Brandt a fast look.
“They can’t do anything, Dalilah—the police here generally don’t even carry guns. It’s why I like this country. It’s a good place.” She heard the bite of self-recrimination in his voice. He felt he was bringing bad things into a haven that he’d chosen to come to and try to heal all those years ago.
He drove faster, the combination of potholes and bad suspension sending jarring shocks right through her teeth. Dalilah gripped the side of the door for purchase as Brandt swerved wide into the oncoming “lane” to avoid a particularly large hole.
Guarding the Princess Page 20