THE LION KILLER
THE DARK CONTINENT SERIES BOOK I
JAMES GARDNER
PENNINGTON PUBLISHERS
PENNINGTON PUBLISHERS
ISBN 978-0-9760898-1-0
Also available as a Trade Paperback
First Kindle Edition © Copyright 2009 James Gardner.
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or any other, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without prior permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places are the product of the author 's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For Barbara
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my editors: Barbara Gardner, Michael Takiff, Tad Knutsen, John Jolley, Mary Cole and Lisa Burns. Special thanks to my agent, Marianne Strong. I'm grateful to some great raconteurs who must remain anonymous because of political uncertainties in Zimbabwe. I owe special gratitude to some good friends who were very supportive: Bill Flaherty, Bob Barrett and Eileen and Joe Cornacchia.
Part ONE
1
Bwindi, Uganda
Africa
A blowfly clung to the underside of a leaf on a red-hot poker tree. The weaverbird perching on one of the tree's orange flowers, cocked its head to identify the insect. The bird tried to dislodge the insect by pecking, but the blowfly held fast.
It was time for the blowfly to seek out the carrion that would sustain its maggots. If the female started its search too early, it would have to fly through hungry jungle birds. If the fly waited for darkness, it risked being eaten by white-bellied bats. The weaverbird gave up on the blowfly, hopped off the flower and onto an adjacent twig where it caught a purple butterfly in its beak. After smacking the butterfly on the twig, the bird swallowed it and flew away.
A gentle wind from the Congolese mountains carried an odor. Sensory cells on the blowfly's antennae detected decaying flesh. The blowflies spiraled up through the canopy of mahogany and ironwood trees. The insect's harmonic hum hushed the rainforest. The silence spooked a colobus monkey; she tucked her baby under her belly and climbed higher in an ebony tree. A bongo antelope stopped browsing to investigate the stillness. The only sound was the hiss of a waterfall. Below the swarming insects there were pink orchids and yellow flowered creepers suffocating thorny fruit trees and fig palms. Flocks of brown honey guides and yellow-throated bee-eaters took to the air. For the birds, the smell of death meant a meal of blowflies.
Some flowers secrete a scent of rotting carrion to attract insects for pollination. This time the blowflies would not be fooled into pollinating tropical flowers. Nor would they stop to feed on chimpanzee or mountain gorilla dung. The flies swarmed over the top of the crab-wood trees and stands of bamboo. Red-breasted starlings and wattle-eyes picked them off by the thousands, but their numbers were overwhelming.
The insects followed the scent to a clearing. There were eight gas-bloated human corpses. The female blowfly landed on a man's eyeball, crawled across his face and disappeared into his ear. After depositing her eggs, the insect exited the man's ear canal and landed on the woman's face lying next to him.
A man wearing a white smock leaned down and pulled back a tarpaulin covering a woman's body. Her pink toenails indicated a recent pedicure. Her trimmed pubic hair was fringed in razor stubble. He uncovered the rest of her body. The nipple of her left breast was missing; it showed evidence of a human bite. The bullet that ended her life had entered her left temple, damaging the optic nerve, leaving one eye open and one closed. The man trapped the blowfly in a test tube as the insect crawled out of the woman's nose. He sighed and corked the glass tube, labeled “Calliphoridae—from female cadaver number 5.”
Graham Connelly jumped out of his mud spattered Land Cruiser and ran into the undergrowth, where he vomited. He emerged from the bushes embarrassed. Ian Laycock handed him a surgeon's mask that had been soaked in camphor.
“I say, old boy, not feeling well today, are we?”
“What the hell's going on here? Why haven't these bodies been taken someplace where they can be cooled down?” Graham asked, wiping his mouth.
“Don't blame me. The Ugandan military has taken control of the situation, which means nobody's in control. This should put a crimp in Uganda's ecotourism. Here's a list of the dead ones.” Ian handed the list to Graham. “We're having trouble identifying the bodies. I've rounded up the victims' passports, but we can't match them up. The hyenas have been busy. Why do they always chew off the faces? It looks like all of the women were raped. Bloody savages. Here's my report. Any questions, before I head back to Kampala?” Laycock asked, handing him the report.
“Who's the geek collecting the bugs?” Graham asked, blowing into his cupped hand. “Dr. Malcolm Rutherford. He's a forensic entomologist from Nairobi. Very well informed, our doctor. Did you know that these bug doctors can identify cadavers' DNA taken from the digestive tracks of maggots? You're not going to be sick again, are you?” Laycock asked, grinning. Graham nodded no, but was unconvincing.
Lycock retrieved a pinch of ostrich biltong from the breast pocket of his khaki jacket and stuffed the dried meat into his mouth. He chewed and rolled it from one cheek to the other, and then gulped down the gristle like a pill. He walked over, twisted a thorn off of an acacia bush and used it to pick his teeth.
“Jesus, bon appétit. How can you eat?” Graham asked, nodding at the bodies. “I wonder if there's anything in this world that could ruin your appetite. Give me your report. There's nothing I can do here. Embassy Security Chief was supposed to be an adventure. I never thought it would be like this.”
“My friend, you missed Rwanda,” Ian began. “This is a garden party compared to what the Hutus did to the Tutsi population. Eight hundred thousand Afros killed in one hundred days. The bodies were so thick on the roads that we had to drive over them. They made the most dreadful popping noises. And let's not forget what's going on in the Darfur. That's what I call proper family planning.”
“Ian, you're a wonderful humanitarian, a real credit to our Queen. What about the missing American?”
“Nothing as of yet,” Laycock answered. “The dead ones include six Americans and two Brits. A French woman, the safari guide, and his Ugandan tracker are all being treated at the clinic in Kasese. The Afro's name is Peter Gono. He took one hell of a beating, but it looks like he'll make it.”
“We need to make sure the proper authorities notify the families before the BBC gets on to this. The American woman who survived, what's become of her?”
“She's been taken to the American Embassy in Kampala. They tell me she's related to some VIP in the States.”
“You're sure her husband is missing?”
“Yes, but what do I know? I work for British intelligence.”
“British Intelligence! There's a lovely oxymoron.” Graham smiled at his own joke. When Laycock spoke it was around another mouthful of biltong.
“Very funny. You should try your comedy on the telly. See you back in K
ampala. Don't lose the report, it's my only copy. Are we still on for Sunday?”
“Wouldn't want a minor international tragedy to get in the way of our golf match, now would we? See you on the first tee at nine bells. I need two more shots,” Connelly insisted.
“You're a thief. I'll give you the strokes, but you're buying lunch.” “Done. See you Sunday.” Laycock didn't answer. Instead, he raised his hand in acceptance and waved goodbye.
Connelly studied his friend in the rearview mirror. Ian Laycock had worked in Africa for almost thirty years. The military coups, the famines and the genocidal lunacy had changed him. Britain's influence on the continent had dwindled to little more than pomp and ceremony, which meant Africa, had become a cemetery for Foreign Service careers.
Connelly found his friend's disparaging remarks about Africans odd, given the fact he was living with a Ugandan woman. Laycock's wife, like many Europeans, had not liked Africa. She returned to England, and as her visits became less frequent her husband took a black mistress. When his wife stopped visiting all together, Laycock's arrangement became permanent. It was a common but frowned upon indiscretion.
Connelly drove down the mountain road away from the carnage. Halfway down, he passed a line of military vehicles heading in the opposite direction. Christ, now you show up, he thought. Closing the window didn't lessen the stench. He pulled over and picked up Laycock's report.
The Bwindi Massacre
This is the eyewitness account of safari guide Robert Neff as collaborated by his Ugandan tracker, Peter Gono. Both men are fluent in Swahili as were the perpetrators.
The following is a list of the deceased and my interpretation as to how they died. It should be noted that the bodies were attacked so brutally that any speculation as to the actual cause of death is highly suspect. Dr. Malcolm Rutherford was on scene, and accordingly, his report should be available within a few days.
Victims:
British subjects: William Smyth and Barbara Smyth.
American citizens: Roland Collins. Debbie Collins.
James Cole. Jeffery Cole. Ralph Courtney. Margaret Courtney. A French woman, Marie Camondona, was released, as was the safari guide, Robert Neff and the Ugandan, Peter Gono.
Two Americans escaped. Last names: Turner. Mr. Turner is still unaccounted for as of 2100 hours, 15 September. After being treated at the medical clinic in Kasese, Mrs. Turner was taken to the American Embassy in Kampala where she remains in seclusion. The American ambassador has blocked any attempt to question Mrs. Turner. It is my understanding that a private aircraft has been sent to Uganda to fly Mrs. Turner back to the United States.
On the morning of the Bwindi Incident, safari guide Neff reported hearing small arms fire coming from the direction of one of the outer camp chalets. He believed the shots were being fired by the Ugandan military involved in an anti poaching operation. Within minutes, the camp was surrounded. Ten men armed with AK-47s and machetes swarmed into the camp. Intelligence indicates they are part of the Interahamwe, an extremist group partially responsible for the 1994 ethnic genocide that slaughtered eight hundred thousand. A top Interahamwe commander operating inside of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, has taken credit for the “Bwindi massacre.”
His faction, the RPF (Rwandan Patriotic Front) claim the attack was in retaliation for the United Nation's Security Council's recognition of the present Rwandan government.
The rebels led their victims on a twenty kilometer march that was intended to take them into the Congo. Because they were unfamiliar with the terrain they forcibly sed a local Ugandan, camp tracker, Peter Gono, to guide them. Gono, disregarding his own safety, led them in a circle hoping to be intercepted by the Ugandan military. The rebel leader, who is still unidentified, became suspicious and had Gono beaten until he confessed his deception. Neff stated, “That was when the discipline within the group started to breakdown.” According to Peter Gono, the Courtneys, who were in their late fifties, became fatigued and refused to go on. Mrs. Courtney was raped by four of the rebels. Both Courtneys were executed with head shots. The Collin's woman and Barbara Smyth were also raped and brutally killed in front of their respective husbands, who were also killed. During the confusion, Arthur Turner and his wife slipped away into the heavy underbrush. They floated down a river emptying into Lake Albert. Mrs. Turner was found wandering by a Ugandan military patrol. She was incoherent and was taken to a local clinic. Mr. Turner was not found. In my opinion, his survival is unlikely.
It is also my opinion that the rebels have escaped back into the Congo. They are now under the full protection of the Congolese president.
The Ugandan military has assembled an incursion force of approximately six hundred soldiers. Intelligence sources believe they are headed north to the Kivu provinces of the DRC. With as many as 25,000 Rwandan rebels operating in that region, it is doubtful that any of the perpetrators will ever be brought to justice. A more detailed report will be available in forty eight hours.
Laycock
Graham Connelly rolled up the report and used it to swat a blowfly on his windshield.
***
2
Spanish Cay, Bahama Islands
One year later
Rigby Croxford treaded water thirty feet above a coral ledge where the Nassau grouper he'd speared had wedged itself into a crevice. A cloud of blood seeped from the ledge. When he heard the grouper's distress grunts, he lifted his diving mask and looked for his wife. He scanned the beach until he found her. Good, you're safe, he thought. He filled his lungs, turned upside down and started for the bottom. He grabbed a purple sea fan and pulled himself under the ledge. The mixture of blood and stirred up sand ruined his visibility. When he stretched his arm into the crevice, the grouper grunted and wedged itself deeper into the reef. He squeezed his gloved hand into the fish's mouth and latched onto its lower lip. The grouper struggled, but Rigby slipped his other hand under its gill plate and started for the surface.
When he popped up, he saw the dinghy bobbing on the horizon. Damn wind must have blown it, he thought. He swam slowly at first, but realized he wasn't gaining on the skiff. A movement caught his attention. It was a large black-tipped shark circling beneath him. He picked up his pace, but dragging the fish hampered him. I've got to quit smoking, he thought. It was only a few yards to the skiff. The black-tip reversed its direction and swam at him. At the last second, he flung the grouper up into the skiff and spun around, but the shark was gone. “Oh, no you don't. I worked too hard to give it up to the likes of you,” he thought.
***
The Croxfords were citizens of Zimbabwe. Rigby's ancestors had immigrated to Africa from Britain in the early nineteen hundreds. His wife, Helen was born in Connecticut. When Helen's brother offered to let them use his yacht, they turned him down. When he mailed them airline tickets, they buried their pride and accepted. Helen was a doctor. She felt guilty about leaving her patients, but she needed a break from African politics. Despite worldwide condemnation, their president, Robert Mugabe, continued his confiscation of the white owned farms. It was only a matter of time before Mugabe tried to seize their farm. Helen knew her husband would not go quietly.
Earlier that day, they anchored in a lagoon on the leeward side of Spanish Cay. Their captain, Bonefish Foley secured the boat's stern to a coconut tree and then set the yacht's anchor under a brain-coral dome. The old Hatteras lay captive to her moorings in the crystalline waters of Turtle Bay.
Captain Foley scanned the horizon. When he saw Rigby pop to the surface and fling the grouper in the skiff, he relaxed. The weather had treated them fairly, and with only a few minor mechanical problems, the cruise was running as smoothly as an island schooner sailing downwind. In two weeks, thought Captain Foley, the Croxfords will go back to Africa and I can go back home to Bimini. He picked up his knife and continued skinning a conch.
Something caught the corner of his eye. It was a yacht clearing the outer reef passage. The sun reflected off the yacht's bridg
e windows. Squinting, Foley watched men scurrying about on deck. The Bahamian looked at the shoreline to check the tide. Oh Lord, he thought, its high tide. Damn, Mr. Rigby's gonna be pitching a fit. I gotta find us another island.
A crewmember standing on the bowsprit directed the captain with hand gestures to help him avoid the coral-heads. The captain pivoted the yacht into the wind. The sound of rattling anchor chain echoed across the lagoon. Sulfur smelling exhaust smoke covered Turtle Bay. The crew went to work putting inflatable tenders and wave-runners over the side. When the yacht swung into the wind, her name and homeport came into view: The Liti-Gator, Palm Beach, Florida.
Foley heard the whine of an outboard engine. Damn, Mr. Rigby's gonna be raisin' some hell, he uttered to himself. Foley watched the skiff idle towards him. “Goddamn it Foley, there's hundreds of islands in the Bahamas,” Rigby yelled. “Why does this son-of-a-bitch have to pick our island? He could see we were already anchored up. Inconsiderate bastard.” He stuck his thumb in one of the grouper's eye sockets and his pointing finger in the other. He hoisted the fish up and waded ashore.
Rigby's wife, Helen, left the shade of a coconut tree and walked down the beach to inspect the fish. She closed her book and sighed. “Check out the name. The Liti-Gator! Give me a break! As if we don't have enough lawyers.”
“Yaaa, vell, I guess I must find us another island,” said Foley. Like all Bahamians, he reversed V and W in his speech. “I don't expect people should be so unruly.” He shook his head.
The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) Page 1