The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles)

by James S. Gardner

  Max Turner felt rejuvenated by the turn of events. On his first day back from Washington, he was interviewed by a deputy from the sheriff's department. He forced back tears as he lamented about allowing such a repugnant event to take place on his ranch. At the end of the interview, the deputy apologized to Max for the inconvenience. He swiveled his chair around and looked out at the ocean. He lit his first cigar of the day and smiled. Everything was falling into place. The private line on his telephone flashed. It was the secured line reserved for Nelson Chang.

  “Are you still in the Seychelles?” Max listened for awhile and then finished the conversation with, “I see. I'd like to explore one more alternative, before I give you my blessing. Goodbye, Nelson.”

  ***

  9

  Seychelles Islands

  Nelson Chang replaced the satellite telephone on the table next to his deck chair. He had trouble sleeping and was awake before sunrise. The first glimmer of light shone above the Indian Ocean. The reassuring sound of waves lapping against the hull was interrupted by a tape recording: It was the call for morning prayers.

  It took thirty-two days for Saudi Prince Waleed's yacht, the Kingdom, to sail into the Seychelles Islands from her homeport at Benghazi in the Gulf of Sidra. Two Sikorsky helicopters stayed busy ferrying the prince's guests to and from the airport at Beau Vallon Bay. As one helicopter landed on the Kingdom's fantail; her sister ship hovered over the shoreline. Gray gunboats of the Seychelles Defense Force formed a picketline offshore.

  Sunni fundamentalism had not cast its shadow over the prince's yacht. The strict dictates of the Quran were temporarily suspended. Prostitutes from London, alcoholic beverages and illicit drugs were provided for his guests. The pentup demand for vices had turned the cruise into an orgy.

  Chang Man Ying was renamed Nelson Chang, as a tribute to Admiral Nelson by the British couple who adopted him. Chang was an international arms dealer. Governments in the Middle East juggling their allegiances between the Western democracies and Islamic extremists used Chang. He helped the Arabs funnel weapons into their jihads.

  The emergence of China as the next economic juggernaut had elevated Nelson Chang to a behindthescenes liaison between the Arabs and the People's Republic.

  At sixty-five, Nelson Chang was one of the richest men in the world.

  He cultivated the persona of a man without a country; a man unburdened by the fidelities born of patriotism.

  Chang reluctantly accepted the prince's invitation to spend a few days cruising in the Seychelles Islands. When he attempted to cut his visit short, the prince protested.

  The atmosphere on board the Kingdom was transformed from excessive consumption to sobriety on Chang's last day. The prostitutes were hustled off the yacht before sunrise. The stewards exchanged their western khaki uniforms for traditional Arabic robes. The furniture in the main salon was replaced with pillows and prayer rugs. A green Islamic flag fluttered from the ship's masthead.

  Chang stood on the bow watching the emerging sun's fiery display. The smell of Turkish tobacco made him turn around. Prince Waleed was also admiring the sunrise. He wore a long-sleeved thoub. The red and white checkered shumag on his head was held in-place by a band. When he exhaled, the smoke separated into two strands and disappeared into hist ear-shaped nostrils.

  “The sunrise is even more beautiful in the desert. As-Salamu Alaykum, peace be with you, Nelson Chang,” he said quietly. “In the name of Allah, I hope you slept well?”

  “A man sleeps better in his own bed.”

  “I hope you can forgive me for prolonging your stay. I think you will find the meeting I have arranged, how shall I say it, enlightening.”

  The prince took a few steps towards Chang and spoke again. “We are old friends. Like you, I am also cursed by a western education. Sometimes I wish my father had left me in the desert. Please don't judge us by what you have witnessed. I think it was the philosopher Spinoza who said, ‘Desire is the very essence of Man.' I'm afraid our steadfastness is challenged by the forbidden fruits of the West.”

  As soon as the prince sensed Chang had accepted his explanation, he switched to another topic. “Nelson, are your friends in Beijing pleased by the developments in the Sudan?”

  Chang took his time in answering. “I would have to say, yes. We know any military adventures in Africa would be thwarted by the Americans. Better to let our Arab friends take control of Africa from within.”

  “The Islamic movement is spreading over Africa like a great tidal wave. I'm curious, how many Chinese are working in Africa?”

  “Thousands. Seven hundred Chinese companies are operating in fortynine countries on the African continent. We just completed the presidential residence in Zimbabwe, a gift for Robert Mugabe.

  “The Middle East has less than forty years of oil left. China must have strategic minerals if she is to challenge the United States. The destinies of our two great civilizations have been written here. Allah will convert these savages. Together, we will reap Africa for a hundred years,” the prince reiterated, to make his point.

  The conversation made Chang uncomfortable. He walked over to the railing and looked towards the Horn of Africa. His thoughts drifted back to his last briefing in Beijing. The Chinese thought of Arabs as only slightly more advanced than Africans in human evolution. Their union was one of convenience, certainly not preference. “Your Highness, I understand the Canadians have abandoned their oil interests in the Sudan.” He turned around expecting the prince, but he was gone.

  Prince Waleed climbed to the bridge where he could look down at Chang undetected. Chang was an enigma to the prince. He was devoid of religion and family. He sensed that to trust Chang would be a grave mistake. Our association is one of mutual mistrust, he thought. Chang walked up to the bowsprit. The man's slanted eyes were encased by folds of leathery skin. As he observed Chang, a bilious taste filled his mouth. Someday China will inherit the earth. What a ghastly place, he reflected.

  Later that morning, Chang was ushered into the main salon. The prince greeted him in the traditional Arabic manner with his palms turned up. There were two men standing next to the prince. Their skin shined like anthracite. Chang guessed the larger man was a general by his uniform. A glossy scar starting at the corner of his left eye disappeared into his beard. The scar had damaged his facial muscles, turning his expression into a permanent snarl. His face was so twisted; it looked like two opposite thespian masks grafted together.

  The general's interpreter was a small man. He had snakelike eyes framed by thicketed eyebrows. One eye was lazy and gazed off in a different direction from the other. Chang took a step back, hoping to avoid the traditional cheek-kissing. His hopes were dashed as each man was introduced to him. Chang wiped his face and sat down.

  “Mr. Chang, this is General Muhammad Nur of the Sudanese Army,” the prince said, introducing the larger man who scowled at Chang. The general has information about your friend's son, Arthur Turner.”

  “General, Mr. Chang represents the Chinese National Petroleum Corporation. This company has completed construction of the first oil refinery in the Sudan. Sixty percent of Sudanese oil is exported to China. I'm sure your superiors in Khartoum would want you to help him. To make sure we have your undivided attention, I have provided you with a small token of my appreciation.” The prince handed the general a briefcase.

  Chang listened to the general lecture him about his military exploits on the Sudanese frontier with Chad. He knew the Janjaweed militias had killed four hundred thousand Africans in the Darfur and had driven two million more from their ancestral homes. The Islamic armies had castrated men and raped women in their socalled Holy Jihad. The world condemned the scorched-earth policy as a religious genocide, but Chang knew there was another motive. The Darfur region contained vast oil reserves. Once the land was cleared of human interference, the Chinese could start exploring for oil. “Yes, yes,” said Chang, interrupting him. “I'm sure you will prevail in your military endeavo
rs. Tell me what you know about the American, Turner.” Chang waited impatiently for the translation.

  The general opened the briefcase and patted the money listening to Chang's translated inquiry. His damaged mouth could not contain the saliva as he answered. When he stopped speaking, he ran his finger along the scar on his face. He discreetly wiped the spittle on his robe.

  “The general says Turner lives in a refugee camp known as Mangalatore. This place is north of the Ugandan border. He's curious to know what you want with this man. He says if you wish him to rescue the man, he feels he should return your gift. It would be a most difficult undertaking. The savages are fierce fighters. A Dinka warrior has already scarred him.” The interpreter outlined the general's scar on his own face to make his point.

  “Ask the general if it would be easier to kill the man,” said Chang.

  The interpreter asked the general. He answered a few seconds later, saying, “It could be done. The general wants to know what evil thing this man has done to his father that would make him want to kill his own son.”

  “Tell him, that's not his concern. I will let him know of my friend's wishes. Tell him my friend is a generous man.” The interpreter relayed Chang's remarks. He decided not to translate the general's opinion about the brutality of a father ordering the execution of his son. A few minutes later the general and his interpreter got up to leave.

  Chang watched the general's helicopter disappear into the washedout haze. The renewed sunlight turned the coconut trees along the coastline from black to green. The first gasp of day produced a chilly breeze. He shivered and closed the collar of his linen jacket to ward off the coolness.

  Prince Waleed studied Chang, but his poker face gave no insight to his thinking. “Nelson, you look perplexed. What's your opinion of the general?”

  “Someone once said, ‘Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction.'”

  “The man you quoted was Pascal,” said the prince, wiping the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. “These Africans are like barbarous children. That's precisely why we must control them. I've heard it said that the United States and China will fight a great war. Maybe that war will be fought here in Africa. Come Nelson, let us eat. It's too early for such depressing thoughts. It's given me a headache.”

  “I'll join you after I make an overseas call. My friend's anxious to hear the news about his son.”

  10

  Zimbabwe

  As soon as Lynn recovered from her jetlag, Helen and Rigby organized a small dinner party in her honor. It was late when the guests left. Lynn retired to her bedroom. The Croxfords sat alone on their veranda listening to the cricket concert. A pearl-spotted owl's whistle quieted the crickets.

  “Rigby dear, I have something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Anytime you call me ‘dear,' I know it's serious.”

  “It's nothing bad. It's just something we need to discuss.”

  “Let's hear it. I'm breathless with anticipation.” He pulled her in and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Lynn has an American friend coming to Zimbabwe to visit her. Her friend's a man. I've invited him to stay with us.”

  “So, what's the big deal? Lynn's a grown woman. What's the man's name?”

  “Jesse Spooner. He's a black man.”

  “When you say ‘friend,' what exactly do you mean?”

  “I think Lynn's in love with him.”

  “Helen, have you lost your mind? You know we don't mix the races in this country. Our friends will think we've lost the plot. That man is not staying on my farm. Helen, you're gonna have to make a new plan. What in God's name were you thinking? No sir, not on my farm. Maybe it'll happen one day. Thank God I won't be alive to see it.”

  “Are you through? I don't care what our friends think. You claim to be this great champion of the blacks in this country, but when it means complete integration you go ballistic. I hate to enlighten you, but the world will change with or without Rigby Croxford. And another thing, this is not your farm, it's our farm. I'm very disappointed.I'm not surprised, just disappointed.”

  “You're disappointed! You should have asked me about this beforehand. I'm going to bed.” He got up, walked over to the wooden railing and flicked his cigarette butt into the blackness. “Helen, I love you, but you still don't understand Africa or Africans.”

  The night was unpolluted by a moon. The stars seemed to reach endlessly into the blackness. Helen heard a distinctive series of whistles rising in sequence and ending in a “wheeoowheeoo” sound. It was the male owl warning his rivals. Maybe I don't know Africa, but I do know you. It might take a little of the silent treatment, but you'll come around. You just needed to show off your maleness. Just like the owl, only bigger, she continued thinking.

  It didn't take the silent treatment to bring Rigby around. He apologized to his wife the next day. Of course it would be all right if the man stayed with them, just not in the same room with Lynn. Helen accepted her husband's change of heart with pride. It wasn't a total victory, but it was a step in the right direction.

  What Helen didn't know was that her husband had plans for Jesse Spooner. Jesse was to land at the Victoria Falls Airport in five days. The town was over two hundred kilometers from the Croxford farm. Jesse's visit overlapped a previously scheduled Cape buffalo hunt. Rigby could have turned the hunt over to his partner, but that wasn't about to happen. He would pick Jesse up at the airport and take him out into the bush to finish the hunt. If his plan worked, Jesse would be headed home in a week.

  ***

  Jesse slept for most of the fourteen-hour flight to Johannesburg. He waited in line with the other bedraggled passengers to clear customs at the airport. Finally, Jesse presented his passport to the uniformed agent who smiled and welcomed him to South Africa. When he slid his ATF weapons permit across the desk, her smile curled down into a frown.

  “Sir, I need to check with my superior,” she said, folding the permit inside of his passport and then walking away. In a few minutes, the customs agent returned with a man following her. “Mr. Spooner?” the man inquired without smiling. He stared at his passport picture and then looked up at him reflectively. “Mr. Spooner, what's your purpose in South Africa?”

  “I'm transiting through to Zimbabwe. My flight to Victoria Falls leaves in four hours. Is there a problem?”

  “No problem. Your papers seem to be in order. The security rules changed after 9/11. I'm sure you understand.”

  “Of course. Is there anything else?”

  “If you change your travel plans and decide to stay in South Africa, you must contact my office. Goodbye, Mr. Spooner.” He handed him his passport.

  Jesse checked his luggage at the Air Zimbabwe desk for the flight to Victoria Falls. He bought a copy of the foreign edition of the London Times and found a seat in the terminal.

  A heavily accented woman announced the arrival and departure of flights to and from exotic sounding places like Katmandu and Lusaka. Bearded Arabs kneeling on their prayer rugs chanted quietly in the corners of the building. West Africans dressed in brightly colored robes and matching madras turbans studied the monitors for undated flight information.

  A tall African sat down next to him. He was wearing a rumpled business suit and splayed tieup shoes. Jesse smiled and said good morning to the man, but got no reaction. He glanced at a flight monitor. He noticed the flight to Victoria Falls was flashing on the screen. The ticket agent was polite but nonchalant as she explained the flight had been delayed three hours. She told Jesse that he should check with her later to make sure the flight hadn't been canceled.

  Bored and stiff from sitting, he walked out of the building and into the brisk morning air. A car stopped next to him. The driver stuck his head out of the window and shouted. Jesse moved closer to hear the man. “Mister, do you need a taxi?”

  “Why not?” he said, getting into the backseat. “Why don't you give me a tour of the city? Were you born her
e in Johannesburg?”

  “I'm from Mozambique,” the driver answered. He adjusted the rearview mirror to look at Jesse. He was missing his left hand and had trouble moving the mirror into position. “Are you from England?” the man asked.

  “I'm an American.”

  “America is number-one. In America, everybody's rich.” He made a finger-rubbing gesture of making money. “Would you mind if I collect a friend?”

  “No, I don't mind.”

  The road sliced through the industrial section of Johannesburg. There were factories topped in belching smokestacks on one side and squattercamps on the other. The camps were composed of squared shacks roofed in corrugated metal. The shanties were packed so tight they suffocated the land. A dusty haze blanketed the districts. Barefoot children with popping belly-buttons played soccer on the outskirts. Women hung clothes on the perimeter walls built to hide the eyesore. They turned down a dirt road. Jesse moved uneasily in the backseat.

  The driver stopped in front of a dilapidated building. A man left a group of four men and approached the car. The man's dreadlocks looked dirty. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. The driver rolled down the window. They talked in pigeon Zulu. The man with the dreads smiled over the top of his shades and then slid into the front seat. Jesse touched his 9-mm. Jesse watched the other men run to a pickup truck. The car pulled away with the pickup following close behind. The driver's cell phone rang; Jesse guessed it was someone in the truck.

  “You aren't going to give a tour, are you?” The man riding in front reached for something in the glovebox. Jesse grabbed a fistful of dreads and pressed the barrel of his revolver against the man's temple. When he looked back, the truck was gone. “What were you going for?” he asked, pointing at the glove compartment. “Take it out slowly.” He yanked the man's head back. The man retrieved a book entitled: The Tourist Guide to Johannesburg. Jesse released his hair and slumped back inside the seat. The man whispered to the driver.