Lioness

by Nell Brien

  Cat turned and walked to the Land Rover, opened the door, sat down, drew her legs inside, reached out, slammed the door. She couldn’t look at Campbell, at the dead calf she knew was at his feet, at the shocked, pathetic herd.

  Tom opened his door, replaced the rifle in the rack. She continued to study the map she had pulled out of the pocket on the door. The lines blurred, the colors ran together. The Land Rover swayed under Tom’s weight as he slid behind the wheel.

  “Cat—”

  “Not now, Tom.” Her skin was clammy, the edge of her vision seemed to be closing in. She felt as she had that day in Zuma Canyon. Her blood pressure must be dropping—that’s what they’d said then.

  Tom backed in a large arc to avoid the small, traumatized herd of elephants, then threw the gear forward.

  Cat kept her eyes on the map, trying not to think of the animals fading into the dust behind them. The tiny calf lying dead beside its mutilated mother. The youngsters lost and leaderless.

  Nothing she could do. Nothing she could do. The words became one with the grind of the engine.

  Eleven

  For two nightmarish days they followed a trail of death. They found no more survivors, just carcasses bloated in the sun. Entire herds wiped out, adolescents killed for tusks so small, Tom said they would be worth only a few dollars on the markets of Hong Kong. The animals looked as if they’d been blown apart by machine guns, the mutilations that had been inflicted on them feeding some terrible lust for killing.

  Tom tried to reassure her about the youngsters they had left—they would be all right, they would soon leave to find water. Cat had read enough to know the words were meaningless. Young elephants have to be taught about waterholes, where they are, how to get to them. Like children, they have to learn survival skills. Their social structure is matriarchal, the dead female had been their leader. Now they were alone.

  She had known the slaughter was happening, read the occasional newsmagazine story, hardly noticed among the enormous human catastrophes of Africa. But what she had seen—the mutilated bodies, the pathetic survivors—was, she knew, forever burned into her consciousness.

  They skirted the bodies without stopping. Today they’d traveled hard, and the sun had long passed its zenith when Campbell called a halt for some food. Yesterday he had shown her another site, a perfunctory stop. She was certain now that a different agenda, not hers, was being followed. Campbell’s contact with the men, if that was whom he spoke to, had increased. He stopped every hour now while Tom continued driving. Campbell caught up within a few minutes, so whomever he was talking to, the conversations were brief.

  Cat looked over to where he stood by his Land Rover, radio mike in hand. His back was to her, but she wouldn’t be able to hear, anyway. He always made sure of that.

  “It is Reitholder,” Campbell was saying. “I’ve got the men keeping close watch.”

  “Has he made any more attempts to kill her?” Stephen N’toya’s reply crackled with static.

  “It was a few buffalo, Stephen, not a serious attempt. He was just playing silly buggers, testing our strength. What have you heard about the ivory? Over.”

  “Nothing firm yet. Should know more within a few days. But trucks are being assembled, everything you can think of. They’ve got ivory coming out of Uganda, as well. It’s the biggest thing for years. Worth every risk we have to take going after it.”

  Every risk he and his men had to take, Campbell thought. Not Stephen. “Why is he here, then, not watching Francis?”

  “Ahmed’s in the area—” Stephen N’toya’s reply was faint.

  “What about Ahmed? You’re fading. Repeat. What about Ahmed?”

  “Ahmed’s in the area—” Static crackled.

  Campbell swore.

  “…the askari was probably bribed.” Stephen’s voice was suddenly clearer. “Reitholder is after those tusks.”

  “You mean the fucking guard has lost him? He doesn’t know where Ahmed is?” Campbell contained his rising anger. “Does the old man know?”

  “It doesn’t matter—” The static had miraculously cleared. Stephen’s answer was distinct.

  “Does the old man know?” Campbell repeated.

  “What does it matter?” Stephen’s voice blasted from the mike. “Keep out of the way. Let it happen. Let Reitholder do what he has to. It’ll keep him busy until we’re ready.”

  “Jesus, you’re a ruthless bastard, N’toya—”

  “What’s the matter with you? We’re talking about one damn elephant—”

  “No. We’re not. We’re talking about a national bloody treasure.” Years ago Ahmed, with his fourteen-foot tusks, his immense size, his age in a culture that revered age, had been placed under the protection of the president of Kenya and was venerated for the wiliness that had enabled him to evade trophy hunters for all of his adult life.

  “One more elephant, what difference does it make? Just keep your priorities straight.”

  Campbell thought rapidly. Ahmed was experienced, he’d know he was being hunted. But he was also getting old, slowing down. Weakened by old wounds, even he must be tired of carrying those great tusks. “My priorities are straight. I’ve done what I said I’d do. I’ve shown this woman four sites, enough for her to make a choice. I’m sending her back to Nairobi. Get a plane here today.”

  “You can’t do that—”

  “Don’t tell me what I can’t do, N’toya.” Ahmed had avoided the best hunters in the world in his seventy years, including two generations of Campbells. He’d outsmarted Tom and Campbell more than once. “That old bull is not going to be taken down by a team of butchers like Reitholder and his men, blown apart with AKs, I can promise you that. I’d rather do it myself.” One clean shot. A hunter’s shot. The wily old devil deserved that.

  “Are you mad? Let Reitholder do it. Don’t go near him. We’re too close. In a few days I’ll know where that ivory’s being moved—”

  “Just get this bloody woman out of here. Today.” He gave N’toya the coordinates. “I’ll give you until sundown. Then I’m going to find Ahmed before Reitholder does. If a plane doesn’t get here, I’ll be forced to take her with me. Cheer up, Stephen. Fourteen-foot tusks. Sixty kilos each. Think of that. It’ll make you feel better. Campbell out.”

  Twelve

  Dieter Reitholder kept the glasses trained on the Land Rover. Campbell’s Maasai had been out there for days, following, watching. He settled his back more firmly against the sun-warmed rock of the kopje. The kaffirs stayed well out of range, making no attempt to conceal themselves. No attempt, either, to attack. At night they peeled off, but every morning they picked up the trail again as easily as catching a bus in the middle of Johannesburg.

  Reitholder turned the binoculars toward the southeast, sweeping them across the grassland. Campbell was there, somewhere, but with a woman on his hands. Good. That was good. By now Campbell would have heard about the bribed askari. That would bring him out. Reitholder laughed out loud. And that black bastard M’Bala would be frothing at the mouth.

  The binoculars bounced against Reitholder’s chest as he dropped from rock to rock, scattering the baboons whose home it was. He reached the small flat ledge to find his own kaffirs lounging in the shade, smoking and laughing. Just a brief stop to scan the countryside, and they’d lit fucking fires! But at least the bloody white men no longer shared fire and food with the Bantu. He’d finally prevailed on that issue. They’d been too damn friendly by far.

  “What is this? A bloody rest camp?”

  Bobby Watson shoved his bush hat farther back on his dark curly hair. “They’re still out there, then? Have a cup of tea, mate. It’ll settle your nerves a bit.”

  Reitholder looked up at the sun. “There’s no time for goddamn tea.”

  “There’s always time for a brew-up, mate.” Watson lifted a blackened billycan, filled a tin mug with tea. “What’s with you and this bloke Campbell? He’s sent his abos to keep an eye on us because we’re on his patch
, that’s all. If he was going to interfere, he’d have done it by now. We’ve taken enough ivory to keep us like white men for a couple of years. Let’s get that ruddy tusker and get out of here.” He grinned, showing perfect white teeth. “Like they say, enjoy our ill-gotten gains.”

  “That’s a beautiful woman out there with Campbell.” Reitholder tested the water. “Yours, if you like.” He watched for the Australian’s reaction. The twitch of a muscle. The tongue touching his lips. The bob of his throat. But the Australian just shook his head.

  “Nah, mate. Not my style. She turned me down already, me and old Pete.” He turned and shouted to Peter Stone, sitting in a patch of shade, his back against a tree, cleaning a rifle. “Tea’s up, Peter. Butcher boy here’s itching for the off, so you’d better get it quick.”

  Reitholder watched the two Australians drinking their everlasting tea, joking with each other. He’d picked them up in the casino in Nairobi, known what they were the minute he laid eyes on them. Hunting bums, owning nothing but well-kept weapons, living high when flushed with cash, sleeping bags in the rough when broke. But two extra guns, two white men to watch the kaffirs so that they couldn’t kill him while he slept. He’d played next to them while they gambled, watched them lose heavily. He’d followed them to the bar, struck up a conversation. Hunting. Trophies. Gambling losses. They’d been easy to recruit. He’d held out the trophy elephant Ahmed as bait, mentioned a fortune in ivory and rhino horn if they could find some, for sure a load of skins as a bonus. There was always a market for the big cats, cheetah, leopard, lion. The more endangered the beast, the higher the price a good skin commanded.

  They’d canceled their flights home the next morning.

  They’d been squeamish with the first herd of elephant, bullshit about sport, wanting to leave the calves. Gone a bit quiet when they’d arrived at the hunting camp and smelled the stockpiled skins. But they came around when he reminded them about the cash they had coming. If they stayed alive, they had possibilities for the future, Reitholder thought.

  Reitholder found his own patch of shade, well away from the kaffirs, and lowered himself to the ground. He took off his wide-brimmed panama, wiped the band with a bandanna, dabbed gently at his face. Goddamn skin was peeling again, sweat running into the open cracks. He hadn’t been able to shave for days now. He was going to end up like his father—a good, tough Boer, a farmer who loved his country, who never shirked his duty and taught his sons the same. He had seen his father beat more than one of his thieving kaffirs to death with his sjambok and never lose a night’s sleep over it.

  Reitholder tried not to think of him, tall and beefy as he was himself, healthy as a horse except for the cancer eating through skin like his own, thin pale skin never meant for the sun of southern Africa, the light blue eyes so reddened they looked filled with blood. The same eyes he saw every morning in his own shaving mirror.

  He called out to the two white men. “Tell me about the Stanton woman.” He hadn’t known they had met her until after he’d had the kaffirs stampede the buffalo to test Campbell’s strength. He stayed alive by being cautious, so he’d left the Australians in camp—not sure they were in deep enough to ensure their silence. He’d hoped for a chance to kill the Stanton woman that night, and they certainly weren’t ready yet for that kind of work. But every day, they slipped a little deeper, and soon they’d be in too deep to get out. Then they could be useful to the Broederhood. “Tell me exactly what she said.”

  “Christ, don’t you ever let up? We’ve told you half a dozen times. Nothing. She said bloody nothing,” Stone said. He dumped powdered milk into a chipped white enamel mug filled with strong black tea, stirred it with a twig. “I stood next to her at the desk. She wanted a ruddy list. I tried to get it for her. I asked her to have a drink. She said thanks, you’re a smashing pair of blokes but I’m busy. Me and Bobby went to the bar. Then we went to the casino and lost our ruddy shirts.” He laughed, swigged the tea, rubbed a grubby sleeve across his mouth. “Then we met you and got a chance to recoup our fortunes. And now we’re going to get this national treasure and a picture standing on top of him to show our mates back in Adelaide. That’s it.”

  Reitholder had had to promise them that. A photograph to prove they’d killed the famous Ahmed, who had been hunted by the best in the world and survived. He shook his head. The pleasure of trophy hunting eluded him. He’d never understood it. The conquest of enormous beasts, bellowing as they faced your guns, their power seeping away as they went down. The scream of the herd as they took the bullets, the smell of hot blood. That he could understand.

  “She said nothing about her brother?”

  “Christ, mate! Will you listen to yourself? Nothing about her bloody brother. She said, thanks, I’m busy, good night.” Stone tossed the dregs of tea from his mug. “Come on, Bobby. Let’s get these buggers on their feet. We can earn a few more dollars before nightfall.”

  Reitholder watched the two Australians join the kaffirs squatting on their heels twenty feet away. The usual scum, dregs from the armies of a dozen African wars, he’d been forced to recruit without knowing their backgrounds. His own devils—not one he’d trust, but at least devils he knew—had scattered halfway across Tanzania after Stanton’s death, fearing the Americans would insist on a manhunt. But they hadn’t, of course. These days, the Americans were too eager to be the friend of every black bastard in Africa. They had no fucking balls anymore.

  So the sooner the Stanton woman went to join her brother, the safer they’d all be. And Campbell and his black brothers with her.

  While the two Australians chivied the men into action, joking with them, checking rifles, dousing the fires with earth, Reitholder reviewed his last meeting with General Francis.

  The plane had brought Francis close to the base of the hills, close enough to the hunting camp, but the man had had to climb the rest of the way under his own steam, grimly determined as usual to check the amount of ivory personally. Reitholder grinned at the memory: Francis, dressed in combat fatigues, black scarf covering his face—as if that could hide his identity—puffing and struggling his way up the hillside to the hunting camp.

  As soon as he’d posted his two bodyguards, Francis had loosened the black scarf, pacing slowly along the rows of tusks, counting. He’d stopped, hefted one of the tusks. “Twenty kilos, maybe. They’re smaller than the last lot.”

  “Four months’ hard work, General. Not many mature beasts left now,” Reitholder said impatiently. But he intended to make up the shortfall. Trophy tusks from the famous Ahmed would bring a premium. He didn’t mention that plan to Francis. The general would just carp about the uproar there’d be if a bloody national treasure fell to poachers. Reitholder hadn’t got the patience to listen. “You just need to make sure you got enough trucks laid on to move this stuff down to the coast.”

  “That is being done. My own men will be with them—”

  “Working under my orders.”

  “Working with you, Colonel Reitholder. Under my orders. How much more ivory do you expect to add before we move it?”

  Reitholder grunted. “I don’t know. The beasts are wary. We have to search for herds now, and Campbell and his fucking Maasai have been following me for days.”

  “He shouldn’t be a problem, surely. He has the Stanton woman with him.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen her. That’s good. There will never be a better time, General, to put an end to them. Campbell, that black brother of his and the woman.” He clapped Francis on the shoulder. “A clean sweep, my friend.”

  Francis looked at him in alarm. “We must move the ivory first, Colonel. Nothing must endanger that.”

  “Don’t worry. The woman makes them vulnerable.”

  A small breeze brought the stench of the skins toward them more strongly, and Reitholder smothered a grin as Francis put his scarf to his nose.

  “But now is not the time for that, Colonel,” Francis insisted. “We must concentrate on getting the ivory to the coas
t. Nothing more.”

  Reitholder was losing patience. It was Campbell he wanted, and M’Bala. The woman was a bonus. “The woman is dangerous, man. You said so yourself.”

  “In Nairobi, yes, asking questions. But what damage can she do here in the bush with her questions? What will Campbell tell her? The truth?” General Francis shook his head. “No. Let them be.”

  “And when she goes back to Nairobi, asking the same bloody questions again, what then, eh?”

  “In Nairobi, we have friends. She’ll be taken care of. A car accident—”

  “I’ll feel safer if I take care of this myself. Campbell and the woman and that kaffir of his, M’Bala. And the fucking Maasai.” He glanced at Francis. “Maybe I’ll give the woman to my kaffirs to play with.” Inwardly, he grinned at Francis’s impassive face. The bastard had seen enough of that kind of thing in the wars in Africa, but only with blacks. The young girls were the best. They fought hardest. The women were passive, seen it all before, those that had survived. Reitholder toyed with the images conjured up, itching to stroke the engorgement in his loins. His breath quickened. He caught Francis’s knowing eyes and laughed. “On second thought, I’ll share her with my Australians.”

  He told Francis about the two young men. For the sake of security, he’d sent the Australians out to track a small herd of elephant before General Francis arrived. “They’re good. They’ll do what they’re told. White men. Extra guns. No, my friend. Trust me. Now is the time to finish Campbell.”

  “I will not be able to control an investigation if Campbell and this woman die—”

  “Ach, man. With all those black palms greased?” Reitholder lifted one hand, rubbed two fingers against his thumb. “Just remind some of your tame Bantu what they owe us. Talk to that minister you own. I’ll make sure there are no survivors. No one to tell a tale. No bodies. No cock-up this time. How long before you have all our ivory in Kenya gathered together, then on its way to Hong Kong? A week? Ten days? The end of a good two years’ work, eh?” He clapped Francis on the shoulder again. “You worry too much, man.”