Lioness

by Nell Brien

  Now that she knew what she was looking at, it was clear the breaks in the heavy brush she had first taken for game trails were man-made. She slowed, peered through a large opening. It led into another clearing. Nowhere near as large as two football fields, it was filled with rows of drying racks like those in the hunting camp Campbell had dismantled. Scraps of red and blue nylon rope—the same rope used to bind the tusks of the slaughtered elephants—hung from the racks and littered the ground. About halfway down on the left, a track opened up. It seemed heavily rutted, by wheels, not by human feet.

  Another way off this escarpment. She wasn’t even tempted to look.

  It took half an hour to get down the hillside. Although it was plain the training camp was abandoned—that’s what it was, she was sure, a combination terrorist training camp and poachers’ camp—every minute she expected shouts demanding she stop, the crash of gunfire backing up the demand.

  She reached the grassland, turned in the direction she thought would bring her to Maasai Springs. As long as she kept the escarpment directly behind her, she thought, she should end up somewhere in the general vicinity. To make certain, earlier she had made a mental note of a number of landmarks—a tree with broken limbs, an outcropping of rock, a large baobab tree—that would guide her back.

  Half an hour later, she realized she was lost. The escarpment was still behind her but in front on every side was nothing but open plain. The Land Rover carried no water, no supplies. And the sun was distinctly lower in the sky. Campbell and Tom made it seem so easy, driving from place to place without landmarks, always knowing exactly where they were even without the use of a compass, heading unerringly for the campsite set up by Thomas and the Maasai.

  The thought of the Maasai seemed to conjure them up out of nowhere. They appeared, rising out of a declivity in the terrain. Cat slowed, reached for the binoculars, and saw that Moses, distinctive because he was taller than the others, was in the lead, Olentwalla and Sambeke in single file behind him. The three men were eating up the ground in a long, loping stride.

  Cat lowered the glasses. Who were these men? she wondered. Were they friends? Foes? Right now, they were a search party, and without them she would never find her way back to Maasai Springs.

  She stopped the Land Rover, got out, replaced the AK in the rack. The pistol she slipped into her bag. Then she drove toward them.

  Twenty-Five

  By four they were back at Maasai Springs. She had been away for only four hours. Thomas brought tea to her tent, but greeted her thanks with an impassive stare.

  Cat lay on her bed, staring up into the white net. The Maasai had been silent on the way back. Moses had taken the wheel, and no comment had been made about her absence. But Moses made it clear that she would not have another chance to leave Maasai Springs alone. As soon as they arrived in camp, he had removed the keys from the ignition, dropped them into the pocket of his crumpled khakis. Since then, Olentwalla had been hunkered down outside her door. They answered no questions, but there was no mistaking they considered her a prisoner.

  As evening came on, the mist closed in and rain pattered lightly on the canvas roof. She had no desire to get up, turn on the lantern. The grayness matched her mood. All she could think of was Joel, the terrorist camp, who she could tell. How. When. Whether she should say anything at all, to anyone. Or just get home to the United States, let it all go. Forget it. Joel might have been killed because he’d seen too much. Should she take the same risk? Certainly, she wasn’t about to mention what she’d seen to anyone until she got back to Nairobi, and even then—

  The low hum of an engine disturbed her reverie. Cat propped herself on one elbow. A Land Rover engine. Her heartbeat missed, then picked up uncomfortably. Tom couldn’t possibly be back so soon. Campbell said it would take him a couple of days at least to get to the home village with the Maasai women and back again.

  It had to be Campbell. Should she go to meet him? Let him come to her? She grabbed her slicker, opened the door of her tent. Olentwalla unwound his six-foot-nine-inch frame.

  “Bwana Tom come,” he said.

  Cat responded gratefully to the friendly word, the gap-toothed grin he gave her. “I don’t think so, ’Twalla,” she said. “They said it would take at least two days for him to get back.”

  “That Bwana Tom,” Olentwalla insisted.

  It had to be Campbell, Cat thought, and he would not find her languishing in her tent. With Olentwalla almost literally on her heels, she forced herself to saunter to where the keyless Land Rover was parked and peered into the rain. A vehicle became clear. A black arm waved from the window, and she waved back.

  “Jambo, Cat,” Tom called. “Didn’t expect me today, I bet. Everything quiet?” He climbed stiffly from the mud-encrusted vehicle. He spoke to Olentwalla in Maa. Olentwalla answered. Tom’s eyes flickered, but he gave no other sign that what he was hearing disturbed him. He gave a few short commands and Olentwalla turned, faded into the rain.

  “How did you manage to make such good time?” Cat asked pleasantly.

  “Dan said to get here without delay.” Hands on his hips, Tom flexed his spine. “I’m famished. Any food about?”

  “Thomas can rustle up something, I’m sure. So you know he’s gone to Nairobi. Where did you see him?” She hated asking, but couldn’t stop herself.

  “I didn’t. He met a U.N. party. He must have driven like a maniac to get to them in the time he did. They were on their way to the Fig Tree area, anyway, so they intercepted us, took the women on, and I turned back.”

  They entered the mess tent. Cat leaned back in one of the canvas chairs.

  “Thomas is going to bring you some tea, but would you prefer a drink?” Tom asked. “You look exhausted. Are you all right?”

  Cat straightened in her chair. “Why shouldn’t I be?” She heard the sharpness in her voice and smiled to take the edge off the words. “Just bushed. I got knocked out by a wildebeest.”

  She told him about it, putting an amusing spin on the story. They chatted about the stampede. Like Campbell, he’d managed to tuck the Land Rover under an uprooted tree, but in any case, the herd had veered off before reaching them.

  It was almost surreal, chatting about events that now seemed so far in the past and completely unimportant. Did Tom know that the hills they could see in the west held a terrorist camp? Buildings made of fronds and branches deteriorated rapidly—had Joel discovered it after it had been abandoned, or had it been abandoned because he’d discovered it? Had he been killed to ensure his silence? Surely they had to know about that camp; they were supposed to know everything about the bush.

  Thomas placed a pot of tea in front of her, a sandwich and a Tusker before Tom.

  “So, what do you think of Maasai Springs?” Tom asked. “I don’t think we can show you anything better.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right.” She sipped the tea. “I really have to get back to Nairobi now, but before we leave the area, I’d like to see the place where my brother died.” She studied him. He had to be even more exhausted than she was—he’d been driving two days nonstop over horrendous terrain. “I know you’re tired, Tom, but I’d like to do that. Then we can go on to Nairobi.”

  Tom lowered the Tusker to the table. “You must wait until Dan gets back for that.”

  “But we don’t know when that will be.” And Campbell would not find her waiting breathlessly for his explanations. “There is nothing more to do here, but there’s a lot I still have to do in Nairobi. And you, too. I suppose the land is in trust for a particular tribe, so that will have to be sorted out. That’s part of your contract, I believe. Then I have to get back to Los Angeles. I’ve been out of touch for too long because of the damn radio being damaged.”

  Tom was shaking his head doubtfully. “The weather’s very unstable, Cat. A lot more rain is on the way. It would be wiser to wait here until Dan gets back.”

  “Who knows how long he will be? Just take me to see where Joel died, then we�
�ll start back to Nairobi.”

  Tom shook his head. “I’m sorry, Cat. I can’t undertake a journey like that with you.”

  “It’s not a major undertaking. Campbell was going to take me this morning but something more important came up.”

  “He said that?”

  “He didn’t have to. He just left.”

  “No. That he would take you to see where your brother died.”

  “Well, I’m not making it up, Tom. That’s what he said. The plan was to leave as soon as the men got here so that we could be back in Maasai Springs before you arrived tomorrow or the next day. I just want to see the place, we don’t need to stay long.”

  Tom picked up his Tusker, put it down without drinking. “I cannot take you into Tanzania, Cat. I’m sorry.”

  She stared at him, feeling as if she had been struck. When she recovered her voice, she said, “Joel died in Tanzania?”

  Tom looked up. “You just said you knew that.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  Tom stared at her. “Cat, you just said that Dan was taking you there.”

  “I didn’t say Tanzania. No one has said that.” She stared at him. “No one has ever mentioned Tanzania. Joel would not have been looking for a hotel site in Tanzania. What were you doing there?”

  Tom passed a hand over his eyes and forehead. He let out his breath and spoke without looking at her. “We’d just wandered over the border by accident.”

  “You people are experts, Tom. You’d never just wander over—” She stopped speaking. Wait a minute, she thought. They were searching for smuggling routes to take ivory out of the country using Joel’s safari as cover.

  She stood, pushed her chair tidily back in place. “Okay, if you won’t take me there, we’ll leave for Nairobi tomorrow, instead. Will you alert the men?”

  “Cat, let’s at least wait until we know what the weather is going to do.” As if to emphasize his words, rain gusted against the canvas. “I can’t risk trouble with you along. We have only two Land Rovers.”

  “If you want to wait here for Campbell, that’s up to you. But tomorrow morning, I am going to start back to Nairobi. Moses can drive my Land Rover—he’s tough enough.” She thought of the pistol tucked away in her purse. “You keep the other Land Rover and wait for Campbell.” She waited for him to tell her she would not be allowed to leave. They’d traveled closely together, talked for hours, but she realized she did not know him at all. “Or am I going to be held here, whether I like it or not?”

  Tom’s dark, curved lips pressed tightly together, his skin took on a slight gray tone. He touched his fingers to the leather pouch under his shirt. “If you feel that strongly, we can start for Nairobi in the morning.”

  “Thanks. Don’t wait dinner for me. I’ve got work to do.”

  The atmosphere in the Land Rover was as heavy as the soaked landscape. Maasai Springs was far behind them, still wreathed in mist, pools steaming, guinea fowl clanking their strange, metallic call. Her rapport with Tom was shattered, and Cat was too deadened to attempt to retrieve it. She fumbled in her bag for her calculator and notebook.

  The Land Rover tipped, the engine sputtered and died. Cat looked up. Tom cursed in Swahili and threw the gear into four-wheel drive. Slowly they ground out of the mudhole into which they had sunk up to the axle. Cat turned back to her notes. Rain slashed at the windshield. The mood in the vehicle spiraled downward.

  If she had kept her mouth shut, something might have been reclaimed from yesterday, Cat thought. Enough goodwill to make the journey bearable, at least on the surface. Instead, this morning she had hammered the final nail into her relationship with Tom.

  “The men are quiet,” she’d said.

  “Yes,” Tom answered shortly. “This is not good weather for traveling.”

  The day had dawned with heavy rain. Not the diaphanous curtains of water that had been intermittently sweeping the plains, but a sullen, steady downpour.

  She attempted a little of their old friendly banter. “You keep touching that pouch under your shirt. Is the weather that dangerous?”

  “Africans are superstitious, if that’s what you mean,” he said stiffly. “If I thought the weather was dangerous, I would not allow you to leave here. But it’s not good. We’re too small a party traveling with only two Land Rovers.”

  “People travel in small parties all the time. Keep both Land Rovers together. No one rides point, or whatever it is that you have the men do usually.” She glanced at him. “Tom, I have to get back. I need to be in touch with my office.” When they had tried to use the radio earlier, there had been nothing but static. The knot of fear in her diaphragm was tightening. She had to get back to the city, talk to Stephen N’toya, maybe get Father Gaston to make some inquiries. “Look, if we get to Nairobi in two days instead of four, let the men know there will be a bonus in it for them.”

  The instant the words left her mouth she wanted to recall them. But the damage was done. The man she knew as Tom seemed to simply walk back into his skull and disappear. She was staring into total blankness instead of his eyes. And it seemed interminable before those eyes came back into focus.

  “You think because we are African, we can be bought? We do not take bukshi, memsahib. I will get you to Nairobi in the shortest possible time. I will not insult the men with this remark. They cannot be corrupted.”

  “Tom, I’m sorry. That was stupid.” Cat suppressed a flash of irritation. She had offered a tip, not a bribe. At worst stupid, certainly not an enticement to corruption. It seemed to her that this group was corrupt enough. Clearly, tender scar tissue had been bumped by her words.

  Tom had turned and left the mess tent. Those were the last words that had passed between them. Five hours of silence.

  Cat looked out at the rain. Wildebeest still plodded north on their migration, but the herd was widespread, posing no threat. A small group of giraffe rocked in their unique stately fashion, unconcerned among the soaking antelope. A few days ago, Tom would have pointed them out, made her repeat the name in Swahili. Twiga, she said to herself.

  At noon, Tom signaled a stop. Thomas brought coffee and food. Tom climbed out into the rain, ate while pacing between the two Land Rovers as if unable to tolerate her presence in the close confines of the vehicle.

  The sandwiches were cotton in her mouth. She threw them to the vervets scampering from nowhere, their greenish-brown coats impervious to rain.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tom got back into the Land Rover, water dripping from his small tight ears.

  The afternoon dragged on. Twice they had to stop and wait for Olentwalla driving the second vehicle. Each time, Tom jumped out and blistered the air with a mixture of Swahili and Maa.

  “Ease up a bit, Tom,” she said after the last episode.

  “You want to get to Nairobi. This is the way to do it.”

  “Tom, I said I was sorry.”

  He slammed the gears.

  Late in the afternoon they drove close to a herd of elephants. They were knee deep in swamp, green plants hanging from their backs, caught there when they had wallowed in sedge and water hyacinth. Calves about as large as Shetland ponies held up little trunks, fanned translucent ears and watched them curiously through the gray misting rain. Once Tom would have stopped so that she could watch them for a while—groups like this were increasingly rare now. But today they drove on without slowing.

  When they stopped for the night, they tried again to patch through to Nairobi. Still nothing but static. The men did not linger around the fire gossiping. They threw the tents up, posted watch and turned in.

  Sleep was intermittent. Cat kept jolting awake. In the early hours, she looked out of her mesh “window.” Sambeke hunched close to a sullen fire, weapon across his knees, wrapped in a red Maasai cloak that completely obscured his khaki bush clothes. The sounds of the night were muted by rain. Even the lions were quiet.

  The first light of dawn filtered through the mesh as she dressed. Her head felt brittle,
with that strange light-headed clarity that came from lack of sleep. Outside, steam misted the wet grassland, but the sun was rising in a day that was clear.

  Her spirits rose. Today had to be better. It could hardly get worse.

  Twenty-Six

  The inside of Campbell’s eyelids felt as if they were made of sandpaper, and he could smell his own sweat. His shortwave unit had been flooded when he’d crossed the river to pick up the Maasai women, so he still knew only what he’d gathered from the message Jock had left with the men. Morag was gone.

  He hit tarmac, stopped at the first phone he saw—in a small Indian grocery at the center of a village—and phoned Jock in Nairobi.

  “She’s safe,” Jock said. “She was with Dougie Maxwell.”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  “She’s got her door locked, won’t speak to anyone.”

  “All right. Take her up to the farm. I’ll see to Dougie Maxwell.”

  “Good.” Jock’s voice was grim. “There’s a dance at the club tonight. Try there first.”

  Campbell drove across Nairobi without stopping, got on to the Thika Road, pushing the Land Rover to its limit. He skidded into the turn onto Muranga, slowing only when he drove into the driveway of the Muthaiga Club. He slammed to a halt, climbed out and threw the keys to the doorman.

  “How’re things, Matiba? Are you well?”

  “Bwana Campbell! Good to see you, sir. We keep well, praise be to Allah. And you, bwana? You are well?”

  “Yes, well, thanks, Matiba.”

  The rule in colonial times had been “white only,” but that had changed with independence. Campbell glanced through the open door of the ballroom as he passed. A light-skinned young man with a voice that could pass for a young Sinatra fronted an eight-piece band, and the dance floor was crowded with a mix of races, the women in cocktail dresses, the men in dinner jackets.

  His own appearance, unshaven and dirty, bush clothes travel-stained, wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. The old Muthaiga, the most venerable club in East Africa, had been the scene of many a wild gin-soaked debauch in its time. Nothing shocked its membership. He went into the “men only” lounge, ran his eye over the stag line propping up the long dark bar. Most of the men were in black tie. One of them detached himself, came toward Campbell, beaming a welcoming smile.