Lioness

by Nell Brien

  “Well, look who’s back from the wars. How are you, old son?”

  “Not complaining, Ben.” Campbell looked around the bar, nodding briefly in response to an expansive wave from Brian Ward. Cigar smoke rose in blue wreaths, moving lazily as the broad arms of the ancient wooden ceiling fans slowly rotated.

  “Come and have a drink,” Ben Masters said. “Clive’s here. We’ve just been reliving some of your greatest glories. Wales’s Whoppers.” He laughed, waved at a large blonde at the end of the bar, his face buried in a pint mug of beer. “Clive, look who’s turned up. Speak of the bloody devil, eh?” Masters’s jovial voice carried across the room.

  Clive van der Moot roared a greeting. “Where’ve you been? You’re too much the stranger in these parts.” He ambled over, threw an arm around Campbell’s shoulder, then wrinkled his nose. “Whew! Well, a drink first, then you better clean up. Bit of a dance going on. You can’t go in smelling like that.”

  “Can’t stay, I’m afraid.” At any other time, Campbell would be glad to see him. As boys, he and Clive had played rugby for the Prince of Wales Academy in Nairobi. Jointly, they’d been known as Wales’s Whoppers. Whenever their old schoolmates got together, talk eventually turned to those long-ago exploits on the rugby field. “I’d like to rescue your poor wife, Clive, but Ben’ll just have to give her my sympathy.” He grinned at Ben. “Tell her I’ve seen those size fourteens of his in action.”

  “Just jealous, old boy,” Clive said loftily, “because you don’t have my sense of rhythm.”

  “Dougie Maxwell here?” Campbell asked.

  Clive made a show of looking around. “No. Haven’t seen him. You, Ben?”

  Ben Masters opened his light green eyes as if he had difficulty recalling the name. “No. Can’t say I have, old son.”

  Campbell looked from one to the other, then shook his head. “You’re a couple of piss-poor liars. Where is he?”

  Masters put a restraining hand on Campbell’s arm. “Now, Dan, don’t do this. Just get him in here and talk—”

  Campbell turned his full attention on him, challenging him to continue. Blood rose in Masters’s ruddy cheeks. He looked away.

  “I’ll find him myself,” Campbell said. He clapped Masters on the shoulder. “Good try, Ben.”

  Campbell exchanged greetings with a number of men as he moved toward the end of the bar and the door to the terrace beyond, shaking his head to the shouted invitations to have a drink. Just in front of the open French doors, Brian Ward planted himself in Campbell’s path, making his immense bulk impossible to avoid.

  “Good to see you, Campbell. How’s that young woman? The Stanton girl I mean, of course, not the other…er, your other—” He grinned, letting the words hang, malice sparkling in the small hard eyes. “Heard you’ve had a bit of trouble again in that quarter.”

  Campbell stopped. If this man even mentioned Morag’s name, he thought, he’d hit him. In spite of the difference in age and physical condition, he’d put this soft sack of blubber right on his arse. “Trouble, Ward?” He shook his head. “You must be listening at the wrong keyholes.”

  Ward used his belly as a battering ram, moved even closer. “I don’t think so.” He looked around at the crowding men, intent on their own boozy conversations, and leaned forward until Campbell could smell the sour, whiskey-laden breath. Ward lowered his voice. “Heard about the other matter, too. The Australians. Keep it all under wraps, that’s what I say. Not good for business, not good at all.”

  Campbell kept his face expressionless. There was a leak in N’toya’s organization, he thought, stunned. The two bodies had been brought back to Nairobi with Reitholder—N’toya was keeping all three, the quick and the dead, secure until the ivory was in their own hands. Then the old man would have to decide what to do with the Australians. He would figure something out.

  “You’ve got me at a disadvantage, Ward,” he said. “I haven’t heard of any trouble with Australians in the bush.”

  “Yes, you have. Couple of Australian boys. Killed in a raid on a poaching camp, according to my sources.” Ward put his mouth to Campbell’s ear. “Don’t worry. Mum’s the word, of course.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Mum’s the word, Campbell. Old bush hands like us have to stick together, don’t y’know. What? What?”

  “What are you drinking, Ward? Scotch?” Campbell turned to the bartender. “Kauna. Couple of doubles here, please.” He took Ward’s arm. “Let’s find a table, I’d like to know more about this poaching camp—”

  A voice from the terrace cut through his words. “If he’s looking for me, here I am.” The pale curtain, floating in the breeze from the open door, was thrust aside. A tall, well-muscled figure stood in the doorway. He was in black tie, his waist encircled by a wine-red cummerbund. “There you are, Campbell. I hear you want to talk to me.”

  “Well, Campbell,” Ward said softly. “Just like the old days. Cherchez la femme, eh?”

  Campbell barely heard him. He stood, shouldered through the suddenly quiet crowd of men, then stopped in front of Dougie Maxwell.

  Maxwell started to speak, and Campbell slammed an open hand against his shoulder. Maxwell staggered backward, through the door, Campbell following. Light from the open doors to the ballroom spilled in golden pools onto the flagstone terrace, curtains blew gently in the jasmine-scented breeze. Dance music came to a crashing finale, a burst of clapping following a riffle of drums, a few high-spirited bellows of appreciation.

  “Now wait a minute, Campbell. Let’s talk about this—”

  “You were warned, Dougie,” Campbell said.

  “It was only one night. I swear. I won’t see her again. I don’t want to fight you—”

  “Too fucking late.” With one hand, Campbell caught a handful of Maxwell’s dark hair, jerked his head down to meet an upswinging fist. Blood spurted and dripped onto Maxwell’s tucked dress shirt. He broke loose, brought up his hands, dropped a shoulder, turned his body, threw a hard punch at Campbell’s face. Campbell landed two short blows to the kidneys, then a right deep into Maxwell’s diaphragm. The man doubled over, fighting for breath.

  Campbell stepped in. The beating was businesslike and systematic, without passion, finished in minutes. Then he held up the half-conscious Maxwell, pushed him into Clive van der Moot’s arms. “Get him a vet.”

  As he left, no one tried to stop him.

  In his office, Campbell took a healthy swig of the scotch in his glass, leaned back gratefully in his old swivel chair. Maxwell had connected enough to make him ache. He took in the trophies covering the walls, wondering whether he would ever again enter this room without seeing them, as he’d done for so many years. Before Cat Stanton. She had got to him, and he couldn’t afford it. He needed the hard shell he’d cultivated. He propped his feet on his desk, closed his eyes. Exhaustion ran like rods of hot iron down the back of his neck, into his spine.

  He jerked awake, reached for the hunting knife at the same moment he brought his feet softly to the floor. The scratch at the door sounded again. He crossed to the door, opened it.

  Stephen N’toya slipped into the room. As usual, he was dressed entirely in black. Cautious man, N’toya, Campbell thought. He should live a long time, die surrounded by his grandchildren. He closed the door, dropped the knife on the desk.

  “You making a habit of home visits?”

  “It’s not wise to trust the phone.” N’toya took in the bruise just beginning to blossom on Campbell’s cheekbone. “I heard there was trouble with Morag. You should have let me know. I would have had Maxwell dealt with.”

  “I handle my own affairs, thanks.”

  “Yes, but your affairs get to be mine when they interfere with what’s on hand. We’ve got too much at risk, here, Dan.” He took the glass Campbell held out to him. “Where’s Morag now?”

  “Jock took her upcountry this morning,” Campbell said shortly.

  “To Erukenya?”

  Campbell grunted an assent.

 
; “How long is she going to be there?”

  Campbell frowned. “Why the sudden interest?”

  “Just friendly concern, n’duga.”

  “Save your concern for your own business, Stephen. Brian Ward was drooling all over me at the Muthaiga Club tonight, couldn’t wait to tell me about dead Australians.”

  “How did he get hold of that information?”

  “Pays the same eyes and ears you do, I suppose. You are going to have to stop it somehow. My men take enough risks without that.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out, but you know how it is. Rumor takes on a life of its own.”

  “I don’t care how you do it, just do it. And there’s something else. Talk to the old man and get a decision on what to do with this new load once we get it. If it’s as much as you say, we can’t take it to the farm.” Campbell got up, went to look through the shutters at the main house, empty now with everyone upcountry. Maybe, before she left for Los Angeles, Cat could…He stopped the thought, mentally shook himself. He had to keep his mind focused. Too much was at stake. “Reitholder secure at the warehouse?”

  “That’s why I’m here. He’s out.”

  Campbell turned. “He’s what?”

  “Two nights ago. He bribed a guard.”

  “Jesus Christ! Again? Again? Don’t you ever learn?”

  “Bribery is endemic. What is there to learn from that?”

  “I’ll have to get back to Maasai Springs,” Campbell said. “He’s going to go straight for her.”

  “I don’t think so, not now. Moving the ivory is his priority, he won’t have time for Cat Stanton. Anyway, how would he know she was there?”

  “He’ll find out. If that psychotic bastard thinks her brother told her anything at all, he’ll send men to kill her.”

  “Tom will get her back to Nairobi—”

  “Tom has no bloody idea Reitholder’s broken loose.”

  “Cat Stanton has become important to you, n’duga—”

  Campbell cut him off. “I am not your brother. I never was. And keep out of my private life.”

  “In our business, personal feelings are a complication. Don’t get soft on me, Campbell.”

  “Do I sound soft to you?” Campbell asked.

  Stephen shrugged without answering.

  Campbell checked his watch. “It’ll be daylight in about five hours. I’ll fly back to Maasai Springs. If anything happens to her, Stephen, I’m going to hold you responsible. You’d better start praying I find them there.”

  Twenty-Seven

  He should never have agreed to meet in the fucking bush just so this fool could put on his fatigues. Reitholder tuned out General Francis’s voice and listened to the hyenas skulking just beyond the ring of light thrown by the lantern. He was tired and in pain, but he was still under orders from the Afrikaner Broederhood, and he knew his duty as his father had before him. He brought his attention back.

  “The rhino horn will be sent out by diplomatic courier,” General Francis was saying. “The same embassy, but the ambassador has increased his price. We have to agree to it, but we’ll find someone else for the next load.”

  Reitholder nodded. “And the trucks?”

  “The same trucking company and the same drivers. Half now, half when the trucks have delivered their load safely. No pay if they are apprehended.”

  “Who the fuck is going to—” Reitholder put a sarcastic twist to the word “—apprehend them? The police are paid off and the army is in our pocket, man.”

  Reitholder threw a couple of pills into his mouth, washed them down with a weak scotch and water.

  “You want to be more careful with those things, my friend,” General Francis said. “A mixture of codeine and alcohol can be deadly.”

  “When I need advice on my health, General, I will get a doctor.” Reitholder reached for the bottle of scotch on the center of the camp table Francis’s men had set up beneath the canvas lean-to before he’d arrived and deliberately poured another two fingers of whiskey into his glass. He leaned back without flinching. The wounds had started to scab, but still every movement caused them to bleed. “Let’s move on, man. I don’t want to spend the whole night here. I got a couple of girls waiting for me in Nairobi.” He laughed, watching Francis’s face. “Virgins, twelve years old. Twins. I bought them from their father, guaranteed clean, and I don’t want them fucked by someone else before I get there.”

  Francis looked at him with distaste. “The tusks are in Nairobi, being sorted for quality and size,” he said. “When that has been done, they’ll be moved to Mombasa and loaded onto the freighter. The Broederhood will have a representative on board, and I will have two—”

  Reitholder grunted. “You must be going cross-eyed, man, watching your watchers.”

  General Francis went on, “The tusks will be counted again while in transit, then transferred to the Chinese dhows lying off Macau. They will be counted for the final time after landing in Macau and turned over to the buyers from Hong Kong in the usual way. All that is now in place. You and I will not meet in person again after tonight. However…” Francis paused dramatically, lit a cigarette, blew out the match, broke it in two and placed it on the table.

  “You must have been a Boy Scout once, General. I didn’t know that.” Reitholder grinned, careful not to resplit his damaged lips. “We’ve both traveled a long bloody trail since those quiet days, eh?”

  Their paths had crossed and recrossed, from Angola to Mozambique, Francis part of the Communist struggle, while he himself had orders from Johannesburg to fish in troubled waters. Francis was a Marxist in the old Stalinist mode, unleashing wholesale terror, burning villages, ordering executions to maintain discipline, rape to bring husbands and fathers out of the forests, starvation to subdue civilian populations. They were two sides of the same bloody coin, he and Francis, Reitholder thought, both using destabilization to achieve their goals. Too bad Francis was such a moralistic prick.

  Francis ignored his comment. “However,” he went on firmly, “word has come to me of a large cache upcountry. Few men guarding it, easy to take. My informant was the same man who had a hand in your release. I don’t know him, but he knows of me. I have already put some noses to work on that, sniffing the air. But since we have everything in place, I propose we act on this tip and add these tusks to what we are already sending to Hong Kong.”

  “So, why tell me?” Reitholder said. “My men live in the bush. We take the tusks, the horns and skins. And we take the risks. You do the rest.”

  “Colonel, the herds are severely diminished, and a new man has been appointed to clean up the Wildlife Department—”

  Reitholder broke in. “Ach, reform movements, they come, they go. Nothing changes, man. Kaffirs can always be bribed. And while there is a beast left standing, I’ll bring it down.”

  “Of course,” General Francis said smoothly. “But consider this. We take this ivory at very little risk, and at the same time we send a very large message to the people involved to go into another line of work.”

  Thunder rumbled in the southwest and lightning forked. The rains had started. Reitholder took a moment to think.

  “I have some business to take care of first,” he said finally. “My kaffirs are already on their way to Maasai Springs.”

  “What for? What can be more urgent than ivory?”

  “Survival.”

  “Whose?”

  Reitholder grinned at him. “Mine. Who else you think I give a shit about?”

  “What has that got to do with Maasai Springs?”

  “The Stanton woman is there.”

  “You are sure?”

  “I got people tracking rhino in that area.”

  “This is a mistake.” Francis shook his head. “If she’s a problem, I will take care of her myself in Nairobi. You have my word. I can have her followed. I’ll use our contacts in the army, or I can arrange a traffic accident in the street. Anything is possible. She can be stopped. The ivory, Colone
l. Keep your mind on the ivory. This is a one-time opportunity. The woman is nothing. What damage can she do?”

  “I don’t want her back in Nairobi,” Reitholder said stubbornly. “Her brother knew my face. He was always taking pictures. Maybe he got mine. He could have sent her letters. Who the fuck knows. If she gets back to Nairobi she will keep asking her questions.” He grinned, winced at the stretch of healing skin. “Besides, she’s Campbell’s woman. Eh? Eh? I know that old story. Snatching another woman from under his nose will be like snatching his balls.” He laughed. “Worse than killing him.”

  “Another accident in the bush, and to Stanton’s sister, is foolhardy. Imagine the shock waves. The new man heading the Wildlife Department won’t let it go. He’s serious and he’s incorruptible. Romantic fools in the international press already call him Richard the Lionheart. You’ll have the Americans asking questions, the government forced to respond. And Campbell will come after you, personally. Make no mistake about that.”

  “Sure. Gets even better, eh?” Reitholder took a gulp of the stronger drink, felt it jolt his nervous system. “Two dead Americans not so easy to cover up as one. He’ll have to answer some hard fucking questions, Mr. Fucking Campbell. So, I take care of this first, then we talk about the other. Ja. Sounds good. But this we take for ourselves, General. What you think, man? Who would know? A little retirement fund, just in case you decide you’d rather retire to Florida than be Kenya’s Fidel Castro.”

  He thought he’d choke on his own laughter.

  Twenty-Eight

  The sun blazed straight overhead, and noise seemed to crush the nerves in Cat’s brain with each grinding change of gear. She fumbled for aspirin, pressed her fingers against her throbbing temples and closed her eyes behind her dark glasses.