Lioness
Page 31
Cat shook her head. “A rest, I think.”
And time alone to think this through, she thought. Morag nodded and closed the door.
Campbell had lied about knowing Stephen N’toya. Every other lie he’d told faded next to that. Trust me, he’d said. And like a fool, she had. All her doubts about Joel’s death came roaring back. Joel was right. Nothing was as it seemed. That was the only thing she could trust.
Why was an armory of sophisticated weapons housed in an animal infirmary? Why did Moses and Sambeke disappear when she waved to them? Why would a simple quarantine barn be guarded by heavily armed men?
Why would Joel send her sketches of a terrorist camp and yet never mention it to Campbell?
She felt as if she had entered a maze from which there was no return. She could only see the path ahead. And she had no choice but to take it.
Somehow, the evening passed. Around nine, Cat started to yawn. With a small, apologetic laugh, she replaced her coffee cup in the saucer. “Sorry. I can hardly keep my eyes open. It must be the altitude. I’m going to have to turn in.” She rose to her feet.
“I’ll walk you to your door.” Campbell put his own cup down and stood.
Morag slid a knowing smile in Jock’s direction, then sang out, “Good night, you two.”
“I’ll be right back, Mogs,” Campbell said, grinning at her. “I’ve got to go down to the compound. Zama’s taking Tembo out in the morning.”
“To Tsavo?” Morag brought her chin up, ready for battle.
Jock intervened. “No. She’s going to a private reserve near Meru to join a herd made up of orphans. She’ll be safe there. We finished the arrangements today.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant!” Morag looked at Campbell with shining eyes. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, not tonight, Mogsie,” Campbell said. “You’d be in the way. Turn in early, and you can go with Zama tomorrow to get Tembo settled at the reserve.”
A chorus of thanks and good-nights followed them. As soon as they were alone, Campbell said, “There’s been something wrong all evening. What is it?”
Cat had managed to avoid him before dinner, unsure she’d be able to carry off being alone with him. In spite of the holes, the things unsaid, what had been between them had been sweet beyond belief.
“I have to leave in the morning, too,” she said. “I have to see Patel Brothers in Nairobi, and then get the flight to London tomorrow night.”
His face settled into heavy lines. “I thought we had more time.”
“The call this afternoon was from John Rifken,” Cat said. “I’m needed in Los Angeles.”
“Cat. I—” He stopped.
She put her arms around him, her head against his shoulder, waiting for him to tell her what she wanted to hear. She felt as if her veins were open, her love, hope, trust draining out, pooling around their feet.
“I’ll be late tonight,” he said.
“I’ll be awake.”
She slipped out of his arms, opened her door before he could see her tears. Inside, she leaned her back against the door, listening for his receding footsteps, hearing nothing. But she knew he had gone.
She crossed the room, swung the curtains wide and opened the French door to the enclosed garden. Cold air rushed in. The night was peaceful in the silver wash of moonlight. No roar of hunting lions, or screams of dying prey. No maniacal laughter of hyena that always caused the hair on the back of her neck to ripple. Just the breeze whispering through the long, errant strands of plumbago spilling over the walls of the garden. She wondered if the resident mongoose was sleeping, or whether the hours of darkness was when it dragged torpid snakes from their slumber.
Half an hour passed, then she heard the engine of a Land Rover start up, fade into the night. Campbell going down to the compound. She turned back into the room, cracked the door into the hall. Voices floated from the sitting room. Jock and Morag saying good-night. It had been sheer luck Campbell had to go down to the compound, saving her from pleading her period had started and she needed to sleep alone. He’d have thought her crazy, but it was all she could think up at such short notice.
Cat eased the door closed and returned to her place looking out into the garden, waiting. The house had that indefinable feeling of settling for the night. Somewhere a door banged. Then nothing but the gentle breath of silence.
Quickly she changed into the dark cord pants and the boots Campbell had insisted she take with her to Mount Elgon. She dragged a dark sweatshirt over her head, checking to see that the Beretta was loaded before shoving it into her belt. She looked at her watch, decided to give it until ten-thirty—five more minutes. She vibrated with tension. If only she hadn’t pried open that drawer, she could have spent the night unaware, safely wrapped in Campbell’s arms. Instead, she would be skulking about his home like an armed bandit.
At ten-thirty, she pushed a flashlight into the pouch of the sweatshirt, followed it with a couple of apples from the bowl of fruit Mary kept replenished, then opened the door to the hallway. Moonlight flooded through the windows in the corridor connecting Campbell’s quarters to the main part of the house. She closed the door gently behind her, sped as quietly as she could on booted feet to the entry hall, glancing into the sitting room as she passed. The fire was low, the room as peaceful and lovely as his mother had left it.
Opening the front door, she slipped through, pulling it closed behind her, then took a minute to listen, hearing nothing but the sound of her own blood thumping in her ears. So far so good.
The driveway was a rocky white stream vanishing into the darkness. Without giving herself another minute to think what might be out there—her imagination had already been doing overtime—Cat plunged into the night. Above her head the wind soughed through creaking branches. Just before the curve of the driveway hid it from view, she turned to look at the sleeping house.
She still had a choice, she thought. She could go back, forget all this. Wait for Campbell to return. Make love. Go back to Nairobi tomorrow, then home to Los Angeles.
And then what? Ask herself questions for the rest of her life? Or try to live with the knowledge she had been lied to and manipulated, her time here managed? Wonder about the camp Joel had sketched, and whether he’d been killed because of it? And if a man she loved had been a party to his death?
She put her hand in her pocket, touched the Beretta. It was warm from her body. She turned back into the darkness.
Halfway down the driveway she found the break in the trees Jock had pointed out to her when they’d passed it that afternoon in the Land Rover on the way to the stable. In brilliant afternoon sunshine, the track had looked well used. But tonight, within half a dozen steps, she was lost in what felt like deep forest. All she had was a general idea of the direction she had to take. For a moment she stood still, examining the surrounding bush, reluctant to ruin her night vision by using the flashlight. Slowly, tree by tree, the forest began to take form. Not as thick as she’d imagined.
Carefully feeling her way, she moved forward, following what she thought was the track. Every other step, it seemed, enormous exposed roots caught at her feet. Occasionally, a glimpse of the moon penetrated the canopy of trees, and she watched it when she could, more for comfort than for the thin silvery light. Far off to her right, she thought she heard the rustle of a heavy body. Stalking her. She took the Beretta out of her pocket, slipped off the safety. Hands shaking, she switched on the flashlight. Like ghosts, the trunks of trees gleamed white in the beam. Nothing moved. She could hardly breathe, let alone aim and fire at whatever was there. The waterhole Campbell had shown her was miles from here. Miles. But lions, Tom had told her, traveled great distances.
She stopped, ears straining to hear every sound. All she heard was the sigh of wind high in the trees. If she was going to do what she intended, her night vision was all important, so she switched off the flashlight, waited for her eyes to adjust to the blackness around her before she continued, the gun clutched in one hand.
Briefly, she lingered in the shadow of the trees, watching for a guard—Jock had said the area was patrolled regularly. No one seemed to be about. She slipped the safety back on the Beretta, pushed it into her pocket. It took only seconds to race across the exposed yard, slip into the barn. She left the door open to allow light from the moon to enter, hoping no one would check during the few minutes she would be inside.
Equine heads peered at her curiously from over the half doors. She made her way quickly along a line of looseboxes, stopping in front of the mare she had ridden earlier. The animal whickered gently with pleasure at the unexpected company, and Cat offered her an apple, rubbing her nose, murmuring softly. Then she lifted the mare’s bridle from its peg outside the door, slipped it over her head, led her out. It took a minute to pick up the saddle she had used earlier, resting now on the saddletree by the half door, and throw it over the horse’s back.
Three stalls down, she found Campbell’s gelding and offered him the other apple. While he mouthed it gently, she reached for his bridle, finding only a rope halter on the peg. Alarmed, she looked at the saddletree. No saddle. This afternoon, she had remarked on the immaculate condition of the tack. Cleaned and oiled after every use, Jock had said, replaced only when the groom finished with it. So it was bareback, she thought grimly. There was nothing else for it. She slipped on the halter, snapped on a lead rope, opened the door. The gelding followed willingly.
In the dark open doorway of the barn, she waited, listening. Satisfied the patrol was nowhere about, she led the two horses out, closed the barn door behind her, then mounted the mare. Leading the gelding, within seconds she had gained the safety of the trees.
Murmuring encouragement to the mare, she turned toward the collection of farm buildings, the roped gelding firmly in hand. The moon was high, pooling in open glades, deepening the shadows. She could sense the disquiet of the horses.
The distance seemed interminable. She was tempted to turn on the flashlight, look at her watch, but she dared not chance it. She had gone too far to risk discovery now. Then an enormous cedar loomed ahead, and she knew where she was.
At the edge of a patch of grass, she dismounted. She pressed her face against the gelding’s neck, stroking him, offering up a brief plea to whoever watched over horses that the powerful smell of him would not attract the lioness she and Campbell had admired that morning. Only that morning. It seemed hardly possible. Then she tethered him to a tree.
“If all goes well, I won’t be gone long,” she murmured against the satin hide. “Fifteen minutes, I promise. I’ll be back for you.”
Quickly she remounted the mare, pulled her head around, urged her past the giant cedars into the remaining belt of trees.
A few minutes later, she was looking at the building Jock claimed was the quarantine barn.
Thirty-Seven
The building was in darkness. She could see nothing, but the men were there. She was sure of it. Suddenly at the base of the building, a red dot flowered and faded. On the periphery of her vision several more red blossoms flowered.
Cigarettes.
She remained motionless in the darkness of the trees. The soft murmur of voices reached her. A man stepped into the moonlight, an AK over one shoulder. He strolled toward the end of the barn, casually, expecting no trouble.
Now or never, Cat thought. Do it. Breathing an apology, she slammed her heels hard into the mare’s flanks, simultaneously jerking back on the bit. Startled, the mare reared, fighting the conflicting signals. Cat loosened the reins, pulling the horse’s head around, slamming her heels repeatedly into the animal’s flanks. The mare raised her voice in protest. Unnerved, she reared and plunged, squealing in outrage.
The noise carried through the silence. The men called to each other in alarm. Cat couldn’t understand the language, but hoped the message she intended was being received. Simba. Lions. Attacking one of Jock’s straying, prized, blooded broodmares. To ram the message home, she fought the mare, causing her to wheel and plunge, creating enough noise to convince the men a major disaster was in progress right under their noses.
Calling back and forth, men ran to investigate. Cat waited until they were well clear of the barn, then jumped free from the kicking animal and threw the reins securely over the limb of a tree to prevent the mare from actually escaping into the maw of a lion.
Avoiding the men running toward her, their voices raised in anxious questions and answers, weapons at the ready, Cat raced through the trees. Any moment, she expected to hear the crash of gunfire, feel the impact of a bullet. She kept to the trees until she was as close to the barn as she was going to get, then dashed across the open clearing in front of the great double doors. Hands stiff and shaking, she fumbled to open them. They were locked. Panicked, she ran her hands over the door. She knew there was a way—she had seen it earlier. A small judas gate cut into one of the doors. She found it, wrenched it open, stepped inside the barn.
She dared stay only seconds. Swiftly she took out the flashlight, switched it on, played the beam across the interior. Elephant tusks. Rows and rows of tusks piled tidily on each other like corpses, disappearing into the deep gloom of the barn. She was looking at the madness of human greed, the reason for the insane slaughter of a species. Ivory. Hundreds of elephants had been killed for this cache alone. Maybe thousands. She couldn’t tell. Didn’t want to know. The place smelled like a charnel house. But perhaps that was in her mind?
Vomit caught in her throat, and she swallowed, praying for control. Later, she could throw up. Now there was no time. She switched off the flashlight, stepped back through the judas gate into the night, gulped great breaths of sweet air.
Fear gave her legs strength. She could hear the men—it sounded as if they had found the tethered mare and were fanning through the woods. She tore back to the refuge of the trees, making her way toward where she had left the gelding, too frightened to think about what else might be hunting in the darkness. The men behind her were the predators to worry about.
The gelding was where she had left him, dancing about nervously, pulling at the head rope. Forcing herself to be calm, she spoke soothingly as she untethered him, then, praying he would stand still for it, she jumped onto his bare back. He snorted and tossed his head, then settled down, taking comfort from his human burden. Cat turned his head toward the stable. The gelding needed no urging. He knew he was going home, back to his safe stall, out of the dangerous darkness.
Cat gripped the horse with her knees, keeping low to avoid being swept off by the limbs of trees. Branches tore at her clothes, caught in the band holding her hair in a ponytail, tearing it free. Hair whipped around her eyes. They reached an open area, and the gelding stretched into a gallop. The voices had faded, but still she was unsure whether her trail had been picked up. From experience, she knew Moses and Sambeke could keep up a tireless, silent pace through the bush.
By the time she reached the stable yard her heart had steadied. A grim exhilaration fizzed in her blood. At least one of the questions had been answered. Again, she lingered warily in the trees to watch for a patrol before riding into the open. She dismounted, led the gelding inside to his stall.
With the occasional flick of the carefully shielded flashlight to pick out the way, the return to the house seemed shorter than the journey out. The house still slumbered, no lights, no alarm raised.
When the front door closed behind her, she had been gone less than an hour.
On the other side of the hall, light seeped from beneath the door of the office. She crossed to it, listened, ear pressed against the wood. Hearing nothing, she turned the knob.
The computer screen was dark, but the desk lamp
was on, picking up the gold tooling around the edge of the green leather desktop, reflecting off decanters and glasses on a table. The fire had been made up and was blazing merrily. The room was warm and inviting. Waiting for someone.
Quickly, Cat tiptoed to her own room, retrieved the photograph of Joel and N’toya, Campbell and Tom M’Bala looking into the camera, Tom’s arm across the shoulder of the stranger, and returned to the office. She smoothed the picture flat on the desk, studying Joel’s face. He wore a smile, but it looked as if it took effort to keep it in place. Perhaps, though, she was reading more into that than there was. Arms folded, she perched on the edge of the desk and prepared to wait.
Not for long. She heard a Land Rover stop outside. A moment later the door of the office opened. Stephen N’toya entered, his head turned away, speaking softly to Campbell behind him.
In shock, Campbell stared at her over N’toya’s shoulder. It felt like a moment stretching forever—N’toya’s mouth moving, Cat’s wide eyes blazing in a dirt-streaked face, her glorious hair unbound, carelessly pushed back.
He recovered quickly. “Cat! What the devil are you doing here?”
“Hi,” she said. “How are you doing, Stephen? I’m glad I waited up. I would have hated to miss you. You are one hell of a difficult man to reach. Even your friends don’t seem to know you.”
Campbell crossed the room, looked down at the desk drawer.
She followed his gaze. “I didn’t have to jimmy it open. I found the key. And I’ve seen the photographs.” She turned her eyes to the door. “How are you, Tom?”
“Cat.” Tom M’Bala closed the door behind him. Arms folded, he leaned against a wall.
“Well, the gang’s all here, so I guess it’s a good time for a chat. Correction. The gang’s not quite all here.” She reached behind her, picked up the photograph, pretended to study it. “You three are here. Joel, of course, is dead. That leaves one unaccounted for.” She looked up. “Looks like a relative of yours, Tom. A brother?”