by Tony Park
The quiet man looked unconvinced. Fletcher told the men he would see them at dinnertime, then walked over to Shane.
‘I was a little abrupt with you earlier,’ Fletcher said.
Shane shrugged. ‘It was nothing. The boys did well today.’
‘Don’t let them catch you calling them that. Boy is a derogatory term.’
‘They’re good men.’
‘That they are. As are you. I checked the scene of that contact. Man, you drilled those okes one time!’
Shane smelled beer on his breath. ‘What’s wrong with that American, the one who wasn’t talking?’
‘Larry? These guys are all part-time soldiers – national guard, they call it in the States. Today was the first time any of them had seen the results of some 7.62 surgery. Two of them loved it, the third one lost his lunch.’
‘Did you go looking for the bearers who got away?’
Fletcher narrowed his eyes. He looked a little unsteady on his feet, then he smiled. ‘Yes, you got me, man. Guilty as charged. After we checked the bodies I gave the Yanks a little lesson in tracking – took them maybe a kilometre into the bush – but those guys were long gone, into Botswana. Still, they loved it.’
‘What would you have done if you had caught up with the ones who got away?’
Fletcher shrugged. ‘You said they were unarmed. I would have tried to stop them, but we wouldn’t have shot them, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t play that way.’
12
‘It’s so wonderful to finally meet you, Doctor!’ Michelle gushed, as hard as she could, as she shook hands with the diminutive Doctor Charles Hamley the Third.
She towered over him. He motioned for her to sit in a lounge chair in the lodge’s bar, as if he owned the place. Fletcher didn’t seem to mind, she noticed, and with the amount of money the good dentist and his friends had put Fletcher’s way, he could nearly have bought Isilwane outright.
While she detested the little man’s love of blood sports, he, as much as Fletcher, was the reason she was still in Africa.
‘I’m so keen to hear about your work, Michelle. And call me Chuck,’ he said, pushing a pair of thin gold-framed spectacles up his nose. He was dressed in pressed safari clothes – khaki bush shirt with a reinforced padded patch on his right shoulder and matching trousers. A finely cropped fuzz of grey hair barely covered a scalp reddened by the merciless African sun after only a day back in the bush.
Fletcher’s maid brought drinks, and Michelle opened her laptop and delivered a twenty-minute PowerPoint presentation she had prepared about her research program, its goals and her achievements to date.
‘Fascinating stuff, Michelle. And you say a pack of dogs has relocated to the hunting concession?’
He seemed genuinely interested in her work. ‘Yes, once I got Fletcher to promise not to eradicate any of the dogs, they seemed to take to the place.’
They all laughed. ‘I heard from Shane Castle, just before you arrived,’ the dentist said. ‘He and Fletcher have had some very encouraging results in their anti-poaching operation, so that’s probably made a safer environment for the wild dogs as well.’
‘Anti-poaching operation – more like a full-scale war, if you believe the newspapers,’ Michelle said.
‘It’s been quiet lately, ever since that big hondo with the Zambian gang,’ Fletcher said, using the Shona word for war. ‘I think our gamekeeper has put the fear of God into the local poachers.’
‘Praise be to Him,’ the dentist intoned.
Michelle rolled her eyes as the dentist closed his. She gave a cheeky smile when Fletcher shot her a look that told her to drop it.
‘Anyway,’ Fletcher continued, ‘Shane hasn’t had a contact since the big one. He’s had his guys out patrolling for snares, and the figures he’s kept show a ninety per cent drop in the number of traps found over the past two months.’
‘Hardly surprising. Who’d want to get nailed by Bruce Willis and his gang of mercenaries?’ Michelle intended it as a joke, but Fletcher took his cue from his benefactor and looked sour. ‘Hey, don’t get me wrong, if I found someone who’d set a snare that caught one of my dogs I’d tear his balls off!’ That approach, involving crudity – the dentist might have called it ‘cussing’, she thought – went down about as well as her earlier remark.
‘Anyway, it seems we can drink to success all round at Isilwane,’ Chuck said brightly.
‘Amen,’ Michelle said.
‘Amen, indeed!’ Chuck said, beaming. ‘Now, my dear, has Fletcher told you the real purpose of my visit?’
Michelle looked at Fletcher, then shook her head.
‘What do you know about the Democratic Republic of Congo?’ Chuck asked.
‘Lots of wars and gorillas?’ She’d heard from Fletcher that his contact in the Zimbabwean Army, Brigadier Moyo, had offered him a joint-venture stake in a hunting concession near the Virunga National Park, in the north-east of the DRC. The park, she knew already, was part of a network of reserves that straddled the Ruwenzori Mountains – the so-called Mountains of the Moon – which were spread across the Congo, Burundi, Rwanda and Uganda. What those countries had in common, aside from a virtually ceaseless round of conflicts and civil wars over the past few decades, was that they were home to remnant populations of the endangered mountain gorillas.
‘I’m very interested in investing in wildlife conservation in that part of the world, Michelle, not only in support of the mountain gorillas – which already attract a good deal of funding from various international organisations – but also in the protection of other game in the area.’
She found the use of the word ‘game’ coming from a hunter mildly distasteful, as though any animal were fodder for his guns. She would have used the term ‘wildlife’. ‘To ensure there are sufficient numbers for future hunting.’ She said it not as a question or an accusation, merely a statement.
‘Exactly, Michelle. Hunting can bring foreign currency into a devastated area long before mainstream tourists return. If, for example, you tell me there are viable populations of unusual trophy animals, such as sitatunga or giant hog in the forests around the Virunga National Park, then we spread the word and start getting that country back on its feet again.’
He seemed so earnest, almost caring. Michelle found it bizarre. ‘I’m not sure, Chuck. I mean, it sounds like a great offer, but I’m pretty attached to my work here.’
‘I could find half-a-dozen pro-hunting ecologists back home who would go over there, spend time in the concession that Fletcher is looking at, and tell me, hand on heart, that it is safe for me to go in there all guns blazing and kill whatever I want, Michelle.’
She sat back in her chair and regarded the pair of them. Fletcher looked back at her, eagerly awaiting her answer. She guessed he wanted her to accompany him to the jungles of the DRC – for other than scientific reasons. He had visited her at Main Camp three times since her altercation with the gangsters at Isilwane, and he had been smart enough to realise that he had fouled up by standing her up over the trip to Victoria Falls. She had snubbed his advances that first time – keeping it to just dinner – then slept with him on his subsequent two visits.
She had returned to Isilwane five days earlier, ostensibly in search of the wild dogs again, and had stayed at the lodge rather than in the national park. It was a world away from her cottage at Main Camp, and while she found the idea of having servants on call initially a little uncomfortable, it only took her a couple of days to get used to the maid tapping on the door of the master bedroom every morning to deliver a tray of tea and coffee to Fletcher and her.
‘What would happen to my work here with the dogs if I moved to the Congo? It’s just as important.’
‘Don’t tell me you don’t get requests for people to come and help you?’ Chuck asked.
‘All the time.’ She had a drawer full of unanswered letters from fellow scientists and graduate students who wanted to assist her with her work, which was becoming be
tter known now that she had published two papers in conservation journals.
Chuck explained that he had been so impressed with what he had seen at Isilwane that he wanted to double his contribution to the lodge’s conservation fund. It was his wish, if the details could be ironed out, that the wild dog research continue, with funding allocated for an assistant, perhaps a postgraduate student under Michelle’s supervision. ‘But I’d like you to do the initial work up in the DRC, and maybe fly back down here to Zimbabwe once every couple of months to check progress on the wild dog research.’
‘That sounds very generous, Chuck, but why me? You hardly know me.’
‘Fletcher knows you, and I’ve seen some of the work you’re doing. I’m a generous man, Michelle, and the good Lord knows I can afford to be. But I detest the idea of giving money to a big conservation organisation, not knowing if it will be spent on protecting animals or the drinks bill for the next international convention on walrus-tooth smuggling!’
She laughed. She felt her resolve weakening. The simple truth was she was there at the grace of men such as Doctor Charles Hamley and, like it or not, they had the final word on where their money would be spent. She had never been to the DRC, but it fascinated her – a land of dense, mysterious jungle filled with wildlife she had only ever read about.
Chuck continued, ‘I prefer to invest in people, such as you, Fletcher and Shane and his guys. That way I can see results for myself.’
‘Besides,’ Fletcher interrupted, ‘the rains will be here soon. You know very well business comes to a halt once the wet season starts. The game disperses and the roads are rubbish, so it won’t matter as much if you’re not here. Up in the Congo, their serious rains won’t start until next March. They have what they call their small rains from October to December, but we can still hunt. It dries out again in January and February.’
She nodded in agreement. It was the time of year when she allowed herself a vacation from Zimbabwe. The year before she had returned to Canada for Christmas, though she was looking forward to avoiding family commitments this year and maybe travelling to parts of Africa she hadn’t yet visited. The offer on the table would take her to an exotic part of the continent she might never see otherwise. ‘What about the security situation up there?’
‘It’s been bad,’ Fletcher explained. ‘The Virunga Park and the areas around it have been a haven to several different refugee and militia groups in recent years. They had the Rwandan Hutu rebels spill across the border after the genocide there; the Lord’s Resistance Army from Uganda hides out in the DRC’s jungles when they’re on the run from their government; plus there are the various rebel factions from within the Congo itself.’
‘Sounds dangerous. I’ve heard poaching is terrible up there. I read somewhere the elephant population in the Virunga has dropped from seventy thousand to fourteen thousand in the last few years.’
‘That’s true. And the hippo from Lake Edward have been decimated to feed starving refugees. All of that could be a problem, but . . .’
‘Knock, knock,’ Shane said, striding into the bar. ‘I’ve just finished the debrief with my guys,’ he told Fletcher. ‘Hi, Michelle, and hello again, Chuck.’
Michelle smiled a greeting at the tall, dark-haired ex-soldier. The hunter of men, was how she still thought of him, and she still hadn’t made up her mind if that sobriquet put him a notch above or below the likes of Fletcher and Chuck. All that aside, shaved and scrubbed he was a handsome specimen.
‘Perfect timing, Shane,’ Fletcher said. ‘We were just about to start talking about you. Grab a drink from the girl.’
Shane ordered a beer from the maid. ‘Are they trying to talk you into relocating to the DRC as well?’ he asked Michelle.
She nodded. ‘I gather Fletcher was just about to say that you and your band of mercenaries will be coming along to protect us and kill some more poachers.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve just told the guys,’ he said to Fletcher. ‘Wise was a bit reluctant. He spent time up there with the Zim Army, but when I explained the pay and conditions he came around. Caesar just wants to stay with the crew, but old Charles is looking like he’s on his last legs. Shame.’
‘There will be funding for Shane to recruit more people for his anti-poaching team,’ Chuck said to Michelle, in an attempt, she assumed, to allay her fears further.
‘Out of the frying pan into the fire, sounds like to me,’ she said.
Shane looked at her. ‘The security of the new camp, and the personal security of Fletcher, his clients . . . and you if you’re in, will be my team’s first priority.’
She was about to say something glib, but then she saw the sincerity in his eyes.
‘Come! No decisions now,’ Fletcher said. ‘Let’s eat and we’ll make sure, Chuck, that Shane and Michelle are both pie-eyed when they sign their new contracts!’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Chuck said, raising his soda water.
After dinner, over coffee, Fletcher asked Shane to join him on the lawn, while Chuck, and an increasingly interested Michelle, talked about the details of the proposed new research program, and the unique wildlife of the DRC’s jungles.
‘What’s up, boss?’ Shane asked.
‘It’s about Charles. I’m worried.’
‘Me too, his health is getting worse and —’
‘No, it’s more than that, Shane. It’s very serious, in fact. And, AIDS or not, I don’t want him coming to the DRC with us.’
‘What’s up?’
Shane listened, stunned, as Fletcher recounted the details of a meeting with the chief warden of Hwange National Park and the senior ranger from the parks and wildlife station at Matetsi, which administered the hunting concessions, including Isilwane’s.
The warden and the ranger had said that on four occasions over the past three weeks national parks callsigns – anti-poaching patrols – had radioed Charles at the Isilwane operations room and advised him of possible poaching gangs moving through the concession. The parks officials had put Fletcher on the spot, wanting to know why no sign of assistance had been rendered.
‘I haven’t received any messages asking for support from parks since the shoot-out with the Zambians,’ Shane said.
‘I know. You would have told me if you had, Shane,’ Fletcher said. ‘I hate to draw conclusions, but . . .’
‘You think Charles has been deliberately holding back information? I’ve been relying on his local knowledge, while things have apparently been quiet, to suggest areas for our snare sweeps.’
‘I don’t like saying it, but it appears that Charles may have even been deliberately sending you and your guys to areas away from where the poachers are. I have to tell you also that he asked me for money recently.’
‘What?’ Shane was alarmed that Charles hadn’t gone through the chain of command if he wanted a pay rise, but Fletcher explained that what Charles was after was not a salary increase but a commitment to ongoing support for his family after his death.
‘I’m afraid I was a bit short with him. He’s my employee, but he hasn’t been here long enough for me to offer him a death benefit pension for his family. I sent him packing. Besides, his wife and kids will have his parks pension when he dies.’
Shane wished Charles had come to him first. He might have been able to negotiate something on the old man’s behalf. He realised that as the commander of the anti-poaching team it was an area he should have looked into earlier – what compensation payments would be made if one of the team were killed or incapacitated in the line of work. He had his own life insurance – the premiums were astronomical – but his Zimbabwean foot soldiers would never be able to afford such protection. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You reckon he’s on the take?’
Fletcher nodded. ‘You’ll have to sort him out, Shane. He’s your man.’
‘I’ll do it now,’ Shane said, draining his cup of coffee. It would be the worst and hardest job of his life, he thought.
Th
e wind, for the first time since Shane had arrived back in Africa, blew cold and from the south, instead of from the vast hot plains and saltpans to the west. The dry season was ending. He thought he smelled rain, far off.
Michelle retired to her bedroom before Chuck and Fletcher, but had hardly gotten undressed and between the sheets when she heard the soft knock on her door.
‘That was quick. Where’s the dentist?’ she whispered.
‘Jet-lagged. I think he was only waiting for you to go to bed.’
‘What happened to Shane? He left without saying goodnight.’ Timber shutters rattled on their hinges outside her window.
Fletcher explained briefly that he had trouble with one of his men, a disciplinary matter that needed sorting out.
‘So, what do you want, Bwana Reynolds?’
‘You.’
‘I don’t come easy,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘That’s not what I’ve noticed.’
She laughed, then the grin vanished. ‘And I can’t be bought, Fletcher. I’ll come to the Congo out of curiosity, but don’t think it’s Chuck’s dollars that are attracting me.’
‘The ball’s in your court, Michelle,’ he said, sitting on the bed beside her. He reached out to stroke her hair, which was fanned across the starched white pillowcase. The rounded top of her left breast was visible above the sheet. He let his fingers trail down her neckline. ‘What do you think of him?’
‘He’s a little creepy. I don’t know what it is about him, but I think there’s a nasty streak under all the Christian do-gooding and polite manners.’ A shiver ran through her body. It could have been the stiffening cool breeze that exploited the gaps in every door and window frame in the lodge.
‘You’re a tough judge of character. He’s absolutely besotted with you. Thinks you’re a goddess.’
She sniffed. ‘Have you told him about us?’
Fletcher nodded. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘I’d rather he thinks that I’m attached than imagining he can woo me by increasing my research grants.’