Safari

by Tony Park

  Fletcher’s expression was grim. It would not be the first time the Interahamwe rebels had used this route. In 1999 a group of militia had ambushed tourists waiting to track mountain gorillas in the Bwindi National Park, and several westerners had been killed. ‘I don’t care where you drive them, Francois, but I don’t want my clients getting into fire fights with Rwandan butchers.’

  Fletcher had warned Anthony, and Charles Hamley, who was due to arrive in two days’ time, that a minor war was underway in the DRC’s eastern border regions, not far from the concession, but neither of them had been deterred from continuing with his safari.

  ‘This is an important business trip for us,’ Anthony had explained down the line from the United States. ‘We’re bringing a new guy on our crew – this is what you might call a team bonding session, and it’s very important. I’m sure you can keep us safe from a few raggedy-assed rebels.’

  Chuck had been just as eager to return to Africa. ‘I’ve some business dealings to discuss with your other clients,’ he had said cryptically, ‘which might be best done in your neck of the woods, away from prying ears, if you know what I mean.’

  Fletcher had no wish to know what sort of business the millionaire dentist and a bunch of mafia thugs might want to discuss. As long as they paid their bills, they could count on his discretion.

  ‘Shane Castle is due back any time now,’ Fletcher said to Gizenga.

  ‘I am concerned about that man. I do not like his attitude. Is it wise continuing to employ him?’

  ‘He’s good, Francois, which is why I’ve kept him on.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the tone of Fletcher’s satellite phone, chirping from the table. ‘Fletcher Reynolds,’ he said.

  The voice on the other end of the line was English, plummy. ‘Hello, Mister Reynolds, my name is Will Delancy. I’m in the market for a safari and you’ve been recommended to me by a friend of a friend of yours from the United States.’

  ‘Well, Mister Delancy, thanks for your call, but I’m a little busy right now. Perhaps I can get your number and call you back some time soon.’

  ‘Afraid that won’t be soon enough, old boy. I heard you were in the Congo and that’s where I’ll be tomorrow. I’m in South Africa now, on some diamond business, and have to come up your way to visit a mine. Flying the family flag and all that, you understand? Of course you do.’

  ‘Again, I’d like to help you, but my camp’s full for the next few days. Who did you say referred you to me?’

  The man snorted a little laugh. ‘Not silly enough to say something like that over the phone, old boy. But it’s a friend of the Chicago dentist. Enough said? I’m only out in the Congo for a few days, Mister Reynolds, and I’m keen on hunting a particular type of primate . . .’

  ‘Look, Mister Delancy, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but . . .’

  ‘Double.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said double. I’ll pay twice your normal fee for the hunt, which, if my information is correct, makes that two hundred thousand dollars – American – for a day’s work. I assume cash would be acceptable? I’ve got some other greenback transactions to make while I’m up your way, so it’s no trouble at all.’

  Fletcher saw Gizenga watching him, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation. He could take the booking and squeeze the Englishman in with the gangsters. If they didn’t like it, he would take him out separately. Also, there was no reason for him to tell Gizenga, or even Chuck, that the man had offered to pay twice the going rate. With that kind of cash, Fletcher could buy another two four-wheel drives, or another couple of houses in Zimbabwe. ‘All right, Mister Delancy. I think that perhaps I can accommodate you. I’ll need your full name again, and passport details, so we can smooth your arrival.’

  ‘Wonderful stuff. It’s a bit of a mouthful, I’m afraid, but it’s Captain, The Honourable William Standish Hobson Delancy.’

  The Honourable! Fletcher smiled. This could open up a whole new line of contacts.

  Fletcher took the rest of the Englishman’s details and noted the time of his arrival at Goma. Gizenga gave him an enquiring look. ‘A late starter. We’ll need at least one more target.’

  ‘We will be out of targets soon, if business keeps up like this,’ Gizenga said. ‘We have to find some more, unless some genuine poachers stumble into the concession again.’

  They both turned at the rattling sound of a diesel engine. The Land Rover pulled into the clearing outside the newly refurbished cottage, and Shane stepped down from the front passenger’s seat. ‘That’s what he’s for,’ Fletcher said.

  Gizenga rolled up his map and, after a perfunctory hello to Shane and Michelle, left with his driver.

  Michelle strode across the freshly scythed grass to Fletcher and rose on her toes to kiss him.

  ‘It’s so good to see you back, Michelle,’ he said, giving her a quick hug, then releasing her as he became aware of other eyes on them.

  Shane stood with his hands clenched loosely at his side, like a boxer waiting to go into the ring. They nodded their greetings to each other and Shane said, ‘We didn’t get a chance to talk properly, before I left for the funeral. When you’ve got a minute, there are some things I’d like to clear up with you. In private.’

  ‘Well, don’t let me get in the way,’ Michelle said. Fletcher thought, from her tone, that she was glad of the excuse to get away from Castle. He was pleased to see Michelle throw Shane a disapproving, resentful look as she turned on her heel and walked to her tent.

  ‘No time like the present,’ Fletcher said. ‘Take a seat.’

  Shane sat where Gizenga had been, and looked over his shoulder, as though checking there were no one in earshot. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.’

  ‘Not a good pastime for a soldier,’ Fletcher smiled.

  Shane stared at him. ‘If I thought too hard about what was going on up here – what you were doing in Zimbabwe – then I might have gone to the police, or tried to take matters into my own hands.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve worked it out,’ Shane continued, ‘or, I should add, I had some help working it out. Wise told me, briefly, before I left to go to hospital to get my ankle seen to, that he had watched Marie Delacroix gun down that man in cold blood. He told me he thought we should call the cops, but I told him to drop it and that we’d talk about it when I got back. I also told him not to say anything to you.’

  Fletcher concentrated on keeping his face immobile, on betraying nothing. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I imagine the silly prick went and did just that.’

  ‘What has Wise’s death got to do with me?’ Fletcher asked.

  Shane leaned forward on the table, palms down, narrowing the gap between them, and stared straight into Fletcher’s eyes. ‘I don’t know, and to tell you the truth, I don’t care. He could have caused you problems, and now he can’t. I’d call that a satisfactory result.’

  ‘That’s a little hard, Shane,’ Fletcher said, leaning back in his chair, uncomfortable with the intensity of the younger man’s gaze, but nonetheless intrigued.

  ‘This is a hard business, Fletcher. War is hard. But having the will to kill criminals, and the sense to make some honest money out of it at the same time – that’s smart.’

  Fletcher said nothing. He decided he would let Shane fill the void.

  ‘I went to see Charles Ndlovu’s widow. Now, before you jump to conclusions and put a hit out on her, don’t worry, she didn’t say a thing. Her line was that Charles had turned, and that he’d made some money by joining the poachers’ team, but it didn’t wash. There was too much money in that family all of a sudden. New furniture, new car outside, son in his own business. Charles didn’t make that kind of loot by picking up an AK and heading off into the bush hunting kudu. I asked the widow if you had given her money and she couldn’t meet my eye. Like I said, she didn’t drop you in it, Fletcher, but I reckon you had a hand in Charles’s death, and
that you paid some money to his family in return.’

  ‘That’d be a very entertaining story, Shane, if it weren’t so sick.’

  ‘It’s okay, Fletcher. I don’t have a hidden camera or microphone,’ he unbuttoned his shirt, theatrically baring his chest, then continued. ‘You can check for real, if you want. I don’t expect you to confess, or to tell me the whole story.’

  Fletcher pursed his lips and reclined further back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

  ‘I could go on, but you know what I’m going to say. There were too many holes in your stories, about how you always managed to stumble onto the scenes of the anti-poaching contacts, with hunters in tow. I always had my doubts that Caesar would have missed seeing that SKS in the pick-up. Don’t say a word, but I reckon you probably planted that rifle on the dead poacher to make it look like he was armed. And another thing came back to me recently.’

  ‘Do go on,’ Fletcher said drolly.

  ‘I remember you telling me, way back when I started, how you’d taken a poacher’s leg off with one shot.’

  ‘Indeed I did.’

  ‘Except it wasn’t you. You said to me, something like, “You’d be amazed what a .458 can do to a man”. The problem was, you only ever hunt with your old .375. Chuck uses a Weatherby .458 and he was with you on that hunt. You’re letting your clients do the shooting. They’re paying you to hunt men, and kill them.’

  ‘You said you didn’t want a confession – and you won’t be getting one, because I’ve got nothing to say to you about that, Shane. So what do you want?’

  ‘In.’

  Fletcher blinked in surprise. He searched Shane’s face for any sign of deceit, but saw only those intense coal-black eyes glaring back at him. ‘Explain?’

  ‘I’m still short of the cash I need to set up my own game ranch. I need to make a whole lot more money a whole lot faster, and I think your business is a good way to do that.’

  Fletcher laughed. ‘Why should I give you any share of my legitimate hunting business?’

  ‘I don’t want a share of your buffalo, lion or elephant hunts. I want a cut of the real stuff. I’ve been helping you make serious money all along, acting as a beater, driving human prey into your clients’ guns.’

  Fletcher forced himself to stay immobile, silent, while he continually looked for signs of dissembling in the younger man.

  ‘However, up until now, I didn’t know what the game plan was – the big picture. Just think how much more effective I can be – we can be – if we’re working together. I was finding poachers and killing them – now I can find them, fix them, and lead you and your clients in to ambush them. We can do this smarter.’

  He saw the earnestness in Shane’s eyes, and something else. The greed. He had it himself, and he could see when other people were bitten by the bug. Shane wanted this plan of his to work, more than anything else. ‘If this is some kind of threat, Shane, or a crude attempt at blackmail, it won’t work.’

  ‘It’s neither. If you don’t cut me in on a share of the profits, I’ll walk. You’ll be two men down – because I wouldn’t leave Caesar here to your mercy. I doubt anyone would believe me or even have the jurisdictional reach to convict you if I went to the police, either here or Zimbabwe. I imagine you’ve got those bases covered.’

  Fletcher couldn’t hold back the first curls of a smile. Shane was thinking like him, exploring all the opportunities and risks. ‘So, you’d just fade away into the bush.’

  ‘You’d be taking a risk letting me walk away, and – I warn you – if you’re thinking about killing me, I won’t die easy. All I want is to be in on the deal. Quite frankly, I’m a little pissed off you didn’t include me from the start.’

  ‘You seemed a bit too high-minded to take part in the sort of hunting I do.’ Fletcher realised, as he said the words, that he was tacitly admitting the truth, for the first time, to someone other than Chuck or one of his clients. He hoped he wouldn’t regret it.

  ‘I kill for money, Fletcher. The same as you. All I want is a fair share.’

  ‘How much would you think was fair?’

  ‘Twenty thousand per kill.’

  ‘You’re way off the mark.’

  ‘Make me an offer, then.’

  Fletcher licked his lips, a quick, snakelike gesture. Shane had talked him around very quickly, and he wondered if it were because he needed to share the guilt with another, and, thinking ahead, to have someone to share the blame – or take the fall. ‘Ten thousand per target – that’s how I refer to them – paid into the bank account of your choice.’

  ‘Eighteen thousand, in cash. I’m not going to let you leave a paper trail that will lead the cops to me when you’re on the ropes.’

  Fletcher smiled. He liked the boy’s style. ‘Fifteen thousand, or you can pack your bags now and leave.’

  Shane reached across the table. ‘Deal. How about a drink to seal it?’

  Fletcher stood and walked into his tent. The Johnnie Walker Blue Label was on a bedside table carved in the shape of an elephant. Beside it was his nine millimetre pistol. There was always a fallback plan if Shane got too greedy or tried to con him. He brought the bottle and two tumblers back out under the awning, and poured each of them a healthy measure. Fletcher raised his glass, but when Shane reached over to clink he held his hand back. ‘Of course, you’ll have to prove yourself.’

  Shane kept his glass held in midair. ‘You want me to kill an unarmed man? It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘We’ll see. What do you want to do about Caesar?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘What about him? I haven’t told him my suspicions. He’s much slower than Wise, more naive in the ways of the world. I don’t think we have to do anything about him yet. He’s a pretty useful scout, so I want to keep him.’

  Fletcher nodded his agreement, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘Just keep an eye on him. It’s still dangerous out there in the jungle. We can’t remove every possible risk. Look what happened to Wise.’

  Shane smiled, though it looked forced. Fletcher guessed that it had been hard for him to come to terms with the death of the black.

  ‘So, can we drink on it? You won’t be out of pocket, Fletcher. Now that I know what I’m doing, you’ll clean up. These hills are what the Yanks would call a target-rich environment.’

  Fletcher leaned forward and they toasted, though to what, he wasn’t quite sure.

  Michelle showered, noticing that the primitive canvas-bucket affair had been replaced by a portable gas-fired geyser, which delivered piping-hot water. She realised that this was just one more little luxury that Fletcher could now afford for his hunting camp because of his high-priced trade in human flesh. She scrubbed herself quickly, then dried off. So far she hadn’t had to be alone with Fletcher. She was worried about how she would act; if she could convince him nothing had changed. What if he wanted to sleep with her tonight?

  The cottage in the centre of the clearing, which Shane, Wise and Caesar had worked so hard to clear out, had been rethatched and whitewashed by Congolese builders in the few days she and Shane had been away. Half of it was given over to a rustic lounge and bar area, and she heard loud male voices from inside. It was the despicable Anthony and his gangster cronies, including a new man, a dark-haired boy barely out of his teens who had leered at her on her way to the shower.

  She had decided there was no way she was going to associate with those thugs. She hadn’t forgotten Anthony’s advances, and she was glad Shane was in the camp, in the tent next to hers. She only hoped that he didn’t provoke an unnecessary fight with the criminals, lest he get Fletcher offside. They had passed, on her walk across the clearing, and he had given her the slightest of nods and winked, to confirm that the first phase of their plan was going smoothly. It was good knowing Shane was close by, but she was still very nervous.

  Her next part in the sting would come tomorrow, when all the men were out hunting. She waved at the Congolese man Fletcher had hi
red as a chef, a necessity now that the client tents were full, and let him know she was ready for her dinner. She would eat in the privacy of her tent. As she passed the cottage she glimpsed Shane’s erect, broad-shouldered silhouette in the doorway. She felt a pang of regret that they couldn’t be together that night. Also, she was worried for his safety. If it all went wrong, there would be no shortage of men who would try to make sure he didn’t leave the Congo alive.

  She clutched her towel and toiletries bag tightly to her chest. She might be in danger too.

  Shane walked through the doorway into the cottage and the conversation ceased. He looked around. It was like a scene from a Wild West movie, except the outlaws were in safari attire and armed with expensive hunting rifles rather than six-shooters.

  ‘Buona sera.’

  Anthony glowered across the room at him. ‘Shane, I’m sure you remember Anthony, Sal and Eddy,’ Fletcher said. Shane nodded, though no one proffered hands.

  ‘Where’s the newsstand guy? Joey, wasn’t it?’

  ‘He’s taking a little vacation. Courtesy of Uncle Sam,’ Sal, the construction guy, said.

  Shane saw the young man standing next to him. He had a whitewall haircut – US Marine Corps issue, so named because there was bare skin all the way around the back of his head, from ear to ear, and what little hair there was on top was short. High and tight. His face was acne-scarred, the teenage wounds only recently healed. ‘This must be your boy, right, Sal? The one who was in Iraq?’

  Sal smiled, clearly disarmed by the fact Shane had remembered their brief conversation about his son. ‘Yeah. This is Vincent. Just back last week.’

  Shane strode across the floor and put his hand out. ‘Shane Castle. I was in Western Iraq with the Australian Army in ’03. Good to meet you, and good to see you home safe, brother.’

  Shane thought Anthony and the others must have warned Vincent about him, as the boy’s face registered pleased surprise. ‘Yeah, likewise.’ If he noticed Anthony’s disapproving frown, he ignored it, and shook hands. ‘They told me you was special forces. You musta seen some shit, huh?’