White Bone

by Ridley Pearson

“Yes! The Oloitokitok health clinic did this to my men,” Koigi said. “Tetanus. Measles? One of those. Four months ago.”

  “Why were your men vaccinated there? It’s not close, is it?”

  “It is a free clinic. We work closely with rangers there. We meet often to review our successes and failures. There are clinics in Nairobi, but we avoid Nairobi as much as possible. You understand?”

  “Radicals? Insurgents? How could they use the same clinic?”

  “The clinic services tens of thousands. Kenyans. Tanzanians. Any adult with an ID. All children. They serve people, not politics.”

  “IDs?”

  “Those of age. Yes. For proper record keeping. Justify their budgets, I imagine. What of it?”

  “You told that to Grace. You showed these men to Grace?” Knox asked.

  “Correct.”

  “Her reaction?”

  “She reached out to touch them. They are Muslim. It is not permitted.”

  Knox nodded. It sounded like Grace. “She asked about this tattoo. I’m told it means ‘forever.’”

  “It means ‘constant.’ But yes, she asked.”

  “So this photo suggests that this man likely visited the same health clinic as your men.” Knox tried to pronounce it, but failed miserably. “If he was killed as an act of betrayal, and left to be found as a warning to others, an example, then we can infer that he might possibly be one of Guuleed’s men.”

  “You impress me again. What do you know of Guuleed?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “He is vermin. A poacher of the worst kind. Automatic weapons. Wholesale slaughter.”

  “How does he get the ivory out of the country?”

  “If only we knew . . .” Koigi said. His forearms and cheeks showed raised black scars of all sizes and shapes, like a man who’d once climbed through barbed wire. “Mombasa, certainly. There have been arrests and seizures there. Also, overland through Tanzania, we believe.”

  “If Grace had found proof the Oloitokitok Clinic was connected to the export of the poached ivory, would that surprise you?”

  “Little if anything surprises me, Mr. Knox. But the information interests me, of course. I would very much like to see such evidence.”

  “A company called Asian Container Consolidated manipulated a batch of vaccine.”

  “Xin Ha”—the large man nodded—“has been long suspected of controlling the export of the ivory. He has a partner in Guuleed. The clinic is closed now, was never associated with the poaching. It served many thousands for years. Without concrete proof . . .”

  “I may have the proof. If I could get to a computer . . .”

  Koigi appraised him thoughtfully. “I will not put a total stranger onto the Internet, Mr. Knox.”

  “No Internet. Just a computer. I can supply you with all the financials Grace uncovered.”

  Koigi was clearly tempted. He excused himself and made a call on a satellite phone some distance away. Several long minutes passed. Then Koigi approached Knox and handed him the heavy phone. Knox looked at it, puzzled.

  “It is a secure line,” Koigi said, “but no names, please.”

  “Go ahead,” Knox spoke into the phone.

  “My friend tells me you have financials.” It was the voice of Graham Winston.

  42

  Grace couldn’t face both lions at once, so she chose the closest, the cat directly across from her. Staring it down, she raised her arms overhead, feeling particularly naked as she did so, and spread her legs while waving her arms.

  The cat shied, tucked in on itself, stood to all fours and slunk away, circling counterclockwise, putting itself to her left. The other, just coming to its feet, moved to her right.

  Pinned. She held the spear in her right hand as she continued swinging her arms. The idea was to present herself as game the animals did not recognize. Lions often shied away from the unfamiliar.

  Not these two, she realized. Seen up close, they were definitely adolescents—all spindly bodies and oversized paws—whiskers twitching, eyes curious. Grace growled and grunted, keeping an ear out for the approaching SUV.

  Nothing stopped the steady advance of the cats. They seemed more curious than aggressive, but Grace knew that could change instantly. She shook involuntarily the closer they came; her arms froze, refused to move. She stood like a criminal presenting herself to police—legs spread, arms up overhead.

  The cat to her left drew within three meters, nose twitching more noticeably.

  “That is your piss,” Grace said. Speaking softly to the lion. It stopped. Speaking, yelling, clapping were all known to cause a cat to back off. But she couldn’t draw the attention of the driver. “We smell the same, you and me. You like that, do you not? You like that smell. It is your smell. We share that smell.”

  The cat stood its ground, but did not advance. She glanced to her right and swallowed a scream; with her attention on the other cat, its partner now stood within a meter of her. It had golden eyes that shimmered in the sunlight, a scruffy monochrome coat, a white-haired collar, white chin and dark ears. Its legs were spotted. On top of its head was a tuft of fur—the beginning of its mane—a male. To her left, a female.

  Grace continued talking gibberish and moving her arms. Both cats now seemed overly curious. The male advanced to within a half meter, its nose working furiously. She jerked down the spear and aimed it at him.

  He jumped back like a kitten. Too late, Grace caught sight of the female leaping. She cowered and shrank to a squat, knowing it was the worst possible reaction. The cat lifted as high as Grace’s shoulders and landed with practiced ease. On the ground now, two meters away from her. The male sprang, and Grace barked out an unwitting cry.

  The SUV was slowing now, approaching the wash.

  The male lion landed just behind the female, who turned and slapped the ground in front of him with a swift paw. Grace saw it then: a sparkling white light, moving across the earth. Her first thought was divine intervention; some miracle had torn the cats’ attention off her.

  Just as quickly she realized it was the reflection of sunlight off her spear’s slice of mirror. It was like using a laser on the floor for a house cat. As Grace directed it, the cats pounced. She flashed a spot of light up onto the opposite bank; the cats attacked it playfully. Left, right. Forward.

  Away . . .

  Flash by flash she herded the pair of leaping and slapping cats in the opposite direction, moving them out from the end of the wash, where the abandoned vehicle rested. As she did, she slipped forward, increasing the distance between herself and the lions, who had clearly forgotten all about her. Moving the bright starburst reflection in jerking, jagged lines, she led them to the end of the opposite island, turning them completely away.

  Reaching the end of her own island of sand, Grace lowered the spear, cut around the end, and, crouching, shot down a different streambed, running hard in the direction of a Jeep that she stood too low to see.

  43

  Knox was not one to surprise easily, but Winston’s voice released a rockslide of implications, each tumbling over the next and dislodging the others in its path.

  “Yes, sir,” Knox said, answering his question. “But not those you requested. Not yet.”

  No names. He kept the thought ever present in his mind.

  Kanika had told him that Koigi had known his name. Because Winston had told him, Knox realized.

  “Our female friend?” Winston asked.

  “We’re well past the first forty-eight.”

  “I’m aware. And?”

  “She’s left a trail to follow. That’s the positive takeaway.”

  “Clever girl.”

  Woman, Knox thought. “Yes, that she is. It’s layered, complicated.”

  “Hardly surprising.”

  “She . . . that is . . . I think t
here’s a good chance she was—is!”—he corrected himself, feeling guilty over the slip—“close to tying off two of the three objectives. The third, the final objective . . . I think she believed that within her reach. It’s a creative solution. No surprise there. In her mind, it’s tied into everything else. Seems to me it may have been responsible—this pursuit of hers—for her current situation, whatever that is.”

  “There has been a satellite phone intercept.”

  Knox’s heart rate increased palpably. “Excuse me?”

  “Who do you think keeps an operation like Koigi’s running? You think this is without costs? And how is it that a man hidden away in the African bush can put his finger on abhorrent creatures like the Somali?” No names. Knox thought: Guuleed. “Information is power, my boy, and I can provide the former. I’m not without friends. Lyon, Brussels, London.”

  INTERPOL, EU, MI-6, Knox heard. He ruminated on the idea of unspoken alliances, the arming and funding of groups like Koigi’s. On the passions and interests of men like Winston, who have all the best intentions, and money and power as their tools. He thought of The Circuit—mercenaries; the recruitment of ex-military as privatized soldiers, how close he’d come to choosing that direction for himself.

  A world of war beneath the surface, out of the news, away from the parliaments. He looked around, taking in anew the extent of Koigi’s operation. Fifteen men fighting a private war on poachers. A million a year? he wondered. Two?

  “We all need a helping hand,” Winston said.

  “Yes, sir,” Knox said. “We do at that.”

  “We’ve had a drone, a private drone bought and paid for by an American, over the Somali for several weeks now. His communications were monitored before that—twenty-four/seven. We know for a fact he’s killed his own men, believing them traitors. The only traitor is himself. Every time he picks up that satellite phone, every time he drives away in a vehicle. The beauty, the elegance, of technology.”

  “You mentioned a call.” Knox’s heart, still racing.

  “From the Somali’s camp, to a location a quarter-kilometer outside of Oloitokitok. The message . . . our friend there with you will provide the message once you’ve transferred the financials and anything else of hers you have. You understand, John Knox?” No names. Knox swallowed dryly. “You are reckless. You are wanted. I will not have my investment recovered in the course of your capture. You should have sent it all the moment you had it.”

  “The timing . . . it wasn’t intentional.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t.” Sarcastic. “But let’s take the guesswork out of it, shall we? Our friend will provide you with what you need. Upon confirmation of its receipt, he will pass along the message. Transportation is being arranged. Good luck.”

  The call disconnected, though Knox held the receiver to his ear for a while after, trying to give himself time to think.

  “For how long do you plan to stand there?” Koigi asked. Knox felt like a fool. “The transmission light went off over a minute ago.”

  A beat. Then Koigi smiled. “It’s okay, I know the feeling.”

  44

  The sound of an idling engine droned around her, invading her thoughts. Grace crawled up the island bank on hands and knees, struggling upward until she could just see out to the perimeter of the dry wash. She couldn’t stop herself from checking behind as well, terrified the cats might double back on her.

  The SUV crept along, approaching the abandoned vehicle at a snail’s pace. The driver, on the right-hand side, was leaning out, eyes trained down. Grace had been in a vehicle a half-dozen times with a guide who’d used this same rolling method to scout for animal tracks.

  The driver sat up and glanced out front—the windshield was folded down—clearly trying to keep himself on course. Grace stifled a gasp as she recognized him: the driver who’d dumped her. She even remembered his name: Leebo.

  A more clear memory of the ride returned. The sudden switch of drivers after her tour of Larger Than Life. The amiable conversation she’d had with Leebo. His spotting lion tracks—or claiming to, she now realized—and turning the vehicle off-road. The thrill she’d felt. She’d never suspected him; he’d held her captive through his own excitement, his pointing, his explaining.

  Reaching back, she touched the sore spot where he’d pricked her with the needle.

  At least she’d thought to shut the vehicle’s hood and close its doors. Unless he stopped and climbed out to look inside, he wouldn’t see the scavenging she’d done. If he paid strict attention, he might notice the missing antenna, but his focus was aimed down, at the ground. She’d been careful to brush out her tracks.

  But how far away from the vehicle had she swept? She couldn’t recall. Grace’s stomach turned; she’d lost a day or more in dehydrated delirium.

  The SUV rolled past the abandoned vehicle at a walking pace, the driver’s head still trained down. Grace wanted badly to punish him, to take the SUV away and leave him, just as he’d stranded her. At the very least she planned to follow the vehicle. She’d have to keep well inside the driver’s blind spot—behind and off in the bush on the passenger side.

  She lowered herself down to the dry riverbed and did her best to estimate and parallel the SUV’s movement. Scrambling up another island, she took a careful look. Searched behind her for any sign of the cats. The SUV continued forward, staying clear of the wash, fifty meters away. A moment later, the brake lights flashed. She watched Leebo retrieve a pair of binoculars and hold them up to his face, then swivel in her direction. She ducked. Waited. When she sneaked an eye over the rim, the binoculars were chasing tracks in the dirt.

  The SUV backed up at high speed. Grace slipped down below grade, adrenaline cutting into her blood, poisoning her already weakened body. It wasn’t lions that interested him. He’d spotted a boot track, her boot track.

  The sound of a car door brought her back to the top of the island. She peered over the rocks and saw Leebo, out of the SUV and carrying a machete in his right hand, the binoculars clasped in his left. He approached the lip of the wash and raised the binoculars. Grace slipped back down the embankment.

  Aware that she had a momentary advantage, she seized it. She knew the route she’d taken when inspecting the dry wash, a route he would likely follow. A larger threat existed there: the cats.

  Grace moved without hesitation, without fear, her spear in her right hand, a naked, dung-smeared woman in hiking boots wearing automobile upholstery for a skirt. She kept the mirror side of the spear tip aimed to the ground to avoid an accidental reflection. Having spent a day or more atop the plateau, she’d subliminally memorized the layout of the wash. She could picture its structure in her mind’s eye, its many cutout islands cohering into a single pattern. She visualized her location, moving to the center of the wash, where the dry river bottom was deeper, the walls sheerer. The shadows darker.

  As she ran, she recognized her own transition, her regression. She felt part savage now. The woman who ate rat liver. The woman who buried her urine and excrement in deep holes and carefully packed down the dirt. The woman who gladly smeared lion urine on herself, who now credited that act with possibly saving her life.

  With the driver so close, within range of an attack, she was angry with herself, too. She should have had the nerve to enter the plateau’s forest and search out the poison arrow tree.

  But the regret was useless. Her thoughts focused on the keys to the SUV. She would do anything to get them. Killing or wounding Leebo was a means to this end. Surprising him so that he didn’t use that machete on her, a necessity. She hurried, running a jagged route, searching for the lions, listening for the driver, for any sound from the SUV. She was part of the landscape. She belonged here and, at that moment, wouldn’t have traded her situation for real clothes and a gun.

  It all made sense to her, her situation, her prey. She almost felt sorry for the driver. He had
no idea what kind of shitstorm he was walking into.

  45

  The inside of the tent showed the camp to be truly well established. There was a cot, some rugs and a bench table on collapsible sawhorses. Four car batteries powered a single lightbulb and a strip of outlets, which connected to a laptop and small printer. A modem wire could be plugged into Koigi’s satellite phone.

  Knox sat at the laptop and typed: Pudong. The box following the query: “the bottle opener” danced and cleared. He typed again: SWFC, for the Shanghai World Financial Center.

  The screen refreshed.

  The amount paid Danali? __________

  Knox didn’t know anyone named “Danali.” Nor did he appreciate Koigi and another man, both of whom smelled sour, watching his every action. Their presence distracted him, slowed his thoughts.

  “In 2013,” Koigi said, “some African-Americans formed a group to climb this peak in your state of Alaska. Their adventure was covered well in Kenyan news.”

  “Spelled differently,” the other man said. “The mountain is with an ‘e.’”

  Knox saw it then. “It’s an anagram. Thank you!” He grabbed a pen and paper from Koigi’s desk and began attempting to unscramble the word. His second try was Nadali—Achebe “Archie” Nadali. Only someone who’d read the contents of her first thumb drive could open the second. So Grace, he thought.

  When he input the word, the screen revealed a file list of dozens of names. Word documents for the most part; a half-dozen Excel sheets intermixed.

  Knox copied and moved the files to Koigi’s computer. He opened the first few, skimming them quickly.

  “The reporter, Samuelson.” He spoke aloud for the sake of his voyeurs. “She either found or hacked his files.” He tried and failed to keep the excitement out of his voice. “His articles, his research, his finances. It’s all here.” He opened and closed file after file. “This may have been what Samuelson was killed for. This may be enough to bring down the minister.”