by Predators
***
The clerk filled in the room number on the sales slip and was about to enter the date, then thought better of it. The previous day she’d been told not to sell the item. No sense getting into trouble over that. She wrote the date for two days earlier. She tore off the customer copy and crumpled it up. She tossed it into the dust bin and added the store copy to the pile of similar receipts under the cash box. She paid for the spear with her own pula. The twenty dollar bill she folded and put in her purse. She would not steal, but the American bill she could exchange with Rra Botlhokwa. He gave a better rate than the bank or the exchange. He’d told all the workers in the lodges to bring the big bills, the euros, pound notes, and dollars, to him for exchanging. He said he ran an importing and exporting business. No one believed him. Surely the foreign money traveled across the border into Zimbabwe for certain people to pay for the sorts of things for which Zim dollars would not be accepted.
But that did not concern her. She would profit from this night.
***
Bobby made a circle around the front of the lodge, dashed across the parking lot, and back to his room. Once inside, he switched on the lights and looked for a place to hide the spear point. Not hide exactly. He needed to put it somewhere so that it looked like it might have fallen out of sight, so that Brenda could find it. He dropped it on the floor and kicked it under the bench at the foot of the bed, like it had fallen back there. He shoved a pair of his dirty socks on top. When they packed in the morning, Brenda, or maybe he, would find it. Surprise, it was there all the time. He rushed back to the dining area and sat.
“So, did you get it?” Brenda had a habit of talking with her mouth full. She’d acquired the shopping habits of the rich and famous but none of their table manners. It sounded more like, “Zochew geddit?”
“Get what? Where’s my beer? What’s this crap on my plate?”
“I didn’t know what beer you wanted. I was afraid it would be warm by the time you got here, and anyway, you should drink wine, not beer. Beer makes you burp and the stuff on your plate? That’s your dinner. There are brown lumpy things that are some kind of game. You’re the expert on dead animals, you tell me. And there are some yellow stringy things. No clue what they are. There was this sign that said what they were, but I forgot to read it. And I think they told me those things that look like brown Cheetos are called phane, they’re, like, fried caterpillars.”
Brenda lowered her eyes and sipped her wine. She was enjoying herself. He scowled and stood, took his plate to the clearing counter and picked up another, clean one. Fried caterpillars. How dumb did she think he was? He piled food on his new plate and sat down again. The waiter loitered near the kitchen door. He waved him over and ordered his beer.
“So, did you get it?” she asked again.
“Get what, the beer? Soon, I guess.”
“No, you moron, not the beer, you said you had to go back to the room because you forgot something. What did you forget, and did you finally get it?”
Bobby looked confused. Then he had a brief moment of enlightenment. “They didn’t have your phone at the desk. I asked.” He remembered he should have asked about the scarf, too. “They didn’t have your scarf, either.” Well, they probably didn’t, and it was just a scarf.
“I asked if you found what you forgot.”
“Yeah I got it.” Oh yeah. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. “I forgot this, and I don’t like walking around without some cash.”
“You had that when you left. I saw you put it in your pocket. You went all the way back for nothing?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Not for nothing, sweetheart.
CHAPTER 47
Greshenko and Travis met for dinner. They expected Leo to join them, and so waited for a few minutes while they’d watched, bemused, as the Griswolds entered, Bobby rushed away, returned, and then traded his plate, which they’d seen Brenda pile high with phane, for a clean one.
“What do you suppose all that was about?” Greshenko said.
“With that pair, there is no telling. I’d wager a small sum it could spell trouble for someone, sometime, however.”
“You would know, I suppose. Tell me, what’s she like?”
“How would I know that?”
“Come, come, Travis, everyone except the husband knows about you and Brenda Griswold. And I’m not sure he isn’t on to you, as well.”
Travis squirmed in his chair. Had it been that obvious? Leo knew, but if Bobby also knew, why hadn’t Brenda said anything? That thought lingered for only a second. He knew why. Brenda toyed with men and relationships the way a child played with her Barbie dolls. More than likely, she simply didn’t care if her husband knew or not. She could control him. Ergo, she must know something that kept him in tow. It seemed unlikely she could keep him corralled with sex alone, although given her talent in that department, and if Bobby were relatively inexperienced, it might be possible.
“Past history, Yuri. A moment of passion born of necessity…hers not mine. It’s over. They seem to be together again, at least to the degree they were ever a couple.”
“If you say so, but if I were you, my friend, I would, how do you say…cover your six?”
“Watch my back. Yes, I suppose so, and maybe wear a cup while I’m at it.”
“Excuse me? A cup?”
“Figure of speech. On to business. I don’t know what has happened to Leo. We should start, and he’ll pick up when he gets here.”
“He did not look so good this afternoon. You know, gray and tired. He has a bad heart, yes?”
“He does. And the constitution of one of these water buffalos, I think. He’ll be okay. He probably just fell asleep.”
“If that is so, we should leave him at peace.”
“Right. Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course, if you understand I may not wish to answer it.”
“Why are you here, really? I know Leo thinks you can help connect with certain parties because he thinks he may have to work with the shadier edge of the business community. But you can’t be here just for that.”
“I told Leo I was also sent by my associates to scout the territory, so to speak.”
“Are you?”
“No, not really. That is what I told them in Chicago, and that is what I said to Leo, but it’s only a…um, shell play.”
“Shell game. What then? Pardon me if I don’t believe you if you say altruism and world peace.”
“Travis, you are too young to be a cynic. You should spend some time in the army first.”
“I did, and that’s where I learned it. So, why are you here?”
“A hope for a change. Truly there is nothing here that would attract my associates. Not yet, anyway. Once the country becomes more highly urbanized and the government more complex, they may be interested. They, the Tongs, the Yakuza, the Sicilian Mafia, and us, all eventually, but not just yet. This country is very careful about crime and criminals. If any society can resist the organized variety, they can. But that will be the decision of a history not yet acted out.”
“Not even the diamonds?”
“That is between the two governments. Russia is a major producer of diamonds and the largest not affiliated with DeBeers. This country, on the other hand, is a major stakeholder in DeBeers. There could be some stress and strain there, but it will not involve criminals. That group will find it easier to deal with surrounding countries and their so-called blood diamonds.”
“So your hope? What is it?”
“I listened to Leo explain his intention to build a casino and high-end resort here. I do not know where he came up with the idea, but I think it is a good one. At least worth pursuing. So I came along to see.”
“The authorities, whoever they are, would permit it, you think?”
“With qualifications, yes, I think so. It will not be easy or sure, but I think maybe it could work.”
They sipped their wine in silenc
e for a moment. The Griswolds no longer entertained them. In fact they seemed on the verge of leaving. Travis noted that Brenda had eaten very lightly. No action today, apparently.
“And you, Yuri, where would you fit in?”
“I hope to convince Leo to keep me on as the, what would you say…liaison person.”
“Would your associates, that’s what you called them, the men in Chicago, would they be okay if you didn’t return?”
Greshenko shrugged. “It would not be worth their while to come and get me, as long as they were sure I was not working against them. They will check and make sure I have no outstanding debts, so to speak, and then they will forget me.”
“Have you any ‘debts?’”
“None that I can’t take care of. Also, I know things. They will not bother me, I do not think.” Greshenko’s doubtful expression did not match the confidence of his words. Travis cocked an eyebrow. Maybe he could and maybe he couldn’t.
“This casino/hotel/spa. Will it pay?”
“Oh yes. If you construct a high-end spa and casino and promote it in the States and Europe? Oh yes.”
“But this is the end of never. Who’d come?”
“You are wrong. It may seem that way to you. Botswana does not share the panache of Kenya. No Snows of Kilimanjaro, no Hollywood hype, television specials. Only McCall-Smith and his quaint mysteries. But some know and have made their way here. This is where Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor came for their second honeymoon. Prince Charles is alleged to have met Camilla Parker-Bowles here on the sly, and the Clintons have visited. The country is promoting low-quantity, high-quality tourism, high-end, if you see. This would fit right in to that strategy.”
“There has to be a down side.”
“There are the hoops through which one must jump. Ministers to persuade, tribes to deal with, world opinion about a deluxe resort on this river. There are people in Europe who believe this is still the nineteenth century when it comes to thinking about Africa. They expect to see hunter-gatherers, lines of bearers carrying the white man’s goods into the interior. Your President Roosevelt shooting lion and gazelle. They will make a fuss about brash Americans exploiting the pristine wilderness with crass commercialism. That sort of thing.”
“That’s all?”
“No, there is the really important part. You must also include local investors. I told you about the minerals and gas, yes?”
“You said the government would be a major partner in any venture in that arena. The government would have to be part of this, too?”
“Not the government, I don’t believe. But local. You see, the colonial powers spent nearly two centuries raping this continent. The people do not want to see that happen again. If it is on their land and if it is profitable, it must profit the owners of the land, the government for all the people, the local tribes and groupings. You see?”
“It will be complicated?”
“Very. And time-consuming. You cannot do this from a desk in Chicago.”
“No, I suppose not. You would stay and see to it?”
“As I said, that is my hope.”
“How do you know so much about this country? I know you lived here, but years ago.”
“A friend of mine from the old days is in the news service business, you could say. He knew of my interest, so he forwards the government news letter, the Tautona Times, to me when he can.”
“Ah, that would explain it. We’ll have to run the notion of a local presence by Leo. For what it’s worth, I’d back you.”
Greshenko smiled his thanks and stood.
“It would be best, if we let him sleep. We can talk again tomorrow and find out then what he thinks.”
It was late and Greshenko would need to find a cab. He still hadn’t heard from the car rental people. They were probably having difficulties finding a replacement tire.
CHAPTER 48
The hyenas had ranged far to the west, almost to the Okavango Delta. They had some modest successes hunting and scavenging. They felt no urgent need of feed again beyond the instinct all predators have that there is never enough. So, they would not cease pursuing game. To kill and feed was instinctual and neverending. The matriarch stopped and turned. The pack waited. What would she do? If one were to shoot a film of them, using night vision technology, perhaps, their eyes would seem to glow a terrible, but fitting, phosphorescent green. But that would be a phenomenon created by reflected light. Animals with powerful night vision all share that characteristic. At night, when caught in a beam of light, their eyes glitter. Only fantasy figures have eyes that truly glow evilly; evidence of emitted light.
So, the dozen hyenas, young and old, watched and waited in the darkened savannah for their leader to give them direction. One of the younger females growled—not quite a challenge, she did not yet possess either the courage or the experience to attempt a takeover of pack. Not yet. The matriarch lifted her head and yakked. It is not clear how much her next step relied on intuition and instinct, how much on experience, or if there might be some sort of animal clairvoyance at play. With animals, who can tell? But she yipped again and set out in an easy lope back east, back toward the fence, back toward their old enemy. But it was not Sekoa they sought now. Something new was on the move.
***
Sanderson sat on the wall of the small courtyard outside her door and contemplated the waning moon, her bright red truck a shade of dark gray in the night. She smiled at the HiLux, Michael’s success. Michael had drifted off to sleep after dinner, a very little of which he ate, and Mpitle soldiered on with her homework until ten.
Sanderson thought about Mwambe and Pako. She would not miss Pako, but compared to Mwambe, he seemed, in retrospect, almost enlightened. She crossed her ankles and inhaled the smell of roasting meat. Mrs. Maholo, the woman in the village who had the honor of possessing a washing apparatus, had meat on the spit. It seemed late to be about cooking, but Mrs. Maholo worked long hours at the clinic, and that would explain it.
What to do about this murder business? It seemed very clear to her that Mwambe wished the whole matter to disappear like the smoke from Mrs. Maholo’s kitchen. He worried so much about the attaché from the American embassy due to arrive the next day. A lion accident could be handled. Everyone knew there were certain risks in visiting a game park, especially when warned by the hotel of a new threat, a recent death, in the neighborhood. A murder, on the other hand, could cause difficulties, could create an investigation by higher-ups, a visit, perhaps, by the head of the Department of Intelligence and Security himself. The examiner told her the man was part of an American delegation in the country at the invitation of the president. She, and all of her contemporaries, held the president in the highest esteem. It would not do to have him embarrassed by this murder. What if a Motswana had done it, or a robbery by some poor drifter from Zimbabwe had gone wrong? It could be, and what did that say about safety in the district? She shuddered at the thought. She would not like to be that person if he were caught. Mwambe had a serious problem to deal with.
Should she also let the problem go? What purpose would be served by finding a killer, when ascribing the event to a lion would do so nicely? But there remained the matter of truth. Botswana, her Botswana, did not lie, not to its people and certainly not to other governments.
“We do not do that,” she murmured. “If a thing is so, it is so. It would be wrong to say otherwise.”
But she knew in her heart that Inspector Mwambe would not—perhaps, she conceded, he could not—see it that way. What to do? These were weighty matters and would keep her awake late that night.
“What is troubling your mowa, Mma Michael?” Sanderson jumped. Rra Kaleke had slipped up beside her without a sound.
“My spirit is troubled, Rra. It is a problem that has presented itself to me, and I do not know what to do.”
Kaleke sat next to her and focused on the moon as well.
“You are a good woman, Mma Michael. You are too modern for this vi
llage, I think, but we are all admiring you anyway. Can you tell me this problem that keeps you from your sleep?”
“It is this man who we found with Sekoa and who is dead. Sekoa did not kill him. This you know.”
Kaleke nodded and lit the stub of a cigarette. He’d smoked half after breakfast and had saved the other half for the night, before sleeping.
“That man had a wound that only a motsu could have made.”
“It was a spear point, Rra. You saw it. I took it from the dust bin that day. The examiner said there were traces of blood on it, the man’s blood. Someone stabbed him, and he must have awakened Sekoa when this thing happened. That old lion went to him, but the man must be dead when he finds him, and so he took him in the bush. Inspector Mwambe wants the investigation to go away.”
“Why would the Baboon want that? Solving a murder would be a great thing for him. He would be admired and possibly receive a medal.”
“I do not think he would get a medal. He has reasons for wishing the thing away that are not all together wrong, Rra.”
She explained Mwambe’s dilemma and her own. Kaleke listened and nodded from time to time. When she finished the two sat in silence once again. Night birds twittered in the distance, and she thought she heard a hyena laughing—at her? At humans who strained their brains thinking of ideas like justice and loyalty and patriotism? In the park, life and death played out simply. You were predator or you were prey, and violence defined your existence. Life was for the strong, the fleet, and the cunning. That lion, Sekoa, he broke the rules of the bush. He died of old age.
We should all be so lucky.
“I will pray for you, Mma. It is not a situation that I envy you. I will pray that you will be led to right decisions. I will ask this of Modimo for you.”
“Thank you, Rra. I will pray for direction, too. But it would be very much easier to pray if I knew what right decisions were in this case. Then I would only need to pray for the courage to do it.”
“You are not a fearful person, Mma Michael. You are strong. We all know that. Maybe you are too strong for a woman. I do not know about that anymore, but courage is not a thing you are missing. You will do the right thing. Now, go to your house and sleep. Tomorrow you will know.”
