Zambezi

by Tony Park

  The windowpanes rattled at the sound of his roar. She dragged herself to her feet and watched through the window as the lion turned and flicked his tail in anger, his pendulous testicles swinging as he trotted back off into the bush.

  Suddenly feeling sick, Chris leaned against the kitchen sink, one hand supporting her weight. Her other hand covered her eyes. ‘Oh, poor Miranda. Poor baby’, she sobbed. ‘My God, what did I do to you?’

  Outside the car alarm had stopped. She looked down at the blood pooling on the floor and it took a moment for her to realise where it was coming from. She brushed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and examined the wound. It was a fifteen-centimetre gash down the outside of her left calf. She raised her leg up high onto the kitchen sink and turned on the cold tap. She picked up a measuring jug, filled it and then tipped the water straight into the wound, biting her lip to stifle her cries. The wound was not as deep as she had first feared and there appeared to be no damage to muscle or ligaments. However, she knew the real danger was infection. A lion’s teeth and claws were forever coated with bacteria from the flesh and blood of their prey. Though primarily hunters, the big cats were also opportunistic scavengers and would feed almost as readily on days-old rotting carcasses as on fresh meat.

  She wrapped a tea towel around the wound and hobbled into the lounge room of the lodge, where she had left her daypack. Inside was her first-aid kit. She opened it and drew out a phial of saline solution, a plastic bottle of iodine, some butterfly sticking plasters and a US Army field dressing. She had thought the three field dressings she carried were probably overkill – they were designed for use on bullet and shell wounds.

  Chris snapped off the cap of the saline solution and doused the open wound. While this hurt, she knew the pain was only a prelude for what was to come. She thrust the unbloodied corner of the tea towel into her mouth and bit down hard on it as she emptied the little bottle of iodine into and around the cut. Tears welled in her eyes again. Once it was done she spat out the towel, ripped open the field dressing and dried the wound with the big sterile pad. Before the blood could well again she placed four butterfly sticking plasters across the gash as makeshift stitches. She thought she probably needed sutures, but the plasters would hopefully hold until she could get to Kariba and a doctor. Next, she wrapped the field dressing around her calf to further stem the bleeding and tied it on with the attached bandage.

  Chris activated the car alarm again from inside the lodge and let the siren wail for half a minute before she hobbled out and slammed the door of the building closed. She retrieved the now-scuffed carry case holding the laptop and hurled it in the back of the truck, not caring how it was stowed, slammed the rear door and jumped into the driver’s side. Only then did she deactivate the alarm.

  She wondered if the lion was related to the one she had shot. It was not unusual, she knew from her own research, for pairs of lions to turn into man-eaters. As the animal that had just tried to kill her was a male, she wondered if it was the brother of the dead one. They appeared to be the same age, old men who had probably been kicked out of their pride by younger, stronger cats. Maybe this one had fed on Miranda as well. She pushed the terrible thought from her mind.

  Chris drove the short distance to park headquarters at Nyamepi, and hobbled into the office.

  ‘You know, Professor, that I am obliged to keep the lodge vacant until five-thirty p.m. each day in case someone has made a booking from Harare,’ the warden said when she asked him to reserve her accommodation for another week, even though she would be out of the Park.

  ‘And you and I both know, Warden, that it is very unlikely anyone will be booking a lodge here in the next week because of the current lack of fuel in the country. We both also know the political situation is keeping foreign tourists and tour operators out of this park. Here’s enough money to pay for the next seven nights,’ she said, pushing a wad of cash across the counter.

  He smiled but studiously avoided discussing politics. ‘We will keep the lodge for you, Professor.’

  There were two rangers lounging around the office. One of the men asked her why she wore the bulky dressing on her leg.

  ‘Stupid, really. I scalded myself with hot water when I dropped a pot. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘You should get that seen to when you are in Kariba,’ the warden said.

  As she turned to leave, a sound far off, but nonetheless distinct, made them all turn and look downriver.

  ‘Lion,’ said the warden.

  ‘A long way off,’ said one of the rangers.

  ‘Maybe two kilometres,’ the other said.

  ‘Strange for him to be calling so late in the morning,’ the warden said. All in the room knew that lions generally called at dawn and dusk, either to bring other members of the pride together or to warn other pride males that they were entering another group’s domain.

  ‘Maybe he’s just plain angry at something,’ Chris ventured.

  ‘Perhaps he was annoyed by the sound of your car alarm going off earlier. Did you have a problem with it?’ the warden asked.

  Chris felt her cheeks start to redden. ‘Silly me, I get the remote-control buttons mixed up sometimes. It took me a long time to shut it off.’

  ‘I think in the future we will keep all researchers either in the lodges or in the main camp ground here at Nyamepi,’ the warden said. ‘I fear that leaving people out by themselves in the remote campsites is too much of a temptation for the lions. Also, and forgive me for saying this, but maybe people sometimes get careless when they live alone in the bush for too long.’

  Chris thought about Miranda. Had she just grown careless? She had got close to Hassan bin Zayid, and that was not part of her brief. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said to the warden.

  She would miss Africa, she realised as she passed Long Pool and the open vlei where the zebra grazed. It was a hot, dusty and bone-jarring eighty kilometres out of the park on a corrugated dirt road. She thought of the things she would not miss – the tragic, pervasive evidence of the AIDS pandemic; man-eating animals; suicidal drivers; carjackers in Jo’burg armed with AK-47s; corrupt politicians; petty bureaucrats; poachers; and arms traffickers. Then she considered what she was leaving behind -sunsets that made one believe in God; the birth of baby animals with the coming of the summer rains; the smiles on the faces of African schoolchildren seeing an elephant for the first time; cold beers on hot, cloudless days; and the wonderfully comforting knowledge that in some outof- the-way corners of this overpopulated, heartless world, paradise still existed.

  But leave she would, she decided as she left the valley behind her. As soon as she had briefed the general on the local situation it would be time to move on and, in all likelihood, face some kind of penance back in the States over the death of Miranda Banks-Lewis. She felt she deserved that. There would be an enquiry, above and beyond whatever the local police had done in Zimbabwe, conducted by the people who funded her work in Africa. It would find that Miranda was sent to do a job; she completed that job and then died by accident. It happened. But people would ask, behind her back, why Chris Wallis had recruited a science major fresh out of college to go alone into a country whose security situation was parlous at best to do a job some would say Chris should have done herself.

  It was a good question. The answer was that Miranda wanted the assignment in Zimbabwe more than anyone back home could really imagine. Chris thought Miranda had the right attributes to carry it off successfully, and she couldn’t be everywhere at once. Chris wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and blinked away the tears as she slowed for the turn-off to Kariba. She’d had such high hopes for Miranda, imagined her taking up her line of work as a full-time career some day. There would be plenty more time to think about her own future in the coming days, but first she needed to find a doctor and get the wound on her leg properly dressed.

  She smiled grimly at the thought of what she would say when the doctor asked her, ‘What seems to be t
he problem?’

  Chapter 17

  Luke Scarborough woke to the sound of his own snoring. He had never been so exhausted in his life.

  The breath whistled through his broken nose. His eyes watered with pain as he blew a clot of dried blood from one of his nostrils into his palm and wiped it on his filthy T-shirt.

  The exhaust-smoke-shrouded office buildings of Lusaka were on either side of the bus, a stark change from the flat plains they’d been travelling through for hours. The driver called out something in Swahili, then, looking at Luke, the only white man on the bus, said, ‘Rest break coming up. Don’t go far from the bus, it’s only fifteen minutes.’

  He had been travelling for three days straight. The first leg had been the unnerving boat trip from Zanzibar to the mainland, with the roguish band of Arab sailors casting nervy sideways glances at the bruised and bloodied passenger throughout the three-hour voyage. The pungent odour from the sacks of cloves he lay against, so intoxicating on dry land, added to his queasiness on the open water. He had been sick over the side of the leaky dhow so many times he had lost count, and arrived on a deserted beach north of the port city of Dar es Salaam dehydrated, unsteady on his feet and green in the face. He’d flagged down a passing matatu minibus cab on the main road between Bagamoyo and Dar and headed for the latter.

  He was desperate to get in touch with Jed Banks. He had tried several times from mainland Tanzania, but received no reply He had wheedled Jed’s mobile phone number out of the man’s exwife, Patti, whom he had called from Dar, just before boarding the train to Zambia, the Tazara Express. She had not been happy when he called her at home for the second time.

  ‘Mr Scarborough, I must have had fifty calls from press people since I spoke to you about Miranda. Your story identified us to the rest of the world and I’ve had television crews on my doorstep and calls from radio stations at all hours of the morning. I don’t think I can take much more of this,’ she had fumed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lewis, really I am, but I need to get in touch with Jed urgently.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to him and told him I’ve been bothered by reporters and that he should probably expect more of the same. Why can’t you people let us grieve in peace? Why can’t you let her rest?’

  He understood her bitterness. Dealing with grieving relatives in the wake of tragedies was part and parcel of a journalist’s life, and even the most cynical could not help but feel bad sometimes about the way the media intruded on people at the worst time of their lives. ‘I apologise again, Mrs Lewis, but this is something different. I think your ex-husband may be in grave danger.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I tried to interview the brother of an Al Qaeda terrorist Jed killed in Afghanistan and, as a result, I was attacked and nearly killed myself. Your husband needs to know this man is on the loose in Africa and that he may be looking for revenge against Americans and US interests over here.’

  ‘Slow down. Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Jed saved my life in Afghanistan, Mrs Lewis. I’m only trying to repay the favour.’ There was more he could tell her, but he needed to see Jed in person first, to confirm his theory.

  She was silent for a while and Luke covered his free ear with his palm to shut out the honking of traffic and shouts of Dar es Salaam’s market vendors, in case he missed her reply.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But don’t give this number to any other reporter or else no one will save you from me.’

  ‘You got it,’ he said, and she gave him Jed’s mobile phone number.

  ‘Where was he when you last spoke to him?’ Luke asked before she could hang up.

  Again she hesitated, but having revealed the phone number, saw no harm in telling him. ‘Still in Zimbabwe. God, I even hate the sound of the name of that damn country. He said he was in a place up north, near where Miranda lived. Kabira or somewhere like that. Only place his phone has worked in the last few days.’

  ‘You mean Kariba. Thanks, Mrs Lewis. Did he say when he was leaving?’

  Her patience was wearing thin. ‘He’s booked on a flight from South Africa next Thursday, I think, but he doesn’t tell me everything, Mr Scarborough. Never has. That was always the problem with being married to a Special Forces guy. They never tell you squat.’

  ‘Thanks again for all your help. I’ll call back and explain some more if I can, when I can.’

  ‘No offence, Mr Scarborough, but I hope I never speak to another reporter as long as I live.’

  He’d got what he wanted from her, but having Jed’s number was no use if the man never answered his bloody phone.

  The Tazara Express was an express in name only and made interminable stops during the fortyfive- hour trip from Dar to its terminus at Kapiri Mposhi, about two hundred kilometres north of Lusaka. At Kapiri Mposhi station Luke had to push away a pickpocket. He was petrified he would lose the camera memory card with the pictures of Hassan bin Zayid and his companion. After the encounter with the Zambian thief he stuffed the card into his underpants, paranoid that he might still lose his daypack on the remainder of his journey.

  He suffered attacks of nausea every time he recalled how he had killed the man in Zanzibar, the sight of the body and the smells of death. However, his stomach was empty and he knew he had to eat.

  He crammed a gristly meat pie into his mouth and downed a litre bottle of water before heading to the bus station. He found a coach bound for Lusaka and jumped aboard just as the driver was shutting the door. Sleep-deprived and filthy, he drifted off into a fitful doze, waking twice when the African businessman sitting next to him politely but firmly removed his head from his shoulder.

  The coach pulled up at the Lusaka terminal. Luke staggered out into the harsh sunlight and joined a queue for the reeking men’s toilet. Afterwards he tried Jed Banks’s number again. Once more, all he got was the soldier’s recorded voicemail message. He screwed his eyes shut and fought back a terrible urge to start sobbing. He took a deep breath. He realised he was probably suffering from shock and fatigue, but he had to keep it together.

  Luke tossed up whether to go directly to the United States embassy in Lusaka, wherever that was, or to press on to Kariba, in Zimbabwe, in the hope of tracking Jed down there. First, however, he knew he had to call his chief of staff in London and explain what had happened to him.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ Bernie said, incredulous, ‘you killed a man in self-defence. Fucking hell, Luke!’

  ‘Yes, Bernie. I was mugged in Zanzibar, but it wasn’t a coincidence, he was after my camera and -’

  ‘It’s an expensive camera, but you should have just given it over. You’re insured, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Let me finish, Bernie!’ Luke talked his chief of staff through his theory about Hassan bin Zayid and the link to Jed Banks. At the end, he said, ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘I think you’ve had a bad experience, and that you should probably find a lawyer. Better still, let me get our legal people onto it. I’ll get them to see if they have a contact in Tanzania and we’ll get this mess sorted out.’

  The driver of the bus was honking the horn, signalling passengers he was ready to depart. Africans loaded with snacks and drinks lined up to board. The bus carried on to Harare, Zimbabwe, via the border crossing at Chirundu. Once across the border, Luke figured he could hitchhike or take a minibus to Kariba.

  ‘I’m not in Tanzania any more. I’m in Zambia,’ Luke shouted above the bus station’s din.

  ‘Fucking hell, Luke! You mean you left the country without telling the police or anyone you were involved in the death of a local citizen? Where are you now? Exactly? I’ll have one of our lawyers call you back as soon as possible and give you advice.’

  ‘I’ve got a bus to catch, Bernie. I’ll email you the pictures as soon as I can download them onto a computer. You judge for yourself.’ Luke knew this was a career-making news story, one worth risking imprisonment over.

  ‘I don’t care ab
out the bloody pictures. The story’s no good to me with you rotting in an African jail, Luke.’

  ‘Bye, Bernie. I’ll call again once I’ve found Banks.’

  ‘Luke, wait, I’ll -’

  Luke ended the call and sprinted for the bus, which had started to move. The driver opened the door for him and he jumped aboard. He reclaimed his former seat, squeezing in next to the disappointed-looking businessman.

  Luke dialled Jed Banks’s phone again. He heard the same message. ‘Shit!’ he said out loud, and thumped the window with his fist.

  The businessman started and then stared at him.

  ‘Sorry,’ Luke mumbled. He began to shake, as he’d done after the killing, and wrapped his arms around himself. Despite his bravado on the phone to Bernie, he was scared. Eventually, he calmed himself and fell asleep against the window, waking a little while later once the soothing hum of the coach’s big diesel came to a halt. Luke wiped his eyes and pulled back the curtain. ‘Where are we?’ he asked the man next to him.

  ‘This is the border. We will be here for some time.’

  It was an understatement. For two hours they sat in a queue of long-distance lorries. Children sold corn cooked on charcoal braziers to the passengers. Prostitutes in gaudy miniskirts and low-cut blouses, some reed thin with the virus, sold themselves to the truck drivers. African music blared loud from car radios and battery-powered boom boxes. Luke walked up and down the line of vehicles to stretch his legs and try to clear his head. The sun’s rays felt as though they were singeing his scalp and he regretted the loss of his hat, amongst the rest of his possessions. He took out the phone and saw he had no signal and, of more concern, the battery indicator showed he was nearly out of power. Even if he could have found a power point he had left his charger at the hotel.

  The coach passengers joined a long queue of travellers seated outside the Zambian customs and immigration offices. Luke had switched from his Australian to his British passport – the latter a legacy of having an English-born father. He thought that if the Tanzanian police had put out an alert for him they would have used his Australian passport number, which he had declared to the owner of the hotel he had stayed at in Stone Town. When he finally made it inside the building and fronted the immigration clerk, the bored woman barely gave him a second glance as she pounded his passport with a worn stamp.