Safari

by Tony Park

  ‘Probably not as much as you,’ he replied modestly. ‘Hey, Patrice,’ he called over at the surly-faced guide, who had obviously had barman added to his duties list since the arrival of the clients, ‘drinks all round for my American friends – a double for Vincent.’

  Urged on by Fletcher’s furious nod, Patrice poured and served.

  ‘Let’s drink a toast to the United States of America, and the US Marine Corps – the only thing standing between god-fearing civilisation and radical Muslim fundamentalism,’ Shane boomed.

  ‘Fuckin’-A,’ said Sal enthusiastically.

  ‘Semper-fi,’ Vincent roared, downing his drink in one gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said to Shane, ‘Hey, you know, you’re okay.’

  ‘A word,’ Anthony said, beckoning Shane with a tilt of his head.

  Shane moved with him to the doorway of the bar as the others resumed their conversation. ‘Fletcher tells me you’re on our team now.’

  Shane nodded.

  ‘Tell you the truth, I was kinda surprised that you weren’t part of the operation from the outset. In my world, it’s one in, all in, you know?’

  ‘Look,’ Shane said. ‘I probably overreacted when we last met, over what happened with the girl.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe I had a little too much vino that night. I got to remember this ain’t New York and not everyone knows me out here.’

  Shane wanted to plant his fist in Anthony’s pug nose. Instead, he smiled and said, ‘Anyway, I’m apologising.’

  ‘And I’m accepting,’ Anthony said, clapping him on the back. He took a drink of his Scotch and Coke and said, ‘Also, I felt bad when I found out that broad was Fletcher’s goombah – that he was fucking her. That was disrespectful of me.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s usually the great white hunter who makes it with the client’s girlfriend, not the other way around.’ He needed some air, and he had work to do. He excused himself and went back to where Vincent was standing.

  ‘How’s your drink?’

  ‘Hey, let me get this one,’ Vincent said. ‘Even though they’re free for clients, right?’ They laughed and Shane let Vincent order him a Primus beer from Patrice, who turned his nose up at Shane when he served the drinks. ‘What’s with that guy?’

  ‘Patrice? Don’t mind him, he’s just a psychopath. Fits in real well around here.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ said Vincent, not knowing whether Shane was joking or having a laugh at his expense.

  ‘What I mean,’ Shane explained, ‘is that some men take to this business differently. You can joke about it, you can see it as kind of doing your duty, or you can become all fucked up and nasty about it, like Patrice does.’

  ‘How about you?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘I’m a soldier. I’m doing what has to be done.’

  Vincent sipped his drink and looked into it. Shane saw he was thinking hard, probably about the subject they were dancing around. ‘I never saw combat,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What did you do over there?’ Shane asked.

  ‘I was a clerk.’

  ‘But you’re a marine, right?’

  He looked up and nodded emphatically.

  ‘You’re trained to kill, right?’

  Just another nod in reply.

  ‘It’s stuffy in here. We used to drink outside, around the campfire. You want to step outside and talk, Vincent?’ Shane asked. He saw the uncertainty in the boy’s dark eyes and waited as he looked around, to make sure his father and the other gangsters wouldn’t miss him. Anthony was relating an account of two strippers and a can of whipped cream, which held everyone else more or less enthralled.

  They moved out, and Vincent declined Shane’s offer of a cigarette. ‘Smart guy,’ Shane acknowledged. ‘You might outrun a bullet, but these’ll get you in the end.’

  ‘So, what’s it like? Killing someone, I mean,’ Vincent asked.

  It was the question on the lips of everyone he had ever met, if they knew he had seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan. Most people never asked; some obliquely tried to draw it out of him; and every now and then someone came right out with it, like Vincent. He never really had come up with a good answer, and usually he tried to avoid it or stall, as he did now. ‘Tell me first why you’re here, Vincent.’

  Shane casually slipped his hand into his chinos and felt for the record button on the digital voice recorder Sarah Thatcher had loaned him. There was a tiny lapel microphone pinned inside his shirt, connected to the recorder by a wire. Had he been talking to Anthony or Sal or perhaps even young Vincent in private in New York, they probably would have frisked him first, checking for a wire. He had gambled that out here they would be less vigilant about security.

  ‘My dad, Sal, says that a man needs to prove himself.’

  ‘You went to war for your country.’

  ‘It wasn’t enough,’ Vincent said.

  ‘It would be for most people, for most fathers.’

  Vincent smiled. ‘Yeah, well, I figured you’d know by now that our family is not exactly the Brady Bunch. Capisce?’

  Shane exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke. ‘Sure. But why this?’ He needed to draw the boy out.

  ‘It’s something they’ve all done – all the older guys.’

  ‘Hunting?’

  ‘You could call it that.’

  ‘Let’s call a spade a spade, Vincent. Why are you here?’

  Vincent looked out at the black curtain of jungle beyond the warm glow of the paraffin lanterns. Into the blackness that would soon enshroud his soul, Shane mused. ‘I’m here because it’s a rite of passage.’

  Shane guessed they were someone else’s words. He wondered what it was like having someone so evil for a father. He stayed silent, and knew, as Vincent would probably learn through police interrogations in the future, that the interviewee will usually fill the void, and incriminate themselves.

  ‘I haven’t killed a man in combat, so I need to kill a man here.’

  Shane prayed to the gods of technology that the recorder was doing its job. ‘I hope they’re not making you pay as well.’

  Vincent was relieved that Shane had stopped pressing him, and he chuckled. ‘No, no. My dad’s cousin Anthony’s taken care of that.’

  ‘It’s a lot of money.’ Shane made it sound like a casual observation.

  ‘A hundred grand for a hit? Shit, that’s cheap where I come from.’

  Shane had enough, and he didn’t want the boy to become suspicious. ‘You’ll do fine. Let’s go back inside.’

  ‘Hey, let me ask you something else first.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How do you live with yourself, man? Killing like this, for money.’

  ‘I’m a soldier, Vincent. Just like you. A warrior.’ Shane thought he had never felt so disgusted with himself in his life.

  ‘Cool,’ Vincent said, and turned and walked back inside.

  In the cottage, Fletcher and Anthony stood in a corner talking. They weren’t smiling, and the others were giving them space, engaging in their own conversations but, Shane suspected, keeping an ear on the main event. Fletcher held a hand up to Anthony, as though asking him to hold his thought for a moment, then beckoned Shane over.

  He led Shane to the bar, leaving Anthony brooding alone. Shane glanced across at Vincent and saw, thankfully, that the boy had joined his father’s group and had not been buttonholed by Anthony. He’d feared that the mobster might press Vincent about what he and Shane had been talking about.

  ‘I’ve got a problem,’ Fletcher said.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to hear.’ Fletcher explained to him that another hunter was arriving the next morning, an Englishman, and that he had planned on having the man tag along with Anthony and rest of the Americans. However, Anthony had put his foot down and refused to let anyone else accompany them.

  ‘I’m not surprised, given that Vincent has just told me that the purpose of this safari is to blood him into the fa
mily business. No wonder they don’t want strangers around as potential witnesses – even ones who are just as guilty as they are.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have taken the extra booking,’ Fletcher admitted.

  ‘So, make the guy wait a couple of days. Send him gorilla tracking or something,’ Shane suggested.

  Fletcher shook his head and explained that the English nobleman was only in the Congo for a couple of days. ‘Shane, you said you wanted in. This is your chance to prove yourself.’

  ‘The guy will be expecting a professional hunter, not a gamekeeper,’ Shane said warily. ‘Where will we find a target? Have you got some guys in the bag somewhere?’ Shane needed to find out where and how Fletcher found his victims.

  ‘It’ll take Gizenga at least a day to organise another one. He’s got one of the poachers you helped capture lined up for the Americans tomorrow. I was thinking that maybe you could take the pommy out on a patrol. Who knows, you might get lucky.’

  Shane rubbed his chin. As he’d suspected, the Congolese colonel was involved in the racket. ‘I don’t like going into anything without proper planning. What do you know about this guy?’

  Fletcher explained the little he knew – that the man was an aristocrat of some sort, involved in the diamond trade, and had been recommended by one of Charles Hamley’s associates.

  ‘If I go into the jungle with some blundering upper-class twit he might end up getting us both killed by some wandering Rwandan militiamen. It’s a big risk to take for fifteen grand.’

  Fletcher glared at him. ‘Are you getting cold feet or are you getting greedy?’

  Shane smiled and shrugged. ‘I’m guessing that Lord Haw Haw must have sweetened the pot to get you to take him on when you’re fully booked.’

  Fletcher nodded, accepting defeat. ‘I like your style, man. Okay, double the normal fee. The usual arrangement with the clients is that if they don’t get satisfaction, then they don’t pay. If you get lucky and find a poacher, you’ll make your money and prove yourself to me. It’ll be a win-win.’

  ‘Deal,’ Shane said.

  Michelle sat up in her camp cot as she heard the buzz of her tent zipper opening. She wiped her palms on the sheet.

  ‘It’s okay. It’s me,’ Fletcher said. She smelled the Scotch fumes and groaned inwardly. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Looks like you are already,’ she whispered. The moment she had been dreading had arrived. She swallowed hard and tried to steady her breathing.

  ‘I’m so pleased you’re back.’

  She felt the cot sag and squeak as he sat. ‘Fletcher, I’m really pleased too, it’s just that . . .’

  ‘What. Not going cold on me again, are you?’ He shifted himself closer to her, reaching out, his fingers touching her breast through the fabric of her T-shirt. She failed to suppress a shudder, and prayed he didn’t mistake it for arousal.

  ‘It’s a bad time, Fletcher.’

  ‘What?’

  She sighed. ‘My period.’

  ‘Oh? Okay.’

  ‘Fletcher, I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, no. Think nothing of it. I want it to be just right – always perfect between us. In fact, I was hoping that we could go away, just the two of us, once the Americans are gone. I was thinking one of those nice old colonial hotels in Goma, on the edge of Lake Kivu.’

  ‘That sounds nice,’ she said, pulling the sheet up to cover her breast. She wanted so much to confront him about what he had been doing, to hear him say, to her face, that he had taken money to hunt human beings. However, she knew that such an outburst was too dangerous to contemplate.

  On one level, she wanted to understand how a man who seemed to live by a code of morals could justify murder for profit, while, on the other hand, she was just plain mad – both at him and at herself for falling for him. She wondered if he had ever planned on telling her what he was really hunting – who he was killing. Did he think that in time he’d be able to justify himself to her? Either through fear or revulsion, she was starting to feel physically sick.

  ‘There’s something I want to ask you – some things I want to tell you – but not now. It has to be at the right time.’

  Oh no, she thought.

  ‘Don’t look so worried. It’s a good thing. You’ll see.’ He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, then leaned close and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Night,’ she said. A shiver passed through her body as he stood and let himself out of the tent.

  30

  Shane leaned against the bar in the cottage drinking Kenyan coffee from an enamelled tin mug as Fletcher outlined to the Italian-Americans the plan for the day, gesturing occasionally to a topographic map taped to the wall.

  The hunters wore a mix of designer camouflage clothing which, properly accessorised, would have been as at home on the streets of New York or Los Angeles as the jungles of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Anthony had covered his bald head with a leaf-pattern bandana, which Shane thought took first prize in the ridiculous stakes. Fletcher was dressed in his customary khaki, and Shane was in running shorts and a faded U2 T-shirt. He would, he had told Fletcher, get dressed and into character before Caesar returned from the airport run with his Lordship later in the day. The sun was already high in the sky and the humid air inside the room was thick with the smell of gun oil and sweat.

  He’d only glimpsed Michelle once that morning, and been confused by the way she had deliberately avoided his eyes as she’d hurried to the shower. He’d expected at least some furtive signal as reassurance from her. He hoped she was all right. They would have some time together alone, once Fletcher and his hunting party departed, and before the Englishman arrived.

  ‘Ain’t you coming with us, Shane?’ Vincent asked.

  Fletcher answered for him. ‘As I mentioned to Anthony last night, I’ve got another client arriving today, an Englishman. Rather than delay our departure I’m assigning Shane to take him out this afternoon. They’ll be operating well to the south of us,’ Fletcher pointed to the map, ‘so there’s no risk of us getting in each other’s way. Part of Shane’s task today will be to recce this part of the concession to see if there has been any poaching activity lately. He may drum up some more trade for us for tomorrow.’

  ‘Is this Brit guy hunting the same thing as us?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘He is,’ Fletcher confirmed, ‘but we may have better hunting than Shane and Mister Delancy today. We’re in luck this morning.’ Fletcher turned to face the map again. Shane marvelled at how easily and convincingly he lied. ‘My contact in the Congolese Army radioed camp this morning to let us know that they had a contact with armed poachers not far from the Ugandan border, inside our concession, last night.’

  Anthony, Sal, Eddy and Vincent crowded into a semicircle and studied the map like armchair generals. ‘The army drilled four of the five poachers, but they say the fifth – probably the ringleader – got away. He’s armed with an AK 47, and he knows how to use it. They’re on his tail, and they think he’s probably headed for home, in the village just to our west. The army has asked me, gentlemen, in my capacity as an honorary ranger in this area, to be on the lookout for this man and to kill or capture him.’

  ‘All right!’ Vincent enthused.

  ‘Vincent, I’m not sure what your dad and the others have told you, but I’ll run through our normal rules of engagement for your benefit.’

  The coffee tasted bitter in Shane’s mouth as Fletcher rabbited on about not shooting at women or children, or unarmed men unless he had positively identified them first as poachers. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘One man, in all that jungle?’ Vincent sounded dubious as he leaned forward, studying the area on the map Fletcher had been pointing to. ‘We’re gonna have to be pretty damn lucky to find him.’

  ‘This guy is always lucky, son,’ Sal said, clapping Fletcher on the arm. ‘He’s got a nose for these scumbags.’

  ‘As usual,’ Fletcher concluded, tactfully
avoiding Vincent’s question – and whatever suspicions the other men might have that the whole hunt was rigged – ‘your safety is my paramount concern. If there is unacceptable danger I’ll pull us all back and either call for reinforcements or bring us back to camp.’

  ‘What’s acceptable danger?’ Vincent asked.

  Fletcher turned to him. ‘All my clients know that this is not a one-sided affair. They come here having taken out the appropriate insurance, and having made their peace with their God and their family. This is not war, Vincent, as you knew it,’ and Shane had to stop himself from smiling at the nice double entendre there, ‘but it is the closest thing to it that money can buy. Never forget, gentlemen, that I am acting within the bounds of the laws of this land. It is illegal for an unauthorised civilian to be in the national park or a concession such as this in possession of a firearm and I am allowed – encouraged, even – by the government of this country to shoot poachers on sight.’

  ‘Let’s get some!’ Anthony yelled, raising his Weatherby hunting rifle high over his head.

  ‘Fuckin’-A,’ Sal concluded.

  Vincent lingered outside the cottage as the others began piling awkwardly into the Landcruiser with their rifles, hunting vests and ammunition. ‘Shane?’

  Shane cocked an eyebrow as he drained the last of his coffee.

  ‘Any last-minute words of advice?’

  ‘Keep your head down.’

  From her tent, Michelle watched the heavily laden Landcruiser trundle out of camp. She assumed that Patrice and Fletcher would drive the gangsters most of the way to the killing ground, as the overweight hoodlums would probably have heart attacks if they had to walk.

  She watched Shane toss the dregs of his coffee into the dying campfire and walk to his tent. She scanned the clearing to make sure none of the camp staff was loitering around, possibly spying on her, and darted next door.

  Shane was bare-chested and pulling up his camouflage fatigue trousers. She saw the sliver of white skin and dark curls beneath his hard, flat belly, and felt a momentary stirring of desire. ‘Hey, don’t you knock?’ he smiled.