The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (14 page)

Jesse took the last swig and said, “Gillespie, you're turning me into an alcoholic.”

“You can thank me later. Pass me the rum. I'm getting depressed thinking about Lynn leaving for Africa. I'm gonna miss her. Never thought I'd say that about a woman. I'm becoming a sentimental old fool. Here's to Lynn Allison and that felony favorite, breaking and entering,” he said, holding up his bottle. “Spooner, you do know what a felony is? I know you failed the bar exam and all.”

“Let's just hope I know enough not to get us arrested.”

“I'll certainly drink to that.”

***

The following night, Spooner and Gillespie picked up Jimmy and drove to the Turner building. This time they used the east parking lot.

The break-in ran as smooth as silk. The file on Nelson Chang was still in Turner's desk. Jesse fanned out the sheets of paper and photographed each one of them. Gillespie used the office copier to photocopy all of Turner's son's letters. The work was completed in less than an hour. As they were leaving, Gillespie grabbed two handfuls of cigars from the humidor on Max's desk. They exited the building and jumped into Gillespie's Caddy.

“I got you some more Havanas, courtesy of Turner.” He handed the cigars to Jimmy.

“Thanks, but you guys are still buying me dinner,” Jimmy said.

“I know what you're gonna say. The restaurant has to use white table clothes. Jesus, the labor laws for the criminals' union are getting tough.”

***

The next day, Turner stood behind his antique desk. He was too nervous to sit down. He forfeited his usual cigar for a cigarette, and cursed himself for doing so. Something in his office had been altered, but he couldn't identify the change. He summoned his bodyguard to review the building's surveillance tapes.

“I got them, Mr. Turner. They used the east parking lot on Monday night,” Bob said, handing him a photograph that had missed Jesse Spooner.

“Gillespie was the Judas all along. Who's the other guy?”

“He's a local locksmith. Crippled prick with a long criminal record. I'm sorry about this. I guess I screwed up.”

“I've invited Gillespie to the pigeon shoot on Saturday. Need I say more? Do what you want with the locksmith.” Turner walked over to the bay window and looked out at the Atlantic Ocean. He placed his hands behind his back and sighed. “The Lord is a jealous God filled with vengeance and wrath. He takes revenge on all who oppose him and furiously destroys his enemies. It was the cigars.”

“The cigars?” Bob asked.

“I filled that humidor myself. They stole my Cohibas.”

T
he weather cleared enough on Saturday for Dan Gillespie to put the top down on his Coup de Ville. It took him an hour to drive from West Palm to Okeechobee. He glanced at the directions he'd scribbled on a cocktail napkin. There's the pickup truck where I'm supposed to turn off, he thought. The road was marked with milky potholes from the previous night's rain. He veered to avoid a deep rut and made his own road around a clump of palmetto bushes. The twisted cypress trees lining the dirt road were suffocated in Spanish moss. He gave up looking through the muddy whitewash on the windshield and stuck his head out the window. Up ahead, he saw three men standing in front of a metal cattlegate. When he stopped the car, one of them walked up to him.

“You are…?” a man asked, looking over the top of his reflective sunglasses.

“Dan Gillespie.”

“Very good, sir.” He motioned to another man to open the gate.

Gillespie had heard rumors about pigeon shooting. It was a blood sport for the rich and famous. When Max asked him to stand in for him, he was intrigued. Old Maxyboy's doing his best to bring me into the fold. He even put up the two-thousand-dollar entry fee.

The clearing was surrounded by willowy Australian pines. There was a large tent erected in the middle. After parking his car, he stepped into the tent. Bartenders worked the open bar. Waiters hustled between the tables. Dan eyed the bar, but hesitated. He leaned his Browning 12-gauge in a rack between a Purdey and a Parker Brothers. These guns cost more than my boat.

The only seat available was one next to an older woman and her younger escort. Dan recognized them. She was rich, and her escort wasn't. Her face had been overstretched by plastic surgery. His hair was dyed the color of a fox. Much scarier in person, he said to himself. Dan tried to strike up a conversation, but they brushed him off.

A man walked to the front of the tent and started tapping a glass with a spoon. “Listen up. Today's shoot is worth one hundred thousand dollars. I failed math, but we have fifty shooters at two thousand per head.” Laughter rippled through the crowd. “We have some guests with us today, so I'm going to go over the rules. I'd like to thank Mr. Turner, who couldn't be here, for letting us use his ranch. Let's hear it for Max.” The man's remarks were followed by enthusiastic applause. “Back to the rules. As you can see, we have a fiftyfoot ring surrounded by a threefoot fence. You will note three trapdoors inside of the ring. When the shooter is called, he or she will step forward. Your guns must be opened and unloaded. Failure to comply with this rule means automatic disqualification. On the command ‘Load,' the shooter will load. I'll ask if you're ready. You'll indicate yes with a nod. At your command ‘Pull,' a live pigeon will be jettisoned out of one of the trapdoors. The shooter must fire both barrels at each bird. If the bird's hit, but manages to fly out of the ring, it's a miss. All birds must fall and stay in the ring to be counted. There will be no appeals.

“More about safety. You will note the bird boys. Please don't shoot them. Shooting a bird boy also means you're disqualified.” This remark was met with hilarity. “I'm sure you saw the men standing around the perimeter. These men are here to shoot any pigeons you fail to kill. We don't want an injured bird landing on some Audubon Society member's windowsill.” The crowd's laughter was less energetic. “I know some of you have disconnected your safeties. I cannot stress this enough, please be careful. Are there any questions?” he asked, scanning the crowd. “I guess not. The first two shooters, to your marks, please.” The woman sitting next to Gillespie and a suntanned man stepped forward.

The man was dressed in designer khakis complete with a hat banded in leopard skin. He twisted his hips trying to get an easy kill on a bird coming from his left, but the first pigeon came out the right trapdoor; he missed it with both shots. He was sure the next one would come from his left, but the bird flew out of the middle trapdoor. He missed again. Gillespie heard the blast as a perimeter shooter killed it. The contestant was so unnerved; he had no chance of hitting the third pigeon that did fly out of the left trapdoor. He was zero for three.

It was the old woman's turn. She held her 28-gauge like a mother cradling an infant. She squared her stance and placed the Purdey against her chin. “Pull!” she screamed in a croaky rattle. She stroked the barrel across the sky as smoothly as a great painter would swirl his brush. The shots were fired so close the sound fused into a single noise. That bird and the next two were pulverized into organic dust. She was three for three. Her opponent examined his gun as if it was defective.

As the afternoon bore on, Gillespie noticed a man staring at him. He wore his hair in a ponytail and he had tattoos on his arms. When he stared back, the man looked away. This guy's gotta be one of my old divorce clients, he guessed.

Gillespie was called as the next shooter. He was surprised to find the man with the tattoos walking next to him. “I'm Dan Gillespie. Good luck.” He extended his hand, but the man refused to shake it. So that's the way you want it, he thought.

“Mr. Gillespie will shoot first. To your mark!”

He tried to visualize the old woman's shooting. He squared up and fought off the tendency to guess. The first pigeon came out of the left trapdoor. He hit the bird before it could gather any speed and hit it again on the ground for insurance. The next one came from the middle. He killed it easily. The last bird got lodged in the tube. A timeout was called. The bird boys ran into the ring. One of them rung the pigeon's neck and another boy reloaded the tubes with fresh birds. The interruption broke his concentration. He missed his last pigeon with both shots. He was two out of three for the first round.

Gillespie stepped aside to allow his opponent to pass. A shot was fired. The blast knocked Gillespie down. The flash in time was reduced to slow motion. He couldn't move or breathe. He tried to scream, but couldn't. The sulfuric smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils. There was only the ringing. Please God, let this be a dream, he thought. When he opened his eyes, he was looking up at people. They were speaking, but he couldn't hear their voices. There were distorted faces with uncaring eyes looking down at him. His mind raced through a kaleidoscope of his life. It stopped with a vision of Lynn. He felt his bowels ooze. A terrible sadness filled him. The sadness wasn't because he knew he was dying, it was because he wanted to tell Lynn something. His breathing stopped, but he had thoughts. He saw a man's ear. His felt the man's fingers close his eyes. There was nothing he could do.

One hour after Dan Gillespie died, a man pushed Jimmy over the top of the stairs above his locksmith shop. His legless body was vaulted from his wheelchair. The bald man who pushed him reached down and picked up Jimmy's cigar. “Shame on you. Smoking is a nasty habit,” the man said, extinguishing the butt between Jimmy's eyes.

***

Jesse was relieved to find a police car parked at the marina. When he received the telephone call about the accident, he agonized over how he would tell Lynn. Walking down the dock, he passed two policemen headed in the opposite direction. Their expressions meant they had informed Lynn about the accident. He found her curled up in a fetal position in her cabin. There was nothing they needed to say to each other. He sat down on the edge of her bunk and placed his hand on her shoulder. She covered his hand with hers. Jesse stayed with her well into the night. Finally he said, “Lynn, let's get out of here. My mother's expecting us.”

The drive to Belle Glade was a silent one. Lynn had planned to tell Dan everything about her involvement with Turner, but she could never find the right time. Jesse had also kept things from Dan. Now it was too late for both of them.

It was after midnight by the time Jesse parked his Chevy in front of his mother's house. The minute Lynn stepped on the porch, the immense woman engulfed her in a bear hug. “Honey, I expect Danny's with the Lord now. I'm gonna fix ya'll some eggs and pork sausage. Son, put her suitcase in my bedroom.”

The women stared at each other over the kitchen table. They were too griefstricken to speak. Lynn looked away and began to sob quietly. Lynn felt she had become a pariah. The men in her life were either terribly flawed or terribly unlucky.

Jesse tried to sleep, but he tossed and turned and never closed his eyes. There was something about Dan's death that didn't make sense.

He was up by six and gone by seven. He bought a newspaper and a cup of coffee at a convenience store. He dropped the paper, and ran to his car. The headline read, “Local Locksmith Found Dead.”

Jesse took his time driving back to his mother's house. He wondered if Lynn and Danny had been totally candid about Max Turner. There's something I don't understand about the relationship between Lynn and her exhusband. I need some straight answers.

For the next two weeks Jesse commuted between his mother's house and West Palm.

Mrs. Spooner was a keen observer, especially when it concerned her son. She was happy to have Lynn as a guest, and she told her so. Lillian watched Lynn's affection for her son change from friendship into something more. She worried about the way they touched each other. When she confronted him in private about his attraction to Lynn, he shrugged it off. Mrs. Spooner never told her son, but she was relieved when Lynn left for Africa.

***

Max Turner felt rejuvenated by the turn of events. On his first day back from Washington, he was interviewed by a deputy from the sheriff's department. He forced back tears as he lamented about allowing such a repugnant event to take place on his ranch. At the end of the interview, the deputy apologized to Max for the inconvenience. He swiveled his chair around and looked out at the ocean. He lit his first cigar of the day and smiled. Everything was falling into place. The private line on his telephone flashed. It was the secured line reserved for Nelson Chang.

“Are you still in the Seychelles?” Max listened for awhile and then finished the conversation with, “I see. I'd like to explore one more alternative, before I give you my blessing. Goodbye, Nelson.”

***

N
elson Chang replaced the satellite telephone on the table next to his deck chair. He had trouble sleeping and was awake before sunrise. The first glimmer of light shone above the Indian Ocean. The reassuring sound of waves lapping against the hull was interrupted by a tape recording: It was the call for morning prayers.

It took thirty-two days for Saudi Prince Waleed's yacht, the
Kingdom
, to sail into the Seychelles Islands from her homeport at Benghazi in the Gulf of Sidra. Two Sikorsky helicopters stayed busy ferrying the prince's guests to and from the airport at Beau Vallon Bay. As one helicopter landed on the
Kingdom
's fantail; her sister ship hovered over the shoreline. Gray gunboats of the Seychelles Defense Force formed a picketline offshore.

Sunni fundamentalism had not cast its shadow over the prince's yacht. The strict dictates of the Quran were temporarily suspended. Prostitutes from London, alcoholic beverages and illicit drugs were provided for his guests. The pentup demand for vices had turned the cruise into an orgy.

Chang Man Ying was renamed Nelson Chang, as a tribute to Admiral Nelson by the British couple who adopted him. Chang was an international arms dealer. Governments in the Middle East juggling their allegiances between the Western democracies and Islamic extremists used Chang. He helped the Arabs funnel weapons into their jihads.

The emergence of China as the next economic juggernaut had elevated Nelson Chang to a behindthescenes liaison between the Arabs and the People's Republic.

At sixty-five, Nelson Chang was one of the richest men in the world.

He cultivated the persona of a man without a country; a man unburdened by the fidelities born of patriotism.

Chang reluctantly accepted the prince's invitation to spend a few days cruising in the Seychelles Islands. When he attempted to cut his visit short, the prince protested.

The atmosphere on board the
Kingdom
was transformed from excessive consumption to sobriety on Chang's last day. The prostitutes were hustled off the yacht before sunrise. The stewards exchanged their western khaki uniforms for traditional Arabic robes. The furniture in the main salon was replaced with pillows and prayer rugs. A green Islamic flag fluttered from the ship's masthead.

Chang stood on the bow watching the emerging sun's fiery display. The smell of Turkish tobacco made him turn around. Prince Waleed was also admiring the sunrise. He wore a long-sleeved
thoub
. The red and white checkered
shumag
on his head was held in-place by a band. When he exhaled, the smoke separated into two strands and disappeared into hist ear-shaped nostrils.

“The sunrise is even more beautiful in the desert.
As-Salamu Alaykum
, peace be with you, Nelson Chang,” he said quietly. “In the name of Allah, I hope you slept well?”

“A man sleeps better in his own bed.”

“I hope you can forgive me for prolonging your stay. I think you will find the meeting I have arranged, how shall I say it, enlightening.”

The prince took a few steps towards Chang and spoke again. “We are old friends. Like you, I am also cursed by a western education. Sometimes I wish my father had left me in the desert. Please don't judge us by what you have witnessed. I think it was the philosopher Spinoza who said, ‘Desire is the very essence of Man.' I'm afraid our steadfastness is challenged by the forbidden fruits of the West.”

As soon as the prince sensed Chang had accepted his explanation, he switched to another topic. “Nelson, are your friends in Beijing pleased by the developments in the Sudan?”

Chang took his time in answering. “I would have to say, yes. We know any military adventures in Africa would be thwarted by the Americans. Better to let our Arab friends take control of Africa from within.”

“The Islamic movement is spreading over Africa like a great tidal wave. I'm curious, how many Chinese are working in Africa?”

“Thousands. Seven hundred Chinese companies are operating in fortynine countries on the African continent. We just completed the presidential residence in Zimbabwe, a gift for Robert Mugabe.

“The Middle East has less than forty years of oil left. China must have strategic minerals if she is to challenge the United States. The destinies of our two great civilizations have been written here. Allah will convert these savages. Together, we will reap Africa for a hundred years,” the prince reiterated, to make his point.

The conversation made Chang uncomfortable. He walked over to the railing and looked towards the Horn of Africa. His thoughts drifted back to his last briefing in Beijing. The Chinese thought of Arabs as only slightly more advanced than Africans in human evolution. Their union was one of convenience, certainly not preference. “Your Highness, I understand the Canadians have abandoned their oil interests in the Sudan.” He turned around expecting the prince, but he was gone.

Prince Waleed climbed to the bridge where he could look down at Chang undetected. Chang was an enigma to the prince. He was devoid of religion and family. He sensed that to trust Chang would be a grave mistake. Our association is one of mutual mistrust, he thought. Chang walked up to the bowsprit. The man's slanted eyes were encased by folds of leathery skin. As he observed Chang, a bilious taste filled his mouth. Someday China
will
inherit the earth. What a ghastly place, he reflected.

Later that morning, Chang was ushered into the main salon. The prince greeted him in the traditional Arabic manner with his palms turned up. There were two men standing next to the prince. Their skin shined like anthracite. Chang guessed the larger man was a general by his uniform. A glossy scar starting at the corner of his left eye disappeared into his beard. The scar had damaged his facial muscles, turning his expression into a permanent snarl. His face was so twisted; it looked like two opposite thespian masks grafted together.

The general's interpreter was a small man. He had snakelike eyes framed by thicketed eyebrows. One eye was lazy and gazed off in a different direction from the other. Chang took a step back, hoping to avoid the traditional cheek-kissing. His hopes were dashed as each man was introduced to him. Chang wiped his face and sat down.

“Mr. Chang, this is General Muhammad Nur of the Sudanese Army,” the prince said, introducing the larger man who scowled at Chang. The general has information about your friend's son, Arthur Turner.”

“General, Mr. Chang represents the Chinese National Petroleum Corporation. This company has completed construction of the first oil refinery in the Sudan. Sixty percent of Sudanese oil is exported to China. I'm sure your superiors in Khartoum would want you to help him. To make sure we have your undivided attention, I have provided you with a small token of my appreciation.” The prince handed the general a briefcase.

Chang listened to the general lecture him about his military exploits on the Sudanese frontier with Chad. He knew the Janjaweed militias had killed four hundred thousand Africans in the Darfur and had driven two million more from their ancestral homes. The Islamic armies had castrated men and raped women in their socalled Holy Jihad. The world condemned the scorched-earth policy as a religious genocide, but Chang knew there was another motive. The Darfur region contained vast oil reserves. Once the land was cleared of human interference, the Chinese could start exploring for oil. “Yes, yes,” said Chang, interrupting him. “I'm sure you will prevail in your military endeavors. Tell me what you know about the American, Turner.” Chang waited impatiently for the translation.

The general opened the briefcase and patted the money listening to Chang's translated inquiry. His damaged mouth could not contain the saliva as he answered. When he stopped speaking, he ran his finger along the scar on his face. He discreetly wiped the spittle on his robe.

“The general says Turner lives in a refugee camp known as Mangalatore
.
This place is north of the Ugandan border. He's curious to know what you want with this man. He says if you wish him to rescue the man, he feels he should return your gift. It would be a most difficult undertaking. The savages are fierce fighters. A
Dinka
warrior has already scarred him.” The interpreter outlined the general's scar on his own face to make his point.

“Ask the general if it would be easier to kill the man,” said Chang.

The interpreter asked the general. He answered a few seconds later, saying, “It could be done. The general wants to know what evil thing this man has done to his father that would make him want to kill his own son.”

“Tell him, that's not his concern. I will let him know of my friend's wishes. Tell him my friend is a generous man.” The interpreter relayed Chang's remarks. He decided not to translate the general's opinion about the brutality of a father ordering the execution of his son. A few minutes later the general and his interpreter got up to leave.

Chang watched the general's helicopter disappear into the washedout haze. The renewed sunlight turned the coconut trees along the coastline from black to green. The first gasp of day produced a chilly breeze. He shivered and closed the collar of his linen jacket to ward off the coolness.

Prince Waleed studied Chang, but his poker face gave no insight to his thinking. “Nelson, you look perplexed. What's your opinion of the general?”

“Someone once said, ‘Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction.'”

“The man you quoted was Pascal,” said the prince, wiping the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. “These Africans are like barbarous children. That's precisely why we must control them. I've heard it said that the United States and China will fight a great war. Maybe that war will be fought here in Africa. Come Nelson, let us eat. It's too early for such depressing thoughts. It's given me a headache.”

“I'll join you after I make an overseas call. My friend's anxious to hear the news about his son.”