White Bone (16 page)

T
hat one had buffalo balls,” Guuleed told his lieutenant, Rambu. They stood just outside their relocated camp. Observing Xin Ha’s warning about overhead drones, Guuleed had split his team into two, setting the camps several miles apart. Weapons were kept hidden at all times. The men from both camps were sent out daily on wildlife reconnaissance, binoculars only. From the air they would look like rangers or conservationists.

Radio contact was kept limited; messengers delivered written notes between the two camps. Guuleed appreciated the old tradecraft. He’d had enough of technology.

“We dragged that poor bastard out into the bush . . .” Guuleed searched for the name of the man they’d sacrificed; he couldn’t find it. “To make a point . . . and you know why no one has surfaced as the real traitor? Because the fucking traitor is up there.” He pointed into the sky. “We weren’t betrayed in Kibera. We were seen going
there. It’s been those damn birds all along. The elephants get drones. Who could imagine such a thing?”

“If I may?” Rambu ventured. Guuleed nodded his assent. “Could we use this to our advantage?”

“I’m listening.”

“These drones. They can see us. They can see our body heat in the night. But they come and go, and they don’t do well in foul weather. The afternoon thunderstorms, for instance. Very bad for them. And the spring migration. A great many safari companies, same trucks as ours. We wait our chance. We move with them, leaving our tents and all else in place.”

“I love to hunt at night,” Guuleed said. “It’s good thinking. We will do as you propose.”

At his side, Rambu seemed to grow a few centimeters taller.

“But I have important information that cannot wait for the pace of the migration. I need volunteers. One truck. It can be made to look like resupply. Four in the morning. Like you said, they can’t watch us at all hours. It’s worth the risk.”

“I will volunteer, of course. And as many others as you need.”

“I appreciate that, my friend. We have made a mistake.” Rambu looked troubled by his boss’s use of that particular pronoun.

“What is it?”

“You look like you’re going to shit yourself, man! Can’t we make mistakes?”

Rambu picked at his ass. “You may be right.” He was kidding, and the two laughed.

Guuleed sobered first. “I’ve just heard the American killed the sergeant. Tossed him over a balcony into the lobby of the Sarova Stanley. Like I said, brass bollocks on that one. Now he’s on the move. Nothing we can do about him for the present.”

“Is this the mistake you refer to?”

“No. It’s the Chinese whore. It’s possible she has—or had, if we’ve killed her—information vital to our cause. There is hope yet for my family.”

“For this I am thankful.”

He stepped closer to Rambu. “But we must get her back.”

“What? But we—Leebo left her in the bush. Is this possible?” Rambu had learned the art of turning statements into questions, the better to allow Guuleed to make the conclusions. Guuleed had personally instructed Leebo to get rid of the woman.

“Find her.”

“It was two days ago. The bush. She’s a woman. A Chinese tourist—”

“I don’t give a shit. I want her alive. Failing that, I want everything she’s got. Her clothing, notes, computer, phone. Everything left behind at the Ol Donyo. Tell Leebo to take you to her. Or everything that belonged to her, if she’s dead.”

Guuleed unlocked and handed Rambu the treasured satellite phone. It was a symbol of power and Rambu accepted it reverentially.

“Go on,” he said. “Make the call. A coded message. Tell him you’re on your way. That should light him up.”

“It’s a day’s drive.”

“Damn it! Am I asking? Call Leebo! Get this thing started. I will not be happy if you fail. You are to make it look like a rescue. But no matter what, I want answers by tomorrow night!”

Rambu looked shell-shocked by the imposed deadline and his sudden involvement. Guuleed felt the need to motivate him.

“It’s the Nairobi ivory, Rambu. It is said the woman was getting close to it.” Rambu’s eyes grew enormous in his blue-black face. “But listen up! If you repeat what I just said, repeat it to anyone, I will nail your tongue to a poisonwood tree and watch the ants eat you alive.”

T
he macadam road leading from the Nanyuki airfield was bordered by small farms, forest and the occasional village of cinderblock one-story buildings painted turquoise, rose, purple and green. Pickup trucks passed frequently, carrying harvested crops, farm animals and children. Boys with long switches herded goats, sheep or cattle along a well-worn roadside path. Women wearing colorful long skirts and sleeveless tops walked in pairs.

Knox, in the front seat, used the driver as a tour guide. Healthy sons were herdsmen from age ten, he learned. Girls lucky enough to be married off did so between thirteen and sixteen. A lucky man lived to sixty.

Despite a road sign that listed its population as over thirty thousand, Nanyuki was a blink-and-miss-it town, little more than a crossroads of two paved double-lane highways. A majority of its
residents appeared to be constantly afoot, hordes walking along the roadways, just as in Nairobi.

Three structures rose above two stories, all hotels. Trash, detritus and red dust as fine as baking flour swirled about, carried on the wind.

“Jesus.” Knox let the word escape absentmindedly. He’d been expecting a mini-Nairobi.

“Ah, there are five churches in town,” the driver said happily. “Several more along this road. Take your choice.”

Knox shook his head and slipped on his sunglasses.

The town’s main road had been patched so many times it was nearly impassable. Vehicles crawled. Randomly placed speed bumps added a touch of irony. On all sides, the men wore blue jeans and, inconceivably, Nike running shoes and Under Armour shirts. Knox rolled down the window—then quickly rolled it back up. He didn’t want to think about the source of such smells.

He checked into an older hotel along the main road. The Kirimara Springs had lost its veneer of pretension the day construction was completed, perhaps some thirty years before. Knox’s second-floor room had a dust-encrusted ceiling fan, complaining at one lazy speed, and a hard mattress on a low wooden bedframe beneath a veil of what had once been white mosquito netting. There was a mirror, two ceramic elephant trunks for hooks on the wall, one of them chipped, and a wooden dresser that looked like a high school freshman’s wood shop project. A corner sink played host to a parade of small black ants and two tiny bottles—shampoo and conditioner, the printing of which was so well worn from refilling that only the double
o
’s distinguished between them. Down the hall, a community toilet had the disinfectant smell of an Ohio travel center off Interstate 80. There was no phone, no magazines, no tourist
brochures. No hotel map mounted inside the door displaying the nearest fire exits. Presumably the window won. Or, you’d be so depressed having stayed here that when it lit on fire you’d just remain in your room and suffer your lumps.

Knox felt like a tick in an armpit. He secured his phone inside one of the interior pockets of his windbreaker, which he carried over his shoulder as he left the hotel for a walking tour. The jacket also contained a Maglite, Rolaids, a ten-dollar roll of quarters for his clenched fist, and a Swiss Army knife bought on the streets of Nairobi. His shirt hid two parcels of cash; a thin leather wallet carrying credit cards and IDs warmed itself alongside that area of the body Bonnie Raitt described so articulately as: “Down where it’s tangled and dark.” Three passports were Velcroed into an added interior pocket of his jeans. He wore a pair of matte black Wayfarer sunglasses and a warning expression:
Fuck-with-me-and-you’ll-be-sorry.

Outside, he joined the pedestrians on his side of the roadway, matched pace and walked. Knox towered over everyone, winning an endless round of curious looks. They seemed to suggest that, as a white man, he belonged in a vehicle.

The stores were mostly shacks with a small dark window through which orders could be placed and goods delivered. Shadowy figures moved within, selling gum, cigarettes, phone parts and fruits. Mini-pickup trucks piled absurdly high with hand-tied bales of
khat
lumbered past. The plant was chewed as a mild stimulant. Knox could have used some.

He arrived at the center of the village and found his way to the town market, led by farting motorcycles, belching trucks and the drone of a Bruno Mars song. A wide dirt street with dozens of competing fruit and vegetable stands lining both sides opened out before him.

The open-air market attracted barefoot kids, women of every
age and shape, and an abundance of houseflies. Each small stall offered nearly identical produce in vivid colors—carrots, beets, melons, green onions, tomatoes. The occasional stall of nuts and fruits or fly-crusted meats broke the monotony. Knox walked slowly, answering inquisitive eyes with a smile, all the while keeping track of anyone and everyone within twenty yards.

Keeping his pace slow and easy, he continued down a small hill to an open field filled with tables heaped with color. It took him a moment to grasp that what he was seeing were mountainous piles of clothing, organized by vendors who advertised their prices on hand-scrawled posters.

“English? English?” Knox called. A young man in his early twenties appeared. He wore a St. Louis Rams jersey, black trousers and scuffed penny loafers without socks. His complexion suggested younger than thirty but older than twelve.

“I speak the English,” he said.

“What is all this?” Knox asked, gesturing to the field of clothing. The area was thirty yards wide and over a football field long.

“Nanyuki market,” the man said.

“So much.”

“It is always like this. Everyone from Nanyuki and many villages for many miles buys the clothes here.”

Wandering among the tables, Knox observed that every shoe, shirt, bra and pair of jeans was used. All American brands. He mentioned this to his interpreter.

“Yes, of course. These are clothes sent to Africa by American charity.”

“But they are for sale. Clothes sent from the U.S. are meant to be given away.”

“Not here in Kenya. The clothing arrives by ship to Mombasa. It is sold in large . . . how would you say ‘tied together’?”

“Bales.”

“Very large bales. These bales are resold once onto the dock. This buyer then makes smaller bales and sells to these people here. Same, all over. You see such clothing markets everywhere.”

Chicago Bulls, World Series, Nike—Just Do It., Lee, Wrangler, New Balance . . . The closer Knox looked, the more he saw the American suburbs face-to-face with this underground Kenyan economy.

“You wish to buy something?” the man asked. “I may help you?”

“No, thank you.” Knox wished to be seen, to stand out in the crowd. “I’m just looking.”

He was idly searching for an XXL T-shirt when a voice sounded behind him. The speaker was a tall, elegant blond woman of indeterminate age who projected a high-minded forbearance.

“I’m called Ava. We spoke.”

“John.” They shook hands. She could wrestle alligators, he was guessing. “South African?”

“Bravo. Thirteen years in Kenya in September. My fourth at the lodge.”

“Solio.”

“I apologize for the dramatics. It’s just that hoteliers can talk. Better for you not to be overheard hiring a car for the lodge.”

They rode in the second bench of a stretched safari truck—an open-air Toyota Land Cruiser—passing huts marked by hand-painted signs advertising eggs and fruit, churches, small farms and the occasional collection of dilapidated shacks. When the colorfully dressed Maasai driver turned off the main road, it was onto a gravel and dirt track that rolled across an open plain of dry grass on both sides. Shortly thereafter, a high, reinforced fence topped with barbed wire appeared on both sides of the track.

“Jurassic Park,” Knox said.

Ava winced in amusement.

The brown safari truck crested a hill. Looking down on a green line of cottonwood, Knox saw live rhinoceroses for the first time. He marveled like a little boy. The pair looked like cows from a distance, but evolved into massive gray beasts, their signature upturned curving horns held quizzically toward the sky. “Unreal,” he muttered. A dozen Cape buffalo came next, followed by Thompson’s gazelles, eland, and more rhinos.

“Do you . . . I mean is this an everyday occurrence?” Knox wanted to shout to stop the car. “Can I get out?”

“There will be time for that.” Ava grinned. “It never gets old, believe me.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Knox couldn’t help sounding awed, wondered why it embarrassed him. “The size! They’re
right there!
”

“The cattle operation is on this side,” Ava said, indicating the fenced land to the right. “Reserve, here on the left.”

Knox couldn’t contain his inner tourist. “How big is it?”

“The reserve is seven thousand hectares. The entire ranch, twenty thousand. The cattle operation helps fund the reserve. It’s a wonderful symbiosis.”

Soon they entered the more forested area and slowed at a KGA checkpoint, Knox slouching and pulling his hat down on Ava’s command. The gate was opened before the vehicle fully stopped.

Ahead, a dirt track meandered through dense, lush forest. Soon the lodge emerged, Solio, elegantly designed with a flowing thatched roof and whitewashed stucco walls. It belonged both to its surroundings and on the cover of travel magazines. A line of three staff awaited, all African. Backs straight, heads high. The display was slightly off-putting to Knox, who didn’t like being kowtowed to.

Once inside, his freshly wet warm hand towel returned to the tray, Knox looked through the open-air wall onto a panorama of
marsh, forest and grassland. A giraffe stood no farther than thirty yards away, by a deck constructed as a dining island.

“The Barr-Latners, the owners of Eastland, built this. Rusty designed it.”

“Impressive.”

“Yes, we get that a lot. Shall we take some tea? I’ve arranged a meeting with Benson, our head of security, as you requested. But we have forty minutes or so if you like?”

“Wonderful. Thank you.”

She led him to the outside deck. Iced tea and pastries arrived. Ava caught Knox admiring the giraffe, still only a matter of yards away.

“Amazing,” he said. “So close. I can see her eyelashes.”

“His. He’s called Girafa, after Rafael Nadal, my tennis hero. He took a liking to us. He doesn’t spook easily.”

“It’s . . . otherworldly,” said Knox. “He must be twenty feet tall.”

“Quite nearly six meters. Yes.”

“Grace must have loved this.” It was the first time he’d mentioned her. “His movement is so elegant. So fluid.”

“I would have offered for you to stay with us as well, but because of the uncertainty you expressed . . .”

“Yes. I think this best. That is, until I saw what I’m missing.”

“We have the largest herd of black rhino in all of Africa. Larger still, our white rhino population.” She smiled at him; he nodded for her to go on. “Rusty and Lana Barr-Latner are both fourth-generation Kenyans. His family was the first to transport wild animals. It’s quite a small community, the expat travel industry. But a most trustworthy one. Graham—Mr. Winston—is a regular guest at Solio.”

Something lighted upon her lips, not quite a smile, but a rosy warmth of satisfaction. Her eyes softened as they had when she was talking about Girafa.

A herd of Cape buffalo passed slowly far beyond the marsh. A procession as old as the dirt at his feet, Knox thought.

“You like the view?” she asked.

“It’s a time machine.”

“True.”

“How much did Grace tell you?” he asked.

“That Graham had sent her down on a fact-finding mission. No details. She asked if I knew where Samuelson had stayed prior to . . . the tragedy. I told her she’d have to ask the police. That it wasn’t here.”

“Do you believe he was poaching?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. Mr. Samuelson wrote about corruption. No great surprise he met his end. But still, an enormous loss.”

“Grace was interested only in Samuelson’s lodging?”

“And she wanted to meet with Benson. Same as you.”

“After that?”

“She checked out two days ago. First flight out. You won’t raise her by phone. I’ve been trying.”

“Because?” Knox suppressed the shudder he felt ripple through him.

“She left an item behind in her room.” Ava paused to make eye contact with Knox. “Happens more often than you might think. Although this was a little unusual. It was sealed and on her bed. Out where we couldn’t have missed it.”

Knox considered the look she gave him. “An envelope,” he said. “Something small inside. My name on it.”

“No. It’s marked ‘Private—Do Not Open.’ But yes, there is something that moves around inside.”

“I’d like to see it, please.”

“Drink your tea,” she said. “I’ll fetch it.”