Frederick Ramsay_Botswana Mystery 01 (3 page)

Chapter 4

Leo Painter stared at the same slate gray lake. His view, however, was considerably better than that from the Griswolds’ Oak Street Beach apartment. His office was high in the Willis Tower. He liked it better when it was the Sears Tower. Sears said Chicago. Who in the hell was Willis anyway? On a clear day, Leo could see across the lake all the way to the Michigan shore or south to the Indiana dunes. The view was spectacular. For what he paid for the space, it ought to be.

Travis Parizzi sat on the edge of an expensive leather chair, briefcase open in his lap. He shuffled the papers it contained and sorted them into the order he wished to deal with them. Travis had learned years ago that Leo liked his sessions with his COO to be quick, to the point, and no nonsense. Travis looked up, waiting for Leo’s signal to begin. This morning, it seemed, Leo was in no hurry. Finally he turned from the window.

“We’re set for Africa?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so. Has Mrs. Painter made up her mind if she’s going?” There had been a debate about Leo’s wife being included in the trip. Somehow she’d discovered the company would be going public and had thrown a hissy-fit. She’d threatened to dump Leo on the spot. He promised to renegotiate her pre-nup, but Travis doubted it would happen. Ethical behavior and fairness were never part of Leo’s makeup as far as Travis could determine. If they were, Leo would still be running errands for Harry Reilly, his first wife’s father. But his shrewd sense of mining, a growing emphasis on their newly developing oil business, and his inability to feel guilty about anything had culminated in the ouster of the old man, a quick divorce from the daughter, and transformation of tiny Reilly Petroleum to Earth Global, now the third largest oil, gas, and mining company in the country. Its real-estate department alone rivaled Donald Trump’s. Or at least Leo believed so. Travis had his doubts.

“No, she decided to take a pass on this one. She’s going to fly to Des Moines and visit her sister.”

Leo Painter was not political, just eager to have a voice in the regulatory process and access to public lands, if and when it seemed they might become available for exploitation. So, he made generous political contributions to both parties and at every level. He’d learned early on that state legislators often had as much influence in the areas in which he held an interest as their better known federal counterparts, and their patronage was considerably cheaper to acquire. Charities, on the other hand, had less to do with altruism than with providing access to people and events that could prove useful in the future. Travis admired Leo who, he decided, was Hamiltonian in his belief that money, power, and prestige drove people and nations to achieve greatness. Had he known him better, he might have been surprised at how off the mark he was in this estimation.

The State Department, at the request of the President, asked Leo to travel to Botswana to consult on the extraction of methane and any other natural resources that lay beneath Botswana’s soil. It wasn’t that Botswana had a shortage of willing companies eager to exploit its resources, but the State Department desired a more substantial hegemony in the area. Leo had agreed, less out of a spirit of expanding capitalism in Africa than to forward his ambition to assume an interest, a controlling interest preferably, in a nickel mine recently acquired by the Germans. He thought if he spread around some cash, twisted a few arms, and applied the right sort of hard-to-come by information judiciously, he might be able to convince certain people to see it his way.

But that wasn’t the big prize. Securing or, worst case, obtaining an exclusive U.S. license for ActiVox could net the company billions and effectively put all of his competition out of business. A dozen other mining conglomerates had lost out in the bidding war for the process previously but would be back eager to secure a license as well. Travis knew about Leo’s intentions even though he’d not been told directly. A COO had a need to know, even if his boss didn’t care to share.

Leo finally sat and turned to him. “Tell me who finally agreed to go.”

He was not cooperating with Travis’ agenda this morning, and Travis had to remove a sheet of paper from the bottom of the stack. “You, me, Rose Hayward from the PR department, Henry Farrah, your stepson and his wife—”

“He’s not my stepson. He is an idiot. I give him a job and he won’t take direction. Half the time he leaves at noon. He thinks no one notices. If it weren’t for my promise to his late mother, he’d be on the street with his paltry trust fund.”

Leo had managed three wives and probably myriad lovers. The drill, however, meant Travis feigned ignorance of any and all, true or false—Reilly’s daughter, Margaret Griswold, who had died and left Leo a widower and with the responsibility for a putative stepson and Lucille. They were all anyone dared acknowledge. Travis wondered sometimes about Leo Painter and what about him so intimidated his employees. But then, he guessed he already knew.

He completed the list, which included core staffers from the engineering and research department. The party had to be kept to twelve to match the company’s Gulfstream V seating configuration.

Leo turned toward the window again. “You’re going to have to drop one of the engineers. I need a place for a man named Greshenko, Yuri Greshenko.” Travis lifted an eyebrow. “He’s…ah, let’s just say he’s a consultant. I contracted for his services last week.” Travis lifted the other eyebrow. Leo spun around and gestured dismissively. “I didn’t tell you about him sooner because a certain amount of, shall we say, discretion is required here.”

Travis didn’t like this. Whenever Leo said he needed discretion, things usually moved into areas that ultimately required the combined skills of the company’s legal department and possibly another handful of private operatives to straighten out.

“If Mrs. Painter isn’t going, we should be okay.”

“I’d leave the two kids behind if I could,” Leo continued, “but, as I said, I promised Griswold’s late mother I’d look after him. She couldn’t see the weasel she’d raised. She once said…do you believe this…‘he’s a lot like you.’ He’s as much like me as Paris Hilton is like Mother Theresa.”

In some ways, Travis thought, but wouldn’t articulate, she’d been right. Bobby Griswold presented just as self-centered, arrogant, and lacking in conscience as, he thought, Leo. Unlike Leo, however, he had not acquired any of his stepfather’s ruthlessness or drive. Had he, he might be in position to head the company, if and when Leo died. Travis had witnessed Leo’s will the previous February and that possibility existed, at least as an option if shrewdly executed. Travis could make that happen if he wanted to. It stood second on his list as Plan B. Plan A centered on his own elevation to the presidency—a plan that would be monkey-wrenched if the company went public too soon. Time. He needed time. And that, after Leo’s three major cardiac arrests and a quadruple by-pass, seemed increasingly uncertain.

Travis didn’t press about this new advisor, Greshenko. He guessed Leo was up to something that he did not want to know about but, in his need to stay alive in the sea of sharks in which he swam, he’d better find out. He tapped his papers back into a neat stack and stowed them in his briefcase. “There are papers to be signed to move the IPO forward. Are you sure you want them dated after you return from Botswana? If something happened to you—”

“Like what?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but your heart, Leo. It’s not too reliable, and if you should…well, it could lead to certain complications.”

Leo laughed.

As it currently stood, Travis’ only hope for the future did not rest exclusively with the event that Leo would die or retire soon, leaving him a clear shot at the board of directors, most of whom he had carefully cultivated over the last decade. Travis had an alternative that he could put into effect, but not now. Later. With Bobby Griswold’s shares, the right combination of Board members, and other interested parties, he…well. If Earth Global were to function in the absence of Leo Painter, it would be with Travis at the helm.

“One last thing…”

“What?”

“Your will, is it in order?” Travis asked as a formality. “Henry tells me you haven’t done anything since the last one after—”

“Margaret died? After the company goes public, I will see about a new one that covers all the changes. For now, let it be. Hell, if I die, I won’t be around to care, will I?”

“It’s a stretch, I know, but, you realize that might put Bobby…”

“Then it’s in everybody’s best interest to keep me alive. Everybody’s,” he repeated, and smiled. Like a wolf eyeing an injured deer.

Travis’ expression did not alter. Not quite, boss man, he thought. He finished his briefing and snapped his case shut. Leo returned to the window. “It’s a good thing we’re heading out. It looks like a bitch of a winter is on the way.”

“Yes, sir. We leave Friday at six
AM
, from Signature Flight Support, that’s at Midway—”

“I know, I know. Just tell it to the driver. Oh, and make sure Rose calls everyone to confirm the time and have her send a car for the boy and the bimbo. They’re liable to oversleep.”

Chapter 5

Mr. Pako, her supervisor, did not like Sanderson. It was nothing personal; he just felt that being a game ranger was not a suitable job for a woman. This opinion he shared with the local police superintendent, Inspector Mwambe. Even though the police force had employed women constables for several years, the police superintendent rankled under this government decision. If the
dikgosi,
if
the chiefs, were still in charge…well that wasn’t true anymore either. There was that Kgosi Mosadi, that woman chief…well.

When queried as to what jobs these two important persons considered appropriate for women, they had no answer. Out in the north, acceptance of change lagged behind the south. Gaborone had many women in big jobs, even on the High Court and in the National Assembly. Mr. Pako and his friend despaired at the direction their country seemed to be headed. If it were up to them, this Sanderson would be tending goats.

Mr. Pako shuffled papers at his desk. Sanderson stood still, waiting for him to speak. He looked up at her. What to do? The request from the village subchief for an investigation into the disappearance of a young boy topped the pile of papers on his desk. Why had they waited so long?

It would be a futile task. No good could come from it. He would send Sanderson. He authorized the use of the old Land Rover and sent her away. Good riddance. The phone rang. He straightened his uniform, slicked back the scant hair on his nearly bald head, and answered. The district superintendent had a position to fill. Did Mr. Pako have a reason not to accept a transfer? He thought a moment. No he did not.

***

Sanderson met with the subchief and then with the men in the village from which the boy disappeared.

“Why did so much time go by before this reporting?” she asked.

“That boy was a bad boy,” he said. “When he ran, we waited for him to return. What kind of a foolish person will run into the bush at night? Surely the Kalanga taught him sense in Zimbabwe. We believed he went to the road and on to Kasane, so we went to our houses to sleep. In the morning, things were busy with the cattle being herded to the
kraal
for transport to the abattoir and then there were other things…” His voice trailed off.

Sanderson understood “other things”…she had passed the bottle store and bar hut on her way in.

“He is a bad boy,” the old man repeated. “We thought, well, he has gone to another village to be bad. He will not return here. Then Rre Amanzie sees the vultures and we are then thinking, maybe this boy has not gone to another village after all.”

“Which way did he run?”

The old man pointed up the hill, toward the bush. Sanderson walked back to the Rover and unsheathed the rifle. It was not likely that she would have trouble in the daylight, but she wouldn’t take that chance. She loaded it, got behind the wheel and drove off the road and slowly into the bush.

She found the scant remains of Lovermore Ndlovu four hundred meters in. He had been dragged some distance, it seemed. After studying the broken bones and bits of clothing she guessed a big cat had taken him. After it had finished, other animals had cleaned up. She inspected the ground. Too many sets of spoor to reveal much. She noted the larger set, those of the cat, and squatted in the dust to examine them more closely. An old leopard might have done it. But she’d heard no reports of a leopard this close to the town. Although leopards hunt at night and would not be averse to taking down a man if they happened on one like this, they were shy and rarely ventured this close to civilization. Too much time had elapsed to be sure of anything. She put her finger in the paw depression. Time had blurred its edges and even size. Still it looked more like a lion, probably an immature rogue or nomad. The owner of those paws was not heavy enough to be full grown and probably too heavy to be a leopard. There were always young lions about this time of year, raiding
kraals
and stealing cattle. So, a lion, not a leopard. But she couldn’t be positive.

She stood and glanced once again at what was left of that bad boy. All that remained belonged to the insects. She put on rubber gloves. Collecting body parts would not be pleasant nor would she be expected to do a complete job. Bits and pieces would be scattered over a half hectare. She returned to the village half an hour later and deposited the plastic bag with the headman who would try to contact the Zimbabwe officials.

“Missus,” the old subchief said, “These wheels must be returned to their rightful owners. You must take them to the police.”

She inspected the wheels; saw where the bad boy had started to repaint the rims. She loaded them, into the back of the Rover. When she returned to Kasane, she attempted to deposit them at the police station. Inspector Mwambe gave her a hard look and told her to take them away, that he had no time for her and did not need more paper work. She asked what she should do with them.

“Do whatever you like, woman,” he said and lowered his eyes back to the shiny, very empty surface of his desk as he dismissed her with an impatient wave.

Mr. Pako had no suggestions for her either when she called him.

“Throw them away. I do not wish to have a conversation with you about it.”

***

Bloody and beaten, Sekoa staggered into the bush and settled in the shade of an acacia tree. He had not walked away, as wisdom would have suggested, but stayed through a second attack and then he turned and walked. He had not been badly injured in this his last battle. In the past, his bouts with other lions had frequently ended in severe wounds, the scars of which still marked his face and shoulders. And he had managed to impose on his conqueror a few wounds as well. In the distance he heard the roaring and yelping as his replacement assumed sovereignty over the pride and decimated the youngest cubs—the older males raced away into the grassland where they would live or die by their wits. Soon this new alpha male would mate with the females and receive, as his dowry, the disease that, more than his strength, had won him his victory.

Sekoa had not hunted in years. That duty usually belonged to the females. He instinctively knew he could not run down any fleet-footed animal and did not have strength enough to pull down slower, larger ones. His only hope was to feed on the carrion left by others, to steal the kill of smaller predators, to hunt down the sick, the lame, and those like him who were dying. And then there were the hated hyenas who, if they sensed his weakness, would track him, waiting for the moment when he collapsed. The eternal animosity between the two species would be played out once more. He huffed and swished his tail at the plague of flies that had come to torment him.

He would go to the water. Eventually all animals had to go to the water. There would be game there for the taking. He might survive another day.

***

Sanderson detoured to her house before parking the Land Rover. She needed to deposit Lovermore Ndlovu’s purloined wheels in her court. She had no idea if they would work on the HiLux. She was not mechanical and assumed that all automobile wheels were pretty much the same. Perhaps larger or smaller but the significance of the number of lug nuts for each had never registered. Four, five—who knew?

Michael slept fitfully under his mosquito netting. It had become necessary to fit this gossamer cone of protection over him as he, in his weakened state, could barely brush the flies and mosquitoes away. She tiptoed into the room and looked in on him, half hoping he would wake so she could tell him her good news, tell him of their change in luck. After a minute she left. The vehicle must be returned to its proper place. Mr. Pako must be assured of her presence on duty.