The Delta (23 page)

The woman held a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. ‘No, madam, not
for
Mr Chapman.
From
Mr Chapman. He is saying that this is a gift, for you, madam.'

‘A gift?'

The maid smiled and placed the clothes down on the bed and turned to walk out. ‘Um … thank you.' Sonja padded to the bed. On top of the clothes was a folded piece of paper. It was a note, handwritten on Xakanaxa stationery.
Hi Sonja
.
Please don't think me presumptuous but I noticed you didn't have much luggage. Feel free to return or exchange anything you don't like. Just wanted to say thanks for the last couple of days. Sam C
.

She reread it. It was predictably verbose. She sorted through the stack of clothes. There were two safari shirts, one short-sleeved in green and the other long-sleeved khaki, in two different sizes, although either would have fitted. She smiled. There were also two pairs of trousers – the kind with the removable lower legs that zipped off. This was tourist-only wear and normally she wouldn't be seen dead in them, but she had nothing else that was clean. She tried on both pairs of trousers but the second fitted better so she left those on. The short-sleeved blouse was fine. Her sports bra was rank, so she left it off. Her breasts weren't huge, but she was proud that at thirty-eight years of age they were still pert enough for her to go without if she wasn't exercising.

She ran the brush through her damp hair and tied it back while she thought about the gift. No man had ever bought her
clothes before. The selection would be limited in the Xakanaxa gift shop and she probably would have bought the exact same articles, so there was a practical sensibility about it. It wasn't as though he'd bought her lingerie or a cocktail dress. However, the fact that he'd even thought about her and her dilemma of what to wear to brunch was … what was the word? Sweet? It wasn't a word that filtered through to her world very often. ‘Weird,' she said out loud. She giggled – something she hadn't done in quite a while.

Reluctantly she reached for her dirty socks and boots, then dropped them on the floor with a thud. ‘Fuck it.' She unzipped the lower part of her new pants, turning them into shorts, and walked out of the tent, barefoot. She padded down the sandy pathway to the dining area feeling like a kid again.

Sam tried to remember his manners and not talk with his mouth full, but it was hard. The food was good and the buffet table was still groaning invitingly, but it seemed everyone wanted to hear everybody else's stories all at once.

He'd helped himself to bacon, both lamb and pork sausages, fried tomato, toast, mushrooms and ordered two fried eggs, sunny-side up, from the cheery African woman cooking the eggs to order. His plate was almost empty already, but he knew he still had room for more.

John Lemon was next to him at the long wooden dining table, now onto coffee, while Cheryl-Ann was seated opposite him. On one side of her was a sun-tanned square-jawed English guy called Steele, who said he worked in security, while on the other was another Australian, a thin guy in his thirties called Jim Rickards, who had an unfashionable ponytail and a big mouth.

‘So have you done much wildlife filming, Jim?' Sam said in between mouthfuls of runny egg.

‘Sure have. Been up in Chobe and Savuti the last month shooting lions – on video that is. Boom-boom.'

Sam smiled politely. ‘Lucky that Cheryl-Ann found you.'

‘I reckon. I was at Maun in the Mack Air lounge waiting for a plane back to Jo'burg and a month of no work on the horizon, when hurricane Cheryl-Ann here,' he nodded to the producer, ‘swept in like Katrina on steroids.'

Cheryl-Ann chewed her food. Sam guessed that Cheryl-Ann
wanted to slap the cocky cameraman, but was forcing herself to be tolerant in case he found out too soon what she was really like and decided to get back on the next plane to Maun. When he'd heard Ray was out of action he'd wondered whether the whole project would have to be shelved or, worse, cancelled.

Cheryl-Ann swallowed. ‘It was a stressful time. I thought Ray might have just dislocated his arm or something, but it was a bad break – all round. We were lucky that Jim was passing through at the right time and right place.'

‘To tell you the truth,' Rickards said, with toast crumbs spattering the table, ‘I've mostly done news in the past, but I love wildlife filming and really want to get into more of it. I'm stoked to be working with you, Sam, and I'm not pissing in your pocket.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘Sucking up. Arse-licking … excuse my French.'

Sam nodded.

Stirling sat at the head of the table, a perpetual frown on his face. Sam wondered if the hatchet really had been buried, or if Stirling was still holding it behind his back. Tracey sat next to him, on his right, two away from Sam. She hadn't acknowledged him since he'd arrived for brunch, and that was just fine by Sam. When he glanced at them he saw Tracey had reached out and laid her hand over Stirling's in a gesture of loyalty – or was that propriety? Everyone's eyes turned when Sonja said, ‘Good morning.'

When she'd found him she'd looked like an Amazonian guerilla, her face streaked with a camouflage pattern of dust and dried perspiration, her cut-off shorts grimy from her hours on horseback and her tank top mottled with dirt and body salts. The M4 on her shoulder and the bloodstained dressing on her thigh were the perfect accessories and matched her hard-arsed stare.

Now, however, freshly showered, barefoot and unarmed she
was a different person. She smiled – a little self-consciously and definitely for Stirling, Sam noted – and introductions were made.

Sam pushed back his chair. ‘Hello again.' He stood and all of the other men still seated at the table were embarrassed into following his gesture. Politeness cost nothing, Sam figured, and this woman was worthy of his respect.

He had already forgotten the names of the other half-dozen people either still at the table or taking their coffee further down the deck. Stirling had said, when introducing them, that they were mostly other lodge owners who had come to Xakanaxa the night before for a regular meeting about tourism and land-use issues. It explained why no one had been out game viewing this morning, as these guys, and the one woman in their midst, had seen it all before. He remembered her name, Sabrina. She was an environmentalist and he wanted to talk to her before she left.

‘Martin. Fancy seeing you here. What a surprise,' Sonja said when Steele remained standing after the others had sat down again.

‘I could say the same thing,' the Englishman said, ‘but I was fairly sure you'd come home to roost.'

‘You two know each other?' Stirling said.

Genius, thought Sam, but he was just as intrigued as Stirling to find out the connection between Steele and Sonja.

‘Long story,' Sonja said. ‘I'm sure Martin will tell you all about it, right after he's told me what he's doing here in the middle of the Okavango Delta.'

The midmorning sun caught the highlights in Sonja's auburn hair, making it glow like polished copper. It was still a little damp, but that just added to its metallic sheen. Sam wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through the cool, damp softness. He glanced at Stirling and saw that he was following her
too, with his eyes, as she walked to the buffet and filled a bowl with fruit salad.

‘You hit the gift shop early, I see,' Stirling said.

Sonja found an empty seat on the other side of Jim Rickards.

‘No, I …' She looked across the table at Sam, who gave a sharp shake of his head before Stirling could register. ‘I asked one of the maids if she could wash some clothes for me later, because all I had was what I was wearing, and she rushed off and came back with these. Sweet, hey?'

‘Nice threads,' said Rickards, using the news as a chance to inspect her chest. ‘I'm James – my friends call me Jim, or Jimbob.'

‘Sonja. Mine call me Sonja.'

‘And where do you fit into this merry little menagerie here at Kaka-whatever?'

‘I'm just passing through,' she said.

‘Maybe, maybe not,' said Martin Steele and the others at the table looked at him.

Cheryl-Ann wiped her mouth with her linen serviette. ‘Martin here was just telling me, Sam, that we should seriously consider taking some security with us on our trip into the Caprivi Strip.'

Sam chewed his bacon, then swallowed. ‘Some?'

‘Someone,' Steele said. ‘Since the failed attack on the Okavango Dam the Namibian Army and police have been on high alert. My organisation has been monitoring the situation in Caprivi and we believe there are still irregular forces of the Caprivi Liberation Army on the loose and active in the region.'

‘I'm sorry, Martin. Your organisation?'

‘Corporate Solutions.'

‘No shit.' Jim Rickards nearly choked on a piece of sausage. He gulped a quick mouthful of orange juice and croaked: ‘The mercenary mob?'

Steele smiled and shook his head. ‘Security risk assessment consultants.'

‘Right,' said Rickards. ‘War dogs. Cool.'

‘Think what you might, but I'd say a well-heeled, well-equipped film crew carrying, what … tens of thousands of dollars worth of gear …'

‘Try hundreds, dude,' Rickards interjected.

‘Very well, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of gear might be just the sort of target the guerillas in the Caprivi region are after. They're short of funds and they need to re-equip after their recent defeat. They haven't resorted to K and R yet, but … who knows?'

‘K and R?' asked Gerry, who had so far been content to eat in silence.

‘Kidnap and ransom,' Steele provided.

‘What do you think, Stirling? You know the area,' Cheryl-Ann said.

Sam had been glancing at the lodge manager during the conversation. At first he thought Stirling would dismiss Steele's concerns. He'd noticed Stirling closing his eyes and, almost imperceptibly, shaking his head when Steele explained the possible threat. Was Steele just a sharp businessman who spotted a way to make a fast buck from a bunch of naive Americans?

‘I think I can see where Martin's coming from.'

Cheryl-Ann frowned. ‘What does that mean?'

‘There's also the question of a guide – someone who knows the lie of the land, the local languages if needs be. Cheryl-Ann, you told me earlier that your helicopter pilot was going to double as your guide for the trip to Namibia.'

She nodded. ‘That's right. We do have to find another, in a hurry. Stirling, I don't suppose you'd be interested?'

‘Oh, I'm
so
sorry, Cheryl-Ann, but as soon as you all leave I've got back-to-back bookings for the next two weeks.'

Interesting, thought Sam, as only a few days ago Stirling was bemoaning the state of business. Sam was relieved, though, because he didn't fancy the idea of spending any more time with the man than was necessary.

‘Surely time's a factor as well, Cheryl-Ann?' Steele cooed.

She frowned again and nodded. ‘Yes, we're already way behind on the shooting of the survival scenes – we'll have to make that up on the road somewhere – and we've got to fly back to Maun, pick up our transportation and try and find a safari guide, all in the next two days.'

Steele sipped some coffee and laid his cup down on its saucer. ‘It seems to me that the answer to all your problems is right here.'

Sam looked up and down the table and his eyes, along with Steele's, came to rest on Sonja, who was staring back at the Englishman with a look that pleaded with him not to say …

‘Sonja is just the right person for you and your team, Cheryl-Ann.'

‘Hey! Great idea. I didn't know you were a guide, Sonja,' Sam said.

Before she could speak Steele pressed home his attack. ‘She is. A first-rate one at that. Knows the African bush like the back of her hand. Born in Namibia, grew up in Botswana, and speaks German, Ovambo, Afrikaans, Tswana and a smattering of Lozi, if I recall correctly.'

‘Not much at all,' Sonja said. ‘And Martin, no, I don't—'

‘What Sonja's saying is that she doesn't mind at all. You've heard from Sam what a fine job she did saving him from the jaws of hell. She'll be able to give you a wealth of ideas for your survival segment, as well as navigate you around the wilds of
Namibia. She's also a qualified close personal protection operative. Bodyguard, that is.'

Sam had forgotten his food. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘I thought you were a professional hunter?'

Sonja glared at Steele. ‘Martin. Please …'

‘Who do you work for, Sonja?' Sam asked.

‘Sonja,' Steele said, ‘works for me.'

Damn him, Sonja thought as she looked out over the river and the gently swaying pampas grass. She slapped the wooden railing of the deck. ‘Fuck.'

‘The girl who left us all behind never used the F-word,' Stirling said.

She turned and faced him. After Steele had offered her services, with as much subtlety and thought for her reaction as a pimp, she had excused herself from the table, saying, ‘Can we discuss this later, Martin?', and strode along the deck near the lounge area. She still loved Martin, in a platonic sort of a way, but he infuriated her sometimes with his Sandhurst officer's arrogance and his unflinching assumption that she would do as he commanded. What irked her more than anything was that he was usually right.

‘I've changed, Stirling. There's lots you don't know about me. That's why I came back here, to talk to you.'

‘You did?'

‘Stirling, I …' She was lost for words. How could she tell him why she was here when she wasn't a hundred per cent sure herself, particularly since she'd arrived to find him shacked up with a poppy almost young enough to be his daughter. What should she say? ‘Stirling, I've come here to say you should ask me to marry you and we should live out our days with my seventeen-year-old daughter – who I haven't told you about – happily ever after here in the swamps'?