The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (20 page)

R
igby Croxford drove to Victoria Falls alone. It gave him time to formulate a plan for Arthur Turner's rescue. It also gave him time to reflect on Sam Mabota's death. It was Max Turner's blunder that killed Sam, yet Rigby blamed himself.

He decided to use the patio bar behind the hotel for the meeting. The spent .375 brass casing from Turner's rifle lay on the table next to his chair. A smartly dressed waiter walked across the lawn with Max Turner in tow. Rigby had made it clear that the meeting was to be between the two men. Turner's bodyguard and a woman stayed seated at the bar.

“I can't thank you enough for agreeing to meet me,” Max said, shaking hands. Immediately, his eyes were drawn to the cartridge on the table.

“I'm afraid it's not quite that simple. We need to clear up a few things,” Rigby said, tossing the cartridge at Turner who caught it back-handed.

“God forgive me, I panicked. I lied because I was afraid you wouldn't help me.” “Why didn't you just ask me in the beginning? Why waste time on a hunting safari?”

“If you remember, we got off to a rather shaky start. I never got a chance to ask you. I'd give anything if it never happened. I know that man was a good friend. I'm sorry.” Max looked at the ground. “I don't know how much my exwife's told you about my son. If you knew Arthur, you'd understand why I'm doing everything I can to find him.”

“Got any surprises before we discuss the rescue?”

“I can never pay you enough. Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Leading this rescue has nothing to do with you. I'm doing this for Lynn. I wanted you to know, before we get into the particulars.”

“I understand. The important thing is for me to get my son back. I just pray Arthur's still alive.”

Rigby outlined the plan. He would use the Central African Republic as a base. Posing as biggame hunters, they would establish a basecamp on the Sudanese border. From the camp, Rigby would cross into the Sudan and hopefully rescue Arthur. Of course, there were a thousand obstacles, but there was no reason to discourage Max with the details.

“This rescue attempt won't come cheap. Bribes are a way of life in that part of Africa. I'll need an airplane standing by in Uganda. And I'm gonna need some special weapons.”

“I don't care what it costs. I'll have my bank wire the money.”

“The aircraft needs to be a bush plane, one that can land in the desert. I need four Remington M-24 sniper rifles, two with night scopes, plus two hundred rounds of ammo. Here's the tough one—I want two Barrett fifty-caliber rifles with fifty rounds of standard ammunition and twenty M1 incendiary rounds.”

“I'll have my contacts get on this. Sounds like you plan on conquering the entire Sudanese Army.”

“This is a military operation. If there's one thing I've learned— always expect the unexpected. Oh, there's one more thing, Lynn wanted me to ask you about a friend. I think his name is Jesse.”

Max's expression masked his curiosity. He faked a lack of interest and answered the question. “Jesse Spooner worked for my law firm. He just wasn't cutting it, so I had to fire him. That's all I know.” He waited for a response. When he didn't get one, he continued. “Back to the rescue, what kind of a timeframe are we talking about?”

“I'm ready to move as soon as you secure the aircraft and the weapons. Dutchy should be here in two days.”

“I'll take care of my end. Give me a week. Like I said, I can never thank you enough.” Max stood up, shook hands and left. Rigby studied Max's walk. It was a weightlifter's swagger. Well, at least he doesn't know Spooner's involved. Jesse was right; he didn't blink an eye when I asked for the Barrett50s, which means he's still involved in arms trafficking.

God help me, I do love the hunt, he thought. Using his hand as an imaginary pistol, he aimed his forefinger at a spot in the middle of Turner's shoulder blades. “Bang,” he whispered under his breath.

***

Helen remarked that their farm looked like the staging area for the invasion of Normandy. The weapons were delivered, as promised to the Croxford farm on time. Rigby and Dutchy spread the camping equipment, medical supplies and a hundred other items on the lawn. They concealed the Barrett fiftycalibers in a false bottom under one of the Land Cruisers. The house servants helped them load the vehicles. At the end of the day, the three men gathered on the veranda for sundowners with Lynn and Helen.

“Couldn't we get arrested for smuggling?” Helen asked.

“Jesus, I hope not,” Rigby said. “To be on the safe side, I'll drive the lead vehicle with the hidden fifties through the border crossings alone. That way, if I get caught, you can try to bribe the guards. Every border guard in Africa has his hand out. I assure you, it's the least of our worries. And we've got Jesse here as our second line of defense.”

“I'm sure I couldn't pull any strings,” said Jesse. “Not over here.”

“Old Maxy sure delivered those fifty calibers in a hurry. Makes you wonder if we should have ordered something bigger,” Rigby directed at Jesse.

“It makes me wonder what the bad guys are using.”

“Yikes. I never thought of it along those lines. Wish I hadn't.” Rigby rubbed the black stubble on his chin. He drained the last of his whiskey and shuddered when it hit bottom.

“Dutchy, you got any last-minute thoughts? You know, when I look at the superior job I did in sewing your scalp back on, I realize I missed my calling. I would have made a damn fine surgeon.”

“
Ja
, my wife says I'm better-looking now.” The Dutchman laughed as he examined his head in a window's reflection. “Cheers! Here's to a successful hunting trip,” Rigby said, holding up a beer bottle. His face showed the evidence of a smile, which irritated Helen.

“Why so gloomy?” he asked, looking at his wife.

“Your exuberance always makes me nervous.”

Rigby erased his smile. “Okay, let's talk about where we're headed. We'll take the Pan African highway north. I reckon it should take us five days of hard driving to reach Tanzania. It makes sense to camp away from the villages. Africans are curious. No sense in tipping our hand. Anyway, once we get to Mwanza on Lake Victoria, I've got a good mate to look after us.”

“Are you talking about Seth Johnston?”

“Yes, love. Seth runs a ferryboat on the lake. The ferry makes a weekly run north from Mwanza to Entebbe. We'll take the ferry north. There's the security issue, and Lake Victoria's over three hundred kilometers long. It'll give us a rest.”

“Poor Seth,” said Helen. “What happened to his family was so sad. I'm surprised he's still in Africa.”

“What's his story?” asked Jesse. It was too late for a retraction. He wished he hadn't blurted out the question.

“During the bush war, Seth's two sisters were raped in front of their father, who was killed with the girls. Poor Mrs. Johnston hanged herself. Seth and I were classmates at Plum Tree. After Mugabe confiscated his farm, Seth moved to Tanzania. Yesterday was the first time I've talked to him in thirty years.”

That's the last time I'll ever ask him about one of his friends, Jesse promised himself.

The next morning, they left their farm for the uncertainty of central Africa. Jesse and Rigby led the group in the lead vehicle. Dutchy and the two women followed in the backup truck. Rigby was right: Greasing a few palms made the border crossings a cinch. After five days, they entered the port town of Mwanza on the southern shore of Lake Victoria in Tanzania.

***

The Kisumu ferry was in need of spit and polish. Her sides were zebra striped in human feces. The heads were holes cut out over her gunnels. The tropical humidity had blistered her paint with rusty boils. With her stern ramp extended, she looked like a beached crocodile with its jaws opened.

Rigby and company drove their trucks up onto the ferry. The vehicles were blocked by two freight trucks, one transporting giant mahogany logs, the other loaded with green bananas.

Seth Johnson met them at the top of the gangway. Most of Seth's face was hidden behind a red beard. The equatorial sun had etched deep tread marks into his forehead. Seth's skin looked yellowish, like he had been visited frequently by tropical malaria. Few men who had looked into his eyes would ever forget the deadness. Johnson barked in Swahili, ordering a man to carry the luggage to their respective cabins. He was perplexed by Jesse and Lynn traveling together, but he handled it.

“I hope you weren't expecting the QE2. The cabins are a bit frightful. Why don't you tell my boys about your sleeping arrangements? Helen, I'd like to borrow your husband if I might. I promise I'll have him back in a jiffy.”

Seth grabbed Rigby by the arm and pointed to the wheelhouse door. “Helen, could you have a look at my first mate? We haven't seen a doctor around here in six months,” he yelled over his shoulder.

Dutchy stayed with the trucks to keep any natives with sticky fingers from pinching their equipment. Lynn assisted Helen with her medical examination of Johnston's first mate. Jesse followed Seth and Rigby forward to the wheelhouse.

“It's been a long time, mate,” Seth said to Rigby.

“I reckon it's been thirty years. What did you find out?”

“When you get to Kampala, you'll need to contact the British Embassy. Two limeys, Graham Connelly and Ian Laycock are your best bet. They're the best connected Europeans in Uganda. They're expecting your call. You know, when this thing happened, it scared the crap out of every white man in central Africa. The reward for the missing American was so big—I thought every bloody
munt
on the continent was plotting to kill me for the re ward money. Sorry,I meant to say‘native,'”he said, looking at Jesse.

“Don't sweat it. Remember I've spent the last three weeks riding around Africa with David Duke here,” Spooner said, putting his hand on Croxford's shoulder.

“Quite right. Cheers,” Johnson said, bumping fists with Jesse. Seth looked puzzled trying to place David Duke, the white supremacist. “Anyway, the Sudan's a fucking nightmare. You're gonna have your hands full. Arabs killing natives. Natives killing natives. Just the usual fun and games. Damn thrilling show. Almost wish I was going along.”

“I was hoping you might say something like that,” said Jesse. “Why don't you take my place?”

“I said almost. Say Jesse, what kind of work do you do back in the States?”

“Not much, just the usual fun and games.” His smile indicated he was unwilling to elaborate.

“Excuse me for a second,” said Seth. “We need to be getting underway.” He gave the signal to close the ramp, which crammed the rest of the Africans on to the already overcrowded ferry.

“Mr. Spooner, could you give us a few minutes alone? We've got a little catching-up to do.”

“That won't be a problem, Captain. I'll check on the ladies.” Johnston waited for Jesse to close the wheelhouse door before speaking. “Who'd of thought it would come to this?”

“Sorry. I'm not following you,” said Rigby. “My God, a white woman of quality traveling with a black man — I swear, I don't understand it,” acknowledged Seth. “Spooner's a good man. Did you hear about Sam Mabota? He died down in Mozambique? Jesse reminds me of Sam.”

“I heard a lion killed him.”

“You heard right.” Rigby caught a fly in the air and listened to it buzzing in his hand. “I had a dream about your father.” When Rigby saw a flash of sadness spread across Johnston's face, he apologized.

“Sorry Seth.”

“How are things going in Zim?” Seth asked, averting the topic.

“Fucking awful. Mugabe's a catastrophe. If I knew I was dying, I'd shoot that hyena.”

***

Seth Johnston blew the all-aboard whistle three times, each stream driven hoot was longer and more mournful than the one before it. A swirling cloud of black diesel smoke enveloped the ferry as she idled out into Lake Victoria. The Kisumu ferry was licensed to carry a hundred passengers. Three hundred Africans swarmed over every available inch of deck space. Most of them were raggedly dressed, but a few wore their Sunday best. Some women carried live chickens. One man balanced a hind quarter of bloodied beef on a rickety bicycle. The lower deck had turned into a seething, living organism.

Seth throttled-up to cruising speed. The ferry's Lister diesel engine beat the water into a white foamy wake. A sultry breeze washed over the deck. At times, the air was perfumed by unseen tropical flowers, but intermittently it was overwhelmed by the smell of rotting fish. Villages dotted the otherwise monotonous shoreline. Flocks of scarletwinged flamingos and white pelicans played a visual hideandseek game in the manmade smoky haze.