Zambezi (33 page)

No one answered the phone at Crescent Moon Safaris, so Jed left a message, asking for bin Zayid to call him back.

‘No one there?’ Moses asked.

Jed shook his head. ‘I’m going to cross the border into Zambia anyway, Moses, as soon as I drop you off.’

‘I thought you might. I would offer to come with you, at no cost, but I don’t have a passport.’

‘I appreciate the gesture, but this is something I’ve got to do on my own.’

Jed didn’t feel at all bad about lying to Chris about his departure date, not in the light of her revelation that she had a satellite phone stashed away. It would have been nice of her to offer to let him use it, given that there was no other way of making a call from the national park.

‘You won’t make it to the lodge today,’ Moses said. ‘It’s not far in a straight line, but it’s a very bad road into the Lower Zambezi. You should take a detour and stay in Lusaka tonight, but don’t hang around that country too long. All Zambians are thieves.’

Jed smiled. ‘I’ll try to remember that. Can I drop you at your house?’

‘No, the shebeen is fine.’

Jed raised his eyebrows but said nothing. When he pulled up at the bar he peeled off three onehundred US dollar bills.

‘This is too much, Jed. Take a hundred back. It’s what we agreed.’

‘I don’t want to fight off the debt collectors next time I need a safari guide. Try not to spend it all on beer and women, although, come to think of it, that’s what I’d do.’

‘Thank you, Jed. Let me know if there is anything I can do for you on your way back from Zambia. This money will keep me out of trouble for a while. My kid will get some of it too.’

The two men shook hands and Jed waved farewell as he turned back for the road into Kariba. In town he bought fuel, and some more food.

He passed through the border formalities without delay and crossed into Zambia along the top of the mighty concrete wall that held back the man-made sea of Lake Kariba. Once he cleared the Zambian post, at Siavonga, the Land Rover’s diesel engine lowered as the vehicle climbed sluggishly up the escarpment.

Zambia, he noticed, seemed more run-down and untidier than even trouble-plagued Zimbabwe.

Unlike the other side of the border, there was no sign of any naturally occurring wildlife, save for a couple of scrawny guinea fowl being held up by skinny teenage boys looking for a roadside sale, and a man brandishing the tanned skin of a python.

Sixty-five kilometres from Siavonga he turned right, towards Chirundu. The town, if the cluster of shanties, brothels and bars could be called that, was another border crossing point, this time on the Zambezi River below the dam wall. He didn’t stop, and trundled along the worsening pot-holed road past a billboard that shouted
Speed Kills, Condoms Save
.

Bad tar gave way to rutted dirt as he followed the river’s course towards the Lower Zambezi National Park and the private game lodges that bordered it. He crossed the sluggish brown Kafue River on an old hand-cranked punt, its operator’s skin glistening with sweat in the low afternoon light. Just on nightfall he called it quits and pulled into a quiet campsite with manicured lawns and permanent safari tents overlooking the Zambezi. Fortunately, sleep came to him quickly after the long journey and a few beers.

The next morning he rose at four-thirty, and was showered and on the track again by five. The bush closed in around the Land Rover as the road narrowed and it took him more than an hour to cover twenty kilometres. An increasing number of signs to private lodges told him he was getting closer to his destination. He took the next lodge turn-off he saw, in order to ask for directions.

The sign said
Wylde Heart Safaris, one kilometre
. He found the driveway much smoother than the main route. No doubt the lodge maintained the access road itself, rather than relying on the Zambian Government or a local authority. At the entrance gate he stopped beside an African worker in overalls, who was slashing long grass with a sharpened piece of iron bent into a scythe. The man directed him to the main building. A tall white man – Jed guessed he was in his early fifties – raised a hand to his eyes to shield them from the sun’s glare and then waved.

‘Morning, can I help?’ he said as Jed pulled up.

‘Morning, sir. I’m hoping you can. I’m looking for a place called Crescent Moon Safaris, and all I know is that it’s somewhere in this area.’

‘Hassan’s place?’

‘That’s right. You know him?’

“Course I do. We’re practically neighbours. He’s a champion fellow. Willy Wylde is the name, by the way.’

‘Jed Banks.’ He shook Wylde’s offered hand. ‘Yes, Hassan is a great guy’ he ad-libbed.

‘You’re a client?’

‘No, a friend of a friend.’

‘Are you a bunny-hugger too?’ Wylde asked.

‘Excuse me?’

‘A conservationist, like Hassan. I’d have picked you for a hunter – most American chaps who come to this part of the world on their own are.’

‘Nope, just an acquaintance.’

Jed looked over at the reception building. There was a man painting the walls with fresh whitewash and another on a step ladder patching a worn section of thatch. A woman wearing a starched white pinafore over her green maid’s uniform was mopping the painted concrete floor of a wide shady verandah.

Wylde noticed the direction of Jed’s glance and said, ‘We’re giving the place a bit of a spruce-up.

Got a very important client coming in soon.
Very
important.’

‘The rich and famous coming to town?’

Wylde tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. ‘Sorry, mum’s the word. This chap guards his privacy for very good reasons. Now, I can draw you a quick map to Hassan’s place. Come inside for a moment and I’ll get some paper. It’ll only take you about another twenty minutes to get there, but I have to warn you that I did hear that Hassan was out of town.’

‘I’ve tried calling a few times, but only got a recorded message. I was in Lusaka on business and thought I’d give it a try anyway.’

Wylde nodded and started to draw on the back of a discarded envelope on the reception counter.

‘Well, there are worse places in the world to potter about. I’d offer you a room myself, but I’m expecting my client at any time.’

‘He’s booked the whole place out?’ Jed asked, seeing at least four separate bungalows around the main building.

‘Brings a bit of an entourage with him. Already had a couple of chaps on the advance party check the place out. But as I said, I can’t go into details. There you go.’ Wylde passed the envelope to Jed.

‘Out the gate, turn right and follow the map. You’ll see a sign about five kilometres down the road.

Can’t miss Hassan’s place.’

Crescent Moon Safari Lodge was clearly aimed at an upmarket clientele. The guard on the gate was immaculately turned out in a khaki uniform bearing the lodge’s embroidered logo, a rampant lion superimposed over a red crescent. The man spoke into his radio and then directed Jed up a track to the main lodge. The lawns around the building were lush and manicured, despite the dryness of the surrounding bush.

Jed parked the Land Rover and walked across stone pavers to a thatch-roofed lodge. The common area, which was open on two sides and took in an uninterrupted view of the river, was decked out with dark wooden furniture and an eclectic mix of expensive antiques, all designed to re-create the feel of a romanticised nineteen-twenties safari camp. Jed picked up a pair of binoculars that looked as though they dated from the First World War. When he heard footsteps he replaced them next to the old-fashioned gramophone.

‘Good afternoon, sir, how can I be of assistance?’ The young African man was dressed in the lodge uniform. His lips were curled into a smile that showed even white teeth, but there was no warmth or greeting in his eyes.

‘I’m looking for Hassan bin Zayid.’ Jed was not in the mood for pleasantries.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but he is not here just now. Do you have a booking with us?’

‘No. I called, but all I got was the answering machine. My name is Jed Banks. Did you get my message?’

‘Ah, Mr Banks. I was so sorry to hear about Miss Miranda – we all were shocked to hear of her passing. Please accept my condolences.’ The man clasped his hands in front of him and lowered his eyes a little.

‘Thank you,’ Jed said.

‘I’m sorry, also, that no one has replied to your message, but the lodge is closed right now. I have referred all messages, including yours, sir, to our reservations office.’

‘Where is that?’

‘Zanzibar, sir. The head office of our group is located there.’

‘That’s a long way from here?’

‘Nearly all of our clients come from overseas, sir, on packages booked through our head office. We don’t rely on what Americans call, I think, passing trade.’

‘So not many people just drop in, like me?’

‘No, sir. As you would have seen, the road is not good and we are off the beaten track.’

‘When will Mr bin Zayid be here again?’

‘Ah, I don’t know for sure, but not for at least another two weeks. He will be in Zanzibar and elsewhere in Tanzania on business.’

Shit, Jed said to himself. ‘Do you have a number for him?’

‘I can give you the number of our head office, sir, but I understand Mr bin Zayid is moving around a lot. He has been very hard to contact lately.’

‘I see. Well, I’ll take the number anyway. Mind if I look around the lodge while I’m here? I’m trying to get a feel for the places my daughter stayed, the places she liked and the people she met.’

The man hesitated for a moment. ‘Well, since you have come all this way, sir, please feel free to look around. However, as I said, the lodge is closed for the time being.’

‘I understand, I won’t be long.’

Jed wandered around the lodge. There was a wooden dining table surrounded by ornately carved chairs, and a lounge area with wicker armchairs and couches topped with plump cushions. Mahogany bookshelves were lined with field guides to African animals, birds, reptiles and trees, and a selection of novels in a wide variety of languages, including Arabic.

The lodge looked over the Zambezi River and somewhere in the distance Jed heard a hippo snort, a sound he would forever associate with this part of the world. Paved pathways led to the individual accommodation bungalows. He walked around one of the huts, dodging a spitting water sprinkler, and found a gravelled car park behind the main lodge. An open-topped Defender pick-up was parked by the rear-access door to the main building.

Jed wandered over to take a closer look at the vehicle. It was fitted out for hunting, with the back empty except for a bench seat across the open tray and a roll bar across the top, with gun racks welded to it. Interestingly, an expensive-looking hunting rifle was cradled in the rack. The weapon was topped with a telescopic sight that made Jed even more curious. It was a night sight, similar to the one he had used himself in Afghanistan. He moved closer and peered into the rear tray of the pickup.

In the back were two green canvas rucksacks and two AK-47 assault rifles. The weapons looked clean and well cared for. As well as the packs there were two matching hunter’s vests, civilian versions of military-style web gear. In the chest pouches on the vests he counted ten additional magazines for the assault rifles. That was a hell of a lot of firepower for a safari lodge dedicated to conservation rather than hunting – more than three hundred rounds apiece, including the magazines fitted to the rifles. He was tempted to look inside one of the bulging packs, but he heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel behind him and turned.

‘Can I help you?’ This man was taller, older than the African Jed had met in the lodge. His face bore the scars of smallpox. He looked like a man of the bush, a tracker maybe.

‘I’m just looking around. I came here hoping to find Mr bin Zayid.’

‘He is not here. He will be gone for some time.’ The man’s voice was stern, as hard and unwelcoming as his face. He carried four two-litre water bottles in green canvas pouches, which he slung into the truck.

‘So I heard. Going on a hunting trip?’

‘Yes.’

‘Funny, I got the impression you guys didn’t shoot animals here at Crescent Moon.’

The man frowned, looking to the lodge in apparent annoyance. ‘I am hunting men.’

Jed raised an eyebrow. ‘I would have thought there were laws against that, even in Zambia.’

‘I am hunting poachers.’

‘I’d have assumed that anti-poaching patrols were the responsibility of the Government.’

The man exhaled, as though he was annoyed at having to justify his activities to an uninvited foreigner. ‘The Zambian Wildlife Authority is responsible for anti-poaching patrols in national parks, but the lodge owners support them. We help train the rangers and conduct our own sweeps for snares and poachers’ camps on our lands.’

‘So it’s not a search-and-destroy operation.’

‘I hunt these men, but I didn’t say I kill them. Landowners don’t have the right to shoot poachers on sight.’

‘Then why all the hardware?’ Jed gestured at the assault rifles and magazines crammed with copper-jacketed bullets.

‘The poachers are heavily armed. Sometimes we have to shoot back in self-defence.’

‘I see,’ Jed said, thinking that three-hundred rounds per man was quite a defence.

‘Anyway’ the man said with an air of finality, ‘I am sorry that you travelled all this way to see Mr bin Zayid. If you give me your name I will make sure Mr bin Zayid is told of your visit.’

‘Banks, Jed Banks.’

‘You’re related to the girl?’

Jed was taken aback to hear Miranda described as ‘the girl’. Everyone else had spoken of her in fond terms.

‘Yes, I’m
the girl’
s father.’

‘Forgive me,’ the man said hurriedly. ‘I am sorry for your loss. She was very much appreciated here.’

Appreciated? An odd choice of words.

‘I would have thought Mr bin Zayid would have stayed in Zimbabwe when he heard the news, to find out what happened,’ Jed said.

The man’s face betrayed no emotion. ‘Mr bin Zayid has been kept up to date with all the details of the investigation.’