After a smooth landing at the Popa Falls airstrip, we’d inspected the damage and determined that we’d only have one day of delay while the holes were patched. The bullet holes were not as bad as we had anticipated, and fortunately none of them had penetrated the fuel tanks. We refueled, returned to camp, and showered. The temperature was dropping, so I was glad we were spending the night in cabins and not in tents.
After I put on crisp jeans and a sweatshirt, at least my body felt refreshed, even though I was still traumatized. And my stomach had finally settled down. The turbulence and sharp banking had made me feel incredibly nauseous. And being shot at didn’t help. In hindsight, I should have taken two Dramamine instead of just the one I took when I woke up.
Our cellphones didn’t work in this area, so Jon borrowed my satellite phone to call the MCD and the permanent secretary to report the border incident. The MCD would follow up with the army. I couldn’t help but remain within earshot of these conversations, but I tried not to hover. He seemed not to mind my presence; in fact, I felt like he was encouraging me to be there, looking me in the eye and engaging me in the phone conversation.
Afterward, I couldn’t get through to Craig, but I sent him a text message. The investigation was set in motion at least. That was some consolation for what we had just witnessed.
Jon quickly started the barbecue in front of our cabins and when the coals were ready, we all watched as he turned a rack of lamb sandwiched between two metal grids sitting over the bed of coals. He delicately squeezed lemon over the rosemary-smothered ribs. Natembo stirred briskly with a wooden spoon, while Gidean poured powdery mealie meal into boiling water in a three-legged pot. I watched their expert technique with great interest, as my pap always came out lumpy and grainy. It was supposed to have the consistency of mashed potatoes.
Though everyone else was in a somber mood, Jon was in rare form as he tended his barbecue. “This braai is going to be to die for, I promise you!”
“Good, I’m starving.” I smiled and carried on with my data entry.
Jon held up a braai tong. “Je’sus. I must confess, I didn’t think we were going to make it. The grim reaper was showing his ugly face in my biltong bag.”
I shook my head. “That was a rough one.”
His eyes twinkled. “You stayed bloody cool up there.”
As he stared at me admiringly, I quickly changed the subject, so as not to be the focus of attention. “How many carcasses you think there were?” Seeing as I was distracted by having to dodge bullets, I hadn’t been able to count.
“I counted seventeen,” said Gidean, continuing to pour meal into the pot as Natembo stirred.
“Bloody bastards.” Jon shook his head. “I promise you, somebody’s taken control of Savimbi’s old troops. They should have disbanded long ago.”
“Think the Chinese are active in Angola?” I asked, having read about a big ivory market in Luanda.
“I wouldn’t doubt it.” Jon squeezed more lemon onto the rib, and it sizzled. “Perhaps their building contracts come with certain perks. On the other side of the border, the elephant has no rights.”
As I watched Jon turning the rack of ribs, I was enjoying the fact that I seemed to be on his good side again, despite the fact that we were both hiding something from the other. And the fact that we both seemed to be avoiding re-creating that electric moment we had had on his boat made me wonder all the more exactly what he was hiding, and what he knew about my involvement. Part of me was relieved that we hadn’t gotten back to that space, but part of me yearned for a return to that intimate moment.
I tried not to pin all my hope on what the induna’s son had to offer in terms of information, but I couldn’t help wishing that he’d help us place Ernest at the scene of the murder. We’d be able to use that as additional ammunition to link Geldenhuis to the Zambian smuggling ring through his relationship to Ernest—a relationship established by the photos that I had taken.
“Oh, Catherine.” Jon pointed his braai tongs at me. “During my call to the permanent secretary, I didn’t mention to you that he got through to the magistrate. He has decided to accept the photos as evidence after all.”
I stopped my data entry. “Really?” I was confused. Why hadn’t he mentioned this earlier? “That’s fantastic!” I paused, my mind a blur of memories of taking the photos, and also of Craig’s warning about Jon. “What changed his mind?” I said guardedly.
“The additional photos that we submitted. Apparently, all we need is to have the photographer testify as to the authenticity of the photographs. Then we can proceed.”
I tried to keep a straight face. Was this a joke? Was he testing me? Or did he genuinely not know that I was responsible for the photographs? Or did he know that I was, and know that they could be thrown out and was trying to drag me into the case to shut me down.
“I’ll speak to Craig when we get back to town, and we’ll get it sorted,” Jon said.
“Oh, that’s okay,” I chimed in a little too quickly. “I’ll tell him about it.” All I could think about was getting on the phone with Craig and asking him to stall. But that might mean facing the probability of more dead elephants—a much bigger issue to contend with than my dilemma with Jon. I had to stay focused.
“I’ll check in as well. This is going to be critical to the case.”
I nodded blankly, unable to think of something to deflect him, when Nigel suddenly showed up. I was so relieved to see him. I needed something to distract me from my confusion about Jon. Nigel was going to take Natembo’s place for the community conservation area block counts on the Kavango side of the West Caprivi. He jumped in to help me, tallying count sheets while I entered the data on my laptop near the fire.
“Nigel, how’s it?” Jon chortled cheerily. “I’ve been meaning to tell you my friend’s impression of Mr. Lin’s handiwork at the new teachers’ college. He flew up the other day to inspect it. An absolute shocker. Not a single thing up to code.”
“Who’s Mr. Lin?” I asked.
“The guy that owns the Dollar Store,” Jon replied. “He’s a builder, too. His son-in-law—or his nephew, I can’t keep track—” Jon waved his tongs in a circle. “Every time I turn my head around, they bud. Lin is like one giant fruiting body. I can’t keep up with that family’s expansion. Anyway, he’s the new wholesaler,” Jon added, “another shocker.” He turned the lamb and continued, “There are more buckets to catch leaks than there is corrugated iron on the roof! You can’t even think about the corruption. Hopeless.” He turned his rack of ribs delicately.
Nigel cleared his throat and lit a match to light his pipe. “They just got the contract for the Namibian embassy in Luanda.” Nigel inhaled and shook out his match.
“Yes”—Jon pointed his tongs at Nigel—“and you can be sure that whoever negotiated that contract will be going home with a diplomatic pouch stuffed with worked ivory from the market in Luanda.”
Nigel puffed on his pipe. “They’re also buying up all the copper mines in Zambia.”
“The conditions are yet another absolute shocker.” Jon flipped the braai rack again. “It’s bloody slavery all over again. Their workers are paid practically nothing and beaten when they don’t work hard enough. Bloody hopeless.”
Gidean chimed in. “In Botswana, they won contracts to build roads, and they’re not even hiring locals. They’ve brought in prisoners from China.”
We all shook our heads at the situation, but were buoyed by Jon’s attentive cooking.
A little while later, Gidean turned to me. “We’re going to stake out the induna’s field just after the census. We’re going to try to catch one of those problem bulls in the act. If you’d like to join us, you are welcome.”
“I thought they’d finished their harvest by now.”
“Apparently these bulls have been attacking the grain storage huts. Knocked one down just the other night.”
“Really?”
Nigel shook his head. “That community just can’t get a break.”
“Probably no elephants will come while we are there, but at least you’ll see how the farmers struggle with this problem.”
“Thank you, Gidean. I’d appreciate coming along.”
Gidean nodded just as a lion roared in the distance. We all fell silent. I took in a deep breath and yawned. The air was crisp now, and I could see my own breath as I exhaled. Winter had arrived.
Another lion roared in return, this one closer than the last, probably about two hundred meters from camp. It started as a pained moan that finished in an all-out bellow, followed by a series of roars that faded into choppy coughs. The sound of the coughs approached on the left as the calls of the other lion moved farther away toward the floodplain.
“There they go again,” Jon complained. “Always stealing my thunder.” He pulled the braai rack off the coals. “Just when I was about to announce that the rib is ready for consumption!”
I looked up at the three-quarter moon in the cloudless navy sky with pinpricks of stars, and, with the scent of lamb rib in the crisp air, I wanted to let myself feel a sensation that I hadn’t felt in a long, long time—like I belonged again—like I was part of a team. The world seemed open and full of possibilities in that moment. I hadn’t had that feeling since Sean died over a year before.
Yet, everything had changed after my last phone call with Craig. I just needed to bide my time with Jon as we waited for the plane to get fixed. I’d find a way to talk about the photos without giving myself away. Craig needed to do whatever he needed to do to figure out how to trust Jon again. I was so sure that I was right on this, but not having all the information, I had to trust that Craig knew what he was doing. He’s all I had.