Christine used a wheelbarrow to move the fifty-kilogram bag of Superwoof dog food from the storeroom to the dogs’ runs on her farm. She had called the hospital to get a progress report on Charles; he would be laid up for a while but his injuries would not result in any permanent disability, for which she thanked God.
Christine needed to keep busy, to stop herself from climbing the walls, so she threw herself into her daily chores. To save money, she did as much of the labouring around the farm as she could. She also found it therapeutic and good, if monotonous, exercise.
She had already raked around the runs. The dogs’ night homes were enclosed with wire fencing, and mesh was also placed around the lower thirty centimetres of the fence to keep out mice, which would try to get to the dogs’ food, and snakes, which would go for the mice and the dogs both. As an extra precaution, raking the soil around the entire circumference of the enclosure allowed Christine to spot the crescent-shaped slither marks of snakes that might have been moving about in the night.
Christine had just got off the phone to Craig again and, shortly after him, Julianne Clyde-Smith, who was in her office in London. Christine sighed. In the last ten days or so Lion Plains had gone from being a model of how to fight rhino poaching to losing three of the precious animals, making it the hardest-hit part of the greater Kruger Park.
Julianne was an incredibly wealthy businesswoman who had made her fortune in IT and diversified into travel and tourism. She owned several safari lodges and concessions in southern and east Africa. She affected a casual, friendly style in her public persona, which endeared her to the media, but she was almost fanatical in her quest to fight poaching. Also, as Christine had just learned, she had zero tolerance for what she perceived as failure.
‘What do you need?’ Julianne had asked her.
‘I could just say money,’ Christine said, ‘but what I really need is time, to train our handlers and dogs in detecting all types of explosives, detonators and other IED components, and we need more people qualified in disarming or destroying these things. The South African Police simply don’t have enough resources.’
‘Then we will develop those skills,’ Julianne had said. ‘Or, rather, you will. What do we know about who planted these devices?’
‘Nothing, yet, but I’m working on that. I’ll get back to you.’
Christine dropped off food to each of the half-a-dozen dogs and, when they had finished eating and she had topped up the water for all of them, she opened their runs. The dogs bounded out and her favourite and the closest she had to a pet, Anubis, named after an Egyptian god, pushed the others aside to nuzzle her. Anubis was a jet-black German Shepherd from champion stock. ‘Hello, my boy.’
Normally patting Anubis soothed Christine, but not today. She was unsettled as she and the dogs walked to her farmhouse. While her entourage arrayed themselves, by pecking order, on couches or floor space, Christine sat down at her computer. With Anubis curled at her feet, she logged on to the internet and opened Facebook. She entered the name Ruth Boustead in the search field. A match came up.
It had been a long time since she and Ruth had been in contact. Christine saw from the new profile picture that Ruth still had that fresh-faced California beach girl look and there were some images on her home page of her in a white bikini, paddleboarding. She was still fit by the look of it. Ruth listed her job as ‘wage slave for Uncle Sam’, but Christine knew that Ruth was no run-of-the-mill public servant. She had degrees in computer science, electrical engineering and chemistry.
Ruth was one of the smartest women Christine had ever met. And she worked for the FBI. They had met in Afghanistan when Ruth was working there as an analyst and Christine was running the in-country operations for a canine company that supplied dogs for security at the embassy.
Christine opened a new message box and typed, Hi Ruth, long time no talk. How are you? Christine busied herself with some emails and then a few minutes later went back to Facebook. She was pleasantly surprised to find that Ruth had replied and was showing as being online.
They exchanged a few messages, each asking how the other had been since they’d seen each other two years earlier, and then Christine asked Ruth if she had time to chat using video. Sure, Ruth replied.
‘Howzit? That’s what you South Africans say, isn’t it?’ Ruth asked when they both turned on the camera function.
Christine waved. Ruth hadn’t changed a bit, and Christine wondered how different she looked and if the stresses she had been through with Sean had taken a toll. ‘Yes, that’s right, and a howdy to you.’
‘Well, no one actually says “howdy” where I live, but it’s nice to see you again.’
They both laughed.
‘Ruth, I have a problem,’ Christine said.
‘Shoot. We do actually say “shoot”, which can be dangerous in a country where so many people are armed.’
‘Same here,’ said Christine with a chuckle. ‘Ruth, there’s someone targeting my dogs and their handlers over here in South Africa with IEDs. They’re small devices, but so far they’ve injured two of my people and two of my dogs, one of whom may not make it.’
‘Oh, that’s you?’ Ruth raised her eyebrows. ‘At TEDAC we get news updates every day from around the world and I read about those incidents. I didn’t realise it was your people. Sorry to hear that.’
‘Ja, me as well. You guys have a database of terrorist bombmakers, right?’
‘Yes, that’s correct. That’s where I work now, TEDAC, here in beautiful downtown Huntsville, Alabama.’
‘TEDAC?’
Ruth nodded. ‘It stands for the Terrorist Explosive Device Analytical Center. The Bureau – the FBI – is an acronym-rich environment. We analyse data on IEDs from around the world and use it to try to defeat terrorist bombmakers.’
‘Yes, I remember in Afghanistan you were analysing IEDs to find the guys who made them.’
‘Yep. TEDAC is where all the data I gathered in Afghanistan went. We have databases of fingerprints and DNA left by bombmakers and these guys – engineers they sometimes call themselves – are like many people doing a job, they do things slightly differently from each other and have patterns and routines in their work. That’s often how we catch them.’
‘Fascinating. Would TEDAC be interested in investigating what’s going on here?’
‘Hmm, I’d like to say yes, Christine, but the truth is our remit is to disrupt terrorists who pose a threat to America and our interests, so I don’t think any of our technical or scientific people will be catching an airplane to Johannesburg any time soon. Sorry.’
‘I understand. I’m worried, though, that this problem is too big for the South African Police and their forensic or bomb squad people. My guy who’s dealing with the local cops keeps getting stonewalled by them. According to him, they don’t know how to deal with this kind of IED and their labs are so overworked with other criminal cases that it doesn’t seem like we’ll get a lead on what the devices were made of or where they were made any time soon.’
‘That sounds pretty typical of a lot of cops, although here in the US we’ve learned some lessons since 9/11 and we’re much better these days at getting our various law enforcement agencies together. Having said that, there is still what I call the penis factor, please excuse my French.’
Christine gave a small laugh. ‘Boys will still be boys and want to protect their little fiefdoms.’
‘I hear you,’ Ruth said.
‘So what can I do?’
‘Well,’ Ruth tapped a finger to her lips, ‘if the Bureau got a request for help from the South African Police Service we would have to process that through official channels. But it could take a lot of time and, like I said, unless we were convinced that the threat in South Africa posed some danger to our interests, it’s not guaranteed that we could help.’
‘Time is something I don’t have, Ruth.’
‘I wish I could help you, Christine, but I’m just a cog in the machine.’
‘You’re more than that.’
‘Still . . .’
‘Still, do you remember that vehicle checkpoint in Kabul?’ Christine asked.
Ruth said nothing for a few seconds and Christine wondered at first if the screen had frozen, or if Ruth was about to terminate the connection. Christine felt bad, but said nothing. She hadn’t wanted to play this card, but her whole livelihood was at stake, so she’d do what she had to do.
‘That’s a little unfair, Christine,’ Ruth said at last.
‘You told me one of my dogs had saved your life. Didn’t you mean it?’
Ruth had been stopped in her vehicle at a security checkpoint near the US embassy in Kabul when one of Christine’s handlers and his dog had been searching the car ahead of them. Christine was there, conducting quality assurance checks on the handler and his Malinois. The dog, Fifty, named after the rapper Fifty Cent, had given a passive indication of explosives. Christine had waved to Ruth to back up.
The driver of the car had got out and the Afghan soldiers manning the checkpoint had hesitated, because she was a woman. She had started to run and the handler had sent Fifty after her. It turned out the woman was a Taliban recruit who was wearing a suicide vest. She detonated the bomb, killing herself and Fifty and injuring the handler. A later search of her vehicle showed that it was packed with explosives.
‘Are you playing hardball with me, Christine?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Ruth, but I’m desperate. One of my dogs and handlers saved your life and now someone is deliberately trying to kill my people. All I’m asking for is some help in trying to find out who’s behind this.’
‘I’ve got a soft spot for dogs, and you’re right, Christine, Fifty did save my life.’ Ruth shrugged and lifted her hands, palms up. ‘But what do you want me to do?’
‘How can you help us identify one of these bombmakers? Could you run some sort of database search?’
Ruth drew a breath, then exhaled. ‘I guess. I could look for engineers who are African or have a connection to southern Africa. Also, if you can find out what sort of explosives the bombmaker used, that’s something, though not a lot. We also have fingerprint and DNA databases. If you had a component that had traces of the bombmaker himself on it we could try and run a match, but that would involve getting evidence to the States, agency to agency, and then my bosses would have to decide to proceed with offering assistance.’
Christine knew how bureaucracy worked – or didn’t; she was African born. It was nonetheless infuriating. ‘Sean thinks both IEDs were command-detonated by someone close by using a garage door remote. One of my handlers, a smart young woman, found one of the remotes, but we’ve had to give that to the local police.’
‘Hmm,’ Ruth said, touching her lips again, ‘that gives us a little more, knowing what type of remote was used. It’s not unusual for terrorist bombmakers to use different types of triggers, depending on the tactical situation and the target, but the sloppy ones fall into patterns and use the same methods and components over and over.’
‘Oh, and Ruth, the bombs were small, Sean says. He thinks they were deliberately made and set to take out my dogs or to wound rather than kill. Is it enough for you to at least start a search?’
Ruth shrugged again. ‘It’s not a lot, but if Sean is right we might have something on bombmakers who make it their business to take out dog teams.’
‘So you’ll help me?’ Christine said.
‘I guess it wouldn’t hurt if I carried out a preliminary search for you,’ Ruth said. ‘I mean, you’re a citizen with information about a possible terrorist.’
‘And there are American guests staying at the safari lodge that pays for my team, so you could say they are potentially at risk, just as my handlers and dogs are. Even though they’re not; you could say the guests are cutting their stay short by two days and flying out tomorrow. The lodge, Lion Plains, is virtually empty since the news about the bombs made it into the newspapers – courtesy of the same cops who don’t seem to want to even ask you for help.’
Ruth nodded. ‘I can see how this would be bad for business for you all; I guess the lodge relies on foreign tourists.’
‘Yes, and any perceived threat, like Ebola, crime or terrorism, can be enough to make a well-heeled tourist choose a different African country for their once-in-a-lifetime safari. However, it’s my people and my dogs I’m most worried about, more than my client’s business.’
‘Yes, I get that. OK, Christine, I do owe you, so let me do a search with what you’ve given me.’
Christine took a deep breath. ‘Ruth, I hate to say this, but I think you owe me more.’
Ruth frowned. ‘You’re right, but remember I have to play by the rules here. If you were to, say, hypothetically, get me some components from an IED made by your guy, then I could maybe kick this up the chain. However, if you choose to go off the reservation you may be denying the South African Police of some leads they could use to catch the perpetrator, Christine. You’re playing with fire.’
‘No, I’m playing with people’s lives. Thanks, Ruth. I’m sorry I came across like I did, like I was trying to blackmail you or something.’
Ruth held up her hands. ‘No, it’s fine. I’m also a big girl. I know that sometimes we need to navigate our way around the rules, if not actually break them, to catch the bad guys in this world. They don’t play fair. Any other information you can find out about the IEDs – what type of explosives were used, detonators, timers, shrapnel or accelerants – would all be useful as it might help me narrow the search. I’ve also got a contact in your part of the world I can reach out to via a back channel.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Well, I shouldn’t use his full name, but if you hear from a guy called Jed, just be aware that he works for a big American company that has an interest in terrorism, if you get my drift.’
Christine nodded. She had met a few men and women from the Company, the CIA, in Afghanistan in the course of her work. ‘Do you think he might be able to help?’
‘Jed makes it his business to keep track of the bad guys in southern Africa; if there’s been any chatter about bombmakers, there’s a chance he might have picked up on it.’
‘Thanks, Ruth, I’ll be in touch if I learn anything new.’
‘Same here, Christine. Take care.’
Christine closed down her computer. She rolled her shoulders. She was tense and sore and she knew it was to do with the stress of the situation. She checked her emails and found one from Charles, sent from his hospital bed via his phone. Thankfully, he was doing OK and would be released from hospital soon. He had a partially damaged eardrum, but the doctor expected he would recover. She typed a reply, wishing him a speedy recovery, but telling him he should not feel under pressure to return to work too soon.
‘Why us?’ she asked aloud.
*
David Li pulled up at the gate with the words Hunde und Katzen in wrought iron above it. He leaned out of his car window and pressed the talk button on the intercom mounted on a pole.
‘Hello?’ said a female voice.
‘I am looking for Miss Christine Glover, please,’ he said.
‘That’s me. Who is this?’
‘My name is David Li, Miss Glover. We spoke on the phone a couple of weeks ago.’
There was a pause, no doubt while she searched her memory. ‘Oh, yes, I remember. Sorry, Mr Li, as I told you, lion hunting safaris are no longer offered on this farm.’
‘Yes, Miss Glover, you made that quite clear. However, I find myself in this part of the country on business and I would very much like to say hello and discuss a business proposition with you. It will not take long, but could be worth your consideration. Trust me, it has nothing to do with hunting.’
David was a patient man. He knew that he would not get another opportunity to talk to the woman on the telephone, but he hoped that she would have enough innate politeness not to turn away a stranger who wanted to talk business. He also knew how parlous her financial situation was.
‘All right, Mr Li, follow the road a kilometre, straight on and bear right when you come to the fork.’
‘Thank you.’ He smiled and put the Mercedes into gear.
David followed her directions, and as he approached the stone-clad farmhouse with the thatch roof the woman emerged with a pack of dogs at her heels. He opened his window halfway. ‘Miss Glover.’
‘Mr Li.’
‘Is it safe for me to get out?’ There were hounds close enough to fog the outside of his windows.
Christine put her hands on her hips. ‘Heel, Anubis. Come on out, Anubis won’t kill you unless I tell him to.’
David got out of his car. He kept his hands up high, slightly concerned that one of the dogs might bite off a finger. He wore tan chinos with loafers, a pink polo shirt and Ray-Ban sunglasses; he did not want some dog standing up on its hind legs and pawing him.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Li?’
‘Please call me David.’
‘OK. Come inside, the dogs won’t hurt you.’
‘I must confess, I have something of a fear of dogs. I was attacked as a child.’ It was true, the animals unnerved him, and Li thought that by revealing his fear he might put the woman more at ease around him, and perhaps make her take pity on him.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Thank you for your understanding.’ They walked side by side, but David made sure he kept his distance from the big black German Shepherd. ‘I know what people say, that there is no such thing as a bad dog, only a bad owner, and it’s true that the people who owned the dog that attacked me were less than desirable, but I always felt the dog had a particular hatred of me. I don’t know if maybe the owners had trained it to attack non-white people.’
‘That’s terrible if what you say is true.’ Christine led him into her home. It was a simple but comfortable affair, stone walls and polished concrete floors, but too much dog hair on the chairs and couch for his liking. He sneezed. ‘Bless you. I’ll put the kettle on. Coffee?’
‘Tea, if you have it, rooibos if possible.’
‘Sure. Now what can I do for you? Take a seat.’ She gestured to a lounge chair.
He sat, doing his best to hide his distaste at the hair. ‘I’d like to discuss a business proposition with you, Christine.’
‘Not hunting, not even plains game.’
‘No, of course not, you made it quite clear when we spoke on the phone that there would be no more safaris. You’re not alone in this, many other hunting properties are being progressively converted to lodges offering photographic safaris or other environmentally acceptable activities.’
‘You sound disappointed.’
‘Not for me, so much, but for some of my clients.’
‘What sort of business are you in, David?’ she asked. ‘Are you a safari outfitter? Travel agent?’
He rocked his head from side to side. ‘Yes and no, a bit of both. I’m more what you might call a facilitator. I deal in some imports and exports and I network a good deal. I see myself as something of a conduit between Africa and the Far East.’
Christine raised her eyebrows.
David put his hands up, feigning horror. ‘I can assure you, I do not deal in anything illegal. Contrary to what you might think, not all people of Asian descent are rhino horn and ivory poachers or smugglers.’
‘I wouldn’t suggest such a thing.’
‘No, but I could tell that you, like some other people, mistake “import–export” as a euphemism for smuggling.’
‘I apologise if I caused any offence.’
He smiled inwardly; he had her correctly pegged as an English-speaking South African liberal, nursing a guilt hangover from having been brought up during the apartheid era. Such people loathed being branded as racists. ‘Not at all. It is I who should be sorry for arriving unannounced. It is impolite, especially in my culture.’
The kettle whistled and Christine poured coffee for her and tea for him. ‘Well, now we’ve got the apologies out of the way, what can I help you with?’
‘I’d like to invest in your business, specifically your lions,’ he said.
‘My lions are not for sale.’ Christine sipped her coffee.
David held up his hand. ‘Please, at least hear me out. You are very well known, as is your work to promote the cause of wild lions. I, too, am a fan of big cats, and I think it is terrible what is happening to lions in the wild. I would also like to see wild lions protected.’
‘I’m listening, but I’m not selling.’
‘Please.’ Christine did not reply, so he continued. ‘I represent some people who would like to invest in your facility here, to help with the upkeep of your lions and to help you to better promote the plight of wild lions by attracting visitors here who could see your lions and learn more about them and their wild relatives.’
‘I’ve had plenty of people suggest that to me, David, but I don’t have the money or the inclination to act on that suggestion. If people come here they’re going to want to see me rolling around on the ground with Felix and Casper, and I don’t want to become a circus act.’
‘I understand completely, and you have your other business, training dogs and handlers for anti-poaching work, I believe. You must be busy.’
‘Yes, very.’ She sipped some more coffee and sat back in her lounge chair.
‘But it must cost you a good deal of money to keep all the lions that came with this property, not to mention your own big cats. I don’t mean to sound nosey or rude, but I have done a bit of research on your situation.’
She raised her eyebrows again. ‘So what is my “situation”?’
‘You had to borrow heavily to keep this farm after your ex-husband gambled away his stake in it. I have contacts in the casino industry. Sean Bourke is well known to them, for the wrong reasons. Also, I read in the media that your dogs and handlers have recently been targeted by particularly heinous weaponry.’
She set down her cup. He could see that her hackles were rising. ‘What do you want?’
‘To help you.’
‘By turning my farm into a zoo.’
‘Not at all. You have an excellent location here. There is a shortage of accommodation in this part of South Africa. The Kruger Park is full to bursting; more South Africans than ever are holidaying at home given the state of the rand, and the rest of the world has discovered Kruger. My investors think that a lodge on this farm would be well patronised. The presence of your lions, and even your dog training, would be an added attraction for tourists, and if you wished to make yourself available then I am sure some of your tens of thousands of Facebook fans would pay a good deal to see the “female lion whisperer” at play with Felix and Casper.’
She said nothing, but he detected from slight movements that she was biting the inside of her lip. He believed that he had guessed correctly, that the thought of setting up some form of accommodation on the farm had crossed her mind at some point. Tourism had boomed in the Hazyview area in the past ten years, and there was no sign of a slowing of demand for places to stay near the Kruger Park. Probably the only thing that had stopped her was money.
‘The people I represent would provide the money for building a lodge, perhaps twelve permanent safari tents with en suite bathrooms and a communal lounge and dining area with a pool, and funding for staff and leases on game-viewing vehicles. There would be no outlay by you, and the consortium would pay you an annual lease of, say, one million rand, plus twenty per cent of net profits.’
She picked up her coffee again, affecting an air of casual disinterest, but he knew he had her attention. ‘What would your investors expect in return?’
‘A twenty-year lease with an option to extend, your guaranteed appearance at a number of shows with your lions, perhaps ten or twelve a year, and ownership of half of your population of lions – excluding Felix and Casper of course.’
Christine finished her coffee and set down the cup. ‘Why do your people want my lions?’
‘The income from the lodge will provide the lions with food and a safe place to live for the term of their natural lives. It’s only fair that the operators of the lodge would have a moral right to call some of the lions their own. The people I represent are fanatical about big cats.’
‘And what would they do with the lions?’
‘Do? Well, they would take care of them. There might be scope, if the lodge does well, to replicate the model in other parts of Africa – not close enough to be in competition with you, but perhaps in Botswana, Zimbabwe, Zambia?’
‘I’ve made a commitment not to breed my lions, David, so I cannot be a party to someone setting up a petting zoo, breeding lions to be handled by tourists and then, as often happens, shot by trophy hunters when they get older.’
‘Rest assured,’ David said, ‘the people I represent know about you and your views on lions and canned hunting. I swear to you they have no intention of setting up a petting zoo or of organising for your lions to be hunted. They will all live full and enriched lives.’
‘I would want something like that in writing.’
‘Naturally.’
‘When we spoke last time you said you had clients who wanted to hunt. Are these the same people?’
David shook his head. ‘Most assuredly not. Different people. The people I represent now are solely interested in developing a photographic camp on your property, Christine.’
‘And they want to use my lions as zoo attractions.’
‘They want to educate tourists about the problems faced by wild lions, and one of the best ways to do that is to give visitors the chance to see big cats up close.’
‘That’s an argument that’s been used by zoos for centuries. I don’t necessarily buy it, but I do believe zoos have a conservation role to play. I’m just not sure I want my lions exploited.’
‘They wouldn’t be exploited,’ David said. ‘They would be kept in the manner that you intend, supervised by you, and they would be helping the cause. Also, it would relieve much of the financial burden you currently face, generate income for use in whichever way you see fit, and ensure the lions see out their days in a happy, healthy, productive manner.’
He could see she was considering the idea or, at least, not dismissing it out of hand. ‘These investors, where are they from?’ she asked.
‘China. With mainland China’s economy expanding so rapidly, Chinese people have more disposable income than at any time in history and are travelling further and wider across the globe than ever before. Younger Chinese are becoming more aware of wildlife and the need to conserve it.’
‘All well and good,’ Christine said, ‘but what about the hunters you wanted to bring here, when you first contacted me. Where are they from?’
‘Also China.’
‘I didn’t know the Chinese were into big game hunting, if you could classify canned hunting as that.’
‘It’s not only Americans who like the idea of mounting a lion’s head on their wall. Personally, I have never hunted and nor would I wish to.’ That was the truth. He found the idea of blood sports abhorrent, but he did want those lions, at almost any cost.
‘Tell me, David, what happened to the bones of the lions that were shot on this farm in the past, once the trophy hunters – whatever their nationality – had taken away the skin and the heads?’
She was not stupid. ‘You would have to ask the previous owners of your property.’
‘I did,’ Christine said. ‘They were as evasive as you are being right now.’
‘There are no restrictions on the export of lion bones, and while some airlines are refusing to ship big game trophies out of Africa, there are enough that still do to allow this legal industry to continue.’
‘That’s pretty much what the previous owners told me as well. Is that the corporate line for you people?’
‘By you people, I hope that you are not casting aspersions on my ethnicity?’ David said, playing the race card again.
She slapped the arm of her chair. ‘No, by you people, I mean morally repugnant criminals.’
David paused, composed himself, took a sip of tea then set his cup down. ‘I am not a criminal, and I resent any implication to that effect. And please, let’s not raise our voices.’
Christine took a deep breath. ‘The export of lion bones is a loophole in legislation that will be closed soon.’
‘But it hasn’t been closed yet. When your lions die, of natural causes, I can act as a broker and offer you, legally, a handsome payment for their skeletons.’
Christine stood and glared down at him. ‘Over my dead body.’
‘You know, Christine, the bones of big cats have been used in traditional Chinese medicine for centuries.’
‘Yes, tigers originally, and now that they’ve virtually been wiped out in the wild you’re substituting them with lion bones. That’s why there has been this insidious trade in bones flying under the radar for years.’
‘It is not illegal.’
She put her hands on her hips. ‘No, it’s just disgusting.’
‘Look at it this way –’
‘There is no way to look at it.’
‘Please,’ he said, ‘let us discuss this rationally.’
‘No!’ She stabbed a finger at him. ‘You’re going to tell me that canned hunting, breeding lions to be petted as cubs and shot as adults, has supplied the de facto market in lion bones for years.’
He folded his hands in his lap. ‘Yes, Christine, that is exactly what I am telling you. Also, as the South African government has pointed out in past reports, lion farming is a major industry in this country. It provides employment, directly and indirectly, from the people who work in the hunting camps as professional hunters, guides, skinners, hospitality staff, right through to small-scale farmers who sell donkeys to the farms for food for the lions. In South Africa, as you know, big game hunters can only hunt lions on private land, and lion farms fill this role, meaning the population of wild lions in South Africa is sacrosanct, unlike many other African countries where wild, free-ranging lions are hunted on land bordering national parks.’
He could see she was seething now. ‘I know the situation with lions as well as or better than you, and I can see through your proposals, Mr Li.’
‘What do you mean? My investors are serious about wanting to set up a photographic safari camp.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they are, the greedy bastards, and they want to buy half of my stock of lions to breed future generations for the slaughter.’ Her voice was shrill, raised again. ‘For their bloody bones! Now get up, Mr Li, and get out of my house before I have my dogs chase you out.’
David stood. He had tried the straightforward business approach, and while her response was predictably angry, it was disappointing. ‘Thank you for your time. I’m sorry you do not wish to hear more of our proposal. I hope you don’t come to regret your decision.’
She squared up to him and pointed at him again, a gesture he found exceptionally rude. ‘If you try and buy into any other game reserve or lion farm in South Africa I’ll make sure the world knows on social media that you’re a filthy trader in death and helpless animals. You’re no businessman, you’re a common smuggler. Now get the hell off my property.’
He turned and walked out of the house. Anubis gave a low growl, and David looked over his shoulder at the dog. He shivered, but he was able to still his fear with the knowledge that he had access to weapons that would not only potentially destroy Christine’s dogs, but also her business. There would come a time, and soon, when she would be begging to sell to him, or, if that failed, perhaps begging for her life.