Ivory Ghosts (12 page)

Finnius introduced the woman to Nigel and me as the induna's daughter, Nandi.

“This is a terrible tragedy. I'm so sorry for your loss, Nandi. My name is Catherine.” I held out my hand to her and she nodded suspiciously, not offering her hand in return. Instead she clapped one hand on top of the other and crouched slightly, so I returned the gesture.

“Mutozi,”
I said, crouching and clapping, having learned the word for “Good afternoon” from Gidean.

Nandi pointed across the river. “If you kept those elephants on the other side of the river, this wouldn't happen.” She was trying to be angry, but I could tell she was curious about this white woman standing in her cornfield and couldn't be as mad as she wanted to be.

There had to be things that the farmers could do to minimize the elephants' access to their food. “What about harvesting earlier?”

“Can't do it. The grain will mold.”

“What about drying in storehouses?”

“Storehouse is not safe.” Nandi put her hands on her hips. “They will still come.”

“Would it be easier to protect a storehouse than an entire field?”

“Clearly, you do not know the elephant.” She shook her finger at me. “You cannot keep an elephant out of your house if they want to come in. They don't need a key.” She laughed as she pretended her arm was a trunk and pushed the air in front of her. “They will just push down the door and eat what they like.”

“Where did you learn English?” Despite her attempt at hostility, I understood where she was coming from and was really starting to like this woman.

“In school.” Nandi softened, seemingly embarrassed that she was suddenly under some kind of scrutiny. “But I only finished standard two.”

“Well, your English is very good.”

Nandi smiled. “Thank you.”

“I wish there was something I could do to help you.”

Nandi let out a breath of resignation. “These elephants are too clever. There is nothing we can do but sit and wait for them to steal our food.”

“I'd like to understand the problem better. Maybe I can try and help. Would it be okay if I came and talked to you and the induna about it? Perhaps at a better time?”

Nandi nodded shyly. “Yes. All right. If my father agrees, I can do this.”

“Thanks, Nandi, I look forward to that.” I was hopeful that we might find some way to help by discussing the problem in detail.

We said our good-byes and got back into the truck. We drove down the chalky calcrete road, heading back toward Bwabwata National Park and the ranger station. Even though I was excited about the promise of a new friendship, as we left the scene, I was distracted with thoughts of my daunting flight ahead and was starting to have doubts about my plan to get to the Sioma Falls airstrip before the doctor and the witch doctor were to meet.

Nigel broke the silence. “I've never been to the United States and always wondered what Yellowstone was like. Hard to imagine there's still big game left in America.”

“It's gorgeous in the late fall and winter. When all the tourists are gone. In the summer, you wouldn't believe how many ridiculously long telephoto-lens pileups you can get in front of a moose with a big rack.”

“You must have experienced fifteen-car pileups at lion kills in Kruger.”

“I guess it's pretty similar. But highways bisect the Yellowstone. I wasn't prepared for the kind of traffic that comes through when I first got there. Trucks, tour buses, cars…all driving so fast.”

“Tell me about it. They just recently paved the road through Bwabwata. Those big transport trucks are making crepes out of the elephants. It's a bloody disaster.”

“Oh, no. Can anything be done to prevent that?” My voice wavered. I hoped it would come across as a reflection of the horror of this thought. But what was actually happening was a slow paralysis taking hold of my psyche. Was I really going to be able to pull off what I had planned for the night? I hadn't flown by instruments in a long time. And what if I didn't get the timing right and they saw me or even heard me landing? Sioma Falls airstrip was hardly a venue I could pretend that I was going to on my own. I tried to coach myself through my fears, telling myself that if I could get pictures of this event, it could greatly accelerate the investigation.

Nigel shrugged. “They put up a few ‘Elephant crossing' signs and said they had addressed the problem.” Nigel pulled up next to the game-guard office and stopped. “I'll see you in town at some point after the weekend?”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Nigel.” I waved good-bye, got into my car, and headed straight for Mpacha airstrip.

Now that I was alone without distraction, I was feeling better. The day had run later than expected, but I still had plenty of time. I'd get to the strip at five thirty and needed to take off by six thirty.

There was an almost half-moon in the sky and I was on an adrenaline high. Sitting in the pilot's seat, I kept reviewing everything that needed to happen before I landed at the old Sioma Falls airstrip an hour before Geldenhuis was scheduled to land at eight o'clock. I had to get there first, and with time to spare.

It was now six thirty and dark enough that I needed to fly using instruments—something I always found unnerving. I was lucky to have had a good flight instructor, though, and I'd never forget his demonstration of how important it was to trust instruments at night. He had me close my eyes while he maneuvered the plane and then asked me to describe our position. Each time I opened my eyes, it was hard to believe. Not being able to detect that the plane was banking or losing altitude, I got it wrong at least five times.

After that I never trusted my instincts at night. That little ball in the center of my level was my best friend, as was the altimeter. My only consolation was the smooth air—there was far less turbulence at night.

I persuaded Mpacha ground control to alert Zambian air traffic control of my squawk code, so I wouldn't have to worry about announcing myself as I flew over the border and into Zambian airspace, potentially blowing my cover if our radio conversation was overheard. I hoped to hide the plane in the hangar, take photos of the transaction, and leave after the deal was done. I could see every step vividly. I was going to get solid evidence on the doctor—evidence that it sounded like Baggs really needed.

Once I was set to go, I strapped myself in, checked the fuel gauge, and reviewed the instrument panel. I flipped the starter switch, and the engine clapped to life. I plugged my coordinates into the GPS and studied the electronic map screen while several men ran down the strip to light fires. I told them that the fires weren't necessary, as I'd be using night vision to take off, but they hadn't quite understood what I meant.

I could see that the flight would take about a half an hour. Not too bad. I looked through the windshield at the line of tiny bush fires struggling to stay lit down the badly cracked and pocked airstrip. I usually preferred a clean bush strip to a potholed tarmac. But not at night. The shadows on the uneven ground weren't easy to see, even with night vision.

A man waved a torch at the end of the strip, and I pushed on the throttle, aligned the rudders, and pulled up on the yoke when I got enough speed. I was up and out of there.

When I reached cruising altitude, I took off my night vision so as not to let my eyes trick me. I couldn't see a thing but confusing shadows, but I tried not to let it bother me. I focused on the altimeter and my level, making sure I kept it on the horizon. I kept reviewing the plan, imagining landing, hiding the plane, getting into position, getting the camera ready, taking the photos, and getting out.

While repeating each step, I tried to silence the doubts niggling at the back of my mind. This was not the sort of thing I ever thought I'd be doing. And yet it now seemed like the only thing that made any sense. Seeing the poacher's camp over the border of Angola had made me realize just how openly poaching was happening. There had to be a way to increase at least the perception that routine patrols were taking place.

I tried to sweep my mind of what-ifs to focus on the present—on what was about to happen and how I needed to stay on target. But I couldn't help thinking about worst-case scenarios, getting caught, getting kidnapped by the witch doctor, or, worse, getting shot in the middle of nowhere in the African darkness. I texted Craig to make sure that he knew where I was, in case he didn't hear from me by the end of the night.

I stretched my back and tried to relax my stomach, which I had attempted to calm with some peanut butter and crackers on the drive over. Soon enough, it was time to descend, and I put my night-vision goggles on so I could see the strip. There was a long, straight clearing ahead of me, and I banked until I could see the hangar at the end of the abandoned airstrip.

I throttled back, slowing as I juggled with the yoke to keep the nose level while touching down. The landing was pretty bumpy, but not too bad. I steered the nosewheel with the rudder pedals and pushed in the throttle to get myself into the hangar.

Normally, I pulled the plane around with whoever was flying with me, but alone I couldn't do it myself. I made a wide sweep so I could turn and park nose-out. Craig had stored a military camouflage netting behind the backseat, and I threw it over the front of the plane to make it seem like the plane had been there for some time.

Still wearing the goggles, I grabbed my camera bag off the passenger seat and slung it over my shoulder. I then headed to a small bush track that led to the other end of the airstrip.

After a short while, a low dark vehicle approached. Above me, I heard the sound of a large prop engine plane. I crouched down as the car stopped a short distance away. I moved forward to get closer to the vehicle as a Cessna 207 made an expert landing on the strip in the darkness. This couldn't have been his first landing here, as the place was littered with warthog holes, and he missed them all. But this was not the airplane that had flown over Susuwe, nor was it the one I saw at the poaching site in Angola. If this was indeed Geldenhuis, he must have swapped planes in Lusaka.

The pilot drove the plane toward the car and stopped just at the edge of the strip. Both the car and the plane were about ten meters away. It was going to be tricky to get a meaningful shot even with my night-vision camera. I could get the airplane and hopefully the cargo, but I wasn't sure I'd be able to get an identifying shot of the pilot. I removed the night-vision goggles from the headband, unscrewed the camera lens, mounted the intensifier between the camera body and the lens, and took photos of the numbers on the side of the plane. And there was no mistaking a Red Cross symbol near the tail.

When the pilot got out, he was a familiar-looking heavyset man, though his face was hidden under the shadow of his wide hat brim. The green grain of the night vision wasn't helping, and the zoom on the camera was not that powerful. It was going to be tough to get what I needed.

Two men got out of the car. The passenger was clearly the same man I had seen talking to Geldenhuis at Hippo Lodge, the witch doctor, dressed this time in a black suit. The driver opened the trunk for the pilot. The pilot looked down and lifted a slender elephant tusk. As he nodded, I got the shot. And another and another as the men loaded the tusks into the back of the airplane.

When the men were far enough away, I tilted my camera down and turned on the data screen and zoomed in on one of the shots. I could barely make out the pilot's face under the hat. Too many profiles. I had to get closer.

I crept through the bush next to the airstrip until I reached a patch of bush right next to the hood of the car opposite the plane. It was uncomfortably close, as every breath I took seemed to make too much noise. But it was the only option if I wanted to get better photos. And from this distance, I could hear what they were saying.

I turned the autofocus off on the lens so the camera wouldn't make a noise. I adjusted the focal distance to five meters, turned the data screen off so it wouldn't light up, aimed through a break in the bush, and started taking pictures again. Finally, through the lens, I could make out the pilot's face as he lifted a tusk. It was Dr. Geldenhuis.

I don't know why my heart started to race, as this was exactly the face that I had expected to see. But suddenly seeing him right in front of me, in this context, terrified me. I felt his hand pressing down on my shoulder back in his office as he threatened me. This wasn't the sort of work I thought I'd be doing here. And it certainly wasn't what my father thought I'd be doing. Not that I felt I needed my dad's approval at twenty-nine, and, recently, every time I found myself in an extreme situation, he often came to mind, whether I wanted him there or not.

As blood retreated to my core, I shivered and fought back more memories—and thoughts of Sean. I had to stay in the moment. Goose bumps shot up my legs and arms, and my legs started shivering uncontrollably. I had to get as many more shots as I could. Maybe we'd be able to identify the driver as well. I tried to keep track of the tusks and counted twenty. They were all small and slender, probably from a family group. From the dark smears on the tusks, I assumed they were covered in fresh blood.

Geldenhuis pulled out a wad of money, handed it to the driver, then walked back toward the plane. The driver counted as the witch doctor lit a cigarette.

As Geldenhuis opened the door to the airplane, the driver approached him with a small paper bag.

Geldenhuis snarled and hit the bag away.

The man picked it up and brought it back.

Geldenhuis snatched the bag out of the man's hands, opened it, cursed, and threw it at the witch doctor and missed. The bag bounced off the hood of the car and landed right next to me.

“Fok my!”
Geldenhuis yelled. “I don't bloody deal in bloody human bloody body parts!”

I tried to back into the bushes, but I was wedged within some acacia thorns, and a branch snapped. I dropped my camera in surprise.

My hands were shaking with fear as the witch doctor spun around and looked right in the direction of where I was crouched. “Did you bring company?” he called over to Geldenhuis.

“What are you talking about?” Geldenhuis marched over to the car.

I gasped for breath and held it, remaining completely frozen, hoping he wouldn't come any closer.

Geldenhuis looked around, picked up the paper bag, and put it on the hood of the car. “There's nothing here but a bag of stolen youth.”

I exhaled in relief, not knowing how it was possible that he didn't see me.

The witch doctor whispered threateningly, “Why didn't you warn me about the Singalamwe bust?”

I realized he was referring to what happened to his henchman, Ernest, who had been taken by Eli and Gidean in the ministry whaler and had disappeared.

Geldenhuis pointed a finger at the witch doctor. “What did you think would happen after the stunt you pulled at Susuwe? I don't know what's going on with the Nigerians, but you're becoming a liability.”

“And poisoning a carcass and killing six hundred vultures didn't draw your own bit of attention?”

“I'm trying to get things done here, and I need to deliver four hundred tusks next week.”

The witch doctor shook his head. “Not my problem.”

“It bloody well
is
your problem,” Geldenhuis retorted.

“Your connection to Mr. Lin and that triad has nothing to do with me. That is
your
problem. Not mine. I don't like how they operate.”

As the conversation got more heated, my breathing accelerated. I didn't want to pick up my camera for fear of breaking another branch. I had gotten good pictures of all of them anyway.

“But you're connected to me.”

“The triads are smart enough to respect black magic,” the witch doctor said slyly. “They won't touch me.”

“Lin's got me by the bollocks,” said Geldenhuis. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Try the Angolan rebels. They're eating more elephants than they can get rid of tusks.”

“They're too sloppy.”

“Perhaps they need better instruction.”

“Maybe what I need is a new partner.” Geldenhuis snatched out his nine millilmeter.

The witch doctor held his hands up. “Whoa. Easy, doc. This isn't your style. Let's talk this through.”

Geldenhuis shot twice in rapid succession and the witch doctor dropped to the ground. He nodded to the other man, who stood there in shock holding his hands in the air. “You're my new partner,” he said coolly as he replaced his revolver in its holster.