Ivory Ghosts (13 page)

Long after Geldenhuis flew off in his airplane and the other man dragged the witch doctor's body over to the car and, with great effort, pulled it into the backseat and drove away, I made my move. I sat shivering for some time, trying to make sense of the past few days. I had really started to believe what Jon Baggs said about Geldenhuis—that he was a playboy, not a murderer. That he must have been set up for the murder of his former colleague Mr. Lee. Where did this come from?

Again, I couldn't help wondering if Jon was hiding something. He was either involved somehow, or purposefully playing down the doctor's role because he didn't want me involved in the case. I'd have to find a way for him to allow me to take a genetic sample of the ivory evidence in his office. I'd have to get Craig to convince him to give it to us.

After picking up my camera, I steeled myself as I approached the pool of blood on the airstrip left behind by the witch doctor's dead body. Even though I knew it would be useless, I took pictures of the black liquid, as that's how it looked through night vision. I had DNA evidence on the brain because I wanted more than anything to take a sample of the blood as evidence. But I talked myself out of it. Even though Craig had told me that I had permission to fly over the border of Zambia, if I was questioned upon my return to Mpacha, carrying blood from a murder victim could make me look like an accessory to murder.

But even just looking at the pool of blood sent a chill down my spine. I hadn't quite adapted to seeing a murdered person yet, must less watching someone get killed. I had discovered less than a week before that the dead body of a stranger made me feel vulnerable, as if I were suddenly in danger of being attacked. And now, even a pool of blood from a murdered body made me feel the same way.

I took the night-vision tube off the camera, mounted it back in my goggles, and put them on. I walked over to the hangar and sat down, staring out at the airstrip. A long time passed before it felt safe to leave—long enough that the half-moon was low on the horizon. The noise of an airplane taking off traveled a good distance in all directions. And after the gunshots, if anyone had been listening, they'd be listening even closer. But I couldn't wait too long, or I'd risk someone actually wanting to investigate.

As I waited, I couldn't help thinking about my dad again. Feeling guilty about how he'd feel if he knew what I had gotten myself into with this job, I suddenly wanted to hear his voice. When I had last visited before leaving for Kruger, I could tell he was proud but also nervous. He held my hands out and squeezed them while he took me in. “Your mom would've been so proud. You know that, don't you?”

I smiled and nodded.

“You're gonna pack heat, right?” he whispered out of earshot of Kelly, knowing that the talk of firearms with his daughter would upset her.

“Dad, I'll be fine. I'll work something out when I get there.”

“You wanna borrow my forty-five?”

“It's too big.”

“Not over there, it won't be.”

Dad prided himself in taking me with him on his pheasant hunting trips when I was too young, according to Mom. I think she thought he was somehow living out his failed fantasy of becoming a professional hunter after Vietnam. Taking shrapnel in the face while trying to save a friend and losing most of his vision in his left eye did away with that dream. But after Mom died, he bought me a Remington .30-06 bolt-action rifle for my sixteenth birthday and took me on a weeklong elk hunting trip on horseback in Montana, just north of Yellowstone.

When I complained about the weight of the rifle, he said I needed a bit more than a .270 in grizzly country. After the trip was over, I started lifting weights to build my upper-body strength so I could handle bigger calibers but never got back to them. Then I started working at Yellowstone in the summers, and my life seemed to unfold in the wilderness from there, like one might have expected, having grown up in Wyoming.

But if Dad had known what I was doing here, he'd have caught the next flight over and tried to take me home. He understood why I hadn't wanted to leave Africa after Sean died. He figured I'd get my footing back with a policy stint in Namibia and then I'd get tired of it and come home. He was already circling ads for park service positions in California, hoping to find me something in Yosemite. Having spent some time there during grad school at Berkeley, I could see it—eventually—maybe. I owed him a call, or at least a postcard.

With my nerves further jangled by the persistent scratching noise of a clawed critter walking on the metal roof above me, I finally mustered the adrenaline to move the airplane. I struggled to wheel the nose of the Cessna out of the hangar. I had to rock it a few times to get it to roll enough so that I could get the momentum to pull it out.

I got in and started up the plane. I drove onto the bumpy strip and pushed in the throttle to accelerate. Pulling up on the yoke, I flew into the night, eager to put as much distance between myself and the witch doctor's blood as possible.

After a fitful night, I got up in my barracks in Susuwe and headed straight for Katima. When I walked into the ministry building the next morning, I could hear Gidean's voice coming from Jon's office with the door partially ajar. “She's okay, you know. I think she has a place here, despite Eli's doubts.”

Since Draadie wasn't in, I stood in the reception area and decided not to announce myself. Even though I knew someone would see me soon enough, at least I was out in the open and it didn't look like I was eavesdropping. I was simply waiting for my turn to meet with Jon, and, if they indeed were talking about me, which I strongly suspected they were, it gave me a chance to hear it firsthand—fully expecting Jon to tear me apart.

I needed time to collect my thoughts anyway. This meeting had to go well. I had to turn things around with Jon and I didn't want the photos that I took of Geldenhuis to upset him, knowing how sensitive he was about me stepping out of the role he had defined for me. Craig had told me to tell Jon that the photos had come from the WIA office in Johannesburg. He was nervous, though. And upset with me.

Apparently, even though I had had clearance to fly in and out of Zambia, there was no talk of a night flight. I was supposed to call—not text—for approval for any night missions. Craig didn't tell me this because he didn't anticipate that I would fly at night without telling him. Now he was nervous of what else I might do that was beyond my detail. I was hoping that nothing mattered outside of the pictures that I took, connecting two very prominent figures in the region to ivory smuggling.

Jon growled. “A place?” I could hear him jumping out of his seat. “What kind of place? Bloody hell, Gidean! Can't you spot an American bloody do-gooder? The women are the worst!”

“She can handle a firearm,” he offered.

“A firearm!
Jislaaik
, any bloody teen around here can handle a firearm. What did she tell you?”

“She asked me to take her to the shooting range.”

“The shooting range!” Jon's voice was dripping with sarcasm. “The bloody shooting range! Does she think she's Annie Oakley coming to join the local outlaws?”

As much as I didn't want to hear what Jon was going to say next, I couldn't move.

“Exactly what does she think she's doing with a handgun when she's supposed to be flying our census? She probably doesn't even have a permit!”

I made a mental note to give Jon a copy of the permit that Craig had emailed me.

Gidean's voice wavered. “She says she wants to pull her weight with the rangers.”

“What kind of weight?” Jon barked. “I was hoping to shatter her Karen Blixen fantasy and send her packing.”

“Look, Jon, I think she is
okay
.”

“Yes, no doubt. I imagine she knows just how to work the local stock.” I could hear his heavy footfalls as he paced back and forth. “You see, Gidean, they all come to Africa to save Africa, like some kind of personal redemption. Save Africa! As if she could protect the rangers! I think we need to save Africa from Americans!”

I sat down and could hear him goose-stepping back and forth, just as I had seen him do in front of the office the last time I came. “A bloody gun-toting Elizabeth Taylor wannabe. Yes, yes, it is coming to me.” He marched around the office, and through the crack in the door, I could see he was hanging his head with arms stiff at his sides as he goose-stepped. “The Ministry of Silly Walks, eh, Gidean? That's what I should tell the next American brimming with goodwill that comes into this office. I'll say, Good day, and welcome to the Ministry of Silly Walks. It will be far more productive to give your donations to us, I assure you. And a great opportunity to employ your own countrymen abroad, as it promises to be a very long study.”

Just when I couldn't take the humiliating monologue any longer and had decided to leave, Nigel entered the reception area. I stood up, blood immediately rushing to my face. “Hello, Nigel.”

Nigel nodded. “Catherine.” He smiled warmly and shook my hand, disarming me.

He pointed to the door with a questioning look on his face.

“He's in a meeting.” I quickly opened the well-worn conservation magazine that I had pored over previously, as if I were completely engrossed in an article about sustainably harvested water lilies. “I'm just waiting to speak to him.”

Nigel knocked on the door lightly, just as Jon was in his next phase of inspiration.

“This is how it will work….Ah, come in, Nigel, you're one of those nongovernmental types. You can help me set up the program.”

“Program for what?” Nigel asked.

Jon hesitated. “You look like hell. That Peace Corps pigeon keeping you up at night?”

“I told you she wasn't my type.”

“No?” Jon's voice cracked in disappointment. “She looked like the redheaded double-breasted mattress thrasher type to me.”

“Hell, even if she was, she'd gnaw my bloody ear off.”

“Pity.” Jon continued his marching. “I am starting a new ministry. The Ministry of Silly Walks. Yes, Nigel, we will administer the silly walks, a great diversity of them, and then study their propagation patterns, their cultural idiosyncrasies, you know, how each tribe will add this twitch or that hop or click. Then we'll send out a team to fully monitor and evaluate how the walks are holding up, how they are culturally enriched and entrenched. Eh, Nigel, what do you think?”

Nigel chuckled nervously. “Has great potential.”

I wondered if he'd try to stop Jon, knowing that I was sitting right outside the office.

“Bloated with potential! Bloated. The Monty Python folks would be proud. Wait till I get my hands on a plane ticket. I'm going to go over to America to save Americans! Watch out, Uncle Sam, here I come!”

Jon stopped short, as if seeing that Nigel wasn't completely on board with his plan. “Hopefully you haven't been contaminated by her good-deed seeking as well.” Jon must have been affected by the look on his face. “Oh Jesus, you, too? She really
does
know how to work the local stock!”

“Actually, I think she's great. And she's sitting right in the other room, waiting to speak to you.” Nigel asked tentatively, “Should I ask her to come in?”

I was grateful for the rescue.

Jon hissed. “The bush will eat her alive!”

Nigel opened the door with an apologetic expression on his face and nodded for me to come in. He mouthed the word
sorry.

I rolled my eyes at him conspiratorially, and then stood in the doorway feeling like I was in front of a firing squad. “Hello, Jon.” I nodded to Gidean and Eli. “Gidean, Eli.” I shook their hands.

Jon sat down, not allowing me to shake his hand, unaffected by the possibility that I could have heard any of his theatrics. He looked the other way as he spoke. “Good day, Ms. Sohon. Now, listen, I had a good talk with the permanent secretary. We've decided that it's not bloody WIA's business to dabble in matters that should be left to our ministry.” He finally seemed to gain enough composure to look at me directly, his eyes burning a hole through mine. “We hardly need to sleep with a nonprofit to get anything done. We can handle this investigation on our own.”

“I see.” I tried to remain calm. “But, surely there's some misunderstanding. Didn't you receive clearance for me to work with this ministry?”

“Work, yes. Investigate, no.” He hesitated, furrowed his brow, and then pounded his fist on his desk. “But clearly WIA has the ear of the minister on this, as I couldn't remove you from Susuwe.” Jon looked down at his watch. “Hell, I have a meeting with the governor just now. Apparently, he's willing to go one-on-one with the witch doctor with regard to the issue of human body parts. Doesn't give a hoot about ivory, but at least we found common ground in fresh young scrotums.” Jon pointed at Gidean again. “Trust me, Gidean. Hmm? Am I not a visionary?”

Gidean nodded.

Jon stood abruptly. “I will be vindicated, I promise you. Mixing NGOs with ministry affairs will be a disaster.”

I quickly interjected. “Before you leave, could I speak to you for a minute?”

Jon waved his hand at me in command. “Speak!”

“In private?” I said hesitantly.

Before Jon could say anything, the others bowed out.

Nigel tapped me on the shoulder as he left, giving me apologetic eyes again. “See you in town before you go back to Susuwe?”

“Sounds good,” I said, not sure where this meeting would take place.

He whispered, “The bank.”

I nodded and then waited until everyone left before placing the grainy photos on Jon's desk. I had uploaded them from my camera to my printer and had selected only the photos that had Geldenhuis in them. Craig said it was important to hold back the information about the murder. He had other channels he needed to run through before we could talk about witnessing a murder, particularly considering my illegal presence in the country and lack of the victim's body as evidence.

Jon squinted at the photos and then grabbed them, looking at each one carefully in silence.
“Fok my,”
he whispered as he drew a finger across the doctor's face. “Bloody hell, where did these come from?”

I shrugged. “WIA sent them up.”

He shuffled through the images of Geldenhuis loading the airplane with ivory and quickly became agitated. “How the hell would WIA get hold of something like this?”

I was struggling to look Jon in the eye. “Not sure exactly. I don't ask. They don't tell me anything.”

Jon took a closer look. “Since when does he have a souped-up 207 with clamshell doors?”

I remembered the tusks being loaded into the plane through doors that swung up. “Probably keeps it for larger volumes.”

“WIA is a bloody conservation organization, not the bloody Major Crimes Directorate.”

I tried to come across as casual as possible, despite the lie. “They have a guy taking photos from the Joburg office.” I was extremely uncomfortable having to lie like this, watching Jon inspect the images, but I had no choice.

Jon flipped through the images again. “There must have been someone else there. Are there any other photos?”

As I shook my head, I suddenly realized that Jon might have known who was with the witch doctor on the airstrip—the doctor's newly designated partner. I needed to ask Craig about showing Jon a photo of the other person.

“Do you know what this means?” He shook the photos at me, wild-eyed. “We could take him down with this!” He started pacing.

Seeing his reaction made the jangled nerves worth it. The initial doubt, the sheer terror of being almost face-to-face with Geldenhuis conducting a deal, the shock of the murder, and then the doubt about the impact the photos might have—it all disappeared. Except for the fact that, after seeing his reaction to the images, I wanted to tell him so badly that I had taken the photos.

I wasn't sure why I felt the need to impress this guy since all he did thus far was insult me, but I couldn't help feeling that it was all an act. I didn't know exactly why I had this feeling, but it was partly from his initial hesitation to look me in the eye every time we met.

“Question is, why haven't the MCD jumped on it?”

“Maybe they were waiting for this.”

“What?” he exclaimed. “Major Crimes doesn't need information from WIA to know what's going on. They must have known. They must have been waiting for the right time.”

I couldn't help a slight dig. “Maybe WIA is not as feeble as you think.”

“Bloody hell!” Jon grabbed the photos and marched out of the office. “Draadie! Get me 63131!”

“She's not in.”

“Bloody hell!”
He marched around the other room. “Where the hell is she?”

I couldn't help staring at the pile of tusks next to his desk.

He ducked his head back in, clutching the photos and flashing me the conspiring eyes that I'd seen him only use with his rangers. “I'll go straight over to the courthouse.”

“Jon,” I asked guardedly, “would it be okay to send samples of these tusks to Craig?”

He hesitated and then smiled.
“Asseblief,”
he said in Afrikaans, sweeping his hand in an open gesture, welcoming me to help myself. “I'll see you into town just now,” he said warmly.