Ivory Ghosts (4 page)

I could see that Sean was starting to panic, so I reached inside and pulled out the small gold ring set with a zigzag pattern of garnets. I had never seen anything like it.

“It's not much, I know. When you told me how much you liked garnets, I took the ones I found in the Namib Desert and had them set like this. Do you like it?”

Choked up, I nodded.

Sean took my hand. “I have no interest in living if I can't share my life with you. I need to know that I can.” He looked me straight in the eye. “Catherine, will you marry me?”

Unexpected tears flowed down my cheeks as my mind raced. I knew the answer was yes, but I was utterly speechless.

Sean wiped a tear and licked it from his finger. “I didn't know that I'd make you so upset.”

I shook my head and inhaled deeply as my body convulsed involuntarily. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “No, no, I'm not upset. I just—”

He reached over and consumed another tear and smacked his ruddy lips. “Your tears aren't nearly salty enough.” He took my chin in his hand. “Hey, it's okay, you know. I'll be okay.” He looked me in the eye and wiped another tear. “Or, better yet, if you're thinking no, then please wait and think about it. At least for a little while.”

“No, it's not that….I mean yes. Of course. Yes.” I gave him a big kiss. “Yes, I will marry you.”

Sean squinted skeptically. “Are you sure?”

I nodded.

Sean jumped up and belted out a tenor aria with hands held out, his long, wavy Viking hair cascading off massive shoulders. “She said yes,” he sang. “She said yeeessss.”

I laughed and held the ring out, admiring the shiny red stones.

“Do you
really
like it?”

I nodded as he slid the ring onto my left ring finger. Then he drew me to the ground and kissed me passionately. He stopped mid-kiss and broke into a Santana song: “You're my black magic woman, and you're going to make a devil out of me.”

I kissed him again. “You know what that song does to me.”

“Yes, indeed I do.” He smiled and kissed me back and then got up abruptly. “This calls for a celebratory gin and tonic. You in?”

“Of course.”

Suddenly, my throat seized up as the inevitable image followed.

K
RUGER
N
ATIONAL
P
ARK, ELEVEN MONTHS EARLIER

We had gotten stuck in the mud along the boundary fence of Kruger. Sean was covered in mud, shoveling out the tires of the truck and stuffing branches underneath them. I was cutting more branches with a machete and piling them up.

“Can you bring over more of those?”

I carried the branches over to the truck, and Sean stuffed them under the tires and started the engine again, trying to pull forward. The mud was so thick that every time he put his foot down on the accelerator, the wheels would only spin and splatter mud everywhere, sinking the tires even farther.

Sean turned the truck off. “We may be stuck here for the night.”

I went to the cab and grabbed the water bottle, took a swig, and passed it to Sean.

“Cheers.” Sean guzzled some water, wiped his mouth, and gave me a big kiss. “God, you look gorgeous caked in mud.”

I smiled as he started shoving more branches under the tires. I went back to a different tree on the other side of the truck to cut more while Sean went into the bush to cut even more.

A few minutes later I heard a funny noise. Like a gasp. I dropped my machete, pulled my revolver out of its holster, and ran into the bush. There, right in front of me, was an enraged old buffalo—hideously gnarled horns—pinning Sean's chest up against the park boundary fence. Sean's eyes were pleading with me to shoot as I stood frozen in place.

A heaving breath nearby startled me out of my waking dream. My eyes shot open. In the dark blue light of early morning, I lay still, trying to orientate to the noise.

A tree branch broke, and I spun my head around to see a large elephant chewing thorny branches outside the window screen just a foot away from me. There was something very unsettling about looking up the prehensile nose of the world's largest land creature. I didn't dare move for fear of scaring her.

I took a deep breath and watched the elephant eat. Her slender tusks and pointy forehead told me that this was a cow. Her thick, vaudeville eyelashes closed as she chewed contentedly. I could almost feel her breath, slow and deliberate, passing through the end of her trunk. Her velvety, deeply wrinkled skin moved in swaths when she shifted her weight. The smell of elephant leather permeated my nostrils as I listened to her chew.

When she finally moved away from the window, I looked at my watch. It was six thirty. I covered my head with my sarong and lay there a bit longer before mustering up the energy to start the day. After much more chewing and slow breathing, the elephant finally walked off.

I sat up feeling swollen and itchy all over. Even my eyelids weren't spared.

I made my way to the kitchen and lit a match under the kettle. I had a little reading to do before meeting my local contact, Mr. Baggs. I wanted to make the most of the visit without his suspecting that I was snooping around.

I got dressed and moved my backpack out onto the porch table. While sipping my tea, I opened a dossier entitled
Ivory Trade Routes Between China and Africa 2010–2014
, compiled by the Hong Kong chapter of the Wildlife Investigation Agency. The report included seizure records and DNA evidence from confiscated ivory, indicating Zambia and Angola as the main hot spots in southern Africa.

I opened a two-page map spread. The Caprivi region of Namibia lay at the center with arrows pointing down from Angola and Zambia and across from Zimbabwe. The Susuwe Ranger Station sat at the center of the ivory smuggling corridor.

During the most recent international elephant management conference held in Kruger, I had presented a paper on this subject. A poaching incident in Garamba National Park in the Congo two years earlier, with the possible involvement by the Ugandan government, marked the beginning of a shift in players on the poaching front. The incidence of poaching events across Africa escalated, led by rebel groups looking to buy arms. They were teaming up with organized crime syndicates throughout Africa, including American government-backed armies, to provide global distribution for illegal ivory.

Due to this extreme poaching pressure, preservation groups in East Africa argued for a return to a complete ban on the ivory trade, as had been put in place in 1989, after poaching in East Africa had reached a peak, reducing the elephant population to half of what it had been just ten years earlier. They believed that illegal ivory would eventually make its way into legal shipments.

At the same time, groups in southern Africa wanted to retain the right to raise money for elephant conservation efforts by selling government stockpiles of ivory obtained from natural mortalities and sustainable harvests. Several southern African countries were allowed to make two such sales, one in 1999 to Japan, and one in 2008 to both Japan and China. They were hoping that China would remain a good market for legal ivory sales, despite reports by some Chinese wildlife officials that it was too difficult to regulate a legal market in China.

The rift between the preservationists and conservationists was a mile wide and no one wanted to give any ground. With estimates of one hundred elephants being killed in Africa on a daily basis, discussions quickly turned into heated debates and several players walked out.

After my presentation, Craig Phipps approached me about this job. But, because I'd accepted so quickly, he seemed tentative. “There could be some dirty work involved,” he said in his British accent. “Asking questions about the ivory trade could get uncomfortable. I'm not going to lie about that.” He placed a thumb in his elegant belt and leaned up against the mahogany bar at Mala Mala, a private game reserve that hosted the farewell banquet for the conference. “Identifying players and routes is the real reason this job was funded, understood?” He took a slug of his single malt and looked me in the eye. “Are you up for that?”

Desperate for a new life plan, I wasn't going to let anything deter me, even though I knew I should have asked more questions. “Absolutely.”

He was smart. I could see that he knew exactly what he was getting—someone with nothing left to lose.

He explained that Mr. Baggs, the head of the local Ministry of Land and Conservation, would be told that I'd be the pilot helping local staff to census the regional elephant population. This gave me the excuse to get in on the ground level and have a look around.

“You understand that this could take you down a very different path than counting elephants?”

“I understand.” I nodded.

“Good. And the pay is atrocious, of course.”

I nodded.

Craig stood up tall, held out his hand to shake mine, and then narrowed his eyes and whispered as we shook hands, “The Caprivi is a dangerous place.”

On the wall of the ministry office reception area was a faded poster advertising Environment Day from five years ago. A dusty kudu skull was mounted above it—a nice rack with two and a half twists. But it had been a long while since it was tended to. Moths had taken up residence in the horns, their long gray tubes hanging from the twists, making a tired beard.

A bloated young woman, barely contained by her ministry uniform, put down her sticky deep-fried pastry as if my sudden presence was an inconvenience to her busy schedule. She shifted her weight in irritation, licked her pudgy fingers, and tried to suppress a deep cough as she asked in Afrikaans if she could be of assistance.
“Kan ek jou help?”
Her voice was harsh and raspy—a smoker, no doubt.

“Yes, hello, I'm Catherine Sohon. I have an appointment with Mr. Baggs.”

“Oh.” The woman rolled her eyes and pointed to a crooked chair.

I sat down facing the entryway so that I wouldn't have to look at her. I sensed that we'd both appreciate that gesture. I opened up a faded tourist magazine with more advertisements for safaris than content. My eye was drawn to picture of an attractive couple sitting on the deck of a pontoon houseboat having a drink at sunset:
Zambezi River Tours…Be Adventurous.

Gidean had brought my repaired car to me early so I could get to the office first thing in the morning. They hadn't found anything of interest at the crime scene, but the police dusted for prints before towing the vehicle and transferring the bodies to the morgue. They saved me some of the ivory chips so that WIA could do the genetic analysis. Once he got approval, Gidean would give them to me. Meanwhile, they were off to track the wounded buffalo.

A tall, wiry man with sandy hair marched stiffly into the office. At first glance he looked like a haggard old man, wearing the same ministry uniform as the woman, only untucked and disheveled. But my second glance caught me off guard, as I fought back the urge to stare at this old man trapped in a younger man's handsome body. He couldn't have been more than early forties, tops.

“Morning, Draadie!” he announced theatrically. “Get me 63131.” His accent said English South African, and the tension between the Afrikaner and the Englishman was clear.

“Lines are down,” Draadie happily reported, picking up her sticky breakfast that I now realized was a
koeksuster
and taking another bite. The thought of eating this Afrikaans breakfast favorite—an extremely sweet and greasy doughnut—at this hour made my stomach hurt.

“Oh, Jesus!” The man's shoulders fell. “Not again.” He groaned and collapsed against the door to the private office next to the reception area where I was still sitting, waiting to be presented.

Draadie pointed her Afrikaans doughnut toward me. “This woman says she has an appointment with you.”

I stood up.

The man winced at the woman, waiting for a further explanation.

Draadie shrugged, dropping her pastry and licking her fingers again.

The apparent Mr. Baggs turned to me and attempted to skewer me with his dark eyes. But it didn't quite work, and I got the sense that he knew it. What I saw in front of me was a disturbingly good-looking man beneath the curmudgeonly act—his large vulnerable eyes lost in a sea of anguish.

I fumbled an introduction. “Hello, I'm Catherine Sohon.” I held out my hand.

Baggs jumped slightly, as if my hand were some kind of trap that would ensnare him.

I immediately regretted wearing shorts as he diverted his eyes to my bare knees. Feeling naked, I held my backpack awkwardly against my thighs, sliding it down farther to cover my kneecaps with the hope of breaking his stare.

When he looked back up at my face, I realized that it might have been safer to have him looking at my knees. What I had mistaken for a lewd expression, which I was used to and could fend off, was more an expression of genuine surprise.

He stiffened back up and reached for my hand, holding it limply away from his body, forcing a vast chasm between us. “Jon Baggs,” he said officiously.

“I'm the pilot from WIA, sent up to help with the elephant census.”

He looked at me dubiously and nodded for me to proceed into his office. He signaled for me to sit in any of an assortment of half-broken chairs in front of his institutional-sized wooden desk.

As Baggs sat down, time seemed to stand still for both of us. I saw one hand gripping the other, as if he were struggling to hide behind the persona he was trying to conjure in order to intimidate me. He glared at me, while I tried to placate his irritation with calm, which seemed to make things worse.

Wasps paraded in and out of waterlogged, torn ceiling boards. A large faded map of the region fell away from the far wall. Piles of evidence collected dust in the corner—rotting leopard skins, a crocodile skull, a tattered Florsheim dress shoe, a handmade rifle leaning next to three small elephant tusks.

Unnerved by the silent treatment, I proceeded. “Did you not get the package?”

I was met with a blank stare.

“The one that WIA sent up? My clearance and, I believe, some new elephant mortality forms that need to be submitted to the IUCN.”

Baggs pulled at his shorts in frustration. He turned his head, trying not to look at me directly, and began pounding a pencil tip on his desk, annoyed. “With no cellphone reception and the landlines down, oh and the mail train derailed, communications are a bit slow in the Caprivi.”

“I have an extra copy of the forms.” I dug into my backpack, dodging the ivory trade report, and pulled out a folder of forms.

As I placed the folder on the desk, Baggs slammed a hand down on it, making me jump. “You're bloody joking, right?”

I realized my mistake. “I'm sorry. Of course you must have tons of these blank forms lying around.”

“As blank as the stares I get from my staff when I ask whether they've filled them in.”

“It was like that in Kruger, too. But these are the revised standardized forms that were just issued internationally. Easier to fill out.”

Baggs scowled. “Exactly what is the purpose of your stay, did you say?”

“I'll be helping with the upcoming elephant census.”

“Helping how, exactly?”

“I'll be flying the plane.” I looked at his blank face. “You really haven't heard from WIA yet, have you?”

“Sir Craig Phipps from the Joburg office?” Baggs spat.

“Yes. He placed me here on a month contract. Aside from the census, I could help out in other ways. Fly the area. Look for carcasses. Assess mortalities. I'm a biologist by training.”

“You'll need ministry clearance before you can have access to any information from this office.”

“Of course. Craig has already requested it.”

Baggs eyed me suspiciously. “You do realize, Ms. Sohon, that we have a very different problem than East Africa. All well and good for them to keep burning tons of ivory in an attempt to convince the world to stop selling, but they don't have any bloody elephants left. In southern Africa we are overrun with the buggers. And in many cases, if elephants aren't seen as a benefit financially, we'd have bloody cornfields in the place of elephant habitat. The money made from legal ivory sales is vital to our conservation efforts. We have gone to great lengths to monitor the legal trade.”

“If we can't stop the poaching and smuggling, what good is monitoring the legal trade?”

“We have a very good handle on the smuggling.”

“I'd like to ask you some questions about that.” I assumed he had been told about what I had seen on my way to Susuwe, as he seemed to get even more defensive.

“Questions? I need to see your clearance before I can answer any of your questions.” He shrugged. “Ministry rules.”

“Of course. I'll make sure you get that as soon as possible.”

A slight breeze carried a pungent smell from the pile of rotting animal parts in the corner. I tried not to cough. “The WIA Hong Kong office had the DNA tested from the ivory confiscated in that last big shipment found in Singapore en route to Guangzhou. Some of the ivory was definitely from Zimbabwe, Angola, and Zambia. And Craig has reason to believe it is being run through the Caprivi. If we can stop traffic through this corridor, it would make a big difference, regardless of whether you are for or against the legal sale of ivory.”

“We're talking a couple of tusks in the kind of busts we do around here. The bigger stuff is happening in East Africa, not here.”

“A lot of ivory can fit in the trunk of a car, you know.” I couldn't resist the jab.

Baggs got up and paced the room aggressively. “Exactly what do you mean by that, Ms. Sohon? You said you were a pilot, not a bloody detective.” He pointed a finger at me. “Let's get one thing straight. This is not a playground for American pilot-cum-reporters trying to win the Pulitzer. I don't know what WIA thinks they're up to in sending you here, but I know your type.” He hesitated and then growled, “You didn't take any pictures, did you?”

“Pictures?”

“You know what I'm talking about. Last thing we need is an image of the crime scene on the front cover of
The New York Times:
‘Zambian Witch Doctor Runs Amok in the Caprivi, Slaughtering Elephants and Stealing the Brains of Its Citizens.' ”

“No, I didn't take any pictures.” My cellphone was broken, and I had been too flustered to think about taking photos anyway. If a lion and the rangers hadn't shown up, I assumed I would have recovered my composure enough to have done so—for Craig's eyes only—but I broke my phone before that could happen.

“Bloody well not have.” Jon smoldered. “Listen, I've seen enough of you bloody Americans coming over to Africa to try to save us. You people and your big foreign aid budgets just make things worse.”

Baggs suddenly looked bored and sat down. He wiped his hands down his brow. “Bloody darkness,” he mumbled as he looked past me with faraway eyes. “Africa teeters on a precarious edge. She's breathtaking and revolting—deadly and mysterious with an uncertain end—an end that will find us all in hell riddled with Ebola, I promise you.”

There was no reasoning with this man. I didn't know what could have happened in his four decades of life to make him this cynical. I felt like a springbok lamb in the mouth of a sated jackal too stuffed to eat any more.

The mist vanished from his eyes as he stood up again, pulling a floppy cap down over his ears, making him look like a naïve boy, were it not for the carved lines of a complicated man's face. He sighed. “Hopeless.” He looked at his watch and tugged down his uniform shirt jacket. “Pleasure chatting with you, but I must go now. I'm afraid I have a meeting with the governor.” He pointed to the three tusks next to his desk. “The game guards found the induna's son burying these in his backyard last night.”

I looked at the tusks. “Shouldn't they come in pairs?”

“Usually.” Baggs squinted. “Perhaps UNITA soldiers got there first.”

“UNITA? Didn't they disband after Savimbi's death?”

“Apparently no one told them that.”

“Where did he find them?”

“On their owners, I suspect.”

“Their owners?”

“You know, those charismatic megafauna wandering out there, remembering things.”

“Oh, you mean you think he's a poacher?”

“What kind of degree did you say you had?”

“I have a Ph.D. in wildlife management. I specialized in population viability of large game in Yellowstone.”

“Yes, well, perhaps it would have been more useful to have had a degree from the school of hard knocks.”

“Excuse me?”

“I'm sure the induna will turn the ivory over to Chief Bwabwata, who will no doubt have some claim that the property should remain part of the Bwabwata throne.”

I struggled to get out of my broken chair, trying to follow what he meant.

I could see that he sensed my confusion and was enjoying himself. “Yes, a chief's privileges do tend to get in the way of law and order around here. Pleasure meeting you.” Baggs waved me out of his office.

I said good-bye to Draadie, knowing that Baggs was behind me. “Do you happen to know where I can find a working phone?”

“Post office.” Draadie spat a piece of pastry toward me as she spoke. “But they're closed for month's end.”

“Yes, they're out delivering coffins.” Baggs giggled behind me.

I ignored him. “Anywhere else?”

Draadie shook her head.

Baggs followed silently behind me as I walked quickly out to the parking lot.

As I approached my car, I heard him snicker. “Nice choice!”

I slowed down, desperate for a change in the dynamic between us. “An old friend.”

Baggs walked over with a big grin on his face. “Your elephants will use this as a soccer ball! Von Scheffel would approve. But watch out for Biggles. He's likely to take offense at anything made in Germany.” He looked at his watch again. “Hippo Lodge has a nice lady's rump on their lunch special. Assume that's where you're staying?”

“No, Susuwe, actually.”

“Susuwe! Heart of darkness out there. I'll give the manager at Hippo a ring. Far more suitable to sup at the swollen teat of the Zambezi. Lush lawns, guinea fowl at your feet, beautiful. All the foreign aid folks stay there.”

“No, really, thank you, but Susuwe will be fine. Closer to the elephants.”

Baggs squinted. “I'll speak to the guys at WIA. See what we can do. And remember. Don't get your hopes up….God's country is full of broken dreams.” He got into his diesel 4x4 truck and drove off in a dusty plume.