White Bone (19 page)

Knox thanked him. The bike’s front fender had rusted off, along with the brake wire. It had once been three gears; now it was stuck in the lowest. Knox climbed on, the tires squishy under his weight.

“The bell works,” the boy said. Knox one-handed the handle bar and lifted his arm to thank the boy.

G
race woke to the view of a cat’s paw the size of a bread plate. She blinked rapidly, realizing the chill covering her body had nothing to do with hiding in shadow.

Something intangible had brought her out of her sleep. She awakened sick to her stomach, dizzy and finding it hard to breathe.

The lion paw—a front paw—was pressed at an angle against a rock visible through a slice of space formed by her two protective boulders. The giant paw had wisps of feathery auburn hair on its pastern and rising toward its elbow. Grace could have pushed her hand through the crack to touch it.

The cat stood directly over her, sniffing. It was a glorious creature, awkwardly lanky and thin but clean, strong and stealthily silent. Only the faint clicking and scratching of nails to her left suggested a second cat, an inference confirmed only a moment later as it slinked past the wider gap through which she’d come. This bigger cat swung its head across the entry, whiskers twitching, but never gave Grace a
second thought. She closed her eyes in appreciation—and reopened them as she heard one of the two urinating. It sounded as if someone had turned on a faucet.

Eye to the crack between stones, she watched as both cats gracefully slipped down the rocks off the plateau and sauntered toward the dry wash. They were rangy and scruffy, with paws that didn’t seem to fit their tall bodies.
Juveniles,
she thought. A pair of one-year-olds out in the wild, fending for themselves.

The snakebite no longer stung, but itched like mad. She willed herself not to scratch it. Quietly, carefully, Grace squeezed out into the daylight and, keeping low, moved to the rocks wet with cat urine. Her ankle was tight and sore but functional. She rubbed her hand along the wet rock and transferred what she could to her arms and stomach. Just below, a smooth bowl in one of the pockmarked boulders had caught a few ounces. It was horrid-smelling, but she used it sparingly, like the most expensive perfume: under her arms, between her legs, down her ribs, onto the base of her neck. It turned the dried dung and mud dark and damp, its odor stinging her eyes and testing the strength of her stomach. The stench gave her good reason to be grateful she hadn’t eaten.

Turning to retreat to safety, she was stopped by the distant sound of a motor.
Airplane or vehicle,
she wondered, and was amazed anew by how finely tuned her hearing had become. Her sense of smell and vision, too. She felt as if she’d taken a drug to enhance her senses; everything had come so alive, from the buzz of an insect to scents of all kinds carried on the wind. She knew at once that she was hearing a vehicle, traveling toward her from a great distance.

H
aving walked the bike as much as ridden it, Knox arrived at the crumbling village two kilometers from Solio Ranch amid stares and smiles. He felt like the tall man in a carnival act.

The streets were caked with dried mud, the block buildings suffering from leprosy, the women colorful and busy, and the men crouched, smoking, chewing
khat
and looking bored. Knox left the bike behind the red building, moving fast, well aware that the police might have already alerted the village to the reward for his capture.

He identified what he hated at this moment—the loss of control. He ran his import/export business as a one-man show, with Tommy tangentially involved; his jobs for Rutherford Risk had struck a balance between him and Grace that he’d come to rely upon. Without her, with strangers like Benson and the quick-thinking Olé determining his fate, Knox was well out of his comfort zone.

He hid himself between two head-high piles of trash and debris at the muddy end of a lane. Despite the stench, two wayward dogs and the sight of an animal carcass covered in maggots, he attracted a group of ten to twelve kids. They stood a few yards away, smiling at him. They weren’t begging, just curious, amused and abundantly entertained by this tall white stranger.

Knox tried to ignore them, to focus. With the KGA patrolling the reserve, returning to Solio Lodge was out. Public transportation under any alias was out, too. Grace’s “first forty-eight” had slipped past.

His phone buzzed. A text from Dulwich.

Enough time passed that he thought he’d lost Dulwich. But then his phone buzzed again.

Knox grinned, standing by himself, a dozen small black kids staring up at him. The financial high-rise dominated the Pudong skyline, its top stories looking like a giant bottle opener.

Knox wondered how that information would strike Dulwich.

Knox consulted his phone’s map.

The exchange with Dulwich put him in a better frame of mind. Going on seven
A.M.
in Detroit, he called Tommy, apologized for missing the past two days and listened to his brother’s excitement over a supermarket job he’d gotten recently, bagging groceries.
Twenty-six years old, going on fourteen,
Knox thought, but smiled again, proud of Tommy’s sense of engagement and independence. The call ended with both brothers the better for it, a rarity.

To Knox’s surprise, the same young herdsman who’d loaned
him the bike rounded the corner an hour later. Knox’s youthful audience had not given up on him, sitting cross-legged in a semicircle ten feet away, as if Knox were reading to them.

“You come with me,” the young herdsman instructed.

“Where?”

“Benson. You understand?”

“Why didn’t he come himself?”

“It is not safe here. Not safe in Solio. You understand?”

“Come with you to where?” Knox repeated.

“My cousin is to drive you.”

“To Nakuru. I need to reach Nakuru by nightfall.” Knox’s patience had long since expired.

“Not possible. Police on roads look for you. You understand? My cousin, he . . .” The boy searched for a word. “Left you.”

“He’ll leave me? Where? No, he won’t. Nakuru.”

The boy shook his head. “The ranger make the plan.”

“Benson.”

“Just so. Good man. You must trust the ranger.”

The boy was right, but Knox didn’t like it.

“The wildlife rangers, the police, will come here soon, I am afraid. They wish to find you.”

“Nakuru,” Knox repeated, knowing the answer.

The boy shook his head. “Police on the roads.”

“So why would I get into a vehicle with your cousin?”

The boy appeared delighted. “Yes, exactly!”

Knox struggled to contain his temper. “Where is he taking me?”

“If you wish to walk,” the boy said, repossessing his bicycle, “it is your decision. You tell my cousin when he comes here.”

G
race considered the approaching SUV from two opposite motives: a search-and-rescue effort . . . or a search for her dead body.

Her head ached, her wrist continued to itch. She pulled a piece of aloe from her sack and chewed. She hadn’t anticipated indecision; didn’t know herself in this state. Her former plans to stay put and observe from her perch struck her as unreasonable. If she ran out in the direction of the vehicle, waving and shouting, she might be inviting her own execution. If she did nothing, she might never have such a chance again.

Forced to consider the vehicle hostile, she decided that the closer she could get to the abandoned Jeep, the better chance she had of staging an ambush. With the lions somewhere in the wash, she kept against the sharp edge of the outcropping that formed the plateau. She hurried, hunched over and limping slightly as she favored her ankle.

Run. Stop. The ankle warmed; stiff, but no longer painful. She studied the wash, looking for the lions. From where she stood, she could not see down into most of the dry wash, so any animal within could—hopefully—not see her.

Run. Stop. The vehicle seemed to be moving closer, though sounds in the bush could trick you.

Run. Stop. Search. Appraise. The listing Jeep was farther away than she’d estimated. That, or her legs were moving far more slowly than she thought. With each short, limping sprint and the pumping of her arms, her snakebite hurt more. The ankle, in contrast, felt a bit better.

All of a sudden, it was clear to her that the vehicle was headed toward the abandoned Jeep. Toward her.

Another fifty meters and she felt her balance failing. Her lungs weren’t providing enough air. She didn’t need to compute distance to come to grips with the obvious: the vehicle was going to reach the Jeep well before she could. Yet another choice—up into the rocks or down into the dry wash? If she was spotted unintentionally, escape from the rocks would be difficult; she’d make an easy target for a rifle. The dry wash, a labyrinth of gullies weaving between a lattice of sand islands of varying sizes and shapes, would provide far more cover.

If she could only look past the lions.

This internal dialogue took no more than a second or two. Her legs moved toward the dry wash and, as she caught sight of the SUV from the side, she dropped and rolled, spear in hand, down a sand-and-rock incline, coming to rest in a pile of bleached bone.

Grace slithered across the dry riverbed to the cut wall of one of the many rock islands and tucked into the slanting shade. Her mud-covered body blended in well; only her black hair gave her away, and even then only while moving. Holding still, she became a camouflaged chameleon.

Following the raised bed’s uneven line, she crept forward, hoping for a view of the vehicle. But the wash was several hundred meters wide by a half-kilometer long, the space cut by a maze of channels. Faced with a dozen possible routes around and through, Grace chose central corridors, the deeper and more steeply eroded paths. She found a rhythm of run-and-pause, her heart thumping, legs weak, spear at the ready.

For her breaks, she threw her bare back to the dirt wall, lessening her profile and providing her with a 180-degree view in both directions. Reaching the end of each small island, she took extra care before crossing the more open areas.

The rumble of the slow-moving SUV continued. A matter of minutes now.

Grace hurried, pressing on with more determination, abandoning the shady side for the more direct, sunlit bank. Halfway along this island, she froze.

Directly across from her, hunkered down in the shade, was one of the two lions. The other was on her side, lying behind a large rock. Both were looking straight at her.

T
he rattletrap Japanese pickup dropped Knox off on a dirt road in a sea of low, dry grass. Mount Kenya loomed in the distance, a majestic backdrop.

A cool wind lifted Knox’s collar, its corners flapping like flags against his neck. The air smelled of grass and dirt and the inescapable sense of primordial history underfoot. Perfectly spaced cumulus clouds marched across the horizon, occupying the rich blue sky; a bird of prey soared effortlessly, wings set.

As instructed by the driver, Knox called the phone number provided. It took only seconds to identify the voice that answered as that of Sergeant Kanika Alkinyi.

“It’s me.”

“Stay where you are.” The call disconnected.

Despite this warning, after ten minutes, Knox began to walk in small circles, up and down the road. Of everything he abhorred—incompetence, political correctness, making excuses—being made
to wait cut the deepest. He was nearly coming out of his skin by the time the first tendril of dust coiled in the distance. When a second rooster tail appeared behind the first, Knox considered running. Instead, he hid his private SIM chip in the hidden pocket on his briefs, held the roll of quarters in his right fist and waited.

The trucks were safari green, and equipped with a snorkel, front winch and bull bar. Not the Chinese models used by the KGA, but not the kind of open safari truck driven by Olé, either. Flooded by a sickening chill, Knox saw uniforms behind the windshields and realized that first instincts were almost always correct: he never should have trusted the herdsman.

The soldiers—if that’s what they were—had been well trained. One truck slowed to a stop; the second skidded through the grass and blocked the road in the other direction. Two uniforms jumped out of each, automatic rifles in their hands. They established positions that covered Knox while not putting each other into the shot.

When they shouted for him to lie down, arms and legs outstretched, he had no choice but to comply. It was senseless to resist. Better to play along and look for a later opening.

Two men patted him down. They took his jacket. A sack was pulled over his head; they strapped his wrists behind his back with cable ties, pulled him to his feet and pushed him in the direction of the vehicles. Blinded, Knox thought of poor Samuelson. Faaruq. He thought of Grace, too, hoping beyond hope that she had not been put through this same ordeal, that the stunning view of wide-open space had not been the last thing she’d seen.

The drive was long, in a direction away from Nanyuki. The road turned rough after twenty minutes and required several stretches of slow travel, suggesting a remote destination.

This was confirmed when he was led from the vehicle and the hood lifted. Knox found himself in a heavily wooded area that gave
no view of the outside landscape. Nor would it be easily spotted from aircraft. He counted seven tents, one of the two largest used as a garage, a curious use that told him secrecy was a top priority—nothing glinting or mechanical to be spotted from above. The camp was well worn and had been in place for weeks if not months. Paths cut between the tents suggested the other oversized structure was a mess hall. He counted eleven soldiers, guessed occupancy at over twenty.

As a whole, they were big men with unforgiving, distrustful faces, and the physical confidence of seasoned veterans; their boots alone told Knox they’d been in service for years. Never mind the scars, the mended uniforms, the faded camouflage of the tents, and the full maintenance shop in the right bay of the garage.

The moment Knox saw the broad-shouldered man emerge from the mess tent he knew it was Koigi. He looked to be in his late forties. His war-weary face revealed a man both thoughtful and distrusting. He had the confidence and forbearance of a giant sequoia.

Knox pushed away the bit of awe he felt. He didn’t believe in living legends, yet that belief was being tested. This man was maverick, savior and cult hero in one. He appraised Knox without a hint of kindness.

“I met her only briefly. I owe her and you nothing. You have five minutes.”

“I have as long as it takes,” Knox said. “I’ve come a long way.”

“Take him back,” Koigi said, turning away.

Knox called out. “We’re twenty-five kilometers north-northwest from where you picked me up. We gained two hundred meters in elevation and crossed two streams, the first thirty meters in width. We entered dense forest three kilometers prior to arriving in camp. You have a dozen or more men, thousands of rounds of ammunition and you resupply with the white Chevy pickup truck. Your
men went through my hotel room in Nanyuki, searched my bag. Did a piss-poor job of it, I might add. I obviously passed muster or I wouldn’t be here. So let’s stop playing, you and I.”

Koigi spun around, pivoting on the ball of his right foot like a military man. He walked forward, slowly. “How could you know of the ammunition?”

“The final tent is well off on its own. If it was a latrine or a kitchen tent, I’d smell it—and it wouldn’t require two sizable fire extinguishers outside, one on each corner.”

Koigi looked in the direction of the tent under discussion. Then he nodded. “I’m impressed, Mr. Knox. You’ve earned your extra time.”

He extended his hand and they shook, Koigi’s skin as rough against Knox’s palm as a cat’s tongue.

“If you are indeed an import/export man, as I’m told, then is it arms?”

“It’s trinkets, souvenirs, the occasional piece of art. We all have our pasts.”

“And futures, if we’re blessed.”

“Amen.”

There was no offer of hospitality, or even a chair. This was going to be done standing on pine straw somewhere in the hills of Kenya, not far from a tent loaded with ordnance.

“Grace Chu,” Knox said.

“I didn’t know her name. As I said, hers was a short visit.”

The printout of the tattoo had seen better days. Knox unfolded it carefully and passed it to the big man—then startled as Koigi barked out two words that proved to be names.

Two of his rangers came running from the big tent. He rattled something off in Swahili. Both men tried to roll up their sleeves, then took their shirts off instead. Turning sideways to Knox, they
displayed their muscular arms, bearing nearly identical three-inch circular scars.
Like medallions,
Knox thought. The background scar upon which the tattoo in the printout had been written. Bishoppe had mentioned a burn; Knox chided himself for having missed the cause. Grace’s interest had not been in the tattoo, but the scar upon which it had been drawn. Forest for the trees, he thought.

“Vaccination scars,” Knox stated.

“Yes! The Oloitokitok health clinic did this to my men,” Koigi said. “Tetanus. Measles? One of those. Four months ago.”

“Why were your men vaccinated there? It’s not close, is it?”

“It is a free clinic. We work closely with rangers there. We meet often to review our successes and failures. There are clinics in Nairobi, but we avoid Nairobi as much as possible. You understand?”

“Radicals? Insurgents? How could they use the same clinic?”

“The clinic services tens of thousands. Kenyans. Tanzanians. Any adult with an ID. All children. They serve people, not politics.”

“IDs?”

“Those of age. Yes. For proper record keeping. Justify their budgets, I imagine. What of it?”

“You told that to Grace. You showed these men to Grace?” Knox asked.

“Correct.”

“Her reaction?”

“She reached out to touch them. They are Muslim. It is not permitted.”

Knox nodded. It sounded like Grace. “She asked about this tattoo. I’m told it means ‘forever.’”

“It means ‘constant.’ But yes, she asked.”

“So this photo suggests that this man likely visited the same health clinic as your men.” Knox tried to pronounce it, but failed
miserably. “If he was killed as an act of betrayal, and left to be found as a warning to others, an example, then we can infer that he might possibly be one of Guuleed’s men.”

“You impress me again. What do you know of Guuleed?”

“Nothing, really.”

“He is vermin. A poacher of the worst kind. Automatic weapons. Wholesale slaughter.”

“How does he get the ivory out of the country?”

“If only we knew . . .” Koigi said. His forearms and cheeks showed raised black scars of all sizes and shapes, like a man who’d once climbed through barbed wire. “Mombasa, certainly. There have been arrests and seizures there. Also, overland through Tanzania, we believe.”

“If Grace had found proof the Oloitokitok Clinic was connected to the export of the poached ivory, would that surprise you?”

“Little if anything surprises me, Mr. Knox. But the information interests me, of course. I would very much like to see such evidence.”

“A company called Asian Container Consolidated manipulated a batch of vaccine.”

“Xin Ha”—the large man nodded—“has been long suspected of controlling the export of the ivory. He has a partner in Guuleed. The clinic is closed now, was never associated with the poaching. It served many thousands for years. Without concrete proof . . .”

“I may have the proof. If I could get to a computer . . .”

Koigi appraised him thoughtfully. “I will not put a total stranger onto the Internet, Mr. Knox.”

“No Internet. Just a computer. I can supply you with all the financials Grace uncovered.”

Koigi was clearly tempted. He excused himself and made a call on a satellite phone some distance away. Several long minutes
passed. Then Koigi approached Knox and handed him the heavy phone. Knox looked at it, puzzled.

“It is a secure line,” Koigi said, “but no names, please.”

“Go ahead,” Knox spoke into the phone.

“My friend tells me you have financials.” It was the voice of Graham Winston.