White Bone (4 page)

G
uuleed’s lanky frame belied his ferocity. Not only did he possess physical strength, he had the mental fortitude it took to lead a roughshod band of wannabe bandits. He naturally spoke in a growl, the result of years of Turkish cigarettes, hollering orders and a general indifference to others.

He flicked ash out of where there had once been a car door.

The camp consisted of six tents, the largest of which served as the mess. They were tucked side by side along the fever tree–lined banks of a stream of muddy water. It could be easily forded in the trucks. The idea was to present the image of a safari camp, since they did business as one. They ordered supplies, bought fuel and water under the company name. With over four hundred safari operators in Kenya, no one could track them all.

Guuleed’s company not only served his poaching needs but served to launder money by inventing twenty to thirty paying guests each night and reporting much of the phantom income.

“The ambush wasn’t coincidence,” he told Rambu, his first lieutenant. The two men occupied the front seat of a battered Land Cruiser riddled with bullet holes along its right side. The gas tank had been patched with fiberglass earlier in the day. The vehicle reeked of the fumes. As the sun pushed for the horizon, bugs of all kinds took flight. The threat of malaria flew with them.

Rambu, a brute of a man with near purple skin and a face that had seen too much sun, did not speak. His droopy eyes gave him the look of a young Sylvester Stallone, which accounted for his mispronounced nickname. He knew better than to question Guuleed. His boss had been in a bilious mood of late.

They stood out of the shade, in the direct sunlight, where the insects weren’t quite as plentiful. Rambu’s acne-scarred face, wide shoulders and massive thighs had helped him earn his position as Guuleed’s pit bull, when in fact he was more kind-hearted than his men knew.

“Find me a traitor. Doesn’t matter who. You pick.” Guuleed intended to send a message to his men about loyalty and leaking information to Koigi and his rangers. His only real concern had little to do with poaching or his men, or even loyalty. His beautiful wife and their six children had been made bargaining chips. “Xin Ha is holding me responsible for the closing of the health clinic.”

“Clear down in Oloitokitok? You? Responsible, how?”

“It’s believed I overlooked a warning. Completely false. I believe it’s because we were sloppy killing Faaruq and the others. They died in the same manner. That will cost us. The clinic’s closing hurt Xin Ha mightily. He lost money; he lost an important piece of cover for the exports. You tell the men any of this, I’ll cut your tongue out.”

“Yes, boss.”

“If I do not fix this, my family will be killed.”

“Animals! The fucking Chinese!”

“I need tusks, a shitload of tusks. And I need them now. No more traitors shortchanging me. Things are going to get bad. Handle it.”

Guuleed climbed into the Land Cruiser and watched in the cracked mirror as Rambu called four others to his side and spoke in confidence. Together, these five men singled out a young man named Jakmar and dragged him backward, kicking and screaming. He was stabbed deeply in both thighs, his wrists and ankles bound, his tied hands looped over the tow ball of a Jeep. Rambu and another man dragged him out of camp behind the vehicle, his cries carrying for a full minute until fading to a faint whine that matched the buzz of the insects. He would be dumped, bleeding, a few kilometers away. Stripped to bone by morning. The bush was not a place to be alone at night.

Guuleed looked on with indifference. One did what one had to do. He had liked Jakmar, felt badly that fate should deal the man such a hand.

The others had turned their backs following the first glint of a knife. They pretended not to hear the man’s pleas, his proclamation of innocence. One of them, Guuleed thought, knew he should have been the one killed, unless Rambu had made a lucky guess. One of them would not sleep well tonight, or the next. Within two to three days the real traitor would reveal himself in this way, and then he, too, would meet a similar fate.

Guuleed unclipped the cumbersome satellite phone as it rang.
CALLER UNKNOWN
was displayed on the screen. Not to Guuleed.

“Big Five Safaris,” he said, speaking English with difficulty.

He was told an American had been added last minute to Eastland Safari’s private list and was scheduled to arrive on an eleven
P.M.
flight from Berlin. The arrangement had come from England, just
like the whore’s. The parallel was uncanny and could not be taken as coincidence. Such information was expensive and could always be trusted.

Ending the call, awaiting Rambu’s return, Guuleed smoked a cigarette and cursed. If he’d buried Faaruq instead of trying to send a message, none of this would be happening. He had only himself to blame. He thought of home, fought the fear that he would soon receive a package containing his child’s hand or foot—or worse.

He needed a good kill, at least ten kilos of ivory; half that of rhino horn would do, though rhino hunting was a much more difficult and risky operation. A good deal of bribery and perfect timing would be required to nail two on the same night.

The tobacco heightened his impatience and tested his already sour mood. His men were locals, mostly poor and desperate to feed their families. A few were simply greedy. Collectively they were bad shots, slow learners and big dreamers. The worst. But Guuleed worked with them daily to improve their skills.

His impatience turned into a kind of hot tar that ran through him as deep-seated anger. Give him a posse of well-trained Somalis and bagging a couple of elephants would be child’s play. That would get Xin Ha off his back. As it was, he had to deal with the blood-hungry Koigi, who had well-trained men . . . and a cause. Fucking causes could kill you.

Rambu returned, looking feverish. “It’s done.”

“I must take a meeting with Xin. The balls on that one! You will come with me to Nairobi and speak to our man in the one-four.”

“The senior sergeant?” Rambu sounded doubtful. “Is that wise?”

“There’s an American coming in. I told you it was getting bad. We need him gone. It can’t attract attention. The sergeant will help us. You’ll see to it.” Guuleed didn’t hold subordinates by the hand, but by the scruff of the neck. Rambu had to step up. “You, me and
two you trust. Our best shots. Two vehicles. I will make the call and confirm we’re on our way.” He squeezed the satellite phone tightly in his hand. “Keep watch for the real traitor. He will expose himself before midday tomorrow.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Take care of it the moment you know. Something the others won’t forget.”

Guuleed praised Allah, and Rambu did so along with him. Guuleed could smell something on the wind. The dead man’s blood.

K
nox took Nairobi’s dismal airport as a harbinger of what was to come. Immigration control looked like a row of tollbooths with hand-painted signs for
RESIDENTS
and
NONRESIDENTS
. Baggage claim was a low-ceilinged space with a poured concrete floor and two rusted, noisy luggage conveyors. A pair of plywood booths at the far end advertised
LOS
T LUGGAGE
and
VISITOR IN
FORMATION
. He saw lines at both.

Knox hadn’t checked a bag. He walked past bone-weary tourists recovering from the nine-hour flight who stood now, waiting for bags. Knox hated waiting. Hated misplacing things, not for the fool it made him feel like but for the time wasted in trying to find them again. Put it back where it belongs and it’s there the next time. If he ever had kids, he intended to tell them that.

He intended to spend time in the backyard with them, too. To read to them before bed and make sure they ate as a family every
night. Music. Movies. A love and respect for all things living. A garden, maybe. A lawn for sure.

I find in my heart both something missing and something fulfilling.
Grace’s words, not his.

He thought about her then, imagined where she was at this moment. Held in a room? The back of a van? He hoped she’d gone to ground. Situations changed abruptly in the field. A broken phone wouldn’t explain forty-eight hours of radio silence, but maybe she’d worked her way into an inner circle of Winston’s enemies and didn’t dare risk communication. Maybe she was traveling with people suspicious of her. Maybe her phone had been confiscated.

Grace had good instincts and tremendous nerve. More nerve than brains, which worried him, given how smart she was. He wanted, needed, her back.

“Here’s the deal. My brother is the most important person in my life.” His words, not hers.

“Mister!” A tug on Knox’s jacket. “Did you check a bag?” A boy who looked no older than twelve. Boot-black skin. Leviathan eyes. A face adorable enough to win tips, but deceptively ageless. Twelve, fourteen, going on twenty. He topped out halfway between Knox’s navel and collarbone.

Knox kept walking, never breaking stride.

The kid wore an oversized orange vest with reflective stripes on the side. Rubber flip-flops clapped the concrete. A piece of string bunched his shorts at the hips.

“This way,” the boy said, tugging on Knox’s wrist.

Knox flicked him off. “Don’t touch!”

The boy held up his hands. It was all part of the act.
I mean no harm—poor innocent me! I want only to pick your pocket and leave with your wallet
. Knox knew the boy’s cousin in Tunisia, his second cousin in Amman. Take a number.

“Other green line is here,” the boy said, indicating a guarded doorway to their left that had no line. Overlapping safari posters and hotel advertisements served as wallpaper, occupying all available wall space. Knox was familiar with third-world rules, could play by them most of the time. Now he regretted not speaking Swahili.

The busy green exit—
NOTHING TO DECLARE
—lay straight ahead. Arriving passengers were being checked, their carry-ons searched, despite the green. Knox had nothing to fear from an inspection, but for him waiting in line was right up there with misplacing things. More time wasted.

“He’s a friend of mine,” the boy told Knox, pointing to a uniformed man, off on his own, guarding another exit from the terminal.

“Is that right?”

“His second wife’s son and I go to Sunday school together.”

“Sure you do. And you’re both in AP Chemistry.”

“Please?”

“You’re saying he’ll let me through?” Grace would handle a kid like this better, he thought. She knew how to say no and mean it.

The boy reached for Knox, reconsidered and, instead, waved him ahead and to his left. “Think about it. How do I get a tip if I make trouble for you, mister? That’s not good business.”

Knox laughed and turned some heads. Knox didn’t do many things small. “A tip, is it?”

The kid signaled to the uniformed meathead. The guard opened the gates for Knox. Knox passed through without incident.

“Eastland Safari. This is correct?”

“Excuse me?” Knox grabbed the kid by the arm, spinning him. He’d misjudged the boy’s weight. He turned him hard. Some heads turned. Knox released the boy. “Go away! We’re done here.”

“Through there. An Eastland driver is waiting, holding a sign
with your name.” The boy pointed to a frequent-flyer tag on Knox’s overnighter that identified him by name.

“What?” Knox said, taking a moment to process that the boy was thinking two steps ahead.

“You want my help, or you want me to leave?” the boy said.

Knox laughed quietly. “You can go now. Thank you.”

“Maybe you need a guide in Nairobi. A driver. A woman.”

“Maybe you should be in school.”

“I’m Bishoppe.” He pointed again to the man holding a folded newspaper with Knox’s name written in marker across it.

Knox scanned the crowd. Eyes came at him from everywhere. He was entering a country where he was a different color and bigger than the average. People noticed. Knox was used to it. He’d learned to distinguish quickly between random curiosity and pointed interest.

Now he singled out two men in particular who were working hard to ignore him. Fished two U.S. dollars from his pocket. “Sorry, no shillings yet.”

“Dollars. Euros. Shillings. No problem, mister. You need to change to shillings? I can get you the best rate!”

Smirking, Knox handed the boy the money, feeling two dollars was too much, yet somehow not enough.

“Welcome to Kenya, Mr. Knox. Please, enjoy your stay.”

“Bishoppe,” he caught him by the arm, this time far more gently. “Tell me, is there a car park outside?”

“Of course.”

“A taxi stand?”

“To the right, sir. But you already have a driver.”

Knox pulled out another five dollars. He didn’t like the looks of the two men keeping tabs on him. Belatedly, he snapped off the frequent-flyer tag. His brother, Tommy, must have strapped it on.
Answering a sign with his name on it wasn’t the best course of action, he thought. Maybe Winston had failed to call off British Intelligence; maybe in Kenya guys like this just stood around waiting for guys like him.

“Tell a taxi to pull around to the far side of the car park. The driver is to wait five minutes. If I don’t show, he can keep the five dollars.” He gave Bishoppe an additional two dollars for his trouble. It disappeared into a pocket. Knox studied the kid, liking him. “Don’t run off with the money. Don’t burn me on this.”

Knox walked past his driver. He and Bishoppe split as they started out of the building. One of the two men interested in him followed Knox. Another got on the phone, his back turned.

Outside, drivers for hire, hucksters and families waited on a concrete road divider. They wore Western dress—the men, business informal; the youngsters, jeans; the women, dresses and skirts. A mood of excited anticipation hung in the warm air.

Knox coughed against the blue exhaust that snorted from tailpipes. The roar of jets taking off covered the sounds of vehicles. The people in conversation were like actors in a silent movie. Cigarette smoke spiraled from pursed lips; the clouds hid eyes bloodshot with fatigue.

A few lights shone from high atop concrete poles, spreading a canary glow across rows of late-model vehicles crushed together in an overcrowded parking lot. The driver holding his name in his hands called out curiously, “Mr. Knox?”

Again, Knox cursed his height and skin color. The driver caught up and asked for a second time. He was small, late forties, with graying hair at his temples. He wore gray slacks and a white shirt that had started the day pressed. Knox told him to keep moving and to keep up.

“You drive for Eastland?” Knox said, naming the safari company Winston was using as a liaison.

“Ten years.”

“Did you drive the Chinese woman?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Her hotel?”

“I am to take you to the guesthouse, not the Sarova Stanley.”

“You will do exactly that,” Knox said. “Open the boot like you’re putting my bag inside, but drop it and kick it aside. Then get behind the wheel and drive to the guesthouse.”

“I drive you.”

“Not exactly. You will drive, but I won’t be with you.”

The man trailing him had been stopped by traffic from crossing the access road. This was no longer just curiosity. He was being followed. He assessed his surroundings. There were two service vans in the lot. Both were tall enough to conceal a crouching Knox.

He spotted Bishoppe talking heatedly to a taxi driver across the busy one-way service road. Could he trust this kid? Over the years of buying and selling in third-world countries, he’d dealt with hundreds of such boys. A nickel for a favor; a dollar for a treat; they’d pick your pocket or steal your bag if given the chance.

“You would like me to call in?” The driver pulled his flip phone from his pocket. “You wish to speak to Tina?”

“Do this just as you would any pickup,” Knox said, reaching into his pocket. “Tell me which is your car. No pointing please.”

The man described a silver hatchback.

“No need for that, sir!” Offended by Knox’s reaching for a tip.

“I’m being watched. Two men, maybe more. One on the phone. They picked me out as I approached you at arrivals.”

“You stand quite tall. Police have many questions these days.
Many eyes here at the airport. Troubling times, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“The bombings,” Knox said.

“Exactly. Nairobi is most dangerous at night, Mr. Knox. For you, very dangerous.”

“The trunk. Leave my bag. Then drive out of the car park and off to the guesthouse. If they follow you, would they normally see me get out upon arrival?”

“No. There is a gate. A guard. I will drive inside.”

“Excellent. Please thank the Barr-Latners for their generosity. I will contact them in the morning.” Winston had arranged the husband-and-wife safari guiding service to look after him; Knox had not expected to be a guest in their home.

“My card.” The driver passed it to Knox surreptitiously. “You may call at any hour.”

They went through the ritual of pretending to put the bag into the back. Knox walked to the far side, kicking his bag farther afield. He opened the door, ducked and closed the door as if he’d gotten in. Then, bag in hand, he slipped behind the adjacent van and began to move, his heart racing. He stayed low and reached the second van, remained in the crouch as he hurried out the far side of the parking lot.

The taxi was waiting. Knox tossed his bag and followed it inside.

“The Sarova Stanley plea—”

His satchel lay firmly in the grasp of Bishoppe, who smiled broadly back at him. Bishoppe rattled off a series of directions to the driver in Swahili. Turning to Knox, he spoke, grinning. “We will avoid the highway. Traffic into the city is very bad this time of night. Too many trucks.” The boy shouted something more to the driver in Swahili. The taxi charged off.

Knox leaned back and stole a look into the parking lot. The hired
car had pulled up to the exit gate. He’d lost sight of the two men. But the pang of nerves remained, as did more questions than he could answer.

“National Police,” the boy said. “The two men.”

Impressed, Knox nonetheless didn’t speak.

“You are a criminal?”

“Far from it.”

“Police?”

“You weren’t invited. Here. The taxi.”

“I did you a favor. Why are National Police waiting for you?”

“They weren’t. Mind your own business.”

“I think maybe you are my business.”

Knox suppressed a grin and turned toward the window.

The overcrowded, narrow roads were in a state of decay. Axle-wreckers. It was nearing midnight, yet a seemingly endless migration of people on foot filled either side of every road, the men in dark trousers and T-shirts, the women in skirts and colorful tops. Backpacks. Purses.

Knox asked the kid about the boxy vans that outnumbered all other vehicles. Called
matatus
, they were commuter buses packed with fifteen to twenty in a seating arrangement meant for nine.

Day-Glo-vested motorcyclists serving as single-passenger taxis weaved through the slow-moving traffic. Where traffic in Shanghai had struck Knox as choreographed, Nairobi felt more like a slugfest. Why couldn’t Winston have donated money to a clinic in San Diego?

The roads lacked streetlamps, were lit only by vehicles and the glow from billboards and shop signs along the route. Their taxi driver took back streets as he and the boy argued, his eyes periodically finding Knox in the rearview mirror.

Downtown Nairobi still retained some of its British colonial
character, the art of marrying landscape to architecture. Almost every city block offered a stark contrast between poverty and affluence, a confused, schizophrenic identity.

The taxi pulled to the curb. A bellman opened Knox’s door and welcomed him. The air smelled better here. Knox was about to pay the driver when Bishoppe snatched the cash from his hand, snapped off a ten-dollar bill and handed it to the driver, who argued loudly. The boy returned the rest of Knox’s cash with a huff, saying the driver was a greedy thief.