Danger Woman (21 page)

Chapter Forty-two

Later, when Modise had time to work his way through the events of that night, he would wonder at how such a violent ending had evolved from his original and simple plan to spy on and then deport Lenka and his people. Perhaps it would have been clearer if he had been raised in the plains of the United States where thunderstorms can, if the conditions are right, turn into deadly tornados which will tear a path of destruction and devastation over miles of land and threaten every living thing in their way. Or, if he had lived close to the sea where the convergence of certain otherwise benign barometrics can produce the “perfect storm” that will race across miles of sea, sinking ships and even reordering the very nature of the ocean ecosystem. How was he to know that the presence of a dangerous woman in the person of Irena Davidova, the stubbornness of an American entrepreneur, the unpredictability of a wounded and betrayed hired killer, the fearlessness of an otherwise ordinary game ranger, and the heartlessness of the Bratva culture would all collide and create so much havoc in a few hectic hours on an otherwise ordinary night on the Chobe River?

It should be noted that neither he nor any of the players in the drama had any idea any of this would happen. Each, in his own orbit, moved into the arena wholly ignorant of the presence of the others. None had even an inkling of what happened elsewhere and only in the humid half light of dawn did any of them realize what had or had not occurred and their respective roles in it. Modise could only thank God that the forces of evil had been turned on themselves and the people he admired, indeed one that he loved, had survived and his precious Chobe had been cleansed. How his boss would see it was anyone's guess.

Cszepanski would be the only one who might have predicted the chaos and, when it was confirmed that someone answering to the description of Alexei Grelnikov had crossed the border from Zambia into Botswana, he knew that trouble, serious trouble, headed his way. He called Lenka to warn him. The warning ended in Lenka's voice mail. He could guess why—Irena was ministering to her baby. He left a message—and jumped into the truck which he'd kept parked outside the warehouse for just this moment. He drove as fast as he dared south to Francistown where he left the truck in the airport parking lot. Later, he would book a series of flights northward, hopping from one out-of-the-way regional airport to another and finally all the way back to Zagreb where he would disappear into the shadows of the Balkan underworld from whence he'd come.

A Lenka warned was not a Lenka prepared. Relatively refreshed and newly showered he retrieved Cszepaski's message. Irena had already left to reconnoiter the casino. Her plan, she'd said when she left, would be to snatch Modise's woman and use her to force the policeman to come to terms. The time had come to reply to them, she'd said. How much her absence played a role in what happened next cannot be determined. At any rate, without Irena's presence to moderate his subsequent actions, Lenka slipped off the rails. He grabbed two large automatics, charged out of the lodge, and headed for the warehouse. He would show them how it was done in St. Petersburg. He would take on Gur himself if it turned out that it was he who'd crossed the border. He would also have something to settle with Cszepanski who must have betrayed him in the first place when he failed to follow orders and kill Grelnikov. The Boers would watch and learn an important lesson.

He braked in front of the warehouse in a shower of flying gravel. He cocked both pistols and headed toward the door. He kicked it open, gun raised, and stepped in. One of the Boers lay dead in a pool of his own blood. The second one cowered in a corner. Gur stood over him with a length of rusty and bloody rebar. He would have beaten the brains out of this Boer as well except he was interrupted when Lenka raised one of his pistols and fired at him.

The problem with high titers of adrenaline in one's blood stream is that it tends to make your hand less steady and your actions more impetuous. If he wished to kill a man with the reputation and the size of Gur, Lenka should have known that he would have to aim very carefully and at a vital spot—someplace that would cause him to drop in his tracks. A bullet to the brain, for example, would do the trick or a well placed shot to the pubic bone which would shatter his pelvis and cause him to collapse like faulty scaffolding. A miss would be bad. But the absolute last thing he wanted to do was wound his target. That is what he did. The grazing flesh wound only stoked Gur's rage. He charged Lenka like a maddened water buffalo. Lenka never got off a second shot.

Gur had him by the throat and within a half second was shaking the life out of him. Pistols clattered across the room. Lenka clawed at Gur's face and gasped for air. With one final wrench, Gur broke his neck and flung him across the room where he landed in a crumpled heap more nearly resembling a pile of dirty laundry than the leader of a fearful Bratva organization. Gur stood, hands on hips, his breathing ragged, and watched the life wink out in Lenka's eyes. Then, he picked up one of the discarded pistols, spun, and shot the second Boer in the back of his head as he attempted to crawl out the door.

***

Irena had managed to corral Sanderson as she left her office at the Game Park. Sanderson was about to say something until she saw the shiny automatic in the Russian's hand accompanied by a flinty look in her eyes. Instead, she did as the woman demanded while wondering at her own apparent lack of fear. Perhaps it was the result of facing down truly fierce predators as part of her almost daily routine. Against a hungry circling lion or a pack of hyenas, this woman was pretty small potatoes. That was when she remembered what, or more accurately, who, this woman reminded her of: Kotsi Mosadi! This Russian woman was a hyena. But where
Kotsi Mosadi's
viciousness was innate and expected, this bad woman had acquired it as an alternative to a life lived in the light. Sanderson would mourn the death of Kotsi Mosadi
.
She would not shed any tears for this one. So, she thought, if the lioness could take down Danger Woman, she could take down this evil person. Modise had said she was a
tau
, didn't he? But how?

Irena forced Sanderson to drive her to the warehouse.

“We use your truck. No one will question you driving in a game ranger truck.”

Sanderson led her to the Land Rover which had still not had its doors replaced. She gritted her teeth remembering that she'd sent several reminders to the maintenance people to have them replaced on the machine and Michael said he would do it. She thought of her son and of his friend, Sekgele. Not friend, intended. She might never see either of them again. The thought made her sad and then angry. She would not let this evil woman win. She would survive this night. She smiled.

“Something is funny with you?”

“No, not funny. I'm sorry, Missus, but this is the only vehicle available. Be sure to buckle the seat belt.”

“You think I am stupid? Of course I buckle.”

They drove to the warehouse. As they approached it, they saw Gur lurch away into the night holding his side. Irena muttered something in Russian which Sanderson assumed was a curse. Several curses, in fact. Apparently the large man was not a welcome sight. She was made to drive right up to the door. Irena had her dismount and precede her into the front office. They took in the carnage, the two dead Boers and the grotesque shape that used to be Oleg Lenka in the corner. Irena gasped and then headed for the phone and banged in a number.

“Bart,” she shouted, “Do you know who is talking to you? Yes? Good. You have a pickup over here. When? Now, is when. You go to the river and do it now. Look for the signal in the usual place.”

Sanderson realized at that moment that all of the things Modise had told her about these gangsters were as bad as he'd said. These were very evil people. Irena, motioned for Sanderson to stand in a corner while she spun the dial and opened the safe. She grabbed everything in it, dollars, pula, rubles, papers, passports, and stuffed them all into a small duffel.

“Okay, game ranger woman, you are now driving me to the river. Through the park, to the river. Quick, you hear? Now move.”

Sanderson did as she was told. They entered the park and she started down the river road. After a minute or so, she began to accelerate. A little at first, then more so.

“Not so fast, you. Slow down.”

“It is best if we go fast, Missus. If we drive too slowly, the animals can run and catch us and you don't want that. See, we have no doors. A lion could drag you out. You know about that woman in South Africa.” Sanderson had the truck moving as fast as she dared. “Is your seat belt latched?”

“I say to slow down. Of course belt is latched. Slow down or I shoot.”

“No, I don't think you should do that. If you do that, we wreck. Then what?”

“Not shoot? We'll see.” Irena pulled the trigger and shot Sanderson in her left leg.

The truck swerved, skidded, and nearly tipped over. The pain was not as bad as she imagined it might be. Endorphins, she'd heard, would do that. Anyway, the pain would come later, she guessed. Right now, she was pumping epinephrine into her system at an alarming rate. She got the truck righted and back on the track. Once again she stamped on the accelerator. She knew Irena would not dare shoot her again. She'd nearly killed them both the first time. She hoped the bullet had not nicked an artery. If so, neither of them were going to see the river. As she approached the ridge, she braced herself against the seat back, gripped the steering wheel with both hands, arms locked. The next second, the truck lurched violently to the right. Irena was thrown against Sanderson and before she could grab anything, the truck lurched back to the left. Irena sailed out into the night. Her gun flew out of her hand and clattered to the truck's floor. The Land Rover bounced once, twice, slid sideways and continued down the track, but more slowly as its motor stalled.

Back up the track, Sanderson could hear Irena cursing at her. The darkness closed in and then she heard a scream of terror. Then silence. A second later the quiet was shattered by the angry roaring of lions fighting over a new kill. She held her breath. She knew a new lion kill might attract other predators. She heard nothing stirring in her immediate area. She retrieved the pistol from under the seat and placed it on the bench beside her. She attempted to restart the SUV's engine. She gritted her teeth and after the third try, she managed to get the motor running, the SUV in gear, and moving. Something had come detached from the underside of the truck. She followed a circuitous path away from the lions and back toward the park gate. Because her left leg had stopped responding to orders from her brain, she made the trip in low gear dragging whatever it was that had come undone from the chassis, and with Irena's pistol at the ready.

Chapter Forty-three

Gur was only vaguely aware of the car that drove up as he left the warehouse. His mind and footsteps were set on a course to find Greshenko, the second party to his earlier humiliation and betrayal. When he finished with him, he'd find that Harry person, the Davidova, and then he'd be done. He gasped for air. The exertion of manhandling Lenka had aggravated his wounds. The doctors had been right. His broken ribs had not knit sufficiently and tore at his lungs again. They, in turn, were filling with his blood. Not fast, but inexorably. He staggered down the road toward the casino. Greshenko would be there, he was sure of that. He would be there and he, Gur, would tear him apart. It was the promise he'd made to himself a week ago and one he fully intended to keep. Ten paces from the casino office door he bellowed Greshenko's name and followed it with a string of obscenities in Russian guaranteed to bring his enemy outdoors.

Greshenko did hear him and glanced out the window to see if he had heard correctly. He had. No one would ever call Greshenko a coward, not and live. Neither would they call him a fool and no one but a fool would face off with a maddened, and armed Grelnikov. Yuri slipped out a side door and headed toward the river. Someone…Lenka's stooge? Who knew? Someone called out that Greshenko was headed away. Gur broke into a staggering jog toward the voice.

“He is going to the river,” the voice said.

Gur saw the man pointing at the retreating figure of Greshenko. He paused and shot the man on the spot and then careened on his way.

Yuri made sure he stayed out of range of the man on his heels. He knew Gur did not want to shoot him. Not right away. He wanted to punish him first. Greshenko understood this. It was the Bratva way. He could also hear the labored breathing behind him and reckoned that if he could outlast his pursuer, Gur would soon drop. When that happened, he'd be able to incapacitate Gur once and for all. He drifted through the shadows and down to the riverbank. He could hear snorting off shore. A pod of hippos must be nearby. Greshenko paused. A bulky form heaved itself from the river and waddled inland as Gur crashed through the brush and down onto the riverbank. There he stopped to get his bearings. He had wandered too far to the edge and now stood between the hippo and the water. The hippo wheeled, lowered its head, and stared red eyed at the man blocking the way back to his pod. Gur fired a shot at the animal. In less time than Greshenko had to voice a warning, the hippo was on the big Russian. He disappeared under the animal's bulk.

While it is generally acknowledged that hippopotami are vegetarians, it is also known that on occasion, they will eat flesh. At the same time it is also possible that Gur's body was simply dragged into the river and left to the tiger fish. In any event, except for a nine millimeter automatic with his fingerprints on it and a shoe, no trace of Gur was found the following day. Or ever.

The remains of Irena Davidova were identified with greater certainty. They consisted of a fresh female skeleton with its skull pretty much intact, some odd bits of torn and bloody clothing, and pieces of jewelry, all scattered over a few square meters. DNA testing eventually confirmed the identification. Also, an intact duffle bag filled with money and passports turned up five meters further down the road.

The lions had moved on to a different area in the park.

***

The director of the DIS called Modise on the carpet. He had a problem to solve. On the one hand, the success of the operation in the Chobe could not be denied. Not only had they ridded the country of a nascent threat from one gang of criminals, but the way in which it had been accomplished sent a clear and unequivocal message that any new threat from persons with similar ideas would not work. The word in the dark reaches of the underworld from St. Petersburg to Tokyo to Cali was clear. In Botswana they do not shoot poachers on sight but they do not treat them kindly either. Mobsters, gangs, and organized crime were considered poachers.

On the other hand, Modise had broken nearly every rule in the book. He had committed resources without proper authorization. He had misrepresented the situation in Kasane and had acted in a manner not in accordance with proper police protocol. There was no room in the Botswana Police force for a cowboy. As much as the world seemed to admire this peculiarly American phenomenon, police work in the country would follow correct procedure and practice.

The director had Kgabo stand in front of his desk for what must have seemed an hour but could have been no more than a few minutes. Finally he looked up and stared at him. He lit a cigarette. Modise felt a trickle of sweat run down his back.

“Terrible habit, Modise. I hope you do not smoke.”

“No, sir.”

“Good. You know how I feel about the image this unit has?”

“Yes, sir, I believe I do. No smoking.”

“No, yes, no. I am not speaking of smoking, Inspector.”

“No, sir. You are speaking of the operation.”

“Exactly. Very well. Then, you know that there is no room in it for men and women working alone. You are familiar with the American story of the Lone Ranger?”

“Ah, no, sir. Did he work in a game preserve?”

“Come, come, Modise. It says in you dossier that you spent time with the American FBI. That is correct, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in all that time you never ran across the Lone Ranger?”

“No, sir. Sorry.”

“Hmmm…John Wayne?”

“Yes, sir. The Duke.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

“Sir?”

“Modise, I do not want any Wild West, shoot-'em-up cowboys in this unit. Is that clear?”

“Ah. Yes, sir. Crystal clear, no cowboys.”

“Very well. Now, let me be absolutely clear, what you accomplished up there on the river was extraordinary. It was not to form, it was…Modise, it was insane. You realize that if it had failed, if there had been any unnecessary bloodshed, you would be walking a beat out in Salt Pans for the rest of your life. And no Superstar Taylor Swift and her
Wildest Dreams
to keep you company out there, you understand. Or any of your wildest dreams either. Modise, I cannot let these breaches of protocol pass without doing something about it, you see?”

“No, sir…umm…Yes, sir. I am sorry, but—” Modise saw his career sliding away. His heart sank.

The director spun a quarter turn in his swivel chair and stared at the wall for a moment. Modise glanced in the same direction. The wall was blank. He swiveled back. “On the other hand, you damned well did it, didn't you?”

“Sir?”

The director shuffled papers on his desk and cleared his throat again. Modise swallowed. His career teetered on a precipice.

“Very well. Inspector Modise, for your success I am promoting you to a superintendent's position. At the same time, you do understand, I cannot let the unauthorized use of equipment and men go unnoticed or accounted for.”

Promoted to superintendent? “No sir, I suppose not.”

“You suppose…Yes, well.” The director frowned and tapped a sheet of paper with a forefinger. “Thanks to the good offices of Joseph Ikanya and, I gather, some other things that happened up there, Superintendent Motsu Mwambe has put in his retirement papers which, it turns out, is a fortuitous happenstance, as you will soon realize.” The director cleared his throat again, reshuffled the papers on the desk, and looked up, his expression stern. “Therefore, Modise, for your failure to follow orders and for the blatant misuse of the abovementioned resources, I am assigning you to Kasane as its new superintendent. I hope this will be an object lesson to you and for the remainder of the force as well, to witness and learn from. Dismissed.”

Modise couldn't be sure, but he would later report to Sanderson when he visited her in the hospital, that he was pretty sure he saw a twinkle in the director's eye when he'd exiled him to the Chobe.