Ivory Ghosts (29 page)

I sat on a stool, staring Nigel in the face through steel bars. With Gidean's pistol held on him, we were able to get the police from the border station to come to Nigel's house pretty quickly. Nigel was arrested and charged with personal possession of raw diamonds. I remembered all the money that he'd kept stashed in his office, so we stopped there on the way to the prison to see if we could pull in any more evidence, but it had already been cleared out.

After Nigel was put in prison, I put a call in to Craig to inform him of what had happened. By the next morning, the WIA office in Hong Kong was able to link Nigel with the Sun Kwon Muk triad. Their relationship went back five years, starting with a black market auction of national treasures from the Forbidden City.

“I just want to understand why.” I was so angry, I didn't know where to begin. “No, actually, I don't care why. I just want to know how you thought you could get away with it.”

Nigel sat unmoved.

In trying to make sense of everything, I recalled our first conversation about our pasts. “So, your father lost your inheritance, and now you're going to take it back in elephant blood?”

Nigel turned away, bored. “The righteous are so tedious.”

“I see how this goes.” I seethed. “Your arrogance protects you from us simple people, trying to do the right thing, does it?” I grabbed the bars. “We'll see how tedious it becomes for you, sitting here in this prison.”

Nigel stared at me with an aloof smile. He stood up and approached me. Placing his cool dry hands around mine, he whispered, “By the weekend, I'll be dining on the best Peking duck Hong Kong has to offer.”

I pulled my hands away. “You're in jail, Nigel. It's over!”

“Along with my favorite Montrachet. Nineteen seventy-eight is the most expensive drinkable vintage. Well, I suppose it's my fault it's the most expensive, as I can't resist a good bidding war. It just irritates me when someone thinks they can outbid me.” He waved his hand in the air. “No matter, it's a lovely wine. Comes from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. The lot of seven cost me $23,929 per bottle. The owner of Hang Cheng Bank is chilling down the sixth for me at this very moment. He's one of my biggest clients.”

“Your delusions of grandeur are astounding. How did I miss all this?”

He looked away dreamily, fondling his neck. “And his wife will put on her favorite ivory necklace for the occasion—the finest Congolese ivory rivals the density of Asian ivory, you know—exquisitely detailed carving. Oh, and on such a gorgeous neck.”

“Yes, I've heard all about your
fake
antique ivory!” I hissed.

WIA was able to identify and interview several key witnesses in Hong Kong connecting Nigel to the smuggling of rare artifacts and faked “antique” ivory treasures that originated from freshly poached elephants in Africa. They were able to drive the price of ivory up, and when the Sun Kwon Muk felt threatened by African crime syndicates extending their networks into southern Africa, they wanted to have more control over their supply of ivory to China. They sent Mr. Lin to the Caprivi to start the Dollar Store to accommodate their supply and shipping needs. Their colleague Nigel Lofty came to oversee the operation, posing as a conservation worker.

Nigel's eyes turned back and looked right through me. “Of course, he will arrange for some of his finest escorts. Though, I must admit, I'll miss the Caprivian women. They're not as inhibited by decorum.”

“Didn't you tell me you used to do theater?”

“Indeed. I must say I developed a taste for Shakespearian tragedy. And I so enjoy sketching a solid character. It's the gullible people around me that help me stay in that character.” He looked at me mockingly. “You do-gooders
need
to see the good in people and so you do. You really did make it easy.”

“You smug bastard,” I spat. “You're a fucking murderer and a coward.”

Nigel sighed. “Oh, don't give me your moral rubbish, living in your cushy little world of neutrality. I bet there's a lot of folks out there that think you're killing elephants by not being political.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Afraid to alienate either side by taking a stand for or against the legal trade? That's the definition of cowardice.”

I stood up, furious. “How dare you! Countless elephants and who knows how many people have died at your hand, and you have the nerve to point a finger at me?”

Nigel smiled. “Just thought your pretty face could use a reality check.”

“I'm trying to bring the two sides together, while you're out there slaughtering elephants.” His expression told me that he had me where he wanted me, so I left furious, yelling out behind me, “See you in court.”

“Perhaps we'll meet in Hong Kong,” he whispered knowingly. “I could open up the seventh bottle.”

Jon lay on a cot that Natembo had brought over from their barracks and put on my porch. His leg was bandaged and raised. I sat on the edge of the cot, allowing Jon to comfort me. Although I'd felt responsible for another person's death on two occasions before, this was the first time I had actually killed someone. With Nigel in prison, my mind was free to process the last few days, and Geldenhuis's death weighed heavily on my mind.

“Catherine, you did the right thing.”

“I never thought I'd get to a place where I'd believe that killing someone could ever be considered the right thing.”

He gently held up my fallen face. “Listen to me.” He smiled. “Kill or be killed—that's the rule of this land. He would have taken both of us out. You know that.”

“I told you, I'm not good at killing.”

“Well, you're racking up quite a reputation now with two of the hardest things to nail, a wounded elephant and a cunning smuggler.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He winced and dropped his hands, squeezing his thigh.

“Are you all right?” I squeezed my hand over his.

Jon gasped. “Just another cramp. It'll pass.”

“More tea?”

“Cheers, thanks.” He exhaled noisily. “That would be great.”

I went inside and made some tea and came back out to the porch with a tray of tea and a brand of ginger cookies I had seen on his shelf.

Jon saw the cookies and smiled. “It doesn't make it any easier to pull the trigger, I know.”

“I just don't get it. He was a doctor. What drove him?”

“He was a flawed human first, doctor second. And from the seamy underbelly, a criminal is always born. I've seen it again and again in the Caprivi. It's the nature of the beast.”

“Well, I'm focusing on Dr. Geldenhuis because I'm in denial about Nigel. I just can't believe I missed every clue he gave me. I feel so stupid—so betrayed.”

“One learns the language of disguise pretty quickly around here, but with Nigel, not soon enough.”

“You knew, didn't you?” I searched his eyes. “It was that night when he asked about Chastity, wasn't it?”

“The two of them had been having an affair.”

“Really?” I couldn't help remembering Nigel's crass words in prison about local women.

“Seeing her involvement connected the two in my mind.”

“But you kept spending time with him?”

“Keep your enemies close, Catherine, you should know that adage by now.”

“How safe is the Katima prison?” Nigel had succeeded in getting under my skin, despite Craig trying to talk me down after my visit yesterday. “He was completely certain he'd be in Hong Kong by the weekend.”

“We're not taking any chances. He'll be transferred to Windhoek tomorrow. Shame you unseeded his retirement package. He'll have no reason to want to return.”

“You mean an Angolan-diamond retirement?”

Jon nodded and held my hand out, admiring it. “But let's not spoil the mood.”

I could tell that he noticed my ring was gone. I had taken it off in the night for some reason, another bad dream, probably. I had returned it to the basket on my nightstand, and when I reached for it in the morning, it didn't feel right to put it back on. I held the closed basket in my hands and put it back without opening it. I was surprised he'd noticed so quickly.

“Something's different.” He caressed my hand and looked up at me quizzically. “Missing.”

I pulled my hand away, embarrassed, not ready to talk about the feelings that prompted me to leave it off. I hadn't expected to have to explain myself so quickly, so I took the easy way out. “I guess my ghost has moved on.”

“What haunts you is yourself, you know. Not a ghost.” He drew a circle around my ring finger and searched my expression. “Who am I kidding?” He looked away. “I don't know a bloody thing about harnessing the wind.”

I hesitated. “Jon, I can finally look forward to something for the right reasons again. You gave me that.”

He looked at me with hopeful eyes. “So you'll stay?”

I looked out at the empty floodplain. “What's going to make the difference? Seems like there are always going to be poachers.”

“There will always be villains. But I'm not sure there will always be land. I vote for a policy that ensures the blighters have a home.”

We watched as a large herd of buffalo emerged onto the floodplain.

Jon played with my ring finger. “Do you think about him often?” he asked.

“I did—I do. Well, actually I've been thinking about my dad a lot these days.”

“Is he still among the living?”

“Very much so.”

Jon looked out at the buffalo. “Must be a fine upstanding citizen, producing a jewel such as yourself.” He hesitated, as if he was afraid to broach a new subject. “You know, Catherine, we could sure use a census pilot around here.”

I stared out at the buffalo and thought about Nandi and the women farmers who were desperate for a solution to their plight. Maybe I could help them keep elephants away from the farms. That thought gave me hope. I could stay here to help the elephants
and
the farmers. That gave me license to explore a relationship with Jon.

“I know what you're thinking,” Jon said thoughtfully. “Staying for me isn't enough, is it?”

I smiled. “Maybe I could also fly for the Red Cross.”

“Who would have thought I'd fall for a bloody martyr.”

“Why don't we start with that date that you promised me?”

“Once I'm mobile, how about a trip down the Zambezi?” His eyes lit up. “In the meantime, I could start the Sated Rabbit right here. Hmm? Catherine? What do you think?” His mind started churning. “I would open with my mushroom stroganoff recipe, sautéed with a bit of butter and cream, oh, and maybe a sprig of rosemary….”

I laughed as I put my arms around him. We kissed, uncertain of our destiny, but with an absolute commitment to the present.

In December 1991, my boyfriend and I decided to spend a year traveling in Africa, in between degrees. But after being seduced by Africa, we never left. And from there, my boyfriend became husband, and elephants became the subject of my scientific career. While working for the Namibian government in the Caprivi region of Namibia in the early 1990s, I was struck by the realities of the elephant-human interface and the contrast between dedicated conservation staff trying to protect elephants and their habitat on the one hand, and farmers having to live with elephants eating their crops on the other. I had since wanted to write a fictional account that illustrated the contrasts of modern Africa in the face of elephants on the brink of extinction.

Over the intervening years, although elephant conservation efforts have improved in some places across Africa, in others, the situation for elephants is getting worse, given recent political instabilities in North Africa, a rise in crime syndicates on the continent, and the increase in the demand for ivory in China, all contributing to a rise in the price of ivory and a staggering increase in elephant poaching in some countries. Having written five nonfiction books about elephants, I revisited the idea of fiction as another approach to drawing attention to them and their plight.

Ivory Ghosts
is a fictional account of people, places, politics, events, and situations that represent the urgency of the elephant crisis in Africa. I set this story in the Caprivi (now called Zambezi) region of Namibia because it is near and dear to my heart and allowed me to evoke a strong sense of place.

In the early 1990s I found myself in the middle of Africa surrounded by elephants, lions, and angry farmers plagued by crop-raiding elephants. I was privileged to have worked for the Namibian government as an elephant researcher in the Caprivi region of Namibia, and it was Jo Tagg, our supervisor and mentor, whose dark wit kept me sane and inspired the heart of this story more than twenty years ago. A huge set of thanks goes out to Jo and his team of dedicated rangers and staff who put their lives on the line day and night to keep the wild places of Caprivi wild.

I am most grateful to my Random House team at Alibi for bringing this book to light. A very special thanks to Senior Editor Dana Edwin Isaacson, for falling in love with this story and providing several incisive sets of notes that led to bringing my editor, Anne Speyer, and me together. The two of them held my hand through to the finish line. I'd also like to thank Randall Klein, whose early notes and encouragement got Dana's attention. I am also deeply indebted to Anne for her patience and support during final revisions, and for the enthusiasm of my PR team, Heidi Lilly, Kim Cowser, Katie Rice, and Gina Wachtel.

I am indebted to my first agent, Karen Nazor, as my first book,
The Elephant's Secret Sense,
was born of her faith, John Michel's hard work, and Free Press's (Simon & Schuster) Leslie Meredith's passion for elephants. Later, my agent John Michel encouraged early versions of this fictional story, followed by Andrew Paulson. I am grateful to Amy Berkower and her editorial assistant at Writer's House, Genevieve Gagne-Hawes, for their encouragement, and to thriller editors Marjorie Braman and Patricia Mulcahy. I also thank Sharon Straight at
National Geographic
and Jeff Kleinman at Folio Literary Management for their support.

I'd like to acknowledge Stanford University Continuing Studies Creative Writing program instructors Jacob Molyneux and Marvin Diogenes for encouraging early drafts of this story. I'd also like to acknowledge the University of California, Davis's Art of the Wild Writer's Conference grant that allowed me to workshop early versions of this story and, particularly, Al Young and fellow conference mate Christie Brigham. Early drafts were read and commented on by two writing groups: Ann Davidson, Rob Sparr, Martha Hoops, Brian McCauley, and later, Allie Akmal and Gabby Nabi. I am also most grateful to a second group of readers: Melanie Rusch, Karla Wagner, Laura Furness, Tracy Elfring, Tanya Meyer, and my sister, Siobhan O'Connell Scro. Last-minute much-appreciated reads came from Thelma Alane, Vera Neuhaus and my mom, Aline O'Connell. My continued gratitude goes out to my parents, Dan and Aline O'Connell, who have always been my biggest fans. Finally, my perseverance was supported by the enthusiasm of my husband, Tim Rodwell, whose confidence in my ability to turn obsession into story and his many patient critiques led to a much stronger narrative in the end.