Solomon's Scrolls, page 2
part #1 of A North and Swiftwater Thriller Series
“Jesus, man, what did I tell you about using names over the radio?”
“Sorry, I forgot.”
“Don’t do it again. We’re on our way.”
A pair of battered, green Land Rovers came to a sliding halt on a muddy trail. Two men, one white and the other black, dressed in camouflaged uniforms, got out of the lead trucks with their scoped hunting rifles and warily looked around. When they were satisfied that they were alone, they waved for six Congolese men carrying machetes to join them.
The Australian hunter looked at a slender Congolese man with short white hair and said, “Okay, Chance, take the lead.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Chance, who turned and passed on his orders to his men in a mixture of French and Swahili.
“Well, John, what do you think?” asked the black hunter. A middle-aged lawyer from Los Angeles, he had joined his friend on several illegal hunts throughout Africa and Asia over the past decade. “Do you think today will be the day?”
“Let’s hope so, mate,” replied the man’s partner, loading a round into his rifle. “Because I don’t relish the thought of spending a single day in some cesspit of jail in the Congo.”
“I hear you. Let’s get to work.”
The two poachers fell into line behind Chance and his men as they hacked their way through the thick jungle foliage. They continued for almost an hour in the oppressive humidity until Chance raised a hand and asked John to join him.
“Why have you stopped?” asked John irritably, wiping the rivers of sweat from his face with a soaked handkerchief.
Chance pointed at a gorilla’s footprint in the wet ground and whispered, “Sir, we’re close. We’ll scare off the gorillas if my men keep cutting a path through the jungle. You and Mister Gordon must take the lead now. We’ll stay back until you’ve shot the silverback. Okay?”
John wondered if their guide was afraid to go any further. It didn’t matter either way; John had paid a ton of money for a once-in-a-lifetime chance to bag a silverback, and he wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. He nodded his head and waved for his friend to join him. “Ready?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
“Yeah, let’s do this,” replied Bob with a glint in his eyes.
Both accomplished hunters, the men stepped out onto a narrow game path and crept toward the clearing. Anticipation built in their chests, thinking about killing a gorilla that weighed as much as the two poachers combined. They had no intention of carrying out the dead animal’s carcass as a trophy. A photo of them standing next to the silverback’s body would suffice. Chance and his people would keep it as payment for their services. The hundreds of pounds of gorilla meat would bring in much needed cash for the impoverished farmers. A buyer in China had already paid for its hands.
John slowly raised a hand and got on one knee. He looked over his shoulder at his accomplice. Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “I think we’re almost there.”
“Do you want me to take the lead?” asked Bob.
John nodded and pointed at the jungle off to their right. “The winds are coming from the north. I doubt they’ll pick up our scent until it’s too late.”
“Right.” Bob stealthily stepped off the path into the thick rainforest. He watched every step, careful not to step on any twigs or branches that might alert the gorillas to their presence. They crept forward until they were near the edge of the treeline and then got down on all fours. The gorilla pride was less than one hundred meters away, unaware that death stalked them.
John keyed his radio. “Blackjack, this is Red-One. We’re in position. Are we still alone?”
“No,” replied a voice above their heads.
“What the hell!” uttered John, scanning the trees. At first, he couldn’t see who had spoken to them. Then, the camouflaged shape of a man appeared, sitting on a tree branch, waving at them. Then, the man shifted the weapon in his hands and aimed his M4 carbine at the two poachers.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” demanded John.
“My name is Captain Connor North, and you two morons are under arrest.”
The poachers got to their feet, unsure what to make of the man in the tree.
“You don’t sound Congolese,” said Bob. “Hell, you sound American to me. So legally, you have no jurisdiction in the Congo.”
North kept his carbine trained on the hunters. “You’re right. I am from the States, but you’re dead wrong about whether or not I have the power to arrest you. As a member of the Congolese anti-poaching task force, I have the powers of a peace officer, which means I could shoot both of you dead where you stand, and no one would bat an eye over your deaths. But I’m a nice guy, so I’ll give you two a chance to surrender first.”
John spat on the ground. “That’ll be the day, boy.”
Bob looked around. “Where’s your backup, cop?”
North shrugged. “Beats me. I suspect they’re arresting your helpers. And before you try asking your spotter to take a shot at me, you should know that he’s one of us. Sergeant Makosso is one of our best men who’s helped bring down at least ten poachers in the past year alone. Now quit talking. Place your guns on the ground, and get on your knees with your hands on your heads.”
“Come on, man, you don’t need to do this,” pleaded John. “If you look the other way for five minutes while we walk away, I promise we’ll make it worthwhile.”
Connor chuckled. “I’m sorry, but I don’t take bribes.”
“Trust me; we can make you a rich man.”
Connor’s voice turned cold. “You’re wasting your time. I don’t care about your money. Now, place your guns on the ground!”
A short burst of gunfire cut through the air. For a brief second, Connor raised his head to see who had fired the shots. Bob saw his opening and sprinted into the jungle while his partner raised his rifle to fire. Connor, acting on instinct, fired two rapid shots into John’s right shoulder. The man cried out and staggered back, holding his left hand over the bloody wound.
“Idiot,” said Connor, jumping down to the ground. Then, before John knew what had happened to him, Connor disarmed and cuffed him to a tree.
“For the love of God, man, don’t leave me here,” pleaded John.
Connor quickly cleared John’s rifle and tossed its bolt into the jungle, rendering it useless. “I should leave you here for the animals to feast on, but Patrice and his men will be along soon enough to take you into custody.”
The sharp crack of a rifle ended the conversation. Connor spun on his heel and raced down a game path toward the gunfire. He activated his radio and, in French, asked, “What’s going on, Patrice?”
“Sir, we’re pinned down, and Matisse has been hit,” reported Patrice, the lead Congolese police officer on the team.
“Hang on. I’ll be there in a minute.” North dug his heels in, angry that Matisse, a trainee peace officer barely out of his teens, had been shot on his first mission.
Another loud shot echoed through the valley.
Connor turned a bend in the trail and spotted the escaped poacher aiming at Patrice’s men. He slid to a stop and swung up his M4 to his shoulder. Connor focused on the hunter’s head but hesitated. Ten years in an overcrowded African jail was a more fitting outcome. He lowered his aim and gently pulled back on his trigger. The M4 recoiled as the bullet left the barrel. The round hit the man square in the hip. The poacher yelped and dropped his rifle. He fell to the muddy ground like a sack of potatoes.
“Don’t even think about going for your gun,” Connor warned as he approached the hunter with his weapon trained on the man’s head. Connor kicked the hunter’s rifle out of reach and ignored the man’s pleas for medical aid while he cuffed him.
“Captain North, is that you?” called out Patrice.
Connor stood and waved a hand in the air. “Yeah, it’s me. How’s Matisse doing?”
Patrice jogged up the rise to Connor’s side. “He’s doing okay, sir. Luc has stopped the bleeding with a field dressing, and a jeep is on its way.”
Connor smiled. “Well done, Sergeant. I couldn’t have done any better.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Connor swiped some of the camouflage face paint from his face with his dirty scarf. “Don’t forget; I’m only here to help with your training. You’re really in charge. So, what do you intend to do now, Sergeant?”
Patrice glanced down at the bleeding poacher. “I’ll have Luc stop this man’s bleeding and arrest him. I take it there’s another man up the trail waiting to be arrested, too?”
Connor nodded. “That is correct.”
“Does he also need medical attention?”
Connor grinned. “What do you think?”
Patrice shook his head, brought two fingers to his mouth, and blew a piercing whistle. “Luc, get your lazy behind up here. You have a lot of work to do.”
CHAPTER THREE
Can anything be more relaxing than a hot shower after a month in the jungle? Connor thought, holding his head under the water, letting it slide down his back. He stood there with his hands on the metal wall until the water turned cold. Connor turned off the tap, grabbed a towel, and dried himself off. He walked over to the sink, reached for his toothbrush, and looked at the steam-covered mirror. Connor wiped the condensation from the glass and studied his reflection. His black hair was longer than when he was an officer in the Marine Corps, but not by much. Black stubble covered his angular face. Connor’s ice-blue eyes were as sharp as ever, even if the bags under his eyes said he needed a few days off.
Patrice opened the door to the converted ISO trailer, letting a cloud of steam escape. He saw the condensation on the mirrors and groaned. “Captain, please tell me you didn’t drain all the hot water again?”
“Sorry, Sergeant, but you know me. I like to take long, hot showers.”
Patrice shrugged. “Hot or cold, I still need a shower.”
“It should be lukewarm by now.”
“Whatever, sir.” Patrice started to disrobe. “Oh, before I forget, there’s a man here to see you.”
Connor raised an eyebrow. “Did he say who he was and why he wants to see me?”
Patrice shook his head. “I have no idea. But he sounded American to me.”
“American?”
“Yes. He’s waiting for you in the mess tent.”
Curious, Connor wrapped his towel around his waist and finished brushing his teeth before heading to his trailer to get changed into a clean uniform. First, he slid on his rank insignia of three spears to show he was a Captain in the eyes of his employer, the Congolese government. Next, Connor slapped on a Velcro white patch with the word trainer embroidered on it so no one would mistake why he was there. He took a brief second to look in the mirror to ensure his green beret sat straight on his head. Connor wasn’t a big fan of berets but wanted to ensure he looked presentable. Lastly, he picked up his dog tags and held them momentarily while looking at the tarnished wedding ring suspended from the metal chain. Connor stared at it for a few seconds, thinking of his late wife and how desperately he missed her. He slipped the chain over his neck and hid it under his combat shirt.
Connor walked outside and made his way through the maze of white trailers to the mess tent. He opened the wooden door and stepped inside. His eyes were instantly drawn to a slender, bald, black gentleman wearing a light-gray suit with a yellow bowtie, sitting alone at a table near the back of the tent. He had silver-rimmed glasses and looked to be in his early sixties, with a salt-and-pepper goatee. The man’s right hand rested on a worn, brown-leather briefcase. To Connor, he looked like either a schoolteacher or perhaps a bureaucrat from the embassy.
The man stood and smiled. “Captain Connor North, I presume?” The man’s accent reminded him of someone from Boston.
“Correct, and that would make you Henry Stanley,” said Connor, alluding to the famous meeting between Henry Stanley and Doctor Livingstone in 1871.
The man laughed. “A good one, Captain, but only half right.”
Connor removed his beret, walked over, and offered his hand. “When in Africa, you have to try that line at least once a month, or why come here in the first place?”
The man shook Connor’s hand firmly. “Indeed. Well, good day, Captain; my name is Henry Knox, and I’ve come a long way to speak to you,” he said, handing Connor a business card.
Connor read the card and raised an eyebrow. “A lawyer. I hope I’m not in trouble. If this is about that parking ticket I got before flying out here, I swear the cheque is in the mail.”
Knox smiled. “That’s an old joke as well. But I’m not here to collect any money.”
“If I’m not in trouble, then why are you here?”
“Let us take a seat, and I’ll tell you why I came all this way to speak with you.”
They poured themselves some coffee and sat back down at Knox’s table.
“You’re a hard man to find, Captain. I knew you were in the Congo but had no idea you were working so far away from the capital.”
“I go where the job takes me.”
“Would you mind if I called you Connor?”
“Not at all.”
“Thank you.”
“I, however, think I’ll continue to call you Mister Knox because it suits you. So, what brings a gentleman like you to the Virunga National Park?”
Knox sipped his coffee and looked into Connor’s eyes. “You do.”
Connor sat back. “Me?”
“Most definitely.” Knox cleared his throat and looked carefully around the tent. “Connor, I have been retained by a wealthy gentleman who, for now, wishes to remain anonymous.”
Curious, Connor leaned forward. “An anonymous client. The plot thickens.”
“My client asked me to tell you he would like to meet you in his home in the United States three days from now.”
Connor furrowed his brow. “Why three days?”
“He did not say. Nor did I ask.”
“Sir, six months ago, I signed a one-year contract with the Congolese government to train a couple of anti-poaching teams, and I happen to like my job. So, it’s going to take something more than a clandestine meeting to get me to leave my people on such short notice.”
“Connor, I spoke with your bosses in Kinshasa, and they are prepared to release you from your contract without incurring any financial costs.”
Connor scrunched his brow. “Really. How much did that cost?”
“A paltry sum compared to some of the deals I have conducted over the years elsewhere in Africa.”
“Sir, I don’t care about the money. How much do you know about illegal wildlife trafficking?”
Knox adjusted his glasses. “Probably not enough.”
“Well, sir, here are the cold, hard facts. It’s estimated that poachers all across the globe make upwards of twenty billion dollars a year from the illegal slaughter of some of the world’s most endangered species. There are less than nine hundred mountain gorillas left here in the Congo. If we don’t take steps to protect them, they will go extinct by the middle of the century.”
“So, you’re an idealist. Now, try being a realist. Who do you think pays for most of the anti-poaching operations in Africa?”
Connor could see that Knox had done his homework. “International donors do.”
“Precisely. You may have signed a contract with the Congolese government to train its people, but they’re hard up for cash. Did you know the funding for your position came from an anonymous donor in South Africa who regrettably died in her sleep last week?”
“No, I did not.” Connor narrowed his eyes. “Sir, where are you going with this?”
“What would you say if I could guarantee you three years of additional funding for your position, with no strings attached? Other than you agree to meet with my client.”
Connor ran a hand over his chin and thought about the proposal for a minute. Then, finally, he got to his feet. “Okay, I’ll do it, but only on the condition that you’ll fly me straight back here once we’re done.”
Knox smiled and held out his hand. “A wise decision, Connor.”
Connor shook the lawyer’s hand, wondering how wise his decision truly was.
CHAPTER FOUR
Logan International Airport – Boston
The loud squeal of the Learjet’s tires touching down woke Connor from a fitful sleep. He rubbed his tired eyes, sat up in his chair, and stretched his arms over his head, yawning loudly.
“We’re here,” said Knox, glancing out of a window at the rain.
Connor shook his head to wake up. He bought up his watch and tried to focus his tired eyes on the time. It read five-thirty in the morning. He looked over at Knox. “Don’t get me wrong, Mister Knox, I truly appreciate flying home in style, but why did we have to land so early in the morning?”
“My client is a busy man. He has probably been out of bed for the past two hours reviewing his financial reports.”
Connor ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that’s his problem, not mine.”
“May I have your passport?” Knox asked, holding out a hand.
Connor handed it over and looked down at his disheveled clothing. In contrast to his impeccably dressed host, he wore well-worn boots, green military-style cargo pants, and a khaki sweater to finish off his outfit. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had the time to buy any decent clothes before they left Kinshasa.
The plane taxied to a private hangar and was met by an overly friendly customs agent who boarded the jet and told awful dad jokes while he checked everyone’s passports and the flight manifest before letting them carry on.
Knox handed back Connor’s passport and reached for his cell phone. It only rang once before a man answered the call. “Sir, we’ve just landed,” Knox reported. “Yes, sir, I can see the limo from here. We’ll be there shortly.”
“A limo! I could get used to this,” said Connor, picking up his small pack and throwing it over his shoulder. “It’s true. The rich do travel differently than the rest of us.”
