Read The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) Online
Authors: James S. Gardner
Tags: #Suspense & Thrillers
This is the eyewitness account of safari guide Robert Neff as collaborated by his Ugandan tracker, Peter Gono. Both men are fluent in Swahili as were the perpetrators.
The following is a list of the deceased and my interpretation as to how they died. It should be noted that the bodies were attacked so brutally that any speculation as to the actual cause of death is highly suspect. Dr. Malcolm Rutherford was on scene, and accordingly, his report should be available within a few days.
British subjects:
William Smyth and Barbara Smyth.
American citizens:
Roland Collins. Debbie Collins.
James Cole. Jeffery Cole. Ralph Courtney. Margaret Courtney. A French woman, Marie Camondona, was released, as was the safari guide, Robert Neff and the Ugandan, Peter Gono.
Two Americans escaped. Last names: Turner. Mr. Turner is still unaccounted for as of 2100 hours, 15 September. After being treated at the medical clinic in Kasese, Mrs. Turner was taken to the American Embassy in Kampala where she remains in seclusion. The American ambassador has blocked any attempt to question Mrs. Turner. It is my understanding that a private aircraft has been sent to Uganda to fly Mrs. Turner back to the United States.
On the morning of the Bwindi Incident, safari guide Neff reported hearing small arms fire coming from the direction of one of the outer camp chalets. He believed the shots were being fired by the Ugandan military involved in an anti poaching operation. Within minutes, the camp was surrounded. Ten men armed with AK-47s and machetes swarmed into the camp. Intelligence indicates they are part of the Interahamwe, an extremist group partially responsible for the 1994 ethnic genocide that slaughtered eight hundred thousand. A top Interahamwe commander operating inside of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, has taken credit for the “Bwindi massacre.”
His faction, the RPF (Rwandan Patriotic Front) claim the attack was in retaliation for the United Nation's Security Council's recognition of the present Rwandan government.
The rebels led their victims on a twenty kilometer march that was intended to take them into the Congo. Because they were unfamiliar with the terrain they forcibly sed a local Ugandan, camp tracker, Peter Gono, to guide them. Gono, disregarding his own safety, led them in a circle hoping to be intercepted by the Ugandan military. The rebel leader, who is still unidentified, became suspicious and had Gono beaten until he confessed his deception. Neff stated, “That was when the discipline within the group started to breakdown.” According to Peter Gono, the Courtneys, who were in their late fifties, became fatigued and refused to go on. Mrs. Courtney was raped by four of the rebels. Both Courtneys were executed with head shots. The Collin's woman and Barbara Smyth were also raped and brutally killed in front of their respective husbands, who were also killed. During the confusion, Arthur Turner and his wife slipped away into the heavy underbrush. They floated down a river emptying into Lake Albert. Mrs. Turner was found wandering by a Ugandan military patrol. She was incoherent and was taken to a local clinic. Mr. Turner was not found. In my opinion, his survival is unlikely.
It is also my opinion that the rebels have escaped back into the Congo. They are now under the full protection of the Congolese president.
The Ugandan military has assembled an incursion force of approximately six hundred soldiers. Intelligence sources believe they are headed north to the Kivu provinces of the DRC. With as many as 25,000 Rwandan rebels operating in that region, it is doubtful that any of the perpetrators will ever be brought to justice. A more detailed report will be available in forty eight hours.
Laycock
Graham Connelly rolled up the report and used it to swat a blowfly on his windshield.
***
R
igby Croxford treaded water thirty feet above a coral ledge where the Nassau grouper he'd speared had wedged itself into a crevice. A cloud of blood seeped from the ledge. When he heard the grouper's distress grunts, he lifted his diving mask and looked for his wife. He scanned the beach until he found her. Good, you're safe, he thought. He filled his lungs, turned upside down and started for the bottom. He grabbed a purple sea fan and pulled himself under the ledge. The mixture of blood and stirred up sand ruined his visibility. When he stretched his arm into the crevice, the grouper grunted and wedged itself deeper into the reef. He squeezed his gloved hand into the fish's mouth and latched onto its lower lip. The grouper struggled, but Rigby slipped his other hand under its gill plate and started for the surface.
When he popped up, he saw the dinghy bobbing on the horizon. Damn wind must have blown it, he thought. He swam slowly at first, but realized he wasn't gaining on the skiff. A movement caught his attention. It was a large black-tipped shark circling beneath him. He picked up his pace, but dragging the fish hampered him. I've got to quit smoking, he thought. It was only a few yards to the skiff. The black-tip reversed its direction and swam at him. At the last second, he flung the grouper up into the skiff and spun around, but the shark was gone. “Oh, no you don't. I worked too hard to give it up to the likes of you,” he thought.
***
Helen was a doctor. She felt guilty about leaving her patients, but she needed a break from African politics. Despite worldwide condemnation, their president, Robert Mugabe, continued his confiscation of the white owned farms. It was only a matter of time before Mugabe tried to seize their farm. Helen knew her husband would not go quietly.
Earlier that day, they anchored in a lagoon on the leeward side of Spanish Cay. Their captain, Bonefish Foley secured the boat's stern to a coconut tree and then set the yacht's anchor under a brain-coral dome. The old Hatteras lay captive to her moorings in the crystalline waters of Turtle Bay.
Captain Foley scanned the horizon. When he saw Rigby pop to the surface and fling the grouper in the skiff, he relaxed. The weather had treated them fairly, and with only a few minor mechanical problems, the cruise was running as smoothly as an island schooner sailing downwind. In two weeks, thought Captain Foley, the Croxfords will go back to Africa and I can go back home to Bimini. He picked up his knife and continued skinning a conch.
Something caught the corner of his eye. It was a yacht clearing the outer reef passage. The sun reflected off the yacht's bridge windows. Squinting, Foley watched men scurrying about on deck. The Bahamian looked at the shoreline to check the tide. Oh Lord, he thought, its high tide. Damn, Mr. Rigby's gonna be pitching a fit. I gotta find us another island.
A crewmember standing on the bowsprit directed the captain with hand gestures to help him avoid the coral-heads. The captain pivoted the yacht into the wind. The sound of rattling anchor chain echoed across the lagoon. Sulfur smelling exhaust smoke covered Turtle Bay. The crew went to work putting inflatable tenders and wave-runners over the side. When the yacht swung into the wind, her name and homeport came into view:
The Liti-Gator
, Palm Beach, Florida.
Foley heard the whine of an outboard engine. Damn, Mr. Rigby's gonna be raisin' some hell, he uttered to himself. Foley watched the skiff idle towards him. “Goddamn it Foley, there's hundreds of islands in the Bahamas,” Rigby yelled. “Why does this son-of-a-bitch have to pick our island? He could see we were already anchored up. Inconsiderate bastard.” He stuck his thumb in one of the grouper's eye sockets and his pointing finger in the other. He hoisted the fish up and waded ashore.
Rigby's wife, Helen, left the shade of a coconut tree and walked down the beach to inspect the fish. She closed her book and sighed. “Check out the name.
The Liti-Gator
! Give me a break! As if we don't have enough lawyers.”
“Yaaa, vell, I guess I must find us another island,” said Foley. Like all Bahamians, he reversed V and W in his speech. “I don't expect people should be so unruly.” He shook his head.
Helen pushed her sunglasses up, securing them in her hair. She grinned at her husband before speaking. “Are you sure you don't feel emasculated by this man's boat?”
“At least my middle-aged wife looks decent in a swimming-costume.”
“Did you just say ‘decent'?” Helen kicked sand at her husband. Rigby grabbed his wife and pulled her into the water. She screamed, handed her book to Foley, and tried to push her husband's head under.
They held hands watching Foley filet the grouper. “It's not the end of the world,” said Rigby. “Tomorrow we'll pull anchor and find ourselves another lagoon. Whoever he is, he just violated a rule of common decency, that's all I'm saying.” Rigby took a few steps closer to Foley. “Anyway, we've got more important issues,” he continued, putting his hand on Foley's shoulder. “I believe it's time for our daily spear-fishing competition.”
“Not today, Mr. Rigby, I've got work that needs doin',” Foley said, picking up the fish. “Besides, there are too many sharks round ‘des island. You go ahead.”
“Suit yourself. Helen, what about you?” She ignored him and walked up the beach. Guess I'm on my own, Rigby thought.
Foley helped him push the dinghy into deeper water. Rigby hopped in and Foley threw him the anchor line. Before he could start the engine, one of the
Liti-Gator
's wave-runners idled up behind him. The young Bahamian sitting on the wave-runner was as black as an eight ball. Rigby started to voice his displeasure, but something stopped him.
“Ahoy, Captain. Say, my boss sent me to find some lobsters. Vould you know vhere I could find ‘dem?” the young man inquired. “My name's Kewin,” he said, extending his hand. “Mr. Rigby has been findin some nice lobsters on dem coral-heads,” Foley indicated, pointing.
“Be careful. I've seen sharks,” added Rigby.
Kevin looked fearful. “My boss will fire me if I don't bring back some lobsters. Could you take me with you?” he asked.
“I could use some company. Jump in. Captain Foley chickened out of our daily spear-fishing contest. I'm Rigby Croxford. This is Bonefish Foley, who happens to be the second-best spear fisherman in the Bahamas. I hate to blow my horn, but you're about to witness something special—a great diver in action. Isn't that right, Foley?”
“Mr. Rigby, you're a special one, all right. Lord, you can tell some big fibs,” said Foley.
“Thanks,” said Kevin. He shook each man's hand with the customary Bahamian limp handshake.
***
Rigby ran his skiff offshore. When he located a coral-head he turned the helm over to Kevin and leaned over the gunwale to look through a glass-bottom bucket.
“Do you see lobster?” Kevin asked.
“As Foley would say, ‘Dey is as thick as grains of san' on the beach.'”
“You sound like an Englishman,” commented Kevin.
“I'm from Zimbabwe. You could say, I'm an African.”
“You're an African?” Kevin scratched his head.
“I'll explain later. Hand me those gloves.”
Rigby pulled his diving mask over his face, grabbed his Hawaiian sling and fell over the side of the
Whaler,
backwards. He turned upside down and disappeared. When he resurfaced, he had three lobsters skewered on his spear. On his last dive, he speared a hog snapper. They headed back to the lagoon.
As they nudged up on the beach, Helen walked down to greet them. “Any luck? I wish you wouldn't dive alone.” “I wasn't diving alone. Kevin was with me,” Rigby said, holding up the spiny lobsters. “Kevin, I'm Helen Croxford.”
“It's nice to meet you. Say, I almost forgot. My boss wants both of you to have dinner with him tonight.”
“Tell your boss we appreciate his hospitality, but we've already got something planned,” Rigby answered.
Kevin looked disappointed and said, “Now I know he'll fire me.”
“Young man,” said Helen, “you tell your boss we'd love to join him for dinner. The head chef and bottle washer needs a break. Besides, I'm dying to see his yacht.” “You take the lobster,” Rigby demanded.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I'm sure. Now that my admiral has spoken, what time do you want us? What's your boss's name?”
“Cocktails are at seven. His name is Mr. Maxwell Turner.”
***
Using binoculars, Rigby watched a seaplane land southeast of the entrance to the lagoon. Three passengers departed the plane and boarded a skiff. The launch deposited them at the
Liti-Gator
's stern. A man wearing a blue blazer and white pants met them as they disembarked. He offered his hand to the woman struggling for balance.
“How was the flight?”Max Turner asked.
“It was breath taking,” replied the woman.
“Molly dear, why don't you go below,”said Max.“It'll give you a chance to freshen up before dinner. I need to borrow your husband. Tucker let's go top-side. You can fill me in on our friend.”
Max motioned to a steward.“ Make Mr. Dodge a scotch and soda.”
Max waited for Tucker Dodge to light his pipe and take the first sip.“
What did you find out?” Turner asked.
“Let's start with Croxford's brother-in-law. He's the one with the deep pockets. Croxford transferred the title to his Zimbabwean farm to him for the time being, Mugabe has been reluctant to confiscate the foreign-owned farms. Max, this could pose a problem. Money may not motivate this guy.”
“You feel Croxford's my best shot at rescuing Arthur? Assuming, he's still alive.”
“Croxford's a legend in southern Africa. He was a decorated Selous Scout in the Rhodesian Bush War. A Selous Scout is like a Navy Seal on steroids. He fought as a mercenary in the Congo and Angola. And he's hunted in the Central African Republic and the Sudan. If your son's alive, Croxford's the man to bring him out,” answered Tucker.
“That's what you said about the last guy. After I paid him, I never heard a word,” Max said, looking through a porthole at the setting sun. Turner stuck his nose in the wine glass and sniffed before tasting it. He placed his glass on the bar and turned to Dodge. “Well, if Croxford's our man, you let me worry about hiring him. No man likes another man paying his way. I need to put this nightmare behind me.” He patted Dodge on the back. “Thanks, Tucker. Nice job. Let's go below. Our guests should be arriving. I'm curious to meet Croxford.”
The
Liti-Gator
looked like a lit-up New York skyscraper floating on its side. Her underwater lights illuminated the lagoon. Turner met the Croxfords at the top of the stairs on the fantail.
Maxwell Turner had spent a lifetime trying to enhance his masculinity. He was five foot six. His posture indicated he was trying to elongate himself. A face-lift gave his eyes that slanted Hollywood actor look. He wore an expensive toupee, but the salt spray made it look like something women wrapped around their shoulders in the thirties. Turner was one hundred and seventy pounds of solid muscle. He shaved his arms to enhance the rippled effect. When he shook your hand, you could feel the calluses of a weightlifter. When he spoke, his accent sounded generic, but his tone was like the rhythmic notes of a bass saxophone.
“Good evening,” Max said, extending his hand. “Croxfords, meet the Dodges. This is Tucker, or Tucky, and his better half, Molly. What can I have my steward get you to drink?” Turner latched on to Helen's hand and refused to let go. It was his way of testing the waters. Rigby was oblivious to Max's flirtation. Helen pulled away gracefully.
The group gave drink orders to an Asian-looking steward. Max ushered them into a salon that would have made a Saudi prince jealous. Fearful of soiling the expensive upholstery, Rigby sat on the edge of his chair.
“Before I forget, the lobster hors d'oeuvres are courtesy of Mr. Croxford. I'm afraid I had to give up diving. It's my ears.” Max pointed at his ear and mocked pain. Something made Rigby think that he had fabricated the excuse.
“I can't tell you how happy this makes me. I mean, your accepting my invitation. Right up front, I want to apologize for barging in on your lagoon. Now, where do you folks call home?”
“We live in Africa. Although Helen's a Yank by birth,” answered Rigby. “Helen guessed you were a solicitor.”