‘You tell me.’
He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I can’t forget what happened here, how we met, but in a funny way that would be OK. I didn’t know Miranda for very much of her life and I don’t want to forget my daughter. You would remind me of her every day – in a good way, I mean.’
‘Go home, see your ex-wife and lay Miranda’s memory to rest properly After that, send me an email and tell me if you’re going to end up in Virginia. We could see each other back in the States and work out where we go from here. I’m ninety-nine per cent certain I’m going to take that teaching job.’
‘What would it take to make you a hundred per cent certain?’
‘This,’ she said as she encircled him with her hand and rolled on top of him again.
‘Your itinerary is confirmed, General. You’ll be leaving from Dallas on Tuesday, as planned.’
‘Thanks, Janey,’ Lieutenant General Donald ‘Crusher’ Calvert said to his civilian personal assistant. He had given up the fantasy that his staff might get used to calling him by his first name now that he was retired. ‘Anything in the papers today?’
‘The press clippings are in your email inbox, sir. The one from the
Post
is interesting.’
‘Interesting?’
She pulled a print-out from a sheaf of other papers in the crook of her left arm and said, ‘The headline is
MR CRUSHER GOES TO WASHINGTON
, question mark.’
‘Very funny. What else does it say?’
‘
Retired general Donald “
Crusher” Calvert is being promoted as a potential congressional
nominee by senior unnamed Republican Party sources in the lead-up to next year’
s election.
Calvert, fifty-four, a Vietnam combat veteran, former commander of the 18th Airborne Corps and, most recently, Coalition forces in Afghanistan, caught the public’
s eye and imagination as the fastand-
hard-talking Pentagon spokesman during the invasion of Iraq and subsequent operations against Islamic extremist terrorists around the world
. Should I start calling you “congressman” now, sir?’
‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, Janey’ For now, the behind-the-scenes machinations of the Hill could wait. He was going hunting. He leaned back in his leather office chair and eagerly opened the folder Janey had placed in front of him. This was a holiday, his first in three years. ‘I see we haven’t lost any time on safari by changing countries,’ he said as Janey cleared a pile of files from his out-tray.
‘No, sir. I was quite adamant with the travel people that the new arrangements shouldn’t eat into your time on the ground.’
‘Good, good.’
‘I’m still worried for you, sir.’
‘Oh, don’t fret, Janey. Zambia may not be the safest place in the world, but it’s one of the few places where I can still hunt big game. The area I’m going to is about as remote as it gets in Africa these days, so there’s no risk of political agitation or anything like that.’
‘I know, sir. I’ve read the security assessments -they’re in the folder too, by the way – but I can’t help thinking you’d be better off in the Bahamas or maybe Australia.’
He laughed. ‘I’d be mobbed in places like that, and probably for all the wrong reasons. No, this is my chance to get away from it all and to hell with anyone who tries to stop me.’
‘Yes, sir. Do you think the bombings in Tanzania will have any repercussions elsewhere on the continent?’
‘That’s the thing about terrorists, Janey, you never know where they’re going to strike. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, but we can only go on the CIA and State Department assessments. There’s no way I could flout the current travel ban on Tanzania – that would undermine the present administration and send the wrong message to American tourists.’
The irony of the situation was that the lodge in Zambia had been his first choice for this coming trip. Botswana, where he had first hunted in Africa, was now off his list of possible safari destinations, as the government there had recently banned commercial hunting of dangerous game – opting instead to concentrate on tourism only.
He had hunted in South Africa, but been unimpressed with the lack of sport involved in the lion hunt he had been taken on. While the animal had a decent mane, it was so old and slow it looked as though it might have had a heart attack or died of other natural causes if he hadn’t put it out of its misery Despite the denials of the owner of the lodge, he suspected the animal had been drugged prior to his arrival. It had all gone a little too smoothly He knew some South African hunting ranches had been exposed in the media for staging ‘caged’ hunts, in which the animals had no chance at all of escaping the hunter. What he wanted was a true test of wits, stamina and courage between man and beast, and he needed somewhere wild for it.
Wylde Heart Safaris in Zambia had been recommended to him by a retired admiral at a cocktail party. A booking had been made, but later cancelled after a telephone call from the Secretary of State.
The Secretary, a one-time brother officer with whom Calvert had served in Vietnam, and who knew of his impending retirement, had asked him if he would accompany him to a regional security conference in Dar es Salaam.
‘You can still go on safari, Donny, after the conference,’ the Secretary had assured him. ‘I need you there as an adviser to brief the delegates on our worldwide operations against Al Qaeda.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Calvert had answered respectfully, then added, ‘I’m honoured, but surely you know as much as me about our current efforts.’
‘You want me to spell it out for you, Crusher, you old dog? You’re the public face of the war on terror these days. The other politicians and soldiers there will respect your view, plus the exposure won’t hurt you. Do your hunting for a week after the conference and you can fly back with me after I finish some glad-handing in Kenya and Uganda.’
His staff had made the changes, but now, just a few days short of the conference, had cancelled them. State and the CIA had briefed him on a plot to shoot down the Secretary’s jet in Mombasa. He’d been told that a recently captured Pakistani prisoner at Guantanamo Bay had revealed details of a terrorist plan to conduct coordinated attacks on aircraft in Afghanistan and Africa, with up to six shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles. The aim was to show that the terror organisation could conduct simultaneous operations in different parts of the world. The intelligence had led to the US
Special Forces raid on the compound in Afghanistan, which had netted two of the missiles. A further two missiles, and two more terrorists, had been destroyed in an attack on a dhow off the coast of Mombasa, by a CIA-owned Predator Unmanned Aerial Vehicle armed with a hellfire missile. Despite the victory, which had still not been made public, several of the African heads of state who had promised to attend the conference had pulled out and the whole thing had been called off. Calvert thought the fact that two of the anti-aircraft missiles which had left Pakistan were still unaccounted for, and were possibly somewhere in Africa, probably added to the African politicians’ nervousness.
At first Calvert had fumed at the cancellation, and the loss of the opportunity to be seen on the world stage as something other than the be-medalled front man for other soldiers’ deeds on the battlefield and the guy who had to explain the rising body count in Iraq. However, his disappointment had been softened by the knowledge that he would have more time to spend hunting, and that he could now pursue his preferred choice of a Zambian safari.
He smiled as he flicked through the revised itinerary in the folder. He would fly to Lusaka, the capital of Zambia, and pay a private courtesy call on that country’s president on his first day. Once his official commitment was over, his safari would begin in earnest, with a flight in a light aircraft to Willy Wylde’s private hunting concession, located on the edge of the Lower Zambezi National Park in the south-east of the country.
He perused a colour brochure which showed pictures of satisfied hunters, many of them American, sitting beside or, in some cases, astride their slain trophies. He was going for a bull buffalo and a leopard on this trip, two of the big five that had eluded him on his last couple of safaris. He gazed enviously at a photo of a doctor from New Jersey who knelt next to a solidly built leopard. He decided that if he got his hunting quota out of the way early he would try his hand at catching one of Africa’s other great and wily predators, the hard-fighting tigerfish.
‘This is going to be great. I’ll have a leopard skin and a stuffed tiger to show you when I get back!’
‘A tiger?’
‘It’s a fish.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The secretary frowned at her boss’s enthusiasm. As much as she admired him, she violently disagreed with killing animals for sport.
‘Aw, Janey, I know you don’t like hunting, but it’s not as bad as the goddamned bunny-huggers make out.’
She couldn’t resist rising to the bait. ‘Tell that to the leopard you’re going to shoot, sir.’
He shook his head. ‘Hunting is the lifeblood of some struggling communities in Africa, Janey. By managing their wildlife in a sustainable way they can keep hard currency coming into the country and provide wealth and jobs for local people.’
‘Yes, but it’s not
their
wildlife to manage, sir. The world’s wildlife belongs to all of us.’
He had had the debate with many people in the past and, if the truth be told, had always shied away from stating his case too forcefully. He knew that if he wanted to pursue a career in politics he would have to keep his passion to himself for fear of alienating too large a chunk of the voting public.
Still, he persisted in stating his case to his feisty and not unattractive assistant. ‘Janey, without hunting we wouldn’t have the great game parks of the world. Big reserves like the Kruger National Park in South Africa were started by governments that realised they needed to protect and conserve wildlife for future generations.’
‘But, sir, it was the hunters who nearly wiped out all the wildlife in the first place.’
‘Irresponsible hunters, Janey Poachers. People who would kill anything that moved for money and hang the effect on the future of the species. Today, hunting is also important for wildlife management. Animals such as elephants have to be killed in some reserves because there are too many of them. Controlled culling helps manage animal populations and provide income for people who need it.’
‘They’re all good arguments, sir, but you know that there’s a large proportion of the community who will never agree with you. The press won’t like it either, General. You know they’ve criticised your previous safaris as sending the wrong message to the rest of Africa.’
‘I don’t give a damn what the press thinks, Janey.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, realising she would gain nothing from prolonging the argument. ‘Did you see that State has assigned two secret service agents to you for personal protection during your safari? I heard the Secretary of State made the order himself.’
‘Yes, I saw it and I’m not happy about it.’ He did not want anyone else tagging along on his trip, but he was astute enough to realise that as a public figure he warranted protection. Perhaps, too, it was the Secretary’s way of telling him that he should get used to the trappings of high office, no matter how inconvenient and intrusive they may be.
Chris didn’t know how she felt about Jed Banks, and that annoyed her.
She raised a hand to her eyes to shade them from the bright morning sunshine that streamed in through the louvred windows. She could smell him on the pillow next to her, on the damp sheets, on her, in her. She had let him into her body, but he had also invaded her mind, and it made her angry. He was leaving, and it made her sad. She had never fallen for a man so quickly, so completely, and she felt lost, out of control, angry, happy and confused, all at the same time.
He had not used a condom. She hadn’t wanted him to, not even once they got back to the lodge, where they made love again after dinner, and once more, half an hour ago, in the morning. That made her feel stupid. She didn’t expect he was carrying any sexually transmitted diseases – although you never knew with soldiers – but she wasn’t using any other form of birth control. What if she became pregnant? The idea didn’t repel her as much as it once did, and that was totally weird.
‘Christ, get a hold of yourself,’ she whispered. Outside, somewhere in the river, a hippo mocked her with a call that sounded like a fat man’s big belly laugh.
She screwed her eyes tight against the merciless, revealing sunlight and tried to work out why she had told him she was considering the job in Virginia, and why she had all but invited him to shack up with her. She could hear Jed in the next room packing his rucksack. He was leaving her, which would make things easier for a time, although she knew she would miss him. She wanted to cry and hated that he had made her feel so screwed up.
Chris stood and felt his wetness and hers, still hot inside her. She was a mess, mentally, emotionally and physically. She needed to shower and get back to work, not lie around thinking about a man. She pulled on a T-shirt and denim shorts and grabbed a towel.
‘Hello, beautiful,’ he said, turning at the sound of her footfall on the wooden balcony outside his door.
He moved across the floor, took her in his arms and kissed her. She rested her head on his shoulder and hugged him, her body moulded against his. They fitted together so well. He kissed her hair. Her heart and her resolve melted.
‘Moses will be here in a minute,’ he said.
‘I can do quick,’ she said, laughing at her own lasciviousness.
‘I doubt I can do anything after last night and this morning,’ he said, although they both felt him stir through his jeans. She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Enough, enough already, I’ve got to get the fourby- four back to Harare today.’
‘I’ve got to get organised myself, and start heading back to South Africa.’
‘Wish I could stay with you longer.’ He brushed a wisp of hair from her face.
‘So do I, but maybe this is for the best.’