Читать книгу Rare Breed - Connie Hall - Страница 10

Wynne stared into the face of the guard. The headlights glowed along his dark skin and sunken cheeks and eyes. He wore a tan uniform with Hellstrom’s Tours embroidered on the shirt pocket. One hand held the rifle, while he grabbed a walkie-talkie on his belt with the other. He looked at her license plate, then spoke into the radio.

“Hellstrom’s got good security here.” MacKay grinned over at her.

Maybe too good. It hadn’t seemed extreme to her before now because all wildlife ranches and safari owners had secure compounds. But as she gazed at the ten-foot-high barbed wire fence that encompassed the compound and the guard’s AK-47, a rifle more suited to stopping armies than people, she had to wonder what he was hiding. “I guess he has his reasons for it.”

“You ever been here before?” MacKay asked while he rolled down his window, his attention on the guard.

“I ride by on my rounds sometimes.” Hellstrom’s compound was about twenty-five miles south of base camp, in a valley surrounded on one side by rolling hills, a prime area for grazing wildlife. When elephant herds went in search of fresh pasture, she sometimes drove past his compound to monitor them. She remembered the area before Hellstrom built the compound, when nothing was here but open spaces and herds of buffalo, eland, zebras, wildebeest and giraffe. She felt a tinge of loss.

“Can’t blame a man for putting up a fence.” MacKay didn’t wait for her comeback and stuck his head out the window. “It’s okay, Cephu. She’s giving me a ride.”

Cephu dropped the gun, smiled and said in English, “Oh, Mr. MacKay, it’s you.” The guard’s joy at seeing the Texan beamed in his face and a broad smile showed his white teeth. He dropped the walkie-talkie and stepped aside, waving Wynne through. “Have a nice night, Bwana MacKay.”

Bwana was a Bemba term for “Mr.” or “Master.” Wynne didn’t know if MacKay deserved such deference.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you know all the staff?”

“What can I say? I kinda grow on people.” He shrugged, then gave her a sympathetic glance, as if the only way she could grow on someone was if she were toenail fungus.

“I can grow on people, too.” The moment the words were out, she regretted them.

“I bet you do darlin’, I just bet you do.” Good-humored irony laced his voice.

Wynne couldn’t believe what she’d just blurted out. Why did she care what he thought? She didn’t need his approval. She let it drop and looked out at Hellstrom’s compound. It consisted of two hundred acres. Most of the ground had been plowed. Rows of tobacco, yams and maize grew along the drive.

MacKay saw she was looking at the fields and said, “I hear Hellstrom donates food to the Zambian government for the indigent.”

“I know. He also started an LZCG trust for local orphanages and AIDS clinics.”

“I believe someone told me he worked at a mission feeding the poor, too. Gotta respect a man who’s generous with his wealth.”

“Everyone respects him, no doubt about that.” Wynne frowned. “He knows how to win friends and influence people.”

“I wonder when he finds time to kick back and raise a little hell,” MacKay said, forcing a smile. “Everybody’s gotta have a little fun sometime. I sure have to.”

“Around here living is about survival, not about fun.”

“It’s gotta be godawful taking life so seriously. You gotta kick back.” MacKay chuckled. “You’re about as up-tight as a beer can without a pop-top. You’re gonna explode one day and it ain’t gonna be pretty…although come to think on it, it might.” His lips turned up into a sensual grin.

Wynne realized for the first time he had deep dimples, and she said, “Thank you for your candid six-pack psychological evaluation.” Wynne glowered back at him. Was he one of those American guys who hadn’t outlived his adolescence? Or was this part of his happy-go-lucky facade that was meant to fool her. “And you may think life’s an amusement park, but it’s not.”

“Nobody knows that better than me, but it doesn’t hurt to jump on a ride sometime.” He winked at her, his long-lashed eyes gleaming purplish blue in the green dash lights.

She could have fun. Couldn’t she? She loved her job, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d really had fun. There had been the picnic she’d arranged for the kids at the Big Five Habitat, yet she hadn’t been able to go. A lion had been caught in a poacher’s snare and had gotten his head loose, but the snare had remained embedded in his neck. Wynne had been forced to dart him, while Dr. Leonard, the on-staff veterinarian, worked on him. Had she been in the bush so long she’d forgotten what fun was? She didn’t need the answer to that and certainly not from some stranger involved in poaching.

At her silence MacKay spoke. “In case you haven’t noticed, darlin’,” he motioned toward the fields they drove past, “Hellstrom doesn’t look like he’s having any trouble surviving.”

The Texan was more right than he realized. Hellstrom was too good to be true. Wealthy. A philanthropist. Conservationist. A living breathing paragon. He had to have a dark side. Didn’t he?

MacKay pointed ahead of them. “Just drive right on up to the front door—looks like Hellstrom’s got himself some company. Maybe another fund-raiser dinner. I hear he has lots of them. He’ll probably hit me up for a donation before I leave.”

“When will that be?”

“You sound like you’re in a hurry to get rid of me,” MacKay said, pretending to sound hurt. Or maybe he really was.

“Do I?” Wynne said it in such an innocent Scarlet O’Hara way that MacKay chuckled.

She glanced toward Hellstrom’s house, an expansive two-story Spanish Colonial Revival with iron-railed balconies, arched windows, cornices and parapets. A row of bungalows flanked the right side of the house, the servant and guest quarters. In the back were two large garages, a barn and a landing strip. It was bigger than some villages in Zambia.

She remembered taking a tour of Hellstrom’s house when he had finished building it several months ago. He had given a housewarming party and invited all the wardens and the LZCG members and supporters. Wynne hadn’t wanted to go, but the commander had made it mandatory.

Hellstrom had been his normal charismatic self, delighting everyone with anecdotes and playing the perfect host. At one point he had singled Wynne out, and she had sensed his attraction to her. Thankfully Kaweki, the commander, had interrupted them and introduced Hellstrom to his wife. Wynne had slipped away, relieved, feeling as if she had just escaped before Hellstrom had asked her out. After the incident at the party, she felt self-conscious around him and tried not to be alone with him ever again. No matter how handsome and appealing Hellstrom might be, she didn’t approve of how he made his living.

Safari owners, like Hellstrom, reaped most of their income from wealthy hunters—mostly English and American. Hunters paid safari operators large fees for supplying guides to take them into game-managed areas to hunt. The problem arose when corrupt hunters paid safari owners under the table and killed more animals than their government-issued licenses allowed. Coupled with native poaching, bush meat poaching and loss of habitat, animal populations just couldn’t recover. But Hellstrom did have an altruistic side that made him more likeable. And other than his dismissal of her DNA lab idea and the interest he appeared to have in her, he really wasn’t a bad leader for the LZCG. They had a good working relationship so far, and she meant to keep it all business—unless he proved to be the duplicitous head of this bush meat ring.

She pulled in behind a line of Toyota Land Cruisers, Rovers and Hummers. Some of the trucks had zebra-striped tops with logos from local tour businesses. She parked at the end of the line. Then she spotted the Zambian Wildlife Authority jeep. Rangers weren’t allowed to take the only ZWA jeep out for personal use, which meant the commander must be in attendance. It didn’t surprise her. Commander Kaweki worked closely with Hellstrom, and he was invited to all of Hellstrom’s social functions to represent the ZWA.

“Thanks muchly for the ride, darlin’. It’s been real interesting.” MacKay saluted her and opened the door.

“Wait, aren’t you going to ask me in?”

MacKay’s sandy blond brows rose a fraction and a lazy victorious grin spread across his mouth. “You change your mind about that drink?”

To make her plan work, she had to play along and seem interested. He probably knew she wasn’t. But the pretense would give her a reason to get inside Hellstrom’s office and do a little reconnaissance, and it would keep MacKay guessing. “Let’s just start with the drink, shall we.” Wynne jumped out of the Rover and breezed past him.

“The night is young yet, darlin’.” He sugarcoated the epithet, then fell in step beside her.

Wynne rolled her eyes. She could stand one libido-horned Texan for a few minutes. She stepped into the path of the lights that shot out through the front windows and glanced inside. It was a large solarium type room. A yellowish haze of cigarette smoke bathed a sea of white and black faces. She recognized the LZCG treasurer, Mr. Masamba, and the vice president, Mr. Njobo. They were talking, their wives at their sides, nodding. Thankfully, the commander was nowhere to be seen. She really didn’t want to explain why she had lied earlier and radioed that her 10-20 was the Rufunsa game-managed area and not Sausage Tree Camp. She couldn’t risk tipping off the poachers. She didn’t know who at the LZCG might be monitoring the transmissions.

Abruptly the door opened, and Hellstrom himself stood in the doorway as if he were expecting her.

“Wynne, so nice to see you. Jack.” Hellstrom’s sophisticated English voice held a warm welcome. His yellowish gold eyes brightened. “Come in, come in. A pleasure.”

“I got a bone to pick with you, Noah,” MacKay said, stepping past Wynne.

For once Wynne didn’t mind the Texan. He had gained Hellstrom’s full attention. She followed MacKay up the steps, adrenaline flowing, her body wired. Stay cool. Breathe. Search his house for evidence, then leave. How hard could that be? Yeah, right—about as easy as falling off a cliff with no parachute.

Once inside the foyer, Wynne paused next to MacKay, still feeling that roller coaster ride sensation that left her stomach in her throat. A set of closed double doors stood to the right and left of her. Muffled voices and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata drifted from behind them.

MacKay was rambling on about the jeep breaking down. The guy knew how to beat a topic to death. “You need a new mechanic. That radiator had a leak. You couldn’t miss it.”

Hellstrom was listening, nodding, with a gracious smile, but his deep-set gold eyes were on her. His straight black hair tapered to a razor-sharp widow’s peak on his tanned brow. Several strands fell on either side of his temples and made him look younger than his thirty-something years. His features were sharply chiseled, beautiful in a Michelangelo’s “David” sort of way. He was a walking Ralph Lauren ad. Charisma oozed from him and she found herself unable to look away.

Was he wondering why she was here? She felt the roller coaster take another dive. Just breathe. Smile. Be friendly.

MacKay seemed to realize he’d lost his audience and he said, “Better have your vehicles checked out by someone competent.” Then he remembered Wynne and said, “Look what I dug up.” He gestured toward her.

“Wynne, how have you ended up with my guest?” Hellstrom’s voice held a hint of an apology.

“I found him lost down by the river. Next time a guest ventures out alone at night, I’d make them take a guide along—for their own safety. And make them aware of the park’s hours.”

“Of course, how remiss of me.”

“And you might want to instruct them about firearms.”

“Of course.” Hellstrom pulled at a ruby cufflink.

“Don’t read the riot act to the man. It’s my own fault.” Oddly MacKay’s grin had been replaced by a sober expression. “I thought it would be all right to look at the park. He didn’t know I took off and went sightseeing.”

Wynne thought MacKay had jumped at that too easily. And there was a note of falseness in his voice. He was covering something. He and Hellstrom were probably better acquainted than MacKay had let on.

“You’ll know better next time, won’t you, Jack?” Hellstrom said smoothly.

“Sure.” MacKay nodded, not at all contrite, just unusually curt with his one-word reply.

“I’m sorry he took you away from your duties, Wynne.”

She waited for the invitation. It didn’t come. Hellstrom seemed to be giving her an entry for an exit.

“I should go.” Wynne turned to leave.

MacKay said, “Wait. You’ve come this far. You can’t leave now.”

Hellstrom shot MacKay a glance, but the four hundred-watt smile never left Hellstrom’s face. “Quite right.” He took in her appearance. “But you might want to freshen up a bit.”

Wynne glanced at her torn shirt. The slingshot was wrapped around her waist, bits of leaves stuck in it. Her hiking boots were slathered in river mud. The mosquito remedy still caked to her neck and her face was beginning to itch. She hadn’t realized just how grubby she was. In her line of work, she was used to getting dirty. She had never been more aware that her femininity had taken a back seat since coming to Africa.

She maintained a smile and felt her cheeks straining in an attempt to be civil. “You’ll have to forgive my appearance. I’ve been working.”

“I wonder how she cleans up?” MacKay said, while his blue eyes roved over her body. “Versace might look real nice on her.”

Wynne smiled sweetly at MacKay, though it was slowly killing her. “I’m afraid I’m all out of designer dresses. There isn’t much use for them in my line of work.”

A door opened and a beautiful woman in a strapless black evening gown glided through. The woman’s complexion was so smooth and white it looked transparent. Her dark curly hair fell in waves to her shoulders. She was model thin, maybe in her late twenties.

A cacophony of voices followed her into the foyer, along with the cloying scent of her perfume. She gently closed the door behind her and muted the sound. She stepped over to Hellstrom and touched his arm possessively. “Noah, dearest, we’ve run out of champagne,” she spoke in a British accent.

Slight annoyance flashed across Hellstrom’s expression, then it disappeared into his usual polite demeanor. “Jacqueline, you’ve met Mr. MacKay, but I don’t think you’ve met Wynne Sperling.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Jacqueline gave Wynne an uninterested passing glance, then her gaze settled on MacKay. “Jack, it’s always a pleasure.” Her smile turned sensual.

MacKay’s blue eyes glittered as he winked at her. “The pleasure’s all mine, darlin’.”

Did MacKay flirt with every woman within eyeshot? Or was Wynne picking up on a kinky factor between the three-some? Did they pass Jacqueline around like a pool cue? Maybe she’d found Hellstrom’s dark side. If she had any doubts that MacKay and Hellstrom were more than business associates, they were gone now.

The pool cue turned her attention back to Wynne. “And are you one of Noah’s customers?”

“I’m a ranger. We kinda work together.”

“Oh.” Jacqueline leaned so close to Hellstrom her breasts touched his arm.

Gracious as ever, Hellstrom said, “And she’ll be staying for the party. Wynne, I’ll have a servant show you where to freshen up—”

“Thank you.”

“I should change, too.” MacKay winked at Wynne and said, “I’ll definitely see you later, darlin’.”

Wynne wanted to say “Fat chance,” but she had to play the game. She watched him walk out the front door, grinning like a hyena. He must be staying in one of the guest quarters.

“My servant will show you where to go,” Hellstrom said to Wynne, then clicked his fingers.

A short slender African came running down the hall. His head reached the top of Wynne’s rib cage. He was enrobed in a white gauze tunic and scandals. The Pygmy looked more child than man. How he heard Hellstrom’s summons over the music and conversation puzzled Wynne. He kept his head bowed as he listened to Hellstrom’s orders.

Hellstrom spoke a dialect that Wynne recognized as one of several languages Pygmies used, then said to Wynne, “Tungana will take care of you.”

“Thank you.”

Tungana motioned for Wynne to follow him, but didn’t lift his eyes up to her face.

Wynne trailed Tungana down the hall, feeling Hellstrom and Jacqueline’s gaze on her. She wondered about the extent of the relationship between Hellstrom and MacKay, and when they were out of Hellstrom’s hearing range, she casually asked Tungana, “Is MacKay an old friend of Mr. Hellstrom’s?”

“Don’t know.” Tungana spoke in broken English and shook his small head.

“You’ve never seen him in Mr. Hellstrom’s company before?”

“Don’t know.”

Okay, she was getting the parrot message. He was loyal to Hellstrom and he wasn’t going to talk. A lot of people were loyal to Hellstrom, including MacKay, it seemed.

They passed the dining room, decorated in ornate antique French furniture. Guests huddled around a massive table laden with enough food to feed ten Zambian families for a week.

The memory of the tour flashed back to her, and she knew the next room they passed would be the music room. It had been in this room where Hellstrom had approached her, and she had felt his attraction for her. Had she been imagining it? He hadn’t pursued her in any way since. Maybe she had read more into it than really had been there. She was good at reading animals. But men? They were a whole different species.

A grand piano graced the music room’s center. A musician in a tux sat playing Bach now. Commander Kaweki’s balding head caught her eye, the chandelier light bouncing off his dark, shiny scalp. He stood behind the piano, speaking to Colette, his wife and another couple Wynne didn’t recognize.

Colette had short curly ebony hair and wide, impish green eyes. Her smile lit up her face. A simple, yet elegant black gown covered her hourglass figure. Colette was originally from France, but had worked as a missionary in Lusaka, the capitol of Zambia, before Kaweki married her. The only time Wynne ever saw the commander smile was when he was with his wife. He appeared enthralled by what she was telling the other couple now and didn’t notice Wynne and Tungana move past the doorway.

After they cleared the music room’s entrance, Wynne relaxed a little. She really didn’t want to explain to Kaweki what she was doing here until she’d had a chance to nose around.

“You really don’t have to show me the way,” she said. “Just point me in the right direction. I can find it myself.”

“Oh, no, no. BaK para would not like that.”

BaK para meant “master” in the Pygmy language, a term of fear and obedience. Wynne frowned as she said, “You know, Tungana, you’re employed by Mr. Hellstrom. He’s not your master.”

Tungana nodded, but still wouldn’t look at her.

“How long have you been with Mr. Hellstrom?” She asked as they slipped past an African couple, strangers to Wynne.

Tungana avoided all small talk by merely shrugging.

At seeing Tungana reduced to servitude and away from his home, Wynne couldn’t help but think about the life he’d left behind. Pygmies had a wonderful nomadic lifestyle, centered on their love for the forest world and their family. She had visited the Belgian Congo once when she first arrived in Africa. She spent several days with the BaMbuti Pygmies and fell in love with their warmth and gentleness and the simplicity in which they lived. The sad thing was they had existed for millennia, even ancient Egyptians wrote of seeing Pygmies in the heart of Africa, but now their hunting and gathering way of life was quickly eroding. The destruction of rain forests and the overhunting of food sources were taking their toll. Nothing saddened her more than the slow extinction of a once proud, self-sustaining culture. Part of the beauty of Africa was its diversity and even that was disappearing.

“Do you miss your family?” Wynne asked.

Tungana nodded, an unmistakable sadness in his eyes. Then he seemed to realize that he’d actually answered her and slipped back into self-protective mode.

The din of the party drifted away as he led her up a flight of stairs and into a deserted wing of the house. She recalled the area from the tour.

He paused before a door. “Tungana draw you a bath. You like?” he asked, his words clipped.

“I can manage alone. All I need is a hairbrush and a washcloth and towel.”

“Brush in closet.” He opened the door to the room and waited for her to step inside.

“Thank you. I can find my way back.”

The bedroom was done in a Spanish motif. Red wall-paper complemented the rich mahogany furniture and fourposter bed. A woman’s photograph hung above the bed. Her hair was coal-black and worn in a French twist. Golden eyes, similar to Hellstrom’s, stared out from the photo. Her dark hair accentuated her pale skin. The photographer had captured an isolated, detached gleam in the woman’s eyes. They reminded Wynne of a doll’s eyes, inanimate and blank. Wynne didn’t remember the painting on the tour and said, “Who is that?”

“BaK para’s mama.”

“Oh.”

Tungana walked to the closet and opened the door. A row of women’s dresses hung neatly in the closet.

“Wow, does Hellstrom keep those for his female guests?” It looked like thousands of dollars worth of designer labels.

“He best host.” Tungana nodded and seemed to be looking for one particular evening dress. He pulled out a slinky red gown and a pair of red heels.

The gown might fit her, but it was a little more revealing than she would like. It was ankle length and low-cut with rhinestone spaghetti straps. The same red rhinestones formed starburst patterns randomly all over the dress.

Tungana laid the evening dress on the bed. “For you?”

“But I don’t—”

“BaK para want you to wear.”

Leave it to Hellstrom to anticipate every female guest’s need by supplying them with dresses. If it would bide her some time to search the house, she’d comply. “All right.” She nodded.

Tungana left the room and closed the door behind him.

She pressed her ear to the door and listened as the soft tread of his footsteps faded.

She hurried into the bathroom. When she looked into the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. A mud wrestler, after a fight, probably looked better than she did. She recalled MacKay’s comments about her cleaning up okay. Her female vanity wanted to show him just how well she cleaned up. But then she reminded herself, it didn’t matter what a woman looked like, he’d flirt with anything breathing and wearing a bra.

She scrubbed the remnants of mud off her face, neck, arms and her boots. Then she untied her hair. She brushed the bits of mud out of it around her face. There wasn’t much she could do about the limpness. Her hair always had the texture of thick straw. It hung down her back, stick-straight.

She quickly changed into the dress, wrapping her slingshot around her thigh and sliding her knife into it. The shoes actually fit her size nine feet, but the heels felt strange. It took a few strides to get used to them.

She surveyed herself in the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door. Wide hazel eyes stared back at her from an oval tanned face. She didn’t like the pronounced dimple in her chin and her mouth seemed too wide, genetic gifts from her father that couldn’t be helped. But her tanned skin was clear and glowed from the scrubbing—so she wasn’t drop-dead beautiful and her cheeks weren’t sunken and she didn’t have sticks for arms and legs like Jacqueline. She was built of sturdier stuff. She’d like to see Jacqueline freeing a baby rhino from a mud bog.

The thought brought a smile to her face as she decided she didn’t look half-bad in the dress. She had to go braless and a hint of her nipples showed through the lined silk. The dress actually clung to her curves in a flattering way, and the starbursts on the dress only made her body shimmer. Not bad. It was the first time since coming to Africa she had felt feminine. It felt pretty good. She cracked the door, checked that it was clear, then slipped back out into the hallway.

The moments ticked off in Wynne’s mind, keeping time with her heartbeat. She remembered one room that had been off-limits during the tour. Hellstrom had said it was his office, and they wouldn’t find anything of interest in it.

She reached the door.

Locked.

She heard guards laughing in the hall ahead of her. Before they rounded the corner, she darted into the opposite door. She was standing inside a linen closet. She moved so the shelves wouldn’t cut the back of her knees and she realized her dress was caught in the door. She couldn’t open the door. The guards were too close, their voices right in front of the closet. What kind of excuse could she use for being in there: “Can you point me to the ladies’ bathroom, I seem to be turned around.” That was lame. Oh, God!

She held her breath.

The voices faded.

She dared let herself breathe and opened the door.

A clear coast.

She stepped out, lifted her dress and pulled out her dagger. She shoved it in between the doorjamb and the lock. The lock clicked open.

Wynne stepped inside. A desk lamp bathed the room in dim light. It was a massive room. Shelves of books lined the walls. Above the shelves was a gun case that covered the whole perimeter of the room. Guns of every make and description were arranged in a collage of shapes, numbered brass placards beneath them. He must be anal about his guns.

African tribal masks formed a patchwork of color on the wall behind a massive mahogany desk. She recognized the local Bemba tribal masks, and the monkey shaped expressions of the Boa. They weren’t the mass-marketed copies bought off the Internet. These were aged, the wood cracked from wear. The real thing. Probably worth a fortune and sacred to the people who had made them.

Across from the masks, a computer and copier sat on a credenza. She didn’t have time to bring up the computer. Hellstrom probably had a code to open it anyway.

She stepped over to the desk. Books on Africa were stacked in piles. An Underwood manual typewriter—a dinosaur—sat in the middle of them. A spot had been cleared for a small mountain of typed pages. A manuscript? She picked up the first page and read: Musings of an African Safari Owner by Noah Hellstrom. Add author to Hellstrom’s accomplishments.

On the edge of the desk, she spotted a picture of Hellstrom standing over a felled elephant. She grimaced. Next to it was a photo of a couple. She recognized his mother, the same deadpan face from the portrait in the bedroom. The man wore the uniform of the British army, medals emblazoned across his chest and shoulders. He had a sour expression like his face would crack if he ever smiled. Hellstrom’s father?

Guards approached the door, talking.

She tensed, ready to jump beneath the desk.

They strode past.

She let out her breath and walked to a filing cabinet. She had no idea what she was looking for, but when she found it she would know.

LZCG ledgers were in the top drawer. Another drawer, more ledgers for his tour businesses and a row of books. She read the titles: Mein Kampf by Hitler, biographies of Churchill, Patton, Mussolini, Genghis Kahn and Alexander the Great. Did Hellstrom have a secret god complex?

Another drawer revealed old tax forms, business licenses and rubber-banded envelopes of past due notices on loans from the World Bank. There were a lot of them. Hellstrom must be in financial trouble. Three of them were from Springhill Mental Health Sanitorium. Why did he have past due notices from a mental hospital?

She spotted the drawer on his desk. She should have checked there first. Isn’t that where all the crucial stuff was always hidden?

She tried it. Locked. She grabbed the letter opener and worked the lock. James Bond made it look so easy. “Come on…” She jiggled the opener in frustration.

The lock clicked open.

“Thank you.” She peered inside and found a bundle of letters rubber banded together. The return address label read, Edna Hellstrom, Springhill Mental Health Sanitorium, Yorkshire, England. Were there some unglued genes in Hellstrom’s family? If only she had the time to read each one.

She found the rest of the drawer empty. So where would he hide illegal documents? She felt for a secret compartment on the desk. Nothing.

She closed the drawer and stood in the middle of the room and really looked at it as Hellstrom would. Something drew her gaze to the tribal masks, and a large mask near the bottom caught her attention. It was painted white, the facial features outlined in black. It was a striking, almost frightening, ngil mask. The male societies of the Fang tribe wore the gorilla mask during initiation of new members and for persecuting wrongdoers. It was a mask of dominance and retribution. If Hellstrom had a hidden narcissistic side, he would be attracted to it.

She lifted the mask, expecting to find a safe hidden behind it. What she found was a wooden sleeve secured to the back of the mask by screws. The open top-end of the sleeve revealed a blue folder, stuffed with papers.

She reached for the folder, but instinct stopped her. This was way too easy. She sniffed the leather pouch and recognized the woody scent of nuts: Physic nuts, to be exact. Africans ground the nut with palm oil to make rat poison.

Wynne grabbed several sheets of paper from the typewriter and used them as makeshift gloves to pull open the folder. It was stuffed with bills of lading for a company named LiBolo International Trucking. It had a South African address. Crates containing dry ice, some flown in from Zimbabwe, had been trucked to Botswana, Zimbabwe, Mozambique, South Africa, Malawi, Namibia and almost every city in Africa. Some even went to the U.S., England, and China. The bush meat would have been packed on dry ice, then shipped.

She’d found what she was looking for.

She had never seen such a well-organized, sophisticated ring. Usually the operations were kept locally. Dealers contracted and paid hunters up front for the number and kinds of meat. The hunters hired a crew of bearers to cut out the tusks, butcher the meat, and dry it. In villages near game-managed areas, there could be fifteen commercial poachers operating at any given time. After the kills, the hunters met the dealers and trucked the meat to marketplaces in Zambian cities where it was sold illegally. Wynne had been in on many of these stings, arresting the commercial poachers with the meat. But this dealer operation was outside of Zambia, so it hadn’t been discovered.

The bills of lading only proved LiBolo International trucked something on dry ice. Even if she could convince the Zambian government to investigate this company, proving Hellstrom was tied to it would be another hurdle. It would take prosecutors and accountants months, maybe even years, to go through international courts and subpoena the company records from South Africa. And she couldn’t take the paperwork to the LZCG board. It would be too risky without definitive proof he owned the company.

She heard voices in the hall. How long had she been gone? Fifteen? Thirty minutes? She had to hurry.

The voices were getting louder. They sounded angry. Doors were slamming.

Her hands shook and the ersatz paper gloves were getting in her way. Hurry, Sperling, or you’re toast. She managed to stuff the folder back in the wooden sleeve, crumple her makeshift gloves, clean side out. She tossed them in the trash, then plopped the mask back on the wall.

The door’s lock was turning. She ran to the door just as it opened.